Synchronic: 13 Tales of Time Travel

by Michael Bunker

  I give her a slight smile in return. “Since the throwing up stopped, I feel pretty good.”

  She frowns, and it mars her pretty face. Her hazel-green eyes are usually inviting, but now they’re just full of concern for my mental health. From our previous sessions, I know she’s intelligent, kind-hearted, funny, reads philosophy, and has a cat named Leonardo, as in Da Vinci. Just the kind of woman I would date if she weren’t assigned by Corrections to monitor my reactions to my travels.

  And if I weren’t the kind of man who had pulled the trigger to kill someone.

  Sickness wells up at the back of my throat again. I swallow it back down, hoping it doesn’t show too badly on my face.

  “I don’t remember you having a physical reaction to your travels before.” A subtle way to get me to explain, without the prod of her having to ask.

  “I don’t normally.”

  She nods. “This time was different.”

  I take a breath, ready with the explanation that I reasoned out before, in between dry heaves into the trash can. “He was innocent.”

  “Your patient?” Her thin red eyebrows hike up. I never noticed their color before. They match the red highlights in her deep brown hair. I wonder if she’s Irish. My mom would have probably liked her anyway, but that certainly wouldn’t have hurt.

  “He was innocent all along,” I say, “just like he said.”

  “You mean in the original timeline.”

  “Yes. In the original timeline.” Of course, there’s no record now of Owen claiming innocence, because he was never caught. He was smarter even than I gave him credit for, not only eluding being brought in for questioning—the police went looking for him, based on the convenience store video—but disappearing off the grid altogether. Of course, it’s possible he actually extinguished out. But I’ve never had that happen without knowing I broke the timeline. So I think he’s still alive. Somewhere, hiding with his dragon tattoo. If the police had known, they could have checked the local tattoo parlors, but the tattooist wouldn’t talk about doing the camouflage—it would be tantamount to confessing to murder, and no one’s going to do that.

  Not even me.

  Alyssa is studying my face in our silence. I hope she’s not finding guilt there.

  “Is that why you haven’t activated his tracker?”

  I bite my lip, hoping she takes that as moral indecision. This is where it gets a little tricky. “Yeah, I thought about that. It doesn’t seem fair to do that to him when someone else committed the crime.”

  She leans forward, elbows on knees, delicate fingers holding her chin. “So you know who really did it?”

  I shake my head. “Since Owen was innocent, I wasn’t there when it happened. And I couldn’t nudge the timeline far enough to be in a position to stop the murder. I just ended up back here when it happened.” There’s no way for her, or anyone else, to know about the torture, since that was only in the original timeline. As far as the record shows, James always died from a single gunshot to the head.

  Alyssa nods. “So activating his tracker to bring him in, after all this time, just to have him cleared of a crime he didn’t commit…”

  “Seems like a waste of everyone’s time,” I finish for her. “And some unnecessary anguish for a man whose friend was murdered a dozen years ago.” That part, at least, is the truth.

  She’s studying me again. “Seems like a rather unsatisfying end to this case for you, however. How do you feel about going into another assignment so soon? I saw you’re tentatively assigned to prepare for another patient from the Row starting next week.”

  “I’m good. I’m ready.” I nod a little too enthusiastically, so I stop and try to look merely earnest. That’s not too hard. “I know this case doesn’t count as a resolution, but I’m really okay to go again. I’m still trying to get to twenty as soon as possible.”

  Her look of concern is unavoidable. And I need her clearance to keep traveling, so I probably shouldn’t have brought it up. But I don’t want her to think I’m thrown by this last case, what with the throwing up and the shakes and the strange lack of interest in tracking down my patient.

  She purses her lips, taking her time to respond. Finally, she says, “Why do you really want to go back, Ian? We’ve discussed this before. You were just a child. I thought you agreed there was nothing you could do.”

  But she’s wrong. I know she’s wrong. Even more so now.

