“Well, Dr. Altide, you have only yourself to blame. Suffice to say that we’ve known for years what you were working on—or rather, what you were going to work on. Years. The only trick was figuring how to reach you.”
Jonathan was baffled. He’d taken great pains to hide his experiments and on the rare occasions he’d talked publicly about time travel, it had been only as a theory. The only person he’d been concrete with was Maya, but she’d only chuckled and advised him not to waste his time. Besides, he’d made her promise not to tell anyone, and she was as loyal as they came.
But what if she’d said something anyway, if only inadvertently? That still wouldn’t explain how someone in 1965—before either he or Maya had even been born—could have known about his efforts.
The man reached in a pocket of his lab coat and pulled out something small and shiny. “I don’t suppose you recognize this.”
Jonathan squinted. “No. Why would I? It looks like a bolt of some kind.”
“Indeed. Titanium, expandable and magnetic. It was found on my great grandfather’s farm in 1849.”
“1849?”
“Yes. Does that year mean something to you?”
Jonathan swallowed. Things were beginning to fall into place. “I’m not going to help you.”
“But you already have. This bolt, for instance, allowed my father to start a company in the 1920s that made him rich.”
“What’s the name of your company?”
“Surely you must know.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on, like why you think I had anything to do with that bolt.”
The old man sighed and looked at his hand, which he began to open and close slowly, as if making sure all the muscles worked. “The bolt is irrelevant, Dr. Altide. What matters is your time device.”
Jonathan felt more determined than ever.
“I said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m not going to help.”
“Why not, Dr. Altide?” the old man asked calmly.
“It’s not the kind of knowledge I’m going to hand out willy-nilly.”
“It’s OK for you to have the knowledge but not others?”
“It’s like mustard gas. The fewer people who have the knowledge, the better.”
“Yes, but like mustard gas, once someone has the knowledge, it’s impossible to take it away. And I have the knowledge, Dr. Altide. I just need to fine-tune it.”
“Well, don’t expect me to help.”
“But Dr. Altide,” the old man said, lifting the picture of his mother. “What about her?”
“What about her?” Jonathan asked, although he already guessed what the old man meant.
“If something were to happen to her…”
“Yes. So what? Then I’d disappear, I suppose, and where would that leave you? I certainly wouldn’t be around to help, that’s for sure.”
“That’s true. But I would be no worse off than I already am. And you, of course, wouldn’t exist. But it wasn’t you I was thinking of. I was thinking of your son. Claude is his name, right?”
Hearing Claude’s name made Jonathan wince. “What about him?”
“If you don’t exist, then he can’t exist, correct?”
The logic was unassailable. If this lunatic hurt his mother—killed her—then Jonathan wouldn’t be born. And if Jonathan never existed, then neither would Claude. For a moment, Jonathan felt a surge of defiance. So what? Let the lunatic do what he wanted. The whole situation was preposterous anyway—as absurd as a dream.
And yet it wasn’t a dream. It was real. Very real. Jonathan felt his defiance slip away. What right did he have to so casually let this man steal his family’s future, to hurt his mother and son—and the countless people whose lives they, in turn, affected? Jonathan knew in his gut that even if this were a dream he could never do anything to hurt his mother or, especially, Claude—or in any way reduce the chance of Claude’s existing in the future.
Jonathan’s shoulders slumped and he eyed the old man wearily. He couldn’t bring himself to say he would cooperate, and yet he’d lost the will to repeat his outright refusal.
“I need some time to think about it,” he finally said.
The old man smiled broadly and nodded. “That’s understandable, Dr. Altide. Perfectly understandable. By all means, take your time. We have plenty of it, after all, don’t we?”
Chapter Eleven
A Draft of Cold Air
In grade school, kids told stories about the Millstone mansion: a boa constrictor with the head of a man lived in the attic and slithered out at night to steal children; human-sized jaw-traps dotted the woods, some still containing the weathered remains of long-ago intruders; secret tunnels full of rats and snakes led from the basement to bank vaults, allowing the Millstone family to siphon off others’ fortunes undetected.
Ever since his mom had married Millstone, Claude had become, to his endless annoyance, a regular visitor, but he had yet to see boa constrictors or jaw-traps or secret tunnels—but that didn’t mean the place wasn’t creepy. The mansion’s marble façade reminded him of a bank or an asylum for the rich but terminally insane. It seemed ridiculous that anyone, especially his mother, called it “home.” And now that Millstone had filled it with scores of Programmable Autonomous Laborers, the mansion was creepier than ever.
On the afternoon of the party, they were everywhere. “Good tiding, Claude Altide,” said a house-PAL, which glided toward him on silent treads.
“Good tiding,” Claude replied, squinting at the Programmable Autonomous Laborer’s odd appearance: someone had draped an off-white dress shirt, black tie and white morning coat over its chrome body and replaced its usually bland, wide-eyed holographic head with the face of a squinty-eyed, long-mustachioed waiter with slicked-back hair. From the neck up, he looked like a translucent barkeep plucked from a 19th century saloon.
