City Beyond Time: Tales of the Fall of Metachronopolis

by John C. Wright

  The older woman whispered, "But I can tell you that it can't be worse. There were some happy days in the beginning. Some good times. But they're not worth it. Well?”

  Catherine said nothing.

  Outside, the older Lelantos threw another book on the fire.

  The older woman said, “I'm warning you not to marry him. You're not going to listen to me, are you? You think you're so smart. You think you can do better. But I warned you.”

  Outside, a white-haired man dressed in a uniform of gray and green, with some sort of glowing metallic dots shining on his military collar came walking out of the trees, leaning on a cane. When the older Lelantos raised another book to throw on the fire, the white-haired man raised his walking stick and stepped in the way. Catherine could see that it was yet another version of Lelantos.

  “There he is, going to change his mind again!” the older woman screamed. She turned and ran out of the room.

  Catherine stepped toward the door to follow.

  By the time she reached the door, however, bright angled beams of sunlight were shining into the twilit room behind her. She came forward, blinking. The noon-light was reflected from the polish of the central table.

  The museum cases were larger, and there were more manikins, some wearing fabrics and shining substances which Catherine had never seen before. There were woven metals and dresses which slowly pulsed with gentle holographic light. It unnerved her that these futuristic garments were faded, old, and worn.

  A man in a dark blue suit was seated at a chair, his back to the table, facing the museum displays. He was dark-haired, handsome, and he wore spectacles. He seemed to be staring out the window with a blank look on his face, occasionally drumming his fingers in mid-air.

  The suit had a long, split-tailed coat, vaguely colonial in cut, but pinstripe strands of silvery light slowly and gently flicked back and forth through the fabric as he moved, holographic. There were folds of white lace at his throat, and he wore a single glove.

  What she thought at first were spectacles were actually two disks of glass which hovered, without support, on either side of his nose. On the disks little lights were flowing, diagrams and lines of script reflected backwards in the glass. On his right hand was a white silky glove, occasionally he gestured or pointed with it, or flickered his fingers as if he were typing.

  She stood and watched this strange man for a long moment.

  “You're one of Lee's family, aren't you? I know my older version didn't come back through time herself.”

  He started and smiled. The resemblance to Lelantos was quite striking. “Excuse me, I was just playing a game.” He took the hovering circles of glass and slid them into a pocket in the wrist of the glove, which he took off, folded, and slipped into his cummerbund. “And yes, I brought her to see you. I am indeed one of the family!” The assertion seemed to amuse him.

  He was staring at her and smiling, with an unsettling look of love and happiness in his eyes.

  “What's your name?” Catherine asked.

  “Nicholas. Nicholas Asteria.”

  “Oh my god!” Catherine put her hands to her mouth, and stood there staring at him, her eyes wide. Then she gave out a breathless, gasping laugh. “I don't believe it! I don't believe it!” She lowered her hands. “Look at how handsome you are!”

  He smiled and stood, and gave her a little bow. “You recognize me?”

  “I've had the name Nicholas picked out since I was twelve.”

  His smile grew broader. “Hello, Mother!” He moved forward and hugged her. Then he stepped back and looked her over, up and down. She wondered if her clothes looked odd and old-fashioned to him. But then he said: “You were really pretty when you were young, weren't you?”

  She blushed. It was strange, and a little uncomfortable, but she was pleased nevertheless.

  “I brought mother back to speak with you because she asked. But I wanted to speak to you myself.”

  Catherine blinked. “Yes?”

  “Marry him. Marry Dad. I like being your son.”

  “I–I'm glad…”

  “I'm not saying this for any selfish reason. I'll still exist if you don't. I'll just be a bastard or some one else's son. But… well, I love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day.” He pointed toward the window, perhaps to indicate what date it was.

  “Well… this is so strange. I don't know you. Is there anything I should know? Do we get along? I mean…” Catherine was at a loss for words.

  He shrugged. “We argued a bit, when I grew up. Actually, we argued quite a lot. We even argued this morning, about you coming here to warn you not to get married. But I still would like to have been your son.”

  She didn't know what to say.

  “I just thought you should know that. Now come. Let me take you back.”

  They walked through the library back to the hall. In the windows, flurries of snow blew against the panes. The hall was lit by a sourceless, gentle glow of energy. They entered the dining room. The chandeliers here gleamed with clear and sharp atomic light; the windows showed hundred-colored autumn leaves blowing past in a remorseless wind.

  In the pantry, electric lights burned. The door to the pantry led outside to the field of summer grass.

  As she walked, Catherine was disturbed by doubts. The picture of ugliness, of bitterness, of her older version's face floated in her minds eye. I shall not become that woman, she promised herself.

  Even if it meant giving up Lee?

  She thought coldly: I always said I would wed only the best of men, the man who would make me happy. If he can't make me happy…

  But that thought was too painful. She tried to imagine life without him. She couldn't.

  “I'm trapped," she thought. "It's all foreordained, all predestined. My older version knew I would ignore her warnings. She knew I would think I could change him, break him out of his addiction. All women think that. But I said I would never marry a man and try to change him… But I still love him.”

