Sherlock Holmes in Orbit

by Mike Resnick (ed)

  Just like a floating crap game or a backroom bookie joint, I thought to myself as we took our places around the table.

  “Join hands,” she commanded, and on cue the lights dimmed, leaving only the aura of the candelabra illuminating our circle of seekers.

  The temperature in the room seemed to drop markedly, and a vague aroma of incense seemed to seep through the air.

  “John Watson,” she instructed. “Please call your friend from the other side.”

  “Arthur! Arthur! Are you there?” he questioned of the darkness.

  “Oh, Arthur,” Madame Morbid joined in. “Please contact your friend John. Perhaps there is something you wish to know from him.”

  “I am here, John,” said a muffled voice that sounded suspiciously like the bartending brute who obviously lurked in the shadows, engineering the machinations of the ‘other side.’ “Please, share with me all of your worries, concerns, and secrets so that the bond between us might be stronger.” Watson then proceeded to unburden his soul of all of his secrets, including the major details of the cases that Holmes was working on at the present time (or at least as he perceived them, as I strongly doubted that there was really some spectral manifestation called a hound of the Baskervilles).

  The air seemed to get heavier, and my mind started to drift through clouds of miasma.

  Madame Morbid’s voice pierced the delusional clouds. “Call to your friends,” she instructed. “Share with them so that they may share with you.”

  A cacophony of voices ensued, all muffled variants of the brute’s, I assumed.

  In no time the other seekers had joined in. The count was talking about his acquisition of Carfax Abbey, and a new consort. Fogg was preoccupied with a trip he was about to make, and whether it would be safe to carry his fortune with him in a traveling bag, and Alice was talking about some antique mirror she found in her father’s study. All of my companions were lending their voices to the din.

  Suddenly one voice made itself clearer to me than the rest. “Chandler, you ninny,” the voice said. “Don’t blow this case. Clear your mind. They are using opiated gas to befuddle you. It’s all a hoax. Stick around after everyone has left and get to the bottom of it so we can get on with this series.” I didn’t hesitate. The voice had to be right. Opiated gas. I should have thought of that. It was obvious that Madame Morbid and her henchman were using the obviously susceptible states of her clients to gain information that could be used for blackmail, larceny, or some other nefarious plot.

  Just then the lights came back up, and Madame Morbid quickly began to usher everyone up the stairs, and out into the night.

  “Please go quickly, and quietly. We will meet again next week,” she said, and then turning to me specifically she added, “I’m sorry we didn’t have any luck with contacting your friend Brian, but I’m sure we will next week. Sometimes it takes a while for a new spirit to feel comfortable with a new circle of friends.”

  The seekers headed to their homes, minds still a blur from the opiated miasma, satisfied with their otherworldly interactions of the previous hour.

  1 ducked into a nearby alley and flushed my head clear with the chill of the night air. When I judged a safe amount of time had passed, I ventured back to the scene of the earlier night’s festivities.

  A cellar window that I had noticed when I first arrived there earlier in the evening was open just enough for me to slide in, which I did as quietly and cautiously as possible.

  Just then the lights came up, and a blackjack connected with my temple.

  The newly arrived light was replaced by darkness.

  I awoke an indeterminate amount of time later, tied to a chair in the center of the cellar in almost the exact space the table had previously occupied. My head was filled with the familiar feeling of ache and pain.

  Madame Morbid was standing in front of me, a gun trained on my chest.

  “I was worried that you weren’t taken in by our little setup since you had not made contact with your little ‘voice from the other side,’ and therefore kept Lothar” (the brute I assume) “on watch in case you returned, which you did. After rifling your pockets we came across a rather nice little surprise, a PI license. Well, you’re obviously no Sherlock Holmes, since you’ve been caught.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” I offered. “Nice little setup. Opiated mist to blur the lines of perception. Offstage muffled voices murmuring instructions. Misguided marks spilling their guts. What were your plans? Mug Fogg for his traveling bag, buy up real estate around Carfax Abbey since nobility was moving in, maybe a little blackmail, on the side.”

