by Mark Jeffrey
“An alternate timeline,” Max said darkly, “made possible because of the destruction of the Machine back in 1912.”
Enki nodded and said softly, “That is correct.”
“I’d guess this world is controlled by Niburian technology,” Ian ventured. “That Sky Chamber looked like it was patrolling the coast.”
“It was,” Cassandra said, startling them. She’d returned. “One an hour, on the dot. Here’s your drinks.” She proceeded to set them on the table.
Max fought down the urge to ask her outright who the Bondsman was.
“Cassandra,” Enki said, “is there any way I can trouble you for a newspaper?”
She shrugged. “Sure.” She spun and took three steps and then spun back around. “Oh. What room should I put all this on?” She took out a pen and waited.
“Well,” Enki said, “We haven’t checked in yet. We’ve only just arrived.”
“Just put it down under ‘Cyranus’, please” Casey interrupted with a wide grin. “I’ll make sure we check in under that name, and that you get a great tip.”
Cassandra smiled back at Casey. Max looked back and forth between them. For a second, they looked like two sisters who understood one another completely. “Cyranus … got it. I’ll right back with your paper. And that’s funny about the tip.”
With that, Cassandra bounded up the stairs once again.
Ian whirled on Enki and Casey. “Are two you nuts? How are we supposed to pay for anything here? We’re in an alternate bloody timeline. How do you know what money even looks like here? The presidents on the dollar bills might be different. Or they might not even have money. For all you bloody know, they use clamshells for currency. You have no –”
Enki waved him silent. “Let me worry about that. In the meantime, we have another problem.”
“What’s that?” Ian asked.
“When are we?” Enki said. “Sure, we know we’re in an alternate timeline, but we don’t know what year.”
Ian nodded. “Hmm. That’s true.” He looked around at the other guests for clues.
“No need to bother,” Enki said with a small smile, anticipating his thought. “Notice that nobody is using mobile devices of any kind?”
All four of them looked around. Enki was right.
“No smartphones, no text messaging, no tablets, no nothing. In fact, look up there.”
Enki pointed to a guest in a bathrobe on the veranda of the Hotel itself. A waitress was just now bringing him a phone on a silver tray. The man thanked her and picked up the receiver.
A twirled cord snaked down from his handset to the bulky white mechanical-dial telephone on the tray.
“Huh,” Ian breathed. “What do you know? A medieval telephone.”
“No touch tone,” Sasha breathed. “So where are we, the 50’s?”
Presently Cassandra returned with a newspaper. “Here you go,” she said brightly, handing it to Enki. “If you need anything else, wave me down. I’ll be up on the veranda.” With that, she departed.
“That is what I was endeavoring to ascertain by asking for this newspaper,” Enki replied to Sasha. Dramatically, he snapped the folded paper open to the front page.
“1977,” Enki announced. “It’s August 26th, 1977.”
“But this is an alternate 1977,” Casey said. “No disco balls.”
“Well, it’s not exactly the same 1977,” Enki said. “But some things, including disco balls, may very well be the same. But other things are most definitely different.”
Ian’s gaze floated across the pretty people playing on the patio and over by a pool nearby. Then it drifted down to the exquisitely manicured lawn and perfect squarely-trimmed bushes. And as he did so, he saw a person’s head suddenly retreat into the leaves.
“Hey,” Ian said. “Did you see that?”
“What?” Max said.
“Some guy was watching us. When I caught him, he ducked into the bushes.”
“Where?” Enki asked.
Ian pointed. “There. The guy looked huge, like a body builder or something.”
Enki squinted at the place that Ian indicated, as did Max. At the same time, they both said. “Well, there’s nothing there now.” They looked at each other in surprise. Both had used their Strong Eye, as Logan White-Cloud called it, to survey the bushes, see what beneath the surface of reality, to See, as it were.
The surprise was that Max was now doing this just as instinctively as Enki.
