by Pete Hautman
Tamm held his hands up and took a step back. Kosh put the keys in his pocket. “Don’t worry,” he said, lowering the weapon. “I’m not gonna shoot you.”
Tamm took that as permission to attack. He ran at Kosh, who brought the shotgun up hard. The heavy double-barrel struck Tamm’s chin with an audible crack. Tamm went down. Kosh rushed around the SUV and checked on Emma. She was woozy, but she recognized him.
“In the barn . . .” she said, with a weak wave of her hand. Kosh looked at the barn just as a giant orange-and-black cat leaped from the doorway with a horrendous screech and landed a few yards away, between the barn and the SUV.
A leopard? Kosh raised the shotgun. The cat took off toward the trees and melted into the woods. Kosh ran to the barn, where he almost tripped over Koan, who was lying in the doorway. Tucker, Lia, and the priest called Gheen were standing inside, looking as shocked and confused as Kosh felt. Kosh trained the shotgun on Gheen.
“Hey kid,” he said to Tucker, “you want to tell me what that was?”
“That was a jaguar,” Tucker said.
“A jaguar,” Kosh repeated. He looked down at Koan. Blood was pumping with alarming speed from Koan’s throat. His fading eyes found Kosh, then went still.
“We have to get out of here,” Tucker said. “Now!”
Kosh sniffed the air. “Have you been messing with my stove again?” he said. His eyes widened as he realized what a barn full of propane meant.
“Yes!” Tucker said. “Come on!” He grabbed Lia’s sleeve and started toward the door.
Gheen, seeing his chance, made a dash for the nearest disko.
“No!” Lia tore free from Tucker’s grasp and dove after Gheen. She grabbed the back of his jacket as the disko flashed orange. Lia and Gheen were gone.
Tucker started toward the disko.
“Don’t do it, kid,” Kosh said.
Tucker hesitated and looked back at Kosh.
Kosh said, “C’mon, Tucker. Let’s get out of here.”
“You get out,” Tucker said. “I’m going after her.”
“If you jump into that thing, I’m coming after you.”
“What about Emma?” Tucker said. “You can’t just leave her here.”
He had a point. Tamm might wake up anytime, and Kosh wasn’t sure how badly Emma was injured.
“This place is gonna blow any second,” Tucker said.
The gas smell was stronger than ever. Kosh knew there was no way he could stop Tucker from jumping into that disko short of shooting him.
“Kosh, behind you!” Tucker said.
Kosh spun around. The youngest Lamb, who had been slumped unconscious against the wall, was on his feet, holding a bound ledger. Clutching the ledger to his chest, he jumped over Koan’s body and ran out the door. Kosh let him go.
“Take care of Emma, Kosh.”
Kosh nodded. “Good luck, kid.”
He had almost reached the SUV when the barn exploded.
Tucker saw and felt it happen as he dove for the disko. Time slowed to a crawl. He felt a pressure in his ears, saw the blue billow of igniting gas plunging from the stairwell. The ceiling above bowed as if pressed down by the weight of a planet. The disko seemed a mile away; he felt suspended in midair. The heat and pressure struck, slamming him to the floor. He bounced once, and then felt nothing.
The rift between Iyl Rayn and the Gnomon leader Chayhim became an embarrassment to the Cluster. Those Klaatu who used the diskos were assumed to be aligned with Iyl Rayn, and found themselves shunned by the Klaatu who agreed with the Gnomon. By the same token, Klaatu who voiced their support for Chayhim were ridiculed by Iyl Rayn and her allies, who regarded them as stodgy and unimaginative. Many Klaatu removed themselves to the outer reaches of the Cluster, where they were insulated from Klaatu politics and the negative flux that accompanied such interactions.
Communications between the factions had been nonexistent for some months when Chayhim received a friendly pulse from Iyl Rayn, requesting a dialogue.
“There is nothing to discuss,” Chayhim said. “We are proceeding with the Timesweep program, despite your objections.”