  “Not to mention a little insurance in case the Master Detective Sherlock Holmes poked his nose into my business.” Just then a slightly familiar voice intruded into my consciousness.

  “The chair you are tied to is rickety, and dried out If you throw yourself forward hard enough, it should fall apart, and you will also be able throw Madame Morbid off balance, and land on top of her. It should then be a simple matter to wrestle the gun away from her, tie her up, and get help. Don’t worry. Lothar is away. “

  The chair was, it did, I was, I did, and he was.

  *

  Lothar was rounded up by the gulls not too much later and turned stoolie in exchange for a lighter sentence. Madame Morbid received an indefinite vacation via the Botany Bay courtesy of the queen and will no doubt soon be the toast of Melbourne.

  Watson accepted his therapeutic retreat at Reichenbach Falls, and Sherlock Holmes managed to maintain his misguided reputation as the Master Detective of the fogbound London mystery scene.

  Sherlock paid me my meager fee and then proceeded to insinuate himself into the employ of the others in Watson’s circle of seekers as a security consultant, explaining that I had been his employee on the night of the mayhem at Madame Morbid’s.

  One might say he was a master of manipulating such situations for his own benefit.

  I returned to my working class digs, Newgate postponed for the time being.

  Not too much later I had a dream.

  A bespectacled, bearded fellow sat me down and congratulated me on a job well done, saying that we work very well together. He said his name was Brian, and vanished.

  Go figure. That will teach me to overindulge in Old Appleyard Cider.

  I’ve been invited to a holiday bash at 22IB Baker Street next week. I guess I’ll go ... after all, there is no place like Holmes for the holidays.

  ... For what reason Holmes employed the fellow, I’ll never know nor do I care to. I have stricken him from my records of my involvements with the Master Detective. Sherlock is the master, I am his Boswell, and there is no need for anyone else.

  I think I’ve had enough sun now. I hope the attendant takes me in for my nap soon. Artie is waiting ...

  —John H. Watson

  TWO ROADS, NO CHOICESby Dean Wesley Smith

  The hand on my shoulder seemed rough, brusque in its rush to wake me. As I roused myself from the warm comfort of my quilts and rolled to focus on the worried face of Holmes, he said, “Dress quickly. And for extreme cold. We have visitors here, possibly to take us for a voyage.”

  Before my sleep-fogged mind could muster a response, or even a simple question as to where we would be traveling, he turned and left me to the quiet of the late-night hour.

  I finished with my toilet and dressed as quickly as I could, for such awakening by Holmes had portrayed in the past a need for haste on a new case. And since my friend had taken very few cases as of late, this new adventure must be extraordinary in nature. That thought had my hands shaking with such excitement that I took two attempts to fasten my vest.

  As I emerged into the main room, I found Holmes in his favorite armchair, his fingers steepled as was his habit when wating patiently. He had started a robust fire to take the chill from the room, and the orange light flickered across his features.

  Across from him sat two strangers, and immediately I was struck by their strange dress, the c
ut of their jackets, and the look of their hair. The one on Holmes’s left and closest to the door had strikingly blond hair, green eyes, and a handsome face that showed no scars. He was also clearly the taller of the two, even though they were both sitting. At his feet was a large brown case that had the appearance of being very heavy.

  His companion had long, almost shoulder-length brown hair and wore an outer coat that he had opened to the warmth of the fire, revealing on the edges of the coat a form of metal fastener with small teeth running along both sides of the opening. I had read of such a fastener before, but never seen one in use. The man had a dark complexion and seemed to be of Italian or Eastern decent.

  I was shocked that Holmes had offered neither of them tea or coffee and was about to correct the oversight when Holmes said, “Oh good, Watson. Now we can start.” He indicated that I should take a chair near the hearth and I did as he instructed.

