Time Machines Repaired While-U-Wait

by K. A. Bedford

  He shuts his office door, collapses into a chair, closes his eyes, holds his head, trying to block it all out. It’s too bright, too loud, too smelly, too everything! One moment he’d been adrift in the mind-sucking void of the End of Time with Dickhead, aware of his senses almost turning his brain inside-out in their desperate hunger for stimulation, and the next he’s here in the overwhelming past. Even his chair feels too vivid.

  He gets up, paces back and forth, tries not to think of Molly. Molly standing there — no, Molly dangling there, in unthinkable pain, hoarsely screaming — and he feels himself crumbling again, cracking apart, the tears flowing, gasping great sobs.

  Malaria appears, asking if he’s all right, but there’s nothing he can say, nothing at all. She tells him that James Rutherford called again, and he sounded all weird on the phone, but he wouldn’t say what was wrong, he just wanted to talk to Spider, and there was this, she didn’t know, this “edge” in his voice. It was strange, she says. Spider wasn’t there, so she talked to Charlie about it, but Charlie didn’t know what to make of it either. What should she do? Spider remembers he has to visit Rutherford—

  Malaria tells him if he doesn’t feel well he should go home and get some rest, he does look pretty bad, if he’ll excuse her saying so. He tells her to mind her own fucking business, everything’s fine, just get back to work. She stares at him for a moment, then goes back to her desk, and the phone’s already going nuts. With the door shut, he rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, and feels like shit for talking to Malaria that way when she was just trying to be kind.

  He goes back to his desk. On the floor, next to his chair, there’s his new backpack, the one Dickhead gave him. The one containing the device. He picks up the pack, puts it on the desk, lifts the flaps, and there it is, surprisingly small, no bigger than a golfball. He dares not touch it. There is no digital countdown, no complicated red and blue wires, nothing at all other than fine-print warnings that tell him it is a Class III Causality Weapon: Handle With Care, Caution May Delete Timelines, Beware Temporal Flux Field Effects, Conforms With ISO-54060 Standards Governing Temporal Weapons, Manufacturer Not Liable For Damage Deliberate or Accidental.

  Spider thinks it very thoughtful of them to print all these warnings. Having read all that, you’d be a moron if you actually let yourself get hurt by it, wouldn’t you? he thinks, in a mental tone of voice so reasonable, so mild and half-amused, you wouldn’t know he’s exploding inside his own head, that his conscious mind is running on automatic while the rest of his consciousness, everything that makes him Spider, is a firestorm of panic and hatred and fear — and the sharpest, most penetrating, lacerating guilt.

  Standing there, looking down at the device in the bag, remembering Dickhead’s briefing, he feels, for the nth time, like a fool for ever listening to the man, for ever accepting his kindness and help. Maybe, if he survives, he thinks, he’ll go back in time and make damn sure Broken Spider never meets Dickhead McMahon. Better to be a wreck of a man than to wind up like this. Or better yet, to go back in time and use the Weapon on Dickhead. It seems like a brilliant idea, and maybe a way out of his bind. If Dickhead never existed, he could never recruit Spider, never go on to lead a fleet of a million ships in a titanic war at the End of Time. Best of all, Molly would be fine. Prickly as always, passive-aggressive, but fine. Hmm, he thinks, that all sounds pretty good. It does mean that Broken Spider would be left to rot, to take his chances with destitution and bitterness. Compared to what I’m going through — and more important, what Molly’s going through — right now, he thinks, destitution and bitterness sound pretty damn fine.

  But what if it doesn’t matter? What if the universe finds some other idiot like Dickhead and shows him the dream with the angel and fills his head full of glory and power and destiny? Did it matter that it was Dickhead McMahon who came upon him that night, or would any similar guy do just as well? In other words, he thinks, seeing how this line of thought would end, would the show still go on, just with different actors in the key roles? He has a horrible feeling it might. So erasing Dickhead is no good. The problem is that, from Soldier Spider’s point of view, all of this has already happened, long ago. Past Spider has already carried out the mission. It would be very hard to keep it from happening now.

