He was carrying on as usual one morning, wandering the streets outside the run-down building he now called home, when he ran into a familiar face, but not one that he wished to remember.
Lia stood in front of him, looking exactly as she had one year ago, her black hair as straight as it had always been, her sharp eyes glinting coldly in the chilly air.
Ben stopped walking. He kept his head lowered and didn’t say a word. He still had the scar from their last encounter when she had slashed him across the face, and it burned from time to time.
“It’s been a long time,” she acknowledged, finally addressing him. “You know, the council still expects you to complete the mission, even though it’s been more than a year,” she stated flatly.
Ben still said nothing, but in his mind, he registered faint surprise that they still remembered he existed, back in his original time.
“Word is that a female actor in the next town over just had a baby,” Lia continued, remarking casually as she looked carefully at his face, trying to read his expressions. “Let’s finish this mission we were sent to complete.”
Ben nodded robotically in agreement and followed her. Lia led the way. They arrived at a stone cottage at the edge of the town, surrounded by trees on one side, and on the other, by a thin path that led to the center of town. Through an open window, they saw a baby sleeping in its crib, its tiny hands and feet curled like it was trying to make itself very small and hide from the rest of the world.
Carefully, Lia pushed the pane of the open window so that it swung open, and lifting one leg through, she was able to gingerly crawl inside. She helped Ben in, and once they had both entered the nursery, they crept toward the crib where the tiny baby was sleeping.
It was then that they heard footsteps coming down the hallway and that same soothing voice that, for a year, Ben had only ever heard in his dreams, floating down the hall
“Oh, Jaaaack,” it sang out, getting louder and louder. “Where’s my baby boy? Mummy’s here. It’s time to wake up.”
The child startled awake and lay blinking in its crib. Its face crumpled, and it started to cry pitifully.
“Aw, don’t cry, baby,” the voice cooed as it reached the door of the nursery. “I’m right here.”
The door opened, and in the doorway, lighting up the dark nursery, stood Jane. Lia jumped back immediately, unsheathing her knife. Ben stood, frozen. He could neither look at Jane nor move away.
Jane blinked, her eyes adjusting to the unfamiliar forms in the dimly-lit nursery. “What are you—” she began, before she saw the glint of Lia’s knife and turned white. She moved quickly in between them and the crib where the baby lay, crying. The sounds of the baby wailing sliced through the tension.
Finally, Jane’s eyes seemed to adjust and fixate on their faces. Ben saw recognition on her face when her eyes landed on his. “John?” she asked incredulously, looking from Ben to Lia, and back to Ben.
“Move,” Lia said dangerously in a low voice. She began to move toward the crib, the knife in her outstretched hand.
Perhaps it was a mother’s instinct, or maybe Jane knew something was wrong from the look on Ben’s face, but, in that moment, she lost all sense of self-preservation in her desire to protect the one thing she loved most in this world.
“No!” Jane screamed, throwing herself forward at Lia.
Ben saw the nightmare unfold, just as he had envisioned it a year ago. Lia’s knife found its target, burying itself into Jane’s chest as Ben opened his mouth to scream, knowing it was too late. There was a lot less blood than he had originally imagined, he thought oddly to himself, his thoughts stilted.
Jane coughed once, a trickle of blood marring her pink lips. Her eyes were becoming unfocused, but they were looking in his direction as if silently pleading. The only problem was that Ben didn’t know what she was asking him to do.
Lia yanked her knife back, and Jane fell limply to the floor. It was over so soon. Ben stared in shock at Jane’s limp form lying so elegantly, splayed out on the floor, her brown hair tumbling around her like a sort of earthly halo.
Lia herself was breathing heavily, quite uncharacteristically. “We did what we had to do,” Lia croaked, her voice shaking but defiant. “We signed up for this; it’s our duty to see it through to the end.”
“This is wrong,” Ben managed to cry out, his voice hoarse. “This is all wrong.”