  “I just need some closure.” I hold her gaze. I see more pity there now than anything. Which makes me cringe a little inside, but it’s better than suspicion.

  “Your parents are dead, Ian.” Her tone is professional, but soft. Empathetic. Sweet almost, even as she’s about to deliver a lecture on why, even with time travel, I can’t bring back my murdered parents from the grave. She really is the kind of person I’d like to know better, outside of the therapy room. Too bad it can’t happen, at least not without some ethics violations and being hauled into Internal Affairs for questioning.

  “Even if you reach twenty resolutions,” she says, kindly. “Even if you’re granted an enhancer dose. You were ten years old. I’m concerned the only thing you’re going to accomplish is re-experiencing the murders. And I don’t think that’s going to be healthy, do you?”

  “No, probably not.” I pause. “But I don’t think I’ll know that until I try.”

  She frowns, a little frustrated, I think. “I’m also concerned you might try to do something that would change the timeline, but you won’t be able to, because you’re just a child in a dangerous and unstable situation. And not just physically, Ian. You know very well that re-experiencing a childhood trauma can leave a person… vulnerable. Emotionally. I’m concerned you won’t be as rational as you would like to think. Which only means the risk of extinction will go up.”

  I nod because, of course, I’ve considered all of that. And in a strange way, I like that she’s so concerned for me. But Alyssa doesn’t travel—she just does therapy for those of us who do. And what she doesn’t know, what she can’t know, is that I won’t just be a grown man in a child’s body.

  I’ll be a man who already knows what it’s like to pull the trigger.

  “I’m willing to take that risk.” I dip my head, then look up and give her a small smile. “But I still have to reach twenty, first. Five more to go.”

  She sighs, but pulls out her datapad to tap in a few notes. “All right. I’ll clear you for your next patient.” Her scowl is meant to chastise me, but my heart lifts too much to feel it. “But we’re going to have this discussion again, several times, before I’ll even think about clearing you for your own dose.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I smile with real appreciation. I wish I could offer to take her out for coffee or something, as a thank-you, but I know that’s seriously off-limits.

  Maybe after five more patients.

  A Word from Susan Kaye Quinn

  I vowed I would never write a time travel story.

  (Which should have been my first clue that I would absolutely write one eventually.)

  I grew up with Star Trek like everyone else, so I knew any writer foolish enough to stumble into a time travel vortex would soon find all her plot threads hopelessly snarled. What madness lay that way? Better to stick with future worlds where everyone reads minds or sucks out your life energy. Or retro ones with muscular steampunk technology. Those stories were much more sensible. Not to mention plottable.

  Like any good protagonist, I stuck with my no-time-travel-stories vow until the universe nudged me hard in the form of an offer I couldn’t refuse. First, you should know this about me: I like challenges. Actually, that’s a little like saying a drug addict likes cocaine. I have serious self-control issues when it comes to thrown gauntlets, fourteen-thousand-foot climbs, and deadlines that make brave women shudder. Secondly, you should know that I’m on social media way too much.

  So when Michael Bunker messaged me on Facebook and said,

  “Hey, would you like to
write a time travel story for our collection?” (Gauntlet: thrown.)

  “It would be with this amazing group of authors, edited by David Gatewood!” (Vertical climb challenge: unlocked.)

  “And by the way, we’d need it fast, like in two weeks.” (Cue deadline impossibilities.)

  Well… there was really no chance of me saying no.

  And, to be honest, I’m so glad I didn’t. Given that I’m the daughter of an engineer and a psychologist, it’s truly a wonder I haven’t written a time-traveling psychologist character before now. But I very much enjoyed creating Ian and the world of “Corrections”: in fact, don’t be surprised if there are more Corrections stories to come. (Then again, if someone challenges me to write a cyborg Bigfoot romance, all bets are off.)