  “Fuck!” he mutters, with considerable feeling, thinking not only about his particular problem, but about the larger issue: was there, in the end, any such thing as free will? It was looking like maybe not, and that was a hard thing to accept. No matter what he chooses to do now, whether he carries out the plan as instructed or tries something different, it’s already been decided. All possible outcomes have played out — and they’ve all ended up at the End of Time with Dickhead, Master of Destiny. Who knows, though, maybe Soldier Spider faked him out, gave him all these instructions and guidance with the specific intention of overwhelming him and forcing him to try something different to escape from it all. Either way, looking back from the End of Time, it’s all already happened, every possible variation, and all for nothing. Spider noodles with the idea of going back to the Masada, pinning Soldier Spider to the deck, and forcing him to tell Spider just what he did when it was his turn, so he’d know what to do now — but he suspected the old bastard would not help him. Why should Soldier Spider help? When it had been his turn, he’d got no help.

  What if the future isn’t so predetermined, though? He knows that history possesses surprising momentum, that it resists change but it can be changed, if you try hard enough. Suppose the whole business with the End of Time could be averted? Where would you have to be to make the critical change? He doesn’t know, but he suspects the critical point would be somewhere deep in the past, and right now he does not have the time or the resources to mount such a search. He is broke. He’d have to borrow one of the time machines that are in the shop for repair, and hope for the best. And, all the while, he’d still know that way off in the remote future, Molly was suffering while he muddled about.

  He pulls out the coin-sized, black key-ring device, the one Soldier Spider gave him at the end of his visit to the Masada. Dickhead had given him one just like it, that would take him back to the Destiny, once the job was done. Both are keyed to his unique biochemical signature. Both are one-shot devices.

  There is no stopping it, Spider can see that, but he can’t accept it. It isn’t right. It isn’t just. He remembers Soldier Spider telling him that the only chance they had on the Masada was for Spider to do what he was told exactly the way he told him to do it. There could be no variation. Spider had to follow the script, whether he liked it or not. The Masada was low on supplies and power. They had one chance to take out the top leadership of the other Zeropoint organization, and Spider had better not screw it up, because if he screwed up, not only would they all die of starvation and thirst, but, worse, Molly would also die.

  Yes, he thinks. He gets all that. He really does. It’s just that he has now learned that Dickhead is at least two moves ahead. The fact that Dickhead knew that Spider had been to the Masada proves that. The fact that he could arrange to intercept Molly’s transfer to the Masada, too, only rubs it in Spider’s face. Dickhead must know what is going to happen. Maybe he’s received a visit from a future version of himself, who’s told him all about Soldier Spider’s little plan. It is impossible to know.

  One thing Dickhead told him, before sending him back here, was that if he carries out his mission faithfully and carefully, and survives, he can come back to the Destiny, and be reunited with Molly. Not, of course, that she would have him, he knows that, but still. Either way, Spider and Molly would be right there, in pride of place, ready to partake in the Final Secret of the Cosmos. It would be, Dickhead said, so cool!

  The key-ring remote in Spider’s hand is cold to the touch. He wonders what would happen if he destroyed it, crushed it under his Doc Marten heel. Without the remote he couldn’t go to the Masada. But his future self, he
realizes, already knows just what Spider chooses to do in this situation, and has given him that remote anyway. If he tries to go off-script at this point — and didn’t doing that work out so well the last time he tried it? — the most likely outcome is just that either the remote proves indestructible, or another one turns up in his pocket.

  Okay, he thinks, What if he detonates the Class III causality weapon right here, now? From what he understands, it features a powerful conventional explosive, and a timeline-erasing effect. Which only leaves a mysterious body nobody recognizes or can identify. Spider had asked Dickhead, when the bastard was explaining the weapon to him, that surely in erasing Soldier Spider’s timeline it would also erase his own. Dickhead reassured him that he would be fine, because there was no guarantee that Spider and Soldier Spider were part of the same timeline. Spider remembered his future self telling him much the same thing, that Spider might not become Soldier Spider. He wasn’t so sure. It sounded like bullshit to him, but what choice did he have?

