by Eric Flint
"You've never stepped through to the twenty-second century, then."
"No." Traveling to one's own future was tough— there was no record to study, no way to know what to expect. She'd had enough trouble with her past, she never expected the future to come back to haunt her.
"I hereby take you into custody and charge you with unregulated transportation along the recognized timeline, grand theft along the recognized timeline, historic fraud— "
"You can't be serious— "
He held up a device, something like an electric razor with a glowing wand at one end and flashing lights at the other. He pressed a button and drew a line in the air. The line glowed, hanging in midair. He pressed another button, the line widened into a plane, a doorway through which a dim scene showed: pale tiled walls and steel tables.
He opened a door, he stepped through, and all he needed to do was push a button.
In that stunned moment, the two flunkies picked her up and carried her through.
They entered a hospital room and unloaded her onto a gurney. More figures appeared, doctors hiding behind medical scrubs, cloth masks, and clinical gazes. With practiced ease they strapped her facedown, wrists and legs bound with padded restraints. When she tried to struggle, a half-dozen hands pressed her into the thin mattress. Her ice-blue skirt was hitched up around her knees, wrinkling horribly.
"Don't I get a lawyer? A phone call? Something?" She didn't even know where or when she was. Who would she call?
A doctor spoke to the thug in charge. "Her catalyst?"
"Dancing."
"I know just the thing. Nurse, prep a local anesthetic."
Madeline tensed against her bindings. "What are you doing? What are you doing to me?"
"Don't worry, we can reverse the procedure. If you're found innocent at the trial."
She lost track of how many people were in the room. A couple of the thugs, a couple of people in white who must have been nurses or orderlies. A couple who looked like doctors. Someone unbuttoned her shoes. Her silk stockings ripped.
Needle-pricks stabbed each foot, then pins of sleep traveled up her legs. She screamed. It was the only thing she could do. A hand pushed her face into the mattress. Her legs went numb up to her knees. She managed to turn her face, and through the awkward, foreshortened perspective she saw them make incisions above her heels, reach a thin scalpel into the wounds, and cut the Achilles' tendons. There was no pain, but she felt the tissues snap inside her calves.
She screamed until her lungs hurt, until she passed out.
* * *
She awoke in a whitewashed cell, lying on a cot that was the room's only furnishing. There was a door without a handle. She was no longer tied up, but both her ankles were neatly bandaged, and she couldn't move her legs.
Gingerly sitting up, she unfastened the bodice of her gown, then released the first few hooks of her corset. She took a deep breath, arching her back. Her ribs and breasts were bruised from sleeping in the thing. Not to mention the manhandling she'd received.
She didn't want to think about her legs.
Curling up on her side, she hugged her knees and cried.
She fell asleep, arms curled around her head. The light, a pale florescent filtering through a ceiling tile, stayed on. Her growling stomach told her that time passed. Once, the door opened and an orderly brought in a tray of food, leaving it on the floor by the bed. She didn't eat. Another time, a female orderly brought in a contraption, a toilet seat and bedpan on wheels, and offered to help her use it. She screamed, batted and clawed at the woman until she left.
She pulled apart her elegant, piled coif —tangled now— and threw hairpins across the room.
When the door opened again, she had a few pins left to hurl at whomever entered. But it wasn't an orderly, a doctor, or a thug.
It was Ned, still in his tails and cravat.
He closed the door to the thinnest crack and waited a moment, listening. Madeline clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out to him.
Apparently satisfied, Ned came to the bed, knelt on the floor, and gathered her in an embrace.
"You look dreadful," he said gently, holding her tightly.
She sobbed on his shoulder. "They cut my tendons, Ned. They cut my legs."
"They're bastards, Madeline," he muttered, between meaningless noises of comfort.
Clutching the fabric of his jacket, she pushed him away suddenly. "Did they get you too? What did they do to you?" She looked him over, touched his face— nothing seemed wrong. "How did you get here?"
He gave her a lopsided smile. "I used to be one of the bastards."
She edged away, pushing herself as far to the wall as she could. Ned, with his uncanny ability to follow her where and whenever she went. He didn't move, didn't try to stop her or grapple with her. She half expected him to.
"Used to be." she said. "Not still?"
"No. It began as a research project, to study what people like me —like us— can do, and what that meant about the nature of space and time. But there were other interests at work. They developed artificial methods of finding doorways and stepping through. They don't need us anymore and hate competition. The Temporal Transit Authority was set up to establish a monopoly over the whole business."
"And you— just left? Or did you lead them to me?"
"Please, Madeline. I'm searching for a bit of redemption here. I followed you. I couldn't stop following you. I knew they were looking for you. I found your place right after they did. I wish— I should have told you. Warned you a little better than I did."