  He turned to the gentlemen as I sat and nodded. “Alright, please explain who you are, why you are here, where you are from, and what you want from me.”

  Both of the men had been staring at me in a seemingly nervous fashion, as if I were someone they had known for a long time, yet were embarrassed to greet. I knew from what Holmes had said that he had kept them from telling their story, even so much as their names, until I was present. He did that on occasion when he felt the need of a second pair of eyes and ears. Somehow, in a standard Holmes fashion, he must have deduced that they had wanted us to go on a trip and that it would be to a cold climate. Even though I had no idea how he came to such a conclusion, I would wait until later to ask him how he knew such details.

  Holmes leaned forward in anticipation, and for some odd reason I found myself just able to contain my own excitement.

  The short, dark-haired man cleared his throat, glanced at me and then looked directly back at Holmes. “My name is Carl. Dr. Carl Frederick. This is Dr. Henry Serling.” He indicated the blond man, who in turn nodded at both of us.

  Dr. Frederick’s accent seemed to be American, yet of no region with which I was familiar. I would have to ask Holmes later if he knew the regional source.

  Dr. Frederick went on. “Slightly over two months ago a new White Star Liner left port from Southampton.”

  Holmes nodded. “Yes, the RMS Titanic.”

  Dr. Frederick nodded. “I’m glad you are familiar with it.”

  “It would be hard not to be, considering the coverage it received. It seems to be one very magnificent ship. Exceptionally lucky that it did not meet a tragic fate on that first voyage. Even an unsinkable ship meeting an iceberg can sometimes lose the battle.”

  Dr. Frederick glanced nervously at his companion and then said, “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it.” Holmes gave him a very sharp look. “I’m afraid, Dr., that I do not understand your comment.”

  Both of our guests seemed almost embarrassed, as if what they were about to say would seem so outrageous, so disgusting that Holmes would toss them into the street. I had seen that look a number of times when a person was about to confess something to Holmes. This time both men stared at their hands, then at the floor, then back at their hands.

  The fire crackled and what seemed like a long time passed until finally the blond Dr. Serling took a deep breath. “Carl, we agreed.” His voice was also clearly American, but again very odd.

  Dr. Frederick nodded slowly, clearly making a decision. He looked Holmes squarely in the eyes. “The Titanic was supposed to have sunk. Slightly over fifteen hundred lives were lost when it did.”

  I thought that someone had punched me below the ribs at that moment and I suddenly knew the taste of disgust. It never occurred to me to question that the men were crazy, but their words instantly proved them so, and suddenly I felt worried for the safety of Holmes and myself.

  But Holmes seemed to take the statement of the possibility of such an immense disaster as a fact. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, but never taking his gaze from Dr. Frederick. As his friend, I could see the thought had him shaken, but he remained composed as always.

  The fire popped and flared for a moment as Holmes said in a very cold voice, “Go on.”

  Again Dr. Frederick glanced at his companion. Then he half shook himself and turned to face Holmes squarely. “We need your help in solving why the Titanic did not sink.” Holmes did not even blink at such an absurd idea, and when I started to object he held up his hand and stopped me. “And who might you represent?” he asked. “I assume you are not from owners of the liner or any government agency. What is your interest?”

  Dr. Frederick almost laughed. Then he became very serious again. “Our lives. Our very future and that of this time, actually. You see, you will not believe me, but we are from the future. Actually, just over a hundred and two years in the future. But, I’m afraid we are from a future where the Titanic sank.”

  Holmes nodded. “I assumed you were not of our time from your clothes and your language the moment you stepped into this room. He nodded to Dr. Serling. You are also wearing some form of lens on your eye that I have never seen before.”

  Dr. Serling smiled and nodded. ‘They are called contact lenses. They take the place of glasses.”