His appearance brought to mind something Millstone recently said: that the beautiful thing about manufacturing the new generation of PALs was that they could be mass produced with identical chassis, but their individualized holographic heads made each appear unique, rendering them more attractive to consumers.
“At your service, Claude Altide. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“Fat chance,” Claude said, turning and walking across the cavernous foyer toward what was euphemistically called the private wing, although the last thing he ever felt in the Millstone mansion was privacy.
He heard the PAL pivot and wondered if it registered anything akin to an emotion. Did it feel rejected by Claude’s brusque “fat chance”? Or was it simply reviewing the interaction, looking for lessons and opportunities for improvement? PALs were supposedly self-teaching, constantly analyzing inputs to refine their skills.
Claude paused at the archway that led to the ballroom, which buzzed with the activity of at least a dozen PALs, all dressed like 19th century servants, and a few humans, who, pathetically, Claude thought, were similarly attired.
The room was filled with round tables swathed in golden fabric, giving them the appearance of large pillows. The Tiffany chandeliers had been replaced with glowing holographs of APU’s most emblematic products. Floating in the center was a 15-foot projection of the Carbon Mantis, APU’s first sky-to-ocean-floor dirigible, while arrayed around it were images of brands of bread, soda, office supplies, and appliances. The walls were adorned with huge screens flashing international landmarks: the Taj Mahal, the Amazonian Tower, the Greater Arctic Glacier Preserve, and the Saudi Triplet Towers.
The room looked both garish and beautiful, complemented by an unobstructed view of the lake, visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. He wished Carolien was there so they could laugh together at the extravagance, but she was at the meet. He was supposed to be there, too, but bad weather had delayed the start and he’d had to leave before Carolien threw. He’d excused himself, claiming he had a nasty headache, but felt terrible about lying.
As h
e made his way down a long hall lined with modern paintings of abstract geometric patterns, a draft of cold, dank air swept over him. Looking for the source of the blast, he expected to see an open window. But all the windows were shut. The only possible source was an open door in the middle of the corridor.
The dank smell grew stronger as he approached the door, which opened onto stairs leading to a cellar. He felt inside for a light switch, but finding none, decided to take a peek anyway, curious how anything in the highly manicured mansion could smell so bad. Halfway down the stairs, however, the smell of mold was so intense he had to stop. In the dim light, he saw hulking furniture and a highly polished floor but then realized that the floor wasn’t polished; it was covered in water.
Suddenly, the room filled with light. Claude jumped.
“What are you doing?”
He turned around to find a mustachioed house-PAL standing in the doorway.
“Nothing,” Claude answered. He was angry that the PAL had startled him and even angrier that he’d reflexively answered the laborer’s nosey question.
“You are in the basement, which is forbidden.” The PAL’s tone was neutral but the word “forbidden” carried a threat. Forbidden was absolute, the sort of thing for which a laborer’s programming allowed no give. If he refused to leave, would the PAL call for help or try by itself to eject him?
“I just wondered where that smell was coming from.”
Yellow lights flickered along the top of its chassis. “The cause is three types of mold, five fungi, 36 kinds of bacteria, and the presence of 91 percent humidity. You are still in the basement, which is forbidden.”
“Is this from yesterday’s storm?”
“No.”
“I see.” He waited in silence but they seemed to have reached a stalemate, the PAL neither moving nor speaking. Slowly, Claude climbed the steps. The PAL glided aside, and, when Claude had passed, it used its telescopic arm to pull the door shut.
“What’s all the water from?” Claude asked.
“A leak.”
“I assumed. But what’s the source? The lake?”
“The basement is forbidden.”
Claude nodded. “Right. I got that. Anyway, how much time before the party starts?”
“57 minutes and 32 seconds.”
Claude smiled. The PAL was both annoying and endearing, like a child trying to follow orders it didn’t understand. “You don’t need to be so precise. A human would approximate. You could get away with saying, ‘In about an hour’.”
The lights around the PAL’s neck flickered. “Thank you,” it said.
“Any idea how many people are coming?” He started down the hall, the PAL following.
“912.” The PAL clicked and whirred and then said, “Or should I say about 910?”
Claude grinned. He made a mental note to remember every word of this conversation so he could relay it to Carolien. “If you were human, I’d think you were joking. But you don’t joke, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“So how much is Millstone spending on the party?” It was not a question he’d have asked a human, but there seemed no harm in asking a machine—not that he expected it to answer.
“Approximately $1,640,000.”
Claude stopped and stared at the PAL with a stunned, wide-mouthed expression. “You’re wigging me.”
The barkeep PAL opened its holographic mouth, apparently trying to mirror Claude. “No, I’m not wigging you.”
“No. Of course you’re not.” He looked the PAL up and down, wondering if it was recording the conversation. As he resumed walking, he asked as casually as possible, “Do my mother and Millstone ever argue?”
“Yes.”
“What kinds of things do they argue about?”
“How much time Mr. Millstone spends away from home. How much money he invests in Mrs. Millstone’s foundation. How bright the lights are in their bedroom. The options on the breakfast menu. The options on the lunch menu. The options on the dinner menu. The kinds of flowers to be planted in the gardens…”
“I get it. Interesting. Thank you.” Claude was embarrassed by the machine’s loquaciousness and yet it seemed like too good an opportunity to ignore. He stopped and looked around to make sure they were alone. And then he leaned in close and whispered, “Did Mr. Millstone and my mother have an affair while my mother was still married to my father?”