  What would happen, he wonders, if he were to use it on himself? For a start, nothing he’s done or experienced would ever have happened. Nobody he’s ever met would remember or recognize him. If the cops brought in his own parents to identify the body, even they would not recognize him, because he was never their child. They would have had some other child. Molly would have got involved with some other guy or guys; she’d probably still have become a mad sculptress, and would probably still be difficult, and brittle, and demanding. Dickhead McMahon would have found some other poor bastard to recruit, and that poor bastard’s sort-of ex-wife would probably have got shanghaied off to the End of bloody Time to be tortured.

  So, after all that, using the device on himself would achieve no real benefit to anyone. He’d be handing his special bundle of misery to some other poor bastard. Who knows? he thinks, maybe in a previous iteration of time, some other guy was in exactly this situation, and he did detonate the Class III causality weapon, wiped himself out, thus handing the whole mess to Spider. The lesson, he now sees, is that at this point in space and time someone has to do this job. It doesn’t even matter who, exactly. Some events, he thinks, want to happen.

  And that gives him an idea. Probably it’s a crazy idea, and he can think of a dozen reasons why it wouldn’t work, but it’s all he’s got. It’s been bubbling away in the back of his mind since Dickhead told him about the Class III causality weapon’s properties. The bastard told Spider, “Now treat the thing like the finest crystal, all right? The circuitry in there, well, let’s just say, it’s delicate. Very bloody delicate. No throwing it around. No dropping it. No juggling!”

  Spider had objected at that point, but only to see the sour look on Dickhead’s face, which was priceless. Spider could see that Dickhead had been waiting a very long time for Spider to be right here, in this situation, poised to take out his greatest enemy. The irony was delicious. He was practically salivating at the prospect, Spider noticed, even more revolted. He asked Dickhead, “What if I get caught in the blast radius, though? If my timeline ceases to exist, to have ever existed, I can’t wind up here, under your thumb, can I?”

  Dickhead had smiled. “There are any number of Spider Webbs, moron. Any of them will do. If not you, it’ll be another you. Worry not.”

  That was when Spider decided that Dickhead had to die. He didn’t know just how he could achieve this goal, but right then it didn’t matter. The man had to be stopped, and not just this iteration of him, either. Just as he, Spider, had countless other selves stretched across the timelines of the manifold, so too did Dickhead. Ideally, Spider thought, all of them would have to die. Dickhead had not only to be killed, he had to be erased.

  Back in the here and now, Spider takes one last look at the device in his backpack, makes sure it’s sitting nice and secure, and double-checks that it’s not currently armed. The last thing he needs is for the thing to go off because of his trip through time to the Masada. Just to be sure, though, he pulls over a screen from his desk and runs a search on “electromagnetic pulse — EMP” weapons. “Hmm,” he says, working through the many results, skimming here and there, reading up. “Shuts down electronic circuitry.” This is what he thought EMP weapons did, but it is worth checking, considering what is at stake.

  Okay, then. Just a few loose ends to tie up. He doesn’t expect to survive this mission, one way or another, and isn’t sure he even wants to survive, knowing what he knows about the future. Dickhead must be stopped. That’s all that matters. It occurs to him that with that thought he might have just taken the first step on the path to becoming Soldier Spider. If so, cool. No worries.

  He gets on the phone, and tries to call Iris. Her phone’s switched off. He leaves a message, sketching in what’s going on, what he’s trying to achieve, and asks for any help she can provide at this end. Finally, he calls his mum and dad, and they, too, are out. It just about kills him that they’re out of reach. For a long moment he doesn’t know if he can go on without saying what he needs to say to his parents. At length, he gets his breathing under control, wipes his eyes, and tells them he loves them, and that makes him blubber afresh, so he rings off, feeling wretched and alone, hardly able to stand under the vast weight of responsibility he feels crushing him down.

  He slings the backpack over his shoulder, and goes out to the workshop, says g’day to Charlie, shakes his hand, tells him, as he should have told him long ago, that he is a great guy, and it has been a rare privilege to work with him. Charlie is all surprised, then disturbed, and finally starts freaking out, and wants to know if Spider’s dying or something, because, God, why would he talk like that? Charlie even starts getting upset, and Spider feels awkward; he doesn’t want a scene like this. Charlie comes and hugs him, and tells him they’ll all help Spider work through whatever the hell it is, because they’re mates, and mates stick together. Soon Spider’s blubbering, too, but he can’t tell Charlie what’s really going on. He pats Charlie on the back, thanks him, and says he has to go.

