by Scott Meyer
“Here’s the deal,” Martin said, at a volume carefully calculated so that only he and Roy would hear it. “We wizards have to police ourselves, because there’s nobody else who can police us. Part of how we do it is with the training. You can accept me as your trainer, and I’ll show you how to fit in here in the past, how to use the powers we’ve created, and how to make new powers yourself. When I think you’re ready, you’ll face the trials, and once you pass them, you’ll be on your own, free to do whatever you like, within reason. Don’t accept the training and we’ll assume you’re up to no good, strip you of your powers, and send you back to your time. Perhaps we’ll send you to the courtyard in the center of the Pentagon. Not a lot of tourists get to see that, do they? What do you say, Roy? Do you accept the training?”
Roy shrugged. “Yeah, kid, I’m sorry. I accept the training.”
Martin said, “Good,” as he placed Roy back on the ground. As soon as Roy’s weight was back on his own feet, Giant-Martin silently exploded into thousands of silver boxes that flew outward, spun in space momentarily, then imploded back in on themselves, leaving normal-sized Martin in their place.
Roy smoothed out his trench coat and looked around sheepishly. “Geez, kid, you didn’t have to get so sore about it. I was just messing with you.”
“Well then you’ve just received your first lesson. ‘Don’t mess with me.’ Did you learn it, or will you need a review?”
“No, no. I got it.” Roy looked at the townsfolk in the square. There weren’t many of them, but the few there were had stopped all activity and were watching the two wizards intently. “Did we have to do that in public?”
Martin said, “Yes. In fact, I put it off until we got here, ’cause I knew there’d be people and plenty of room. I wanted witnesses for two reasons. One: It’s good to remind the locals what we can do every now and then. Two: It was important that everybody know that I’m more powerful than you.”
“Important for the training?”
“Important to me, which as far as you’re concerned, is the same thing.” Martin reached out a hand to his trainee. “You’ll be staying with me during your training. Take my hand. We’ll teleport there.”
Roy looked at Martin’s hand as if he were holding a dead rat. “I’ll just put my hand on your shoulder. That should work just as well.”
Martin thrust his hand toward Roy. “Come on, don’t be a baby. Take my hand.”
Roy put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and repeated, “I’ll put my hand on your shoulder. That should work just as well.”
Martin rolled his eyes, and said, “I can see this relationship is going to take some effort. Transporto Magazino.”
Martin and Roy disappeared.
2.
Jimmy walked at a brisk pace. He had a shocking amount of energy for a man in his sixties. That was one of the benefits of spending thirty years riding a bicycle. Another of the benefits was having plenty of time to think. Think and plan.
He wasn’t riding a bicycle now, and if things went the way he expected, he’d never ride one again. It was just as well, since he’d sold his. The day before, Jimmy had watched Martin lead a low-speed chase to his parent’s home, then evade the police by fleeing back in time to Medieval England (where he had caused Jimmy no small inconvenience). Once the police and two conspicuously out-of-place federal agents had left, Martin returned, a few hours later from his parents’ perspective, several weeks later from their son’s, the time traveler. After observing Martin leaving his parents’ house by taxi, Jimmy had ridden straight to the homeless shelter he was using as a base of operations. The fluorescent lights flickered and the TV went wonky as he walked through the shelter’s rec room. He had found over the years that as long as he walked through such areas quickly, his disruptive magnetic field would be chalked up to a temporary brownout. He could get away with this for a week or so before someone would notice that the brownouts always happened when he walked by.
For nearly thirty years, Jimmy had kept moving, both from room to room, and from place to place.
Jimmy retired to the private room he had sweet-talked the management into giving him. He went over his notes by flashlight. Batteries and incandescent light bulbs still worked for him. It was only integrated circuits that couldn’t tolerate his presence, which included the ballasts in fluorescent lights.