The PAL’s neck lights flickered. “I don’t know,” it said.
“But you’d tell me if you knew?”
“Yes.”
Claude resumed walking. “And my mom left me a suit. Is that right?”
“Three suits have been rush-tailored for you. They’re on your bed.”
“How do you tailor something when I’m not here?”
“We give the tailor your dimensions.”
They’d reached the door of his room—“his” only in the sense that he used it on the exceedingly rare occasions he slept over.
“But how do you know my precise dimensions?”
“They’re recorded every time you pass through the main gate. Every person who enters is scanned upon entering the grounds,” the PAL said.
Claude was tempted to say something rude but reminded himself that he couldn’t blame a no-brained PAL for Millstone’s paranoia.
“Uh, well, thanks,” he said.
He slipped into the room and gently closed the door behind him. He heard the hum of the PAL’s gears fade as it glided away.
c c c c c
Each suit had been paired with shirt-sock-shoe combinations: a linen suit of maroon and kelly green stripes with a purple shirt with French cuffs and sparkling buttons; a yellow suit that appeared to be made of laminated flowers with a shirt mottled with hand-stitched bumble bees; and a plain black suit that was refreshing in its simplicity, with a shirt patched together from multiple fabrics, representing every pattern from plaid to polka-dot.
The black suit was the obvious choice. He considered switching in the purple shirt but decided that whatever intelligence had chosen the combination—his mother or a house-PAL’s algorithm—probably knew more about fashion than he did. The suit fit snugly but wasn’t tight, and the fabric was so light that he felt almost naked. The accompanying shoes—made of a soft, synthetic fabric that looked like black pewter—felt as cozy as slippers.
Examining his reflection, he felt a guilty pleasure. He looked good. He looked sexy. He looked rich. What would Carolien think? He wanted to send her a picture but couldn’t. Hades. What fun was there in dressing up if he couldn’t get Carolien’s take on it? Guilt over keeping Jay and the party a secret reared up, and he vowed he’d tell her everything tomorrow.
He still had to brush his teeth and fix his hair. And he needed a belt. Well, perhaps he didn’t actually need it. The trousers fit perfectly, hugging his waist and thighs like ivy on a wall. But he didn’t feel right without one.
He stepped into the hall and treaded down the corridor to his mother and Millstone’s suite.
“Anyone here?” Claude yelled. “Mom? Step-daddy?”
They were probably in what his mom called the face parlor—a fully automated spa where PALs used facepaint, bio-toxins, hair polish, and other tricks to make sure that she and Millstone looked their camera-ready best.
Since he’d last seen their suite it had been re-styled with an underwater theme, including the walls, which had been replaced by floor-to-ceiling tanks filled with fish and swaying sea plants.
He was tempted to snoop—he was especially curious about the decorative objects, including a crumbling-looking chest that looked as if it had been swiped from the Bollywood set of Treasure Island—but if he didn’t want to be caught, he needed to hurry.
Tiptoeing into what he surmised from the smell of cologne was Millstone’s dressing room, he cautiously—half expecting an alarm to sound—opened closets. The closets themselves were rooms: one was exclusively for suits, another for shirts, and still another for shoes and
accessories, including two long racks of ties and another long rack of belts. Most of the belts were indistinguishable from each other, raising the question why Millstone needed so many.
The logical choice was to pick one from the middle, where Ted would be least likely to notice, but Claude was drawn to the one at the end, which was made of such soft leather that it seemed to glow. And it happened to fit perfectly.
He knew he should leave—that Millstone or his mother or a PAL might wander in at any moment—but now that he was in Millstone’s private sanctum, he couldn’t resist taking an extra moment to poke around. A quick survey revealed that on one side of the accessories closet were drawers full of jewelry: watches, cufflinks, sunglasses, even expensive writing implements in a range of styles and colors. On the other side were drawers of undergarments: socks, underwear, undershirts, and winter hats, gloves, and scarves. He stuck his hand in the exceedingly soft and expensive scarves, wondering if Millstone had worn even half of them.
His hand encountered something small and hard: a key card, blank except for the number “42,” handwritten on one side. He briefly wondered what it was doing there—what secret thing it might open—before slipping it back among the scarves.
He decided to look for his mom in the face parlor. And if she wasn’t there, it wouldn’t be a wasted trip; after all, who could blame him for wanting to look his best?
Chapter Twelve
Breaking the Code
“I knew you’d pick black,” Donna said, her legs as still as a statue as she glided toward him on conveyor-belt shoes, the latest in APU footwear.
It was amazing how often the first words out of his mother’s mouth soured him. “Were you testing me?” he asked, irritated.
“No. Of course not,” she said, frowning.
“And I failed?” he pressed.
She sighed and her frown faded into a look of distress. “Can I have a redo?”
“I guess,” he said. “Go ahead.”
The Alternate Universe Page 8