“No, it’s not,” Lia said forcefully, walking up to him and grabbing his shoulders. “This is about saving lives. We stop the murderer before he has the chance to murder. If we do this quickly, there will be no suffering for anyone. Now, let’s end this,” she said with finality. “Let’s end this so we can finally go home.”
In a small voice, Ben started to protest, saying, “He’s just a baby—”
“He may be a baby now, but he ...” Lia interrupted, and with this, she pointed a finger at the baby, who looked simply back at them. “He becomes a murderer. You know it, and I know it. We’re from the future, Ben. There’s no uncertainty about it. He ends up killing people ... torturing them. We are doing a good thing, no matter how hard it is.” She began to advance on the crib.
“No, wait—” Ben began.
“We’ve been here for too long already,” Lia muttered under her breath as she reached the crib and drew her arm back.
“Stop!” Ben bellowed. Lunging forward and grabbing her by the arm, he ripped her away from the crib.
Lia flew backward, the force of Ben’s throw slamming her into the adjacent wall. Her head hit the wall first with a hollow thud, and she slumped against the wall, unconscious.
Horrified, Ben gazed at the spot where Lia lay. Ben wasn’t even sure if she was still alive. Although he had stopped her then from killing the baby, part of him knew she was right. He came from the future; he knew that this baby would grow up to be a monster. He would go on to kill countless women, take innocent lives, and cause torment to so many. He was a villain, and Ben, the hero, had the opportunity now to strike him down for good and return victorious.
He looked over at the baby, still sitting in its crib. He began to move toward it, picking up the knife that Lia had dropped.
“Jack ...”
A hoarse whisper stopped him dead in his tracks. Jane lay on the ground, blood pulling from under her and from her mouth. She looked so beautiful then, so pale against the darkness of the room. She breathed one airy breath and stopped moving altogether. Her eyes were unseeing, and in Ben, something broke.
He didn’t cry, though, and part of him wondered why. Regardless, he looked back toward the baby. There was a mission that needed to be finished.
He started to move toward the crib. As he got closer, he realized the baby was covered in blood—whether it was Jane’s blood, or Lia’s, or his own, Ben couldn’t tell. Regardless, he wasn’t crying. The baby sat there, simply looking up at him, his innocent eyes holding no suspicion of crime. His pastel baby clothes were stained with red marks, and the sides of his white face were splashed with tiny specks of blood. Shaking, Ben lifted the dagger.
His arm fell heavily. He brought the dagger down on his own chest. He cut through the chain holding the red stone around his neck, and it fell to the ground, cracking as it hit the floor. Or, maybe it had cracked long ago, and Ben had only now noticed. Its ugly red hue began to fade and dull, the pulsing glow receded, and it lay as inanimate as any other dull, reddish rock.
He knew what he had to do. Picking the baby up, he prepared himself to do the unthinkable.
SOME TIME LATER, LIA began to stir from where she lay, groaning as she opened her eyes and tried to get up. “Ben?” she called out hoarsely, but Ben was nowhere to be seen.
The first thing Lia saw was the body of the other woman next to her, the target of her and Ben’s mission, still lying on the ground, except now her eyelids were closed and she was lying peacefully on her back, her hands folded over her stomach.
Just then, Ben walked back into the room, wiping his
hands on a towel. He sat down in a rocking chair across from her, watching her as she struggled to her feet. Her head was pounding.
“What happened?” Lia moaned as she rubbed her head.
“It’s done,” Ben said flatly, his face unreadable.
Lia looked over at bloodstained crib, now empty. “Good,” she sighed, relieved. “Let’s get out of here.”
As she steadied herself, she noticed that Ben no longer had the stone around his neck. “Where’s your stone?” she asked, shocked.
“Oh.” Ben waved a hand dismissively and looked away. “It must have fallen off at some point.”
“Fallen off?” Lia was incredulous. “That’s impossible! How are you going to get back, Ben? You know you can’t get back without it! You’ll be stuck here forever!”