THE AFTERNOON in the sun on the luxurious patio of the Shell Hotel was the first truly relaxing time Max, Ian, Sasha and Casey had had in quite a long time. They felt safe, for a change. They felt relaxed. Even Enki was sinking into his chair, reading newspapers with his feet up. Cassandra kept refilling their drinks and getting them food whenever they wanted it.
Casey and Sasha did a lot of people-watching. The crowd here was fascinating in several ways. It was clear immediately that everyone was ‘well-bred’ and upper-crust in some way. There was wealth, power here.
The men had that preppy look to them. Their clothes were white or light pastel colors, their hair clipped just so and clean-cut. They boasted little alligator or other animal logos on collared shirts — with the collars popped. Some wore sweaters over their shoulders with the sleeves tied around their necks.
The women were the female version of the same thing: conservative, light colored clothes. All betrayed lack of imagination in their style — and more focus on not stepping outside some unspoken boundaries.
There was also a kind of underlying cruelty to this crowd. Casey could see it in the interactions — a snide bitchiness, when any of the women left a group, the others immediately conspired to whisper about her the moment her back turned.
The men would do it to their faces. In a group for five, four would suddenly turn on one of their own and laugh about this or that physical defect — could be a funny-shaped nose, or too-big ears. Or about his lack of prowess in business or love. The target simply suffered the abuse — until the worm turned, and a new target was selected in the fivesome, and the former target would join in on the piling on with a fresh viciousness.
Enki had fallen asleep in his newspaper. Sasha watched him nod off, realizing only then that he had stayed up all the previous night on the beach, watching over the rest of them, without a thought for himself.
A group of twenty-somethings walked by their table. One dimpled grinner in particular decided to detour — and made a beeline for Casey. “Hello there,” he said, taking Casey’s hand with a wink. “I haven’t see you here before.”
“We only just arrived,” Sasha said, grabbing Ian’s hand.
“Ah. Well. I’m David Veerspike,” he said. He looked expectantly, as if this were a name they were supposed to know and be awed by.
“Casey,” Casey said. “Cyranus. Casey Cyranus.”
David frowned. “I haven’t heard of the Cyranus family. Which major house are you related to?”
“My own,” Casey replied. “The Cyranus family has a more interesting history than you might guess.” Sasha could not help but barely contain a giggle at that. This David Veerspike look momentarily confused.
Max thought about rescuing Casey. But after a few seconds, he realized he just didn’t feel like it. After all — Casey had ‘met someone’ by her own admission. So, she was on her own now. He turned his attention to the crashing waves beyond the rolling manicured lawns.
“Ah. Well. I should look forward to learning more about your family. Maybe you’ll join us for tennis tomorrow?”
“Maybe,” Casey said.
“And you are in room …?”
“We’re not yet. We haven’t checked in.”
“Ah. Well then. I will keep an eye out for you, Casey Cyranus.”
“You do that,” Casey said.
David Veerspike left then, looking Casey up and down as he backed away and rejoined his crowd.
Cassandra arrived a few minutes later with another round of drinks. “Blech. I saw that. That Da
vid Veerspike is a douche. I brought you some napkins to wipe the slime off.”
“Oh, you know him?” Casey said.
“Unfortunately yes. I’m related to him. He’s my cousin.”
“That is unfortunate,” Sasha said.
“Well, I’m tired of being a popped-collar douchebag magnet,” Casey said. “And I’m starting to get sun-burned. Wake up Enki. We’re checking in — and I’m taking a bath.”
THE FRONT PORCH of the Shell Hotel was easily the length of two football fields. Bleach-white columns rose majestically, forming a long colonnade that stretched along the entire front of the Shell. Between these massive pillars were box-gardens of sharp red geraniums. Hundreds of white wicker-and-wood rocking chairs stretched off across this seemingly infinite plane of porch. The easy breeze of a thousand summertime afternoons of baseball and ice cream trucks lilted along its breadth.
Max, Casey, Ian and Sasha waited on the Great Porch, as it was called, as Enki arranged their accommodations.