  Both visitors seemed taken aback by Holmes’s calm acceptance of their bold statement that they were from the future. I, on the other hand, was not as willing to take their word. Such fancy imagination was the domain of an early evening of pleasant reading of H. G. Wells, not of the middle of the night on Baker Street.

  But Holmes waited for a response. “You have still not answered my question.”

  Both doctors glanced at each other until finally Dr. Frederick seemed to understand Holmes’s question. “If you mean our employer, then I suppose that originally would have been the state of California. We were both on the faculty at the University of Southern California, Physics Department. Our specific research into time travel was funded mostly by the United States government.”

  Holmes nodded, as if he understood everything they had been saying, as I suppose he might have. “Why the interest in the Titanic?”

  “In our time, the Titanic and the night it sank,” Dr. Frederick hesitated with that statement, then went on, “are of immense interest. It wasn’t until September of 1985 that the wreck of the great ship was found. Since then hundreds of expeditions have been launched to the site of the wreck. It seemed only logical that one of the first time travel expeditions would go back to the night the Titanic sank. Here, let me show you something.”

  He motioned for Dr. Serling to open the large case and Dr. Frederick extracted a large, colorful book. As he handed the book to Holmes I noticed the word TITANTIC stamped on the front cover in red. A beautiful painting of the great liner sailing the open seas filled the cover.

  “That book was originally published in 1992. We brought it along as resource material. Little did we imagine that it would be put to this use.”

  Again the room grew quiet except for the crackling of the fire as Holmes inspected the front and back of the large and obviously heavy book and then opened it and started slowly thumbing through.

  “Flip to page 196. That section is about the discovery of the wreck. There are photographs and such.”

  Holmes did what he was told and then spent the next few minutes moving through the book, his keen eyes missing nothing. I had a great desire to stand and move to his side to look at such a book, but I held my place, as I know Holmes would have wanted me to do. But as the minutes wore on, the task of remaining in my chair became very difficult, to say the least.

  Finally Holmes closed the book and placed it on the stand beside his chair. “Since it is obvious that a tragedy such as this book portrays would have a large influence on the future, can you tell me what that might be?”

  Dr. Frederick shook his head negatively. “I’m afraid not. You see, the future we came from no longer exists. At least to us. The only way possible to move forward in time for us and our machine is to a homi
ng beacon, for lack of a better way to describe it. I could tell you about the future where the ship did sink, but—”

  Dr. Serling broke in. “Let me try to explain what has occurred. With every event in history there are two or more possible futures leading from that event. Like forks in a country road.” He glanced at Holmes and Holmes nodded, so he went on. “On the night the Titanic sank, the logical two main futures are a future where it did and one where it did not. Of course, there are many other possible futures where only a hundred were killed, or ninety-nine. And depending on who was saved and who wasn’t, those lives lost or saved may or may not allow the futures to blend back into one. In our time we call these different worlds parallel dimensions or universes.”

  I caught myself shaking my head at the insanity of this man’s words, but Holmes clearly was giving the man his full attention, so I said and did nothing, even though my instinct was to toss them both into the street.

  “So what happened?” Holmes asked. “Did you change the past, causing the Titanic not to sink?”

  “No.” Both doctors spoke at the same time and both were emphatic, as if Holmes had asked them if they had committed a mortal sin.

  “We arrived,” Dr. Frederick said, “on the Titanic about two minutes before it struck the iceberg, and did nothing but watch. However, it quickly became obvious that history had changed. We were unable to return to our time and ended up having to hide in unoccupied cabins until the ship sailed into New York.”

  “Was it possible,” Holmes asked, “that your machine simply moved you over onto a different ‘road’ as you put it?” Dr. Serling seemed clearly impressed with Holmes. “We considered that, but we don’t think so. If that were the case, we feel our homing device would still be functioning. But it isn’t. We clearly went back to a fork in the road of history and are now traveling down a different road. Someone or something altered our world’s history so that the world we came from no longer exists to us.”