  He stops to see Malaria and apologizes for speaking to her that way earlier. He had a lot on his mind, but he shouldn’t have taken it out on her. Also, he tells her that she’s doing a great job. She’s all confused, and worried about him, but she can see he’s not about to explain what’s going on. She does ask if she’s going to need to find a new job. He says he hopes not and leaves the shop through the front door.

  There’s now nothing else for it. He takes the remote, and, closing his eyes, holding his breath, nervous as hell, he hits the go button.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Hey, Spider,” said Soldier Spider.

  He was there. He recognized that smell, only now it was worse. Things were failing and breaking down. It was cold; he could see his breath; it reminded him of Molly, and that shook his resolve.

  “It’s okay. Believe me. It’s okay. You’ll get through this,” his older self said, and reached an arm around his shoulder and led him through the cramped and noisy passageways of the ship.

  “How are things going?” Spider asked as they made their way forward.

  “Not good, not good. Everyone’s on emergency rations. There’s a problem with the water recycling system, too.”

  Spider understood what Soldier Spider was telling him. “Infections?”

  “We’ve got nine people out of action right now, and we’re doing our best to make sure everyone only drinks and uses boiled water, and practices medical-standard hand-washing. It’s been ten hours without anyone else going down sick, so we might be okay. Of course, then you’ve got the issue of electrolyte maintenance, and of course the sick folks are using the same water supply. It’s tough.”

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Spider,” the old man said. They had to stop and press themselves against a bulkhead as two other crewmembers squeezed past going the other way. “Can you?”

  He was standing rig
ht next to Soldier Spider; and could feel the man’s body heat, even through his spec-ops outfit. When he looked at him, he could see him sweating. Spider said, “Are you sick, too?”

  “I’m doing okay, keeping out of trouble.”

  “You didn’t get my message.”

  “Message?”

  “About Molly? At the airport?”

  “You…” He frowned a moment, then remembered. “Oh, yeah. Right. Yeah.”

  “I thought you guys were watching me.”

  “Limited resources, Spider. Limited resources. Just keeping up with Dickhead’s various activities across the manifold keeps us surprisingly busy and stretched pretty thin.”

  The image of Molly suspended like that would not leave Spider’s mind. It was worse than seeing her dead and mangled body. Much worse. When you’re dead you’re past all of life’s suffering. You’re at rest, such as it is. What was happening to Molly… It was too much. There were no words for it, just cyclonic anger.

  “Easy, mate,” Soldier Spider said, gently, giving Spider’s shoulder a squeeze. “Try not to blame yourself.”

  “I had it all worked out.”

  “You did what you thought was right.”

  “You were supposed to take her and keep her safe.”

  Soldier Spider nodded, and looked achingly sad. “Come on. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  They moved up through the ship. That smell was everywhere. Spider hardly saw any of the ship’s crew; only a handful of different sorts of robots worked cleaning duty, but did so with unflagging diligence. Some of those robots, Spider noticed, looked like they’d been built out of spare parts from other robots.

  Soldier Spider led him to a cramped ward room, sat him down at a table. “Wish I could offer you something to drink, but we’re rationing the water at the moment.”

  Spider was looking around at the décor. There was a wide photo showing all the ship’s crew, beaming, in crisp uniform, on a sunny afternoon, with the great black bulk of the ship behind them. Sitting in the front row, with a plaque containing the ship’s name and registry code, was a younger version of Soldier Spider. He looked happy and proud. Surrounding this photo were images, postcards and small novelty souvenirs, from different times and places, all of them spacious, warm and beautiful, sent by crewmembers away on holiday. On the opposite wall was a gallery of images of crew members, solemn, in impressive uniform, against a background of dark velvet, each captioned with the officer’s name, rank, and the relative space-time coordinates of their death. There were, Spider counted, well over one hundred such images. Under the display, the simple message, in stark lettering, “LEST WE FORGET”. Spider felt a lump in his throat, and looked away, wiping his eyes.