He’d had a good night’s sleep, then got up bright and early and sold his bicycle to a panhandler for thirty bucks. Jimmy took his newfound fortune to the nearest thrift store, where he purchased the nicest suit they had in his size, a white shirt that only had stains on the back, and a tie that didn’t have any cartoon characters on it. He also grabbed an ancient Samsonite briefcase. He paid cash. He had to let them keep what little change he was owed because the cash register mysteriously stopped working. He changed into his new outfit in the fitting room and dumped the contents of his backpack into his briefcase. He donated the backpack and his old clothes to the Goodwill, suspecting that they’d more likely burn them than sell them, then set out to face the new day.
Jimmy had a plan, and that plan only called for him to look presentable for a few hours. After that, with any luck, he’d be under arrest.
Jimmy walked down the pleasant suburban Seattle street. He’d spent so long staking this street out the day before, he knew it as if he’d grown up there. He hadn’t, of course. Martin had.
Jimmy stopped, checked his notes, made sure he had the right house, then strode up to Walter and Margarita Banks’ door. He glanced at the button for the doorbell, then knocked. Three crisp, friendly sounding knocks. He heard faint sounds coming from inside the well-maintained split-level ranch house. After a moment the door opened a crack. A pleasant dark-haired woman close to his own age peered at him through the barely opened door. The chain lock was still engaged. Jimmy wasn’t surprised. These people had been through a lot the day before, and were probably still pretty edgy.
The woman said, “I’m sorry it took so long. I barely heard your knock. We do have a doorbell.”
Jimmy smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see it there.”
Margarita said, “That’s fine. So, what can I do for you?”
Jimmy’s smile faded the exact amount he had predetermined would convey a sense that he regretted having to bring up the subject he needed to discuss.
“Mrs. Banks, my name is James Sadler, but I’d like it if you called me Jimmy. I know your son, Martin. I’d like to ask you a few questions, and I suspect you’d like to ask me a few of your own.”
Margarita’s smile froze, and all of the light drained from her eyes. She excused herself for a moment. Jimmy smiled kindly, and told her he understood. She closed the door and called out for her husband. Jimmy heard bits of the conversation on the other side. He couldn’t make out words, but the tone came through loud and clear. Mrs. Banks was upset. Mr. Banks was angry. Mrs. Banks calmed down a bit. Mr. Banks did not. Mrs. Banks tried to soothe Mr. Banks. Mr. Banks responded. Quiet conversation followed. Jimmy took a half-step backward, to appear less threatening. The doorknob jiggled slightly, then there was a moment of quiet, just long enough for both Jimmy and Mr. Banks to take a deep breath.
The chain lock rattled, and the door opened wide. Mr. Banks stood, filling the doorframe. “I’m Walter Banks. What can I do for you, mister . . . Sadler, was it?”
Jimmy bowed slightly; just slightly enough that Mr. Banks wouldn’t notice that he noticed it. “Yes, Sadler. James Sadler. Martin calls me Jimmy.”
Walter Banks made a sucking noise as he thought. Finally he said, “I don’t think Martin’s ever mentioned you.”
“No, Mr. Banks, I expect he hasn’t. We haven’t known each other for long. I’m very impressed with your son. He has a unique combination of intelligence and creativity. You should be proud.”
“I am,” Walter said, flatly. “You still haven’t told me what you want, Mr. Sa
dler.”
“Of course. Sorry. I’m a bit nervous,” Jimmy lied. “I want two things. I have one question I want to ask you and Mrs. Banks, but before that, I want to answer as many of your questions as I can.”
Walter stared at Jimmy for a long time, then asked, “So you’re involved in Martin’s . . .” Walter trailed off.
“Difficulties? Yes. At least, I was once. I know a great deal about it, and while I won’t be able to answer all of your questions directly, I should be able to leave you better informed than you are now.”
After another staring match that Jimmy was careful to lose at the exact right moment, Walter invited Jimmy in.