  She felt trapped, doomed. If she heeded the warning, she would lose her love. If she ignored it, she bound herself to a life of promised unhappiness.

  Catherine thought perhaps she could marry Lelantos and still somehow avoid the problems that were predicted. But she also knew that every young bride thought the same thing… and that most of them were wrong. Terribly wrong.

  Catherine and Nicholas stood at the doorway leading out into the field. Down the slope, near a cluster of rosebushes, she saw Lelantos, her Lelantos, (looking, after the sight of his other versions, very young) standing and staring off down the hill, brooding, worrying, wondering. He had not seen them yet.

  For a moment, Catherine could not bear to look at him. How could he be so perfect for her, and yet be destined to lead her to a life of misery and divorce?

  “Nicholas.”

  “Yes, mother?"

  “Why did he change his mind again? Why did he go back after he burned his books?”

  “It's my fault.”

  “Your fault?”

  “I broke my neck rock climbing. He went back to tell me not to do it. You both are always trying to discourage me from mountaineering. It's one of things we always argue about.”

  “But if you're going to die rock climbing!”

  He shrugged. “Time travel doesn't tell you what is absolutely going to happen. It doesn't steal your free will. It only tells you what might happen. So, I might break my neck. Even if I didn't time travel, I could have told you that. Rock climbing is dangerous. You do it. You might break your neck.” He shook his head and shrugged again. “Anyway, that got him started up again.”

  She winced. No wonder. What sort of man wouldn't try to save his son?

  “Look out, here he comes! I don't want him to see me. I hate it when his young self comes to the future and tries to pal around with me. I have to go.”

  “Wait! Don't leave me! We only just met…”

  “Don't worry Mom. I'll see you again. Meet you in the delivery room.
You'll recognize me: I'll be wearing a red umbilical cord, and squealing a lot. Great times ahead! See you.” He grinned at her, patted her fondly on the shoulder, and retreated into the house. She started to call out after him, but he was already fading into mist, vanished like a figment of her imagination.

  Lelantos was coming with glad, impatient steps, almost running toward where she stood waiting at the door. Then he saw the doubt on her face, his steps slowed, he stopped.

  He stood there for a moment, took a few deep breaths, and then, visibly steeling himself, he came forward to face her.

  “Well?" he said. "You saw ghosts from the future.”

  “Yes.”

  “And they warned you against me.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked away, his face cold, his eyes downcast. He said half angrily: “I had hoped, for once, someone in my family could marry someone that no futures would regret…”

  “I have one question, Lee. You cannot travel forward into any future which you cannot imagine, is that right?”

  Still downcast, he muttered, "It's so." Then he straightened, looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Do you think we should try anyway? Defy the predictions?"

  “In the future you took me to, our main problem seemed to be that you were addicted to time travel. Can you imagine a future where that is not a problem?”

  A guilty look started on his face. “Are you asking me to give it up? I mean, I've tried before… I suppose I could, for you… you know, but it would be hard….”

  “I don't think it's an addiction, Lee. I think time travel is dangerous for the reasons you say it is; you might fade yourself away. But I think life is dangerous too. Mountain climbing is dangerous. Marrying someone who might make you unhappy is dangerous. And I don't think that was the real future I saw. What I think I saw was the image projected by your fears. Your main fear is my objection to the dangers of time travel. But you're the one who calls it an addiction. I never did. People have told me I'm addicted to rock climbing. It's a stupid thing to say. Just because you love to do something dangerous, that doesn't make you an addict.”

  He took her in his arms and lowered his face toward hers. He whispered, “So what are we going to do? What are you going to do when I start to fade?”

  “When you time travel, you'll take me with you. That way, if we fade out, we'll fade out together. We might die, but at least we'll be together.”

  “You're a brave girl, Catherine.”

  “Love is a dangerous business. Only the brave girls survive it.”

  He laughed softly and kissed her sweet mouth.

  She kissed him back and smiled. “There's only one answer. There is only one way these ghosts of days to come will not forever return to complain and pester us. We'll make a future together that is better than any we can possibly imagine.”

  Father's Monument

  He sat in the shade of the trees at the edge of the cliff, watching the leaves fall slowly, whirling, blowing, dancing down through the air, eventually to fall into the sea. His face was careworn and sad. He neither stirred nor spoke, but sat staring downward, forever down. The time was autumn, and the trees were rich with many colors, gold, scarlet, copper. The sea below was black and green, criss-crossed with restless lines of pure white froth. The air was brisk and smelled of salt.

  His name was Phil. His wife, Muriel, had come up the green, grassy path from their odd little old-fashioned house, and walked into the stand of trees where Phil was sitting. Leaves rustled under her footsteps. Her eyes were red with recent tears.

  Phil spoke without looking up. “Is he any better?”

  She folded her hands tightly around each other. “He asked about the time travelers again. He said–”

  “I don’t care what he said!”

  “Well, he’s your father, Philo! Not mine! At least you could have come to the hospital with me!”

  “I don’t care about what he said about the time travelers. I want to know what the hospital administrator said about the operation.”

  “They can’t do anything… they won’t do anything without some assurance of being paid. The government insurance won’t cover an operation like this.”

  They were both silent for a time.