Iyl Rayn made a placating gesture and said, “My previous objections may have been overstated.”
Chayhim expressed surprise.
Iyl Rayn continued. “Upon reflection, I have become persuaded of the correctness of your actions. I will assist you in dismantling the diskos.”
“May I ask what has led you to this epiphany?” Chayhim asked suspiciously.
“I need your help.”
Chayhim waited for elucidation.
Iyl Rayn said, “In short, I need the use of one of your Timesweeps.”
“For what purpose?”
“It is a small matter,” said Iyl Rayn with a shruglike flutter of her extremities. “There are a few minor adjustments I wish to make before the dismantlement begins.”
— E3
HOPEWELL, DECEMBER, 1997 CE
TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, KOSH AND EMILY SAT IN Adrian’s car, parked just down the road from her house, holding each other.
“I wish we could spend Christmas Eve together,” Emily said. “But Greta . . . I think she suspects.”
“We’ll have to tell her sooner or later.”
“I know, but . . . oh Kosh, what have we done? What will we do when Adrian comes back?”
“We’ll just tell him,” Kosh said, trying to sound confident, even as the thought of confronting Adrian filled him with dread.
Emily sighed and pressed her cheek to his chest. They sat in the car without speaking, letting the windows fog over. After a time, Emily’s breathing grew ragged, and Kosh realized she was crying.
“Emily? Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry.” She pushed back from him and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“What’s the matter?”
Emily shook her head, saying, “Please. Let’s not talk.” She smiled, but her eyes were wet with tears. “I’m just . . . I just love you so much.”
“Me too,” he said, his voice husky.
“I have to get home.”
“Okay.” Kosh was confused. He started the car, turned up the defroster, and wiped the windshield clear with his hand.
Emily sat back in her seat and sighed. “At least we have a little more time. Adrian won’t be home for another month.”
“I was just thinking that,” said Kosh.
The morning of Christmas Eve, with nothing else to do, Kosh decided to cook a turkey, even though it would take him a week to eat the whole thing. He called Frank McDermott, who raised turkeys, and arranged to pick up a fresh bird. By noon, he had the bird stuffed, trussed, larded, and in the oven. He then set about making an apple pie, something he had never before done without Emily’s help. He worked carefully, cutting the butter into the flour until the crumbs were like coarse sand, performing every step as if Emily were watching over his shoulder. At moments, he felt as if he could hear her breath, and smell the scent of her hair.
He worked through the afternoon. Mashed potatoes. Green beans he had grown in his garden and put up four months ago. Squash, biscuits, braised parsnips, cherry preserve, chopped salad, and a noodle hot dish from a recipe left behind by his mother. At five o’clock he took the turkey out of the oven to let it rest, and made giblet gravy from the drippings. He set the table for one and sat looking over the spread. A masterpiece. He searched inside himself for the desire to eat, but could find nothing resembling an appetite.
He had never been so lonely.
At four o’clock on Christmas Eve, Adrian Feye landed at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport.
Backpack over his shoulder, Adrian walked through the airport, his head whirling with amazement at all that surrounded him. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had been on his knees in Jerusalem, in the Old City, praying before a stone wall more than twenty-five hundred years old. Now he was surrounded by plastic and metal and glass and hurried, harried people in suits and bri
ghtly colored clothing. A few of them were talking into small portable phones, what they called cell phones. It was another world. A godless world. He picked up his pace, almost running. He could hardly wait to get home, to share all he had learned with Emily.
He had planned to stay in Jerusalem another month, but his dreams of Emily had become more frequent, more intense. Convinced that the Lord was calling him home, Adrian had found an early flight back to the states. He would rent a car at the airport, drive straight to Hopewell, and surprise Emily on Christmas Eve.
Emily! How he longed to see her again. His months in the Holy Land had been the most profound experience of his life. He had trod upon the ground where Christ had walked with his disciples. He had stood upon the Temple Mount. He had felt God speaking to him from every stone, every tree, every breath of dry, dusty air. And every night, he had dreamed of Emily, of Hopewell, of the work to be done.