“It’s very … white.” Sasha remarked, cocking her head to one side.
“It’s like the White House,” Casey agreed.
“It’s like a big vanilla cake that’s too pretty to eat,” Sasha replied. Both girls laughed.
But Max wasn’t listening. He wandered into the Grand Lobby. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dense shadow within. When they did, he beheld a vaulted ceiling: a great golden dome lined with dark blue. Palm fronds were everywhere, fanned out like thin fingers in elegant vases. The carpet was a lush, deep red.
Couches were arranged in carefully-considered geometries, inviting you to sink into their depths with friends and have deep conversations that went on and on, late into the night.
At the front desk, he could make out Enki, swinging his cane absentmindedly as he spoke with attendant. Enki laughed easily, obviously concocting some tale to get them all a room. And with a wry smile, Max had to admit, it looked like it was working.
But his eyes were suddenly drawn to a large painting displayed with prominence in the Lobby. It was a man, dressed in a sharp suit, like a President. He sat in a chair, seemingly deep in thought.
There was only one strange thing.
The man’s face was covered with a gold mask of some sort.
It was startling, incongruous, bizarre.
What the hell?
But before he could investigate further, Max’s new heightened senses detected something else he should be paying attention to. He winced. It was like a shrieking locomotive had just pulled alongside him. Bracing himself, he turned, and caught sight of someone else in the Lobby.
It was a girl. She stood diametrically across from him, perfectly still, staring directly at him. She had dirty blonde hair – clipped short stylishly in a slightly retro art deco hairdo – and deep brown watery eyes.
Was this –?
Did she –?
Questions slammed through his mind.
With great effort, he bored deep into his own patchwork of memories. It was still a din of faces and places and sounds and smells and feelings and languages … but, curiously, no, she did not seem to be in there.
He simply did not recognize her.
Of course, that could mean anything: memories of this girl could be buried within yet another bubble of cryptomnesia, for all he knew. Or perhaps he did know her — and memories of her simply had not surface yet.
Yet Max was certain of one thing already. His new senses told him that she was powerful. Very powerful.
Max flicked a glance at Enki: he was still engaged in delightful banter with the attendant. Presently, they both laughed. To his astonishment, Enki was unaware of this girl.
“Miss, may I have your name, please?” A bellhop had arrived with luggage loaded on an elegant wheeled cart.
She did not break eye contact with Max as she said, “Willow. Jane Willow.” She had just a slight aristocratic English accent.
“Very good, Miss Willow. This way, please. Follow me.”
Max watched her enter the old-style elevator. The operator stretched the accordion-type metal gate into place and the iron cage lurched upwards and out of view.
“We have a suite!” Enki announced. He had suddenly appeared in front of Max, grinning and waving a several sets of keys.
“Huh?” Max replied, still in a fuzz.
“A suite!” Enki replied. “The Pearl Suite. The very best suite in the Shell Hotel, I’ll have you know. Er, where are the others? Out on the portico?”
“What? Oh, they’re out on the porch,” Max replied.
“The Suite has several rooms – more than enough space for all of us.”
“How did you pay for it?” Max asked.
“It seems payment is not required,” Enki replied, somewhat disturbed by this. “We are all guests.”
“Guests? Guests of who?” Max asked.
“That’s what bothers me,” Enki replied. “I don’t know and I didn’t feel that asking was a smart thing. C’mon. Let’s get the others and go to our rooms.”
THE THEME of swirling blue nautical shells and jewels was repeated everywhere in their suite. It was in the tiles, the towels, the napkins – wherever Max looked. The Pearl Suite was majestically situated in the top left-most corner of the Shell Hotel. From the outside, it looked like a big round tower. It boasted five bedrooms – one for each of them. The company even had their own private balcony, with a breathtaking view of the cliffs and the sea beyond.
Max, Ian, Casey and Sasha all staked out their beds and promptly threw themselves down on them, warm with cozy delight. After several days of sleeping on the beach, this was utter bliss.
Max fell asleep almost instantly. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he had been.