An hour later the Banks’ front door opened and Jimmy walked out. Walter and Margarita followed him out the door and saw him off. Walter grasped Jimmy’s hand with both of his and shook it vigorously. Margarita gave Jimmy a hug. Jimmy thanked them for their help, and for the sandwich, which he assured them was delicious. Goodbyes were said, and the couple stood for a moment and watched him walk away before finally going back inside.
Nice people, Jimmy thought. Martin’s lucky to have them.
The conversation had gone well. There was an awkward moment early on when they offered to take his jacket and he refused, but that passed quickly. While he wasn’t able to answer the questions they had asked, he had managed to answer the questions they should have asked, and he was gratified that he hadn’t had to lie to them. The easiest way to mislead people is to tell them the truth, Jimmy thought.
“What did Martin do?”
“I can’t tell you what he did, but I can tell you that he did not break any laws. What he did was so new, so unprecedented, there just aren’t any laws on the books about it.”
“Did he steal something, or hurt somebody?”
“Heavens, no! Listen, what those men yesterday are after your son for is nothing you’d recognize as a crime. Martin didn’t take anything from anybody. He didn’t claim to be anything he wasn’t. He didn’t do harm to any living thing, except maybe one tree, but it survived.”
All, technically, true. Of course, he had both harmed and taken things from Jimmy, but that wasn’t why the feds were after him.
“Please understand,” Jimmy continued. “I wish I could say more, but all I can tell you is that your son discovered something the government didn’t know about. He examined it to figure out if it really was what he thought it was, and in the process, he came to the attention of the authorities. Now I believe he’s just trying to make sure that he doesn’t cause himself any lasting legal problems.”
That placated Martin’s parents, but what really set the hook was when Jimmy made the observation that Martin had always been a little too smart for his own good. They figured he must know their son pretty well if he knew that.
After dancing around a few more questions, Jimmy asked them his one question, which they eagerly answered, then the next fifty minutes were spent eating sandwiches and listening to stories about Martin’s childhood.
Jimmy reached the end of the street and turned left, taking an extra second to look at the tree that just the day before had been on the receiving end of Martin’s car. It looked like it would be fine.
Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written the answer to the one question he’d asked Martin’s parents. There was a phone number, and the names Miller and Murphy.
When Jimmy asked for the contact information of the agents who had searched the Banks home just the day before, Margarita asked him why he wanted to help her son.
He thought, I didn’t say I did. He told her, “Your son and I had a . . . falling out. It wasn’t entirely fair. I . . . I just want to make things right between us. I owe Martin that.”
All true statements, Jimmy thought, and totally misleading. Oh well. She doesn’t need to know that the falling out was over my attempt to kill him.
3.
Martin and Roy materialized just outside the door of Martin’s warehouse in London/Camelot. There were a few more people milling around, but it was after dark in the twelfth century, so a street in a large city like this looked pretty much the same as the street in the medium-sized town they’d just left.
Martin said, “So, this is Camelot. Not much to look at in the dark, I know. You’ll see a lot more of it in the next few days.”
Martin opened the door to his warehouse and motioned for the older man to come inside. They walked in to a large, open room, about one-third of the overall volume of the building. The walls were painted black. The wooden floor was also painted black, except for a blood-red pentagram inside a circle. At the points of the inverted star there were candles. They lit themselves as Roy entered the room, which startled him.
Martin shrugged as he closed the door. “Yeah, they do that whenever someone who isn’t me comes in. If it bothers you, I can make them not notice you. It just takes a little programming.”
The corners of the room were home to four ten-foot-tall stone statues of fearsome creatures undreamt of in this time’s primitive mythology. Each creature stood atop a pedestal that also bore the creatures’ names, which were all unfathomable to the ears of the locals. The far end of the chamber was not a wall, but a red velvet curtain. Roy pointed at it and said, “Looks like you stole it from a movie theater.”