At the car rental counter, it took him several minutes to find his driver’s license. The rental agent, a young woman with long blond hair pulled into a ponytail, waited patiently as he fumbled through his overstuffed backpack. Finally, he found his wallet in a pocket that also contained his house keys and a small locket. He handed the license to the agent, then opened the locket with shaking hands. Inside was a photo of Emily, smiling. Adrian blinked and felt tears dribble down his cheeks. He whispered a short prayer.
“Sir?”
He looked up. The agent was regarding him with concern. Adrian’s eyes fixed upon her hair. In the Holy Land, blond hair was a rarity. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and muttered an apology.
“I’m going home,” he told her. The agent smiled.
The rental car was small, with a dashboard that looked nothing like that of his Mustang. He felt as if he had been gone for decades, even though it had been less than six months. He examined the unfamiliar controls, then started the car and backed out of the parking space. As he drove out of the rental facility he saw that it was snowing. Snow was piled alongside the road, and big soft flakes were drifting down. It was beautiful. He felt a broad smile stretch his mouth, his heart beating deep and strong, blood coursing through his veins and arteries. In two hours he would be back in Hopewell.
Emily would be so surprised.
It was snowing again. Kosh climbed into the Mustang and started it, but could not bring himself to put it into gear. He could not stand to be in Adrian’s car again. He got out and opened the garage door and looked at his motorcycle. It was a bad idea to ride his bike in the snow on the icy country roads. Stupid. Reckless. He zipped his jacket up to his neck and straddled the bike. Uncomfortable, too — he could feel the cold seat right through his jeans. He turned on the ignition and kicked the starter. He kicked it again. It started on the fourth kick.
All the lights were on at the Ryan house. Kosh sat on his bike, shivering, watching from the road. He saw a shape move past the living-room window. Hamm. He kept watching until he caught a glimpse of Emily, doing something at the kitchen sink. Kosh shuddered, the cold and desire colliding in his chest. After a time, he started the bike and drove off slowly, the image of his uneaten feast overtaking the image of Emily. He imagined the turkey fat congealing on the platter, the mashed potatoes drying, the chopped salad wilting. He turned toward downtown Hopewell.
As he rode up the highway past the interstate, he noticed a compact car, new-looking, come off the exit ramp. Kosh was familiar with most of the cars in Hopewell, but not this one. Somebody from the cities, no doubt, coming to visit a relative. The car flashed by. Kosh concentrated on the road, squinting into the falling snow, watching for icy patches.
Maybe Red was still open. Maybe even on Christmas Eve there was someone there he could talk to.
TREMPEALEAU COUNTY, WISCONSIN, 2012 CE
HERR PINCUS BOGGS AND HIS YOUNGEST SON, MALACHI, followed the tower of smoke up Blank Hill Road. He was glad to be off the highway, cars and trucks whizzing by and stirring up the horses. Kel and Bob were good horses, but they did not like cars. Boggs shook the reins, encouraging the horses to move along a bit faster. The Klaatu had insisted on urgency.
Herr Boggs sighed. He had hoped that here, in this elder time, he would not have to deal with such things. The Klaatu would not even come into existence for another three and a half centuries. It was those blasted diskos. They had been showing up far too often lately.
Malachi thought it a great adventure. Ten years old, and already he was hungry for the World. Well, he would see more than he bargained for here, if what the Klaatu had told him was true.
By the time they turned into the driveway leading to the fire, the smoke had thinned. Boggs could see why. The explosion had flattened the barn, spreading its shards over nearly half an acre. It was a shame — the last time he’d been here, he had thought it a fine barn. Though why it had been painted black was beyond him.
They found the first body on the ground next to a scorched vehicle. A man. A timber from the barn — probably one of the corner posts — had landed across his back, crushing him. Malachi stared wide-eyed at the corpse.
Life ends, thought Herr Boggs. A lesson the boy will not soon forget.