He turned to face her. The light from the window behind her landed on his face, illuminating the shadows under his eyes and in his cheeks. His expression was distorted. The corners of his mouth lifted just a bit in an empty smile as he told her, “I’m not going back.”
AFTER LIA HAD RETURNED to their time in a cloud of blood and red dust, Ben heaved a sigh so heavy it was as if the life was draining from his body. He got up and left the nursery, going to the closet where he had hidden the swaddled baby while Lia had lain unconscious. The baby cooed and looked up at him, reaching for his face with one of its tiny closed fists.
The corners of Ben’s eyes crinkled. He had his mother’s eyes. Every part of this child was precious, in a way that Ben couldn’t explain.
“How can you be a monster?” he whispered to the baby, lifting him up so that their noses touched. “You look so much like her. They’ll call you Jack, just as your mother wanted,” he promised to the baby.
He walked outside. It was nighttime now, and the town was quiet, settling in for sleep. The night air was alluring, drawing him in and comforting him with its omnipotence. The wind brushed gently against his cheek, and the baby shivered. Ben held him tighter to his chest.
As he got to the center of town, he placed the baby down on the side of the street, right in the town square. Inside the swaddle of blankets around the baby, Ben placed a small note and the pouch containing the remainder of the coins he had brought with him.
He took one last look at the baby and walked away into the rainy night.
The Xenobot Paradox
Lyle Stiles
AGAIN? I think, behind the mask of a relaxed smile.
A green panel of light projects from the band on my wrist, practically insulting me. On the hologram, the words “Level 3” flash on and off. I double-tap the wristband, and the panel disappears.
The affront cannot show on my face—not here. My eyes dart to the side, trying to see if she noticed. I can’t see far enough, but if I turn my head, I’ll give it all away. Straining my eyes, I only spot more of the large, bowl-shaped hall, filled with other grinning, blue-vested time travelers.
Did she see it? I wonder, slipping my wrists under the hover table. Although they’re out of sight, I still fight the urge to clench my hands. I won’t take the chance of anything else possibly tipping her off. Maybe she didn’t notice.
An exaggerated, high-pitch laugh pierces my ears. “Oh, Beatrix ... was that a three I just saw?”
I wince as she walks into view.
The tall woman places an index finger on her temple, feigning a thought. “What were you saying before? ‘I’m going to be the next Marxus Tran?’ This is an odd way to do it, don’t you think?”
Don’t look. I fixate on the Guardians’ table at the center of the bowl-hall. Most are packing up their belongings now that they’ve ported over our assignments.
This must be because of the League’s petty infighting. Your fellow Guardian doesn’t do the political favor you need? Tank her mentee’s chances at moving up the ladder. When you have a comfortable position and can’t really hurt your colleagues, why not punch down? It’s textbook Guardian—and textbook stupid.
My smile widens, showing way too many teeth. “Time willing, I can be the next Marxus Tran ... but right now, I’m just happy to be serving the Guardians.”
“Oh, what a wonderful attitude.” She rests her arm on my table and looks down at me. “With assignments like that, you should just be happy you’re not serving us food.”
Keep ... smiling. I don’t even shift in my chair. My pale hands stay resting on my knees, and my eyes are fixed to the “ELLIE” tattoo on her wrist. Don’t look up at her shit-eating smirk, I think, sitting motionless and grinning like a child’s doll.
“Nothing to say?” Her hand gracefully slides off the table. “If you decide there is something to talk about, let’s discuss it in front of the Guardians. I’m sure your mentor would love to hear another example of why you were the wrong choice.”
My gaze is focused on the now-empty Guardian table at the center of the hall—anything to not look up and see her staring down at me. What a horrible woman. I was the right choice. She’d probably forget her name if it wasn’t tattooed on her. I can’t believe I even considered getting in on the fad at one point.
“I think you’re forgetting, Ellie, that I successfully completed my last three assignments,” I say, regaining my poise. “It’s possible it could have been a mistake.”