  If you enjoyed reading “Corrections” as much as I enjoyed writing it, you’ll find similar mind-bendery in my other works, especially my Debt Collector serial. In that future-noir, my dark hero sucks the life energy out of people when their debts exceed their future potential earnings, and then transfers it on to high potentials, people who supposedly have more to contribute to the world. Debt Collector also began as a short novella, like “Corrections,” then demanded to be turned into a nine-episode, five-season sprawling enterprise (Season One is currently complete, with Season Two scheduled to begin in September 2014). Which is tremendously odd, since I am actually a novelist. Well, after being several other things (rocket scientist, engineer, NASA employee, mother of three, scolder of cats).

  My speculative fiction works span a range of ages, from my middle-grade fantasy Faery Swap, to my young adult sci-fi The Mindjack Trilogy, to my adult steampunk romance Third Daughter. But they all dive deep into the heads of my characters, much as Ian dives into Owen’s memories, creating adventure out of those interstitial spaces between what we can imagine and what is real. I hope you’ll come along for a few adventures with me!

  You can find all about my works on my website or subscribe to my newsletter to find the latest insanity that I’ve signed up for (hint: new subscribers get a free short story!). I’d love for you to friend me on Facebook, but only if you promise not to message me with challenges of writing post-singularity robot love stories… wait…

  Hereafter

  by Samuel Peralta

  September 15, 2006

  That autumn she’s back in Toronto, staying at her mom’s place, before deployment. At Queen’s Quay Terminal, her two girlfriends go inside to grab a coffee, to stave off the late afternoon chill. She stays outside to check in, but the phone at her mom’s rings four, five, six times, and she flips her phone closed before it goes to voice mail.

  There’s a soft crush of wind, and she hugs herself in her jacket. Time for that coffee. She turns, and that’s when she sees him. All in black, reminding her of Steve Jobs with his turtleneck and slacks, except didn’t Steve wear Adidas, and oh my God doesn’t he remind her of that lead in the Bryan Singer movie, and—

  He collapses, crumples on the ground. She runs up the steps to him, but already he’s pulling himself up, bracing himself against the wall of the terminal building.

  Just as she reaches him, he looks up, and their eyes meet. Suddenly, a feeling overcomes her: that this face is familiar, that she knows him, that they’ve met before. In his eyes there’s a similar flash of recognition.

  At his feet, a glimmer catches her attention, and she picks it up. A silver medallion, in the shape of a spiral nautilus, on a chain. She holds it out to him. “Yours?” she asks.

  He takes it, holding her hand for just a fraction of a moment too long. “Oh God, I hope so,” he says.

  They break off, both now blushing. She’s just decided she should be running off, when his knees buckle again and he hits the pavement. This time she has to pull him up and lean him against the wall herself. Nothing on his breath. Clean-shaven.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, when he’s recovered. “It’s just been a long journey.”

  She hesitates a bit before deciding. “Listen,” she says. “I think you need to sit down and get something to eat. Why don’t you join me and you can catch your breath? I’ll buy.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Caitlyn.”

  “Sean Forrest,” he says. “Happy to meet you.”

  Rotini in marinara sauce at the restaurant inside, and she’s chattering away, about the closing of The Lord of The Rings stage show at the Princess of Wales Theatre, about Jonathan Safran Foer’s latest book, about Spenser and the difference between Shakespearean and Petrarchan sonnets—and wouldn’t he like to read one she’s written, which she happened to carry with her?—and when her phone rings, an hour has passed. It isn’t her mom, it’s her friends—wondering where in the world is she?

  She tells them she’ll catch up with them later at the club, turns back to him, and they pick it up as if she’d never left off.

  She talks about James Blunt and Kelly Clarkson, about Gilmore Girls and 24, about conspiracies and terrorists, about North Korean politics, about Middle Eastern food, about how her family makes their own tomato sauce.

  He talks about rotini, about patterns in nature, about Gödel and Escher and Bach, about Rachmaninoff and Paganini, about nautilus shells and hurricanes and satellite orbits, about integer series and golden means.

  Over coffee and dessert, she asks if he’ll accompany her to the Rex, the jazz bar where her friends are going that night.