They found another man lying facedown on the other side of the SUV, half covered with splintered siding from the barn. He was alive. With Malachi’s help, he loaded the unconscious man onto the cart. Inside the vehicle, they found a woman covered with broken glass and ash. At first, Boggs thought her dead, but upon closer examination, he detected a faint pulse. They placed her in the cart next to the man.
Was that all? Herr Boggs told Malachi to wait by the cart. He approached the smoking pile of detritus that had recently been a barn, stepping carefully over smoldering wreckage. Near what must have been the door, he saw a hand. He used his feet to lift away several charred and splintered boards. The arm was attached to a shoulder, which was attached to a head. This man was decidedly gone — his throat was torn open. Herr Boggs was glad that the boy was not with him to see such a thing.
He moved further into the debris field and saw a series of mangled, twisted metal frames with shreds of charred pink plastic hanging from them. Boggs frowned as he recognized them for what they were — the remains of captive Timesweeps. He shook his head sadly, mourning these people for their hubris, for their recklessness, for their idiocy.
He was about to leave when he noticed something blue poking out from a large section of wooden floor that had fallen from above. He bent over and touched the blue thing, then jumped back as it moved. A toe? He tried to lift the flooring, but it was too heavy. Boggs thought for a moment, then took off his coat and went over to the man whose throat had been torn out and draped the coat over him so that Malachi would not see, then called his son over. The two of them were able to pull the section of flooring aside. Beneath it was another man — or perhaps a boy. It was hard to tell, and even harder to believe he was alive. Boggs rolled him over gently. A boy, he decided, from the smoothness of the few undamaged square centimeters of the boy’s face.
Malachi was making choking noises, his face red, his eyes bulging.
“Go,” said Herr Boggs. “Be sick, then go wait by the cart. I will take care of this.”
Malachi staggered off. He had almost made it to the cart when he dropped to his knees and vomited.
Herr Boggs gazed down at the boy with blue feet. The kindest thing, he thought, would be to let the boy die here. He could cover the boy’s crushed and bubbling mouth with his hand and hold it there; in a minute or two it would be over. But the Klaatu had been adamant: Collect all who are alive. Herr Boggs slid his arms under the ruined body and lifted it from the wreckage. What were the chances this boy would survive the three-hour ride back to Harmony? Null, he thought. The boy would probably die before they reached the end of the driveway. Nevertheless, he carried him back to the cart and laid the mutilated body beside the other two. Malachi looked on with a bloodless face and quivering lips.
Herr Boggs looked down at his blood and soot
-stained shirt, then back at the barn.
“Come,” he said to his son. He climbed back onto the cart.
“Your coat,” said Malachi, jumping down to retrieve his father’s coat from where he had draped it over the dead man.
“Leave it,” said Herr Boggs. “It is only a scrap of cloth.”
MAYO TWO, 2313 CE
TUCKER KNEW WHERE HE WAS BEFORE HE OPENED HIS eyes. The smell — or rather, the sterile, characterless lack of smell — told him he was in a Medicant hospital.
Again.
“Your readings indicate you are conscious.” A woman’s voice.
Tucker opened his eyes. The woman looked familiar.
“How long?” he rasped. The way his voice burbled in his throat told him it had been a very long time since he had spoken.
“You arrived in Mayo Two twenty-eight days ago,” said the woman.
Days, not years. That was a relief.
“We have met before,” the woman said. “Do you remember?”
“You are . . . Severs . . . and some number.”
“Two-Nine-Four, but I no longer use my numeric designation.” Severs looked older. Her hair was the same silver color, but her face was lined, her eyes softer, her lips thinner.
“Am I missing any organs?” he asked.
Severs smiled. The last time he had seen her, she hadn’t smiled at all. “In this period, we do not require payment in body parts.”
“In this period?”
“The last time we met was more than one hundred years from now. I have . . . transferred, one might say.”
“You traveled back in time.” Strange how it came out so matter of fact, as if time travel was as common as taking a bus.