She pats my back, just a little harder than she needs to. “We both know there’s only one mistake here. The way you complete them is the problem. Whatever you’re doing keeps causing unintended consequences, resulting in disturbances in the timestream that real travelers like myself have to fix.” She scoffs. “I’ll do it again, too, right after you mess up this next one. Ta-ta!”
I watch Ellie’s body slide out of view and hear her shuffling items off her table. Her words ignite recent memories of my last missions, the only blotches on my now almost perfect record. She’s exaggerating—a little. There weren’t that many big disturbances ... I think. A few “ripples” in the timestream is normal, but there were three big “splashes” I couldn’t explain. I’ve met high-rank travelers with more, though, and I thoroughly checked the mission specs before I went. I wasn’t being careless.
The half-truths push me too far. “Didn’t you go to training school? You know—” I say, turning in time to watch her fad-following green highlights bounce as she walks upstairs to the exit. “Corrections are Complicated,” I mutter. The traveler academy’s tired refrain hits the air, affecting no one.
Speeding to my quarters, I brush past more happy time travelers ogling light panels and forearm bumping in celebration. “Excuse me,” I say, without waiting for a response.
The statuesque, violet-haired guy I bump utters, “Ow!” He laughs. “You must really be excited about your new mission, Beatrix.”
Barely registering the voice, I turn around, grimacing mostly out of embarrassment. I didn’t realize it was him. Ambrose has always been soft-spoken and relaxed, an odd combination for a traveler—but it works for him. I only half-listen to Ambrose mention his new Level 6 assignment, focusing instead on the elaborate hand gestures he makes as he talks. I reminisce about him performing an entirely different set of movements—but that’s over now. We both needed to focus on our careers, so it was mutual ... sort of. Sometimes, I wonder if I made a mistake, but being a great time traveler requires sacrifices.
“... for you?” he asks.
I shake my head, smiling again. “I’m sorry, what?”
He smirks and points at my wristband. “Must be a pretty good assignment if you’re already distracted by it.”
His friend shakes his head, motions forward, and starts walking away.
“Hey! Wait!” he shouts to his disinterested companion. Ambrose’s dimples show as he smiles, looking back at me. “Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll do great.” He rushes to catch up with his friend before disappearing down the corridor.
“I will!” I shout. I’m pretty sure it’s going to be easy ... I think, still a little starry-eyed.
Heading back to my personal quarte
rs, I nod and smile to a few more of my peers in passing. Once I get inside my room, the automatic door slides closed, and my smile drops.
The Marxus Tran holos are just like I left them this morning. I have one for almost all of his major corrections. The one by my bed shows him smiling, receiving an elaborate pin for one of his senior missions. He once went on a Level 20 assignment and stopped a man named Hitler, who would have ended the lives of millions—without killing anyone. Not that any of us human travelers can kill someone anyway, but still, it’s impressive.
The hologram video by my closet shows him in his ceremonial zoot suit. It’s when he went to a later time in America and alerted the media about a study that, on its first timestream, ended with almost four hundred African Americans going untreated for syphilis when the treatment, penicillin, had been available for twenty-five years at that point. Marxus Tran took action before that could happen, preventing a gross injustice.
The other holos in the room flash. He is in different outfits accepting awards and pins for his various feats. He’s a legend—and a constant reminder of what I will never be.
I sigh, then double-tap my wristband. The green light panel appears again and continues to flash “Level 3.” I can’t look at this. I take the wristband off and whip it into its flat, stiff form. Pressing the now stick-like band against the wall, it adheres like a fly and projects information that I ignore.
I drag myself to the automatic closet door, which slides open. I scan the series of time-appropriate clothes—a pastel-pink sack-back gown, a short, brown wool dress, a flowing white tunic, and clothing from several other eras.
While expunging thoughts of the assignment, I realize I ignored something crucial. “Wait ... Janice, what year am I going to?”
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