"Why didn't you?" she said, her voice thin and desperate.
"I didn't think you'd believe me. You've never trusted me. I'm sorry."
No, she thought, remembering that last waltz, the music and his sad face and the way he disappeared. I'm sorry.
"You were following me all along. We didn't meet by chance."
"Oh no. It was chance. Fate. I didn't know about you, wasn't looking for you. But when I met you, I knew the Authority would find you sooner or later. I didn't want them to find you."
"But they did."
"Once again I apologize for that. Now, we're getting out of here."
He started to pick her up, moving one arm to her legs and the other to her shoulders. She leaned away, pressing herself against the wall in an effort to put more distance between them.
"Please trust me," he said.
Why should she believe anything he said? She didn't know anything about him. Except that he was a marvelous dancer. And she needed to dance.
She put her arms around his neck and let him lift her.
"Come on, then." He picked her up, cradling her in his arms. She clung to him. "Get the door, would you?"
She pulled the door open. He looked out. The corridor was empty. Softly, he made his way down the hall.
Then Ned froze. Voices echoed ahead of them, moving closer. Without a word, he turned and walked the other direction. If he had been able to run, he would have rounded the next corner before the owners of the voices saw him. But he held her, and he couldn't do more than walk carefully.
Footsteps sounded behind him. She looked over his shoulder and saw a doctor flanked by a couple of orderlies enter the corridor.
"Hey! Stop there!" The doctor pointed and started running.
"All these bloody doors lock on the outside," Ned muttered. "Here, open that one."
She stared. The door had no handle, no visible hinges or latches. Ned hissed a breath of frustration and bumped a red light panel on the wall with his elbow. The door popped in with a little gasp of hydraulics.
He pushed through into what turned out to be a supply closet, about ten foot square, filled with shelves and boxes, and barely enough room to turn around. He set her on the floor and began pushing plastic tubs at the door. He soon had enough of a blockade to stop their pursuers from shoving through right away. He kept piling, though, while the people outside pounded on the door and shouted.
/> Madeline cowered on the floor, her legs stuck out awkwardly. "You can't dance for both of us, and I'm too big for you to carry me through."
"Yes."
"You shouldn't have come. Now you're caught too."
"But I'm with you," he said, turning to her with the brightest, most sincere smile she had ever seen. "It makes all the difference." He went back to throwing boxes on the stack.
She caught her breath and wondered what she'd have to do to see that smile again.
"Help me stand." She hooked her fingers on a shelving post as far above her as she could reach and pulled. Grunting, she shifted her weight to try and get her feet under her.
"Madeline, good God what are you doing?"
"Standing. Help me."
He went to her and pulled her arm over his shoulders, reaching his own arm around her waist. Slowly, he raised her. She straightened her legs, and her feet stayed where she put them.
There. She was standing. She clenched her jaw. Her calves were exploding with pain.
"Do you think there's a door in here?" she said, her voice tight.
"There're doors everywhere. But you can't— "
"We have to."
"But— "
"I can. Help me."
He sighed, adjusting his grip so he supported her more firmly. "Right. What should we dance?"
She took a breath, cleared her mind so she could think of a song. She couldn't even tap her toe to keep a beat. She began humming. The song sounded out of tune and hopeless in her ears.
"Ravel. 'Pavane for a Dead Princess,'" Ned said. "Come on, dear, you're not done yet. One and two and— "
She held her breath and moved her right leg. It did move, the foot dragging, and she leaned heavily on Ned because she didn't dare put any weight on it. Then the left foot. She whimpered a little. Ned was right behind her, stepping with her.
The pavane had the simplest steps she could think of. At its most basic, it was little more than walking very slowly— perfect for a crippled dancer. It was also one of the most graceful, stately, elegant dances ever invented. Not this time. She couldn't trust her legs. She dragged them forward and hoped they went where they needed to be. Ned wasn't so much dancing with her as lurching, ensuring she stayed upright.
There was a kind of power, even in this: bodies moving in desperation.
She tried to keep humming, but her voice jerked, pain-filled, at every step. They hummed together, his voice steadying her as his body did.
Then came a turn. She attempted it— a dance was a dance, after all. Put the left foot a little to the side, step out—
Her leg collapsed. She cried out, cutting the sound off mid-breath. Ned caught her around the waist and leaned her against the shelving. This gave her something to sit on, a little support.
Without missing a beat, he took her hand and stepped a half-circle around her. He held her hand lightly, elevated somewhat, and tucked his other hand behind his back. Perfect form.