  “I’ve got to go home tonight,” he says. “This was supposed to be a one-time trip. But I’m thinking—” And he stops here, for what feels like a long, long time. Then: “I’m thinking that I want to make it back next year.”

  “Oh no!” she says. “It’d be amazing, but I’m headed to Kandahar.”

  He looks stunned, like he doesn’t know where that is.

  “Afghanistan. I’m with the Canadian team at the R3 MMU. Combat operations field hospital.”

  He’s still speechless.

  “Oh heck, it’s only for two tours,” she says. “I’ll be back in a couple. How about we make a date for the future?”

  That seems to break the trance. But what he does next is unexpected. He takes off his medallion, takes her hand, and presses it into her palm.

  “Yours,” he says.

  September 17, 2007

  Southwest of Kandahar. Earlier that day, helicopters streamed like tremulous wasps into Zhari District, ferrying back remains from a shattered infantry battalion. Under her breath, another whispered prayer. Sometimes prayers are answered by a different god.

  Behind blast walls ten feet high, at the edge of the runway of the Kandahar Airfield, the NATO Role 3 Multinational Medical Unit, or R3MMU, is an assemblage of field-deployable hospital structures, shipping containers, canvas tents, and leaking plywood buildings.

  Despite this, the Canadian Forces Health Services team tasked with command of the R3MMU is on its way to the highest survival rate ever recorded for victims of war.

  But Cpl. Caitlyn McAdams, in the middle of her first nine-month tour, isn’t at her regular station that night.

  That week they’re short-staffed at the forward operating base at Ma’sum Ghar, so Cpl. McAdams and Cpl. Paul Francis are on temporary rotation there from R3MMU, twenty miles away.

  It’s a tiny clinic on the side of a hill near Bazar-e Panjwaii township, a stopgap measure in an area without another hospital for miles, where anywhere you turn might be a roadside bomb or an improvised explosive device, where snipers are as numerous as wasps.

  There’s a helipad down the dirt road, where a medevac chopper flies serious cases to the R3MMU.

  The statistics here, they’re not quite as good as back at the airfield.

  This is how she remembers that evening: the night air sweet, the sky bright with stars, the wind blowing warm across the desert. And then, an explosion from somewhere not far from the forward base. Minutes away.

  She drops her copy of Cien Sonetos, and everyone is running to their posts. In a spray of dust, there’s an all-terrain vehicle jammi
ng down the road, stretchers barely hanging on to the front. The gates open within seconds, and the soldiers are unloading the two casualties from the Canadian ATV.

  In the cramped area, a team of about a half dozen works on the first casualty.

  Cpl. McAdams and another team join Warrant Officer Ian Patrick, who’s stripped down the second man on the stretcher-table and wrapped a foil blanket around him.

  The man is half-conscious, quivering, babbling something over and over. McAdams is passable in the Pashto dialect, but she can’t quite understand what he’s saying.

  While they work, stabilizing his breathing, bandaging his leg, someone’s talking in the background. “IED hit. The Afghan was driving supplies for our road construction site. That other one, he’s not from here, but he’s not one of ours.”

  Not Afghan. She looks again, and beneath the grit and sweat and blood the face is unmistakable. Her heart twists inside her. Leaning forward to incline her ear nearer his mouth, she understands what he’s saying—

  Her name.

  Work fast, fast, she tells herself. She should be detached, concentrating. Oh God, keep my hands from shaking. A chest wound, serious. Collapsed lung. Need to do an incision. She can hear gurgling as they open him up. Get a tube in, release the excess pressure.

  His body is torn, ripped apart by shrapnel. Left hand amputated—the one that held her own, one year ago, for just that fraction of a second too long. One leg gone from the knee down, the other from the hip. They can’t stop the bleeding.

  “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  At her voice, his eyes suddenly open. He sees her, and there’s recognition, and then he closes them. He doesn’t open them again.

  “Medevac!” she hears herself shouting.