  After a while, he said softly: “I’ve been sitting here watching the leaves fall down into the sea. The first moment they get free of the tree, some of them swirl up. Look. Almost looks like they’re dancing, doesn’t it? Going round and round. When the wind is coming right up the cliff, they can stay up, oh, I don’t know, maybe ten minutes. Maybe longer. They look like they’ll never come down. But gravity always wins out in the end. They turn into brown wet slop once they hit the water. And they all go down…”

  More silence. Muriel sat down beside her husband.

  She said, “Did the lawyers ever call back about having the contract set aside? Can we get back the money your father paid out to that metallurgical firm? Any of it?”

  “No. They said no. There are no psychiatric records, no evidence that Dad was unfit or incompetent when he mortgaged the house and sold his assets. I’m the only one who knows he believes in the time travelers.”

  “So that’s it? There’s no way to raise the money?”

  Phil said angrily: “The metals and the other material for the monument are bought and paid for; the company president said he had to develop special furnaces to mold and shape the alloy. Dad paid for it! We can’t get the money back.”

  “Can’t we sell that damn metal?” There were tears again in Muriel’s eyes.

  “Who would want it? Who in the hell would want it?” And he picked up a handful of the brightly colored leaves lying on the grass beside them and flung them out over the brink.

  She changed the subject. “He asked about you again today.”

  Phil said nothing. His face was stubborn, sullen. Muriel said angrily: “You’ve got to go see him! He’s your father! If you don’t… how do you think you'll feel ten years from now? Twenty? What if our kids didn’t come visit you when you were sick, if you ever needed help…”

  “I’ll go,” he muttered.

  “What if it was you laying there with all those machines and things stuck in your arm…”

  “I said I’ll go! All right?”

  “All right! I’m sorry I shouted,” she said softly.

  “You never understood what it was like between me and my father.”

  Muriel picked up a leaf and toyed with it. She didn't look at him. “Is that my fault? You never explained it.”

  “You know he’s crazy.”

  “Maybe. I think he’s sweet. At least he believes in something.”

  “And I don’t?” Phil said in a cold voice. “I think you shouldn’t believe in things you can’t see. It offends reason. All the scientific achievements of Western civilization are based on…”

  “Are you going to go see your father or not? That’s what offends me. That you would let him sit there in that smelly hospital bed and–”

  “I already told you I was going!”

  Later that day, Phil was at the hospital getting permission to see his father. It was after normal visiting hours, but the head nurse gave him permission nonetheless. He talked with the doctor briefly beforehand.

  As the nurse was walking him towards the room, she filled him in on his father's condition in a bright, cheerful voice “He’s doing much better today. He even told a joke.”

  “What did he say?” Phil asked dubiously.

  “Oh, I was asking him about his name. What kind of name is Mega Hyperion, I asked him. 'It’s from the Forty-Eighth Century,' he says, just like that. And he smiled so. There was a real twinkle in his eye.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. He’s a great kidder.”

  She let him into the room. The man in the other bed was asleep, and Phil drew the shabby plastic curtain between the two halves of the shared room.

  His father was propped up in the complicated mechanism of the hospital bed. Tubes ran into his arm; a cle
ar plastic tent was erected around the head of the bed. Two oscilloscopes in a rack next to the bed kept up a steady beeping. The smell of medical disinfectant permeated the room.

  They had shaved his head, making the white tufts of his eyebrows seem all the furrier and larger, like the false ones on a store-front Santa.

  Apparently, his father had been watching television. His eyes were open, and the television on a stand above the door was quietly talking to itself. But Megamedes Hyperion did not speak or move when Phil entered.

  Phil stood there for a long, horrid, moment. “Oh, God…” he whispered. I never had a chance to say I was sorry. I never had a chance. Oh, God, please don’t let him be dead.

  Megamedes blinked, his eyes focused. “I am not dead as yet, Philopater. I had entered a secondary level of consciousness, to allow my mental probes to explore the alternate temporal chronoverses congruent to this reality. There is a probability distortion in this timeline, only a few hours or days away. It may be the shockwave of the approaching time-nexus, which is the anachronic vortex created by a destiny crystal intersecting the continuum, forming a gate. However, my powers cannot detect whether it is simultaneous with this timestream, or if it is entering an alternate probability line. There are additional steps we must take to raise the probability manifold to the threshold energy levels.”

  Phil was surprised at how deep and vibrant his father’s voice sounded. He felt a moment of vast relief when he heard his father speak. He sat down quickly in the chair next to the bed, his knees weak. Only then did he realize what his father was saying.

  An unreasoning anger took hold of him. Silently he fought it. He gritted his teeth and made himself nod. He forced himself to look understanding.

  With a deep breath, trying to hide the effort it cost him, he said casually, “I’ve decided to finish building your latest monument for you, father.”

  Megamedes merely looked at his son silently, with no expression on his face.

  Phil shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “I mean… you’ve told me so many times why you build them. So the archeologists in the far future can discover them and get the message, and send back a rescue expedition… right? Well, I’ve decided to help you. We can send your message now. You say they’re coming. Well? I’m… I’m trying to help you. Why don’t you say something?”