"This just doesn't feel right if I'm not wearing a ruff," he said, donning a pompous, aristocratic accent.
Hiccupping around stifled tears, she giggled. "But I like being able to see your neck. It's a handsome neck."
"Right, onto the age of disco then."
The banging on the door was loud, insistent, like they'd started using a battering ram, and provided something of a beat. The barricade began to tumble.
"And so we finish." He bowed deeply.
She started to dip into a curtsey —just the tiniest of curtsies— but Ned caught her and lifted her.
"I think we're ready."
She narrowed her eyes and looked a little bit sideways.
Space and time made patterns, the architecture of the universe, and the lines crossed everywhere, cutting through the very air. Sometimes, someone had a talent that let them see the lines and use them.
"There," Ned said. "That one. A couple of disheveled Edwardians won't look so out of place there. Do you see it?"
"Yes," she said, relieved. A glowing line cut before them, and if they stepped a little bit sideways—
She put out her hand and opened the door so they could step through together.
* * *
Lady Petulant's diamond paid for reconstructive surgery at the best unregistered clinic in Tokyo 2028. Madeline walked out the door and into the alley, where Ned was waiting for her. Laughing, she jumped at him and swung him around in a couple of steps of a haphazard polka.
"Glad to see you're feeling better," he said. And there was that smile again.
"Polycarbon filament tissue replacement. I have the strongest tendons in the world now."
They walked out to the street— searching the crowd of pedestrians, always looking over their shoulders.
"Where would you like to go?" he said.
"I don't know. It's not so easy to pick, now that we're fugitives. Those guys could be anywhere."
"But we have lots of places to hide. We just have to keep moving."
They walked for a time along a chaotic street, nothing like a ballroom, the noises nothing like music. The Transit Authority people knew they had to dance; if they were really going to hide, it would be in places like this, where dancing was next to impossible.
But they couldn't do that, could they?
Finally, Ned said, "We could go watch Rome burn. And fiddle."
"Hm. I'd like to find a door to the Glen Island Casino. 1939."
"Glenn Miller played there, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"We could find one, I think."
"If we have to keep moving anyway, we'll hit on it eventually."
He took her hand, pulled her close and pressed his other hand against the small of her back. Ignoring the tuneless crowd, he danced with her.
"Lead on, my dear."
* * *
Carrie Vaughn is the author of several books and stories.
FANTASY:
Cryptic Coloration
Written by Elizabeth Bear
Illustrated by Chantelle Thorne
Katie saw him first. The next-best thing to naked, in cutoff camouflage pants and high-top basketball sneakers and nothing else, except the thick black labyrinth of neo-tribal ink that covered his pale skin from collarbones to anklebones. He shone like piano keys, glossy-sleek with sweat in a sultry September afternoon.
Katie already had Melissa's sleeve in her hand and was tugging her toward the crosswalk. Gina trailed three steps behind. "We have got to go watch this basketball game."
"What?" But then Melissa's line of sight intersected Katie's and she gasped. "Oh my fuck, look at all that ink. Do you think that counts as a shirt or a skin?" Melissa was from Boston, but mostly didn't talk like it.
"Never mind the ink," Katie said. "Look at his triceps."
Little shadowed dimples in the undersides of his arms, and all Katie could think of for a moment was that he wasn't terribly tall, and if she had been standing close enough when he raised his hands to take a pass she could have stood on tiptoe and licked them. The image dried her mouth, heated her face.
Melissa would have thought Katie silly for having shocked herself, though, so she didn't say anything.
Even without the ink, he had the best body on the basketball court. Hard all over, muscle swelling and valleying as he sprinted and sidestepped, chin-length blond hair swinging in his eyes. He skittered left like a boxer, turned, dribbled between his legs —quadriceps popping, calves like flexed cables— caught the ball as it came back up and leaped. Parabolic, sailing. Sweat shook from his elbows and chin as he released.
A three-point shot. A high geometric arch.
Denied when a tall black boy of eighteen or so tipped it off the edge of the basket, jangling the chain, and fired back to half court, but that didn't matter. Katie glanced over her shoulder to make sure Gina was following.
"God," Melissa purred. "I love New York."
Katie, mopping her gritty forehead with the inside of her T-shirt collar, couldn't have agreed more
.
So it was mid-September and still too hot to think. So she was filthy just from walking through the city air.
You didn't get anything like the blond boy back home in Appleton.
Melissa was a tall freckled girl who wore her hair in red pigtails that looked like braided yarn. She had a tendency to bounce up on her toes that made her seem much taller, and she craned over the pedestrians as they stepped up onto the far curb. "There's some shade by the— oh, my god would you look at that?"