“I did. I worked there when I was in high school. The manager was an awful racist jackass. Now he’s a racist jackass who has to explain to the owner how he let someone steal a huge velvet curtain.”
As they walked across room, Roy asked who or what the monstrous statues were supposed to be. Martin pointed to each, listing their names.
“Optimus Prime, Boba Fett, Grimace, and the Stig.”
Roy said, “Yeah, I can read. Are those names supposed to mean something to me?”
Martin had nearly reached the velvet curtain, but stopped and looked at his trainee, genuinely puzzled.
“None of them ring a bell? Not even Grimace?”
Roy shook his head.
“What year are you from?” Martin asked.
“1973.”
“Wow,” Martin said. “Seriously? Huh.”
Martin took a moment to absorb this, then said, “Well, none of these guys existed yet in ’73, except Grimace, and he probably looked pretty different. Did you ever eat at McDonald’s?”
Roy said, “No.”
Martin asked, “Why not?”
“Because I’m a grown man,” Roy answered.
Martin shrugged and parted the curtain. He gestured toward the gap and said, “After you.”
Roy walked through the curtain into Martin’s living quarters, which took up the remaining two-thirds of the building. The walls were bare wood and plaster. The ceiling was a tangle of timber rafters. The floor was raw planks. The space between the walls, the floor, and the ceiling was filled mostly with furniture from IKEA. The layout was what designers in Martin’s time called “open plan living.” It was one space. The bedroom was distinct from the living area and the dining area, but they were delineated from one another not by walls or partitions, but by where and how the furniture was placed.
Now Roy looked confused. “You live in a barn?”
Martin smiled as he breezed past Roy. “Pretty much. I mean, the building is in town, so I think of it as a warehouse, but before I bought it, this building’s main job was to keep hay dry before it was fed to horses, so yeah. I guess that pretty much makes it a barn.”
Martin walked to his work table and watched Roy explore his living space. The furniture was loosely clustered together in a little over half of the room. The rest of the room was open and empty. Roy walked around the dining room table and chairs, then stopped and asked where the kitchen was.
“Don’t have one. We don’t really need to cook. Are you hungry?” Martin asked.
“No. Pete gave me some
mutton. He said it was on the house.”
Martin remembered that when he’d arrived, the only thing Pete had given him “on the house” was an assortment of threats and insults.
Roy moved on to the color-coordinated couch and easy chairs. They were modern, comfortable, and small enough to be easily maneuvered by one man. He slowly walked toward something he clearly didn’t recognize. It was a large, flat slab of black glass and plastic, mounted vertically on a base that sat on top of a wooden cabinet. “What’s that?’ he asked.
“That’s my TV,” Martin said. He picked up a remote control and aimed it at the slab. It played a little jingle and displayed a spinning Samsung logo. Martin turned it off.
“There are no TV channels here, of course, but I use it to watch old movies from time to time.”
Roy turned to Martin, and in a quiet voice asked, “What year are you from?”
Martin chuckled. “2012. Have a seat, Roy.”
Roy sat heavily in one of the easy chairs. Martin looked at his closed laptop, thinking he’d give Roy a little more time to adjust before hitting him with that. He got up from his desk and sat on the couch opposite Roy.
“So,” Martin asked, “what happened?”
“Huh?” Roy said, snapping out of his daze.
“What brings you to Medieval England, and how the heck did you manage to find the file in 1973?”
“Nobody else from the seventies is here?”
“No. Until you, the earliest year anyone had come here from was 1984, as far as I know.”
Roy puffed up a bit. “So I found it first.”
“Yes,” Martin said, “but you got here last, so you can decide for yourself what that’s worth.”
Roy thought about that, then continued. “I was an engineer at Lockheed. It’s a company that makes airplanes.”
Martin said, “It’s called Lockheed Martin in my time. Always kinda got my attention.”
“I bet. Anyway, I worked in a division called the Skunk Works.”
“Really?!”