But Max’s dreams were fitful. Vaguely, probably subconsciously, he thought he could sense several powerful entities inhabiting the Shell Hotel. This happened several times throughout the night.
But whenever his mind seemed to sharpen in on one, it would dissolve like a shadow in morning light.
Two: The Shell Hotel
A COMMOTION woke Max from his slumber several hours later. He heard the sound of glass breaking in the main suite –
Instantly, he leapt to his feet and tore the door open, ready for anything. Sasha and Casey both already had their guns drawn. The dining table and chairs were overturned, scattered. As a result, a water decanter had fallen and shattered into bits strewn over the shell-design of the tiled floor.
Cowering against the couch with his hands up was a quaking older man. He wore torn jeans and a jean jacket, with an American flag bandana on his head. Beneath this, wispy-thin gray hair poked out.
“Who are you?” Casey shouted at him. “Talk fast.”
“I’m Maurice, man,” he said. “Maurice Candlewick, if you have to know that.”
“Why are you in our room?” Casey demanded.
“Clever girls with clever guns,” Maurice said with a nervous smile. “Heard of you, yes.”
“Don’t play with us,” Casey said dangerously. She and Sasha trained the Red Roses and the White Roses on Maurice. “I promise we know how to use these.”
Maurice nodded slowly. “Oh, I know you do. Those things are real. But everything else around here is fake.”
“Fake?” Max said.
“Yeah. Fake. Imitation. Everything. It’s a replica. A forgery. But not the guns. The guns are the real deal, man, I get that.”
Enki appeared now from his room.
“What is this?” Enki bellowed.
“There’s some guy here,” Casey replied, head nodding towards the outside. “He came in through the patio door. He must have climbed up the outside of the Hotel or something.”
“Yeah. He just started nosing around our stuff,” Sasha continued. “Case and I just happened to be in the kitchen when we heard him pick the door. Can you believe the gall of this guy?”
“That’s not true!” Maurice protested. “I was not ‘nosing around’. I’
m not tryin’ to steal nothing. No! Maurice doesn’t do that. I’m here to talk to you cats.”
“Talk to us? About what?” Enki replied.
“About you, man! About what you’re doing! Or, more like, what you’re not doing.” He stood up now, cautiously, watching Sasha and Casey like a hawk.
“Look at all of you,” Maurice sneered with a sweep of his arm. “The Man is looking for you! And you’re like … sitting, in a hotel room, like this is some kind of vacation. Don’t you get it? I’m talking about the Man himself!”
“Pardon me, but what ‘Man’ is that?” Enki asked.
Maurice’s face went dough-white with credulity. “What ‘Man’ is …? You. Have. Got. To. Be. KIDDING ME.” Maurice got up in Enki’s face. Casey hissed a warning. The Red Roses swirled with anticipation. But Enki shot a look that said that Maurice was to be tolerated – at least for the moment.
“The Man, man! I’m talking about the Man of Mans! The Mac Daddy! The golden-faced dude! The helter-skelter! The frown of frowns, man. Mr. Sunshine turned around.”
“Who is ‘the Man’?” Enki asked again, patiently.
“I heard you the first time,” Maurice panted, putting his hands around his head like it might explode. “I just didn’t believe my microphones.” Maurice leaned in closed. “The Bondsman, man! Him! Him!”
Max, Casey, Ian and Sasha stared with obvious incomprehension. Maurice stared back, his bloodshot eyes quivering with the need to be understood.
Finally, Ian offered. “Our waitress mentioned the Bondsman also. But we’ve never heard of him before today.”
Maurice bit down some retort, his face chewing down what he really wanted to say. “Oh, man. You guys better get your heads in the game.” He popped the television set on. “How can you not know the freakin’ World Emperor? He’s – there. That’s him.”
The television news showed what appeared to be a meeting of world dignitaries. At the head of the table sat a figure, presented as obviously greater than the rest. He was set apart, above, a loftier sort of species altogether. The camera tracked him, fawning over his every move.
