by Eric Flint
"You had your chance before, and your test didn't work."
"Of course not, because you asked me where Rankin was, not when he was. I couldn't pick him up in any spatial direction because he wasn't anywhere in the universe at that moment: he'd time-jumped past it. But now I know to allow for that."
I hesitated.
"Look, you said come back when it's fixed. I've fixed it."
I wasn't convinced, but the test would probably be quicker than an argument. "All right," I said. "But hurry up. The others won't stay in the bar forever."
"Get the dog again," said Audran. "We'll do a triangulation."
Soon we had the Quent set up, with one lead in the specimen jar and the other taped to Calverley's device.
"I'm scanning for someone linked to both objects. . . . That's a strong signal," he said with surprise. "Oh, it's you. I said not to touch the Chronoplus."
"I didn't! But who do you think sold Calverley the components?"
Audran gave me another lead to hold. "I'll filter you out. Scanning again. . . . Got him! Ten thousand years, or thereabouts."
"Are you sure it's Rankin?" I asked.
"Who else in the future would have such an entanglement? Even if the Chronoplus ends up in a museum, I think the dog will have had a decent burial by then. I'd hate to think what it would look like otherwise."
It was true that Margaret's preservation job wasn't exactly Egyptian quality. Audran cleared away his stuff and said, "So you'll stock the Quent? And I get ten percent royalties?"
"Hold on. All you've said is that Rankin's in the future, which we knew already. I won't know that it's measured a genuine entanglement unless we can use it to get him back."
Audran started to protest, but I cut him off. I walked over to Calverley's apparatus and examined the connections between the generator and the cube. Now I'm no scientist, but after years of selling gadgets of one sort or another, you can't help picking up a few basics. It was the work of a moment to switch the polarity. Then I set the controls for the level reached on the earlier aborted run, to ensure delivery of an equal and opposite amount of power.
I took a deep breath and pressed the big green button.
The roar of the generator must have been audible from the bar, for a gaggle of scientists rushed into the hall to see what was happening. It was most gratifying to have an audience see me conjure up Rankin from thin air. His machine was a fantastical agglomeration of gleaming pipes, struts, and copper cylinders. It appeared a few inches above the stage and dropped with a crunching thud, narrowly missing the leads to Calverley's generator.
Rankin stepped out and smiled at me. "Did you figure it out for yourself, or will I have to go back in time and plant a clue?"
I was hurt. "Ideas aren't the sole preserve of scientists, you know. Even a salesman—"
Calverley interrupted, shouting, "How dare you fiddle with my machine!" He was hopping up and down, quivering like a defective robot about to explode in an eruption of springs and gaskets.
I said to Rankin, "Calverley here accused me of causing your disappearance by selling you defective equipment. He's going to propose a motion to expel me from the convention. I trust I can count on your vote against?"
"Disappearance?" Rankin frowned. "I was going to go back, but I'd better not if that'll cause a time paradox. But that's not your fault. Of course you have my vote."
Exploiting my position as savior of the hour, I turned to the watching crowd and said, "How about the rest of you?"
A rumbling of support showed I was safe. Calverley shot me a black look, then began dismantling his equipment. The other scientists pressed forward to question Rankin and examine his apparatus.
"A marvelous breakthrough," said Vanzetti. "Shame about the interference problem, though."
"Yes, I was thinking about that while I was stranded in the future," said Rankin. "I'll have to build a baffle around the time-engine. Drake?"
I pushed through the mob of scientists. Rankin gave me one of my equipment catalogs, folded open at the order form. Tachyon waveguide, spintronic inverter, copper coils x4, mahogany trimmings. . . .
I mentally reckoned up the total, and smiled.
* * *
Ian Creasey is the author of many stories.
To see this author's work sold by Amazon, click here.
I Could've Done Better
Written by Gregory Benford and David Brin
Illustrated by Pamelina
1
They didn't have to do this to me. Dump me in this place, with no chance of going home.
I told them I'd try harder. Really. Make up for my mistakes. Be a better person. They could choose someone else, easy.
But did they listen?
How I miss the things I'll never do again. Eat a hotdog at the ballpark. Take a flight out to the coast. Catch a Vegas show or watch a playoff game on TV. I suppose I could invent baseball or teach these people how to play poker. But they'd just let me win all the time, so where's the fun?
Here comes slender Mirimani now, carrying a basket of fresh fruit, followed by Deela—buxom Deela—with a pitcher of beer. I've grown used to the strong, bitter stuff they brew here, though I'd trade Tut's treasure right now for a cold, frothy Budweiser . . .
"It is time for my lord to have his morning massage," Deela says, leaning over me to fill a golden goblet. Her scent is mild must and myrrh. Two more girls approach with linen towels and scented oils.
Mirimani smiles. She's leaner, more athletic.
"Or would the Father of the Nile prefer to bathe first?"
All right, I admit it. I used to get a kick out of talk like that, the first hundred or so times. Till I realized what an absolute pit it is to be Pharoah.
"Not now," I respond. My Old Kingdom Egyptian has an Illinois accent, but no one complains. "What's on our schedule today?"
Mirimani can glide smoothly from seductive to pure business—one reason she's risen so high in my service.
"A new ambassador from Babylon wishes to present gifts."
"Right into my lapis, I suppose."
"My lord?"
"Never mind." Making puns in English, instead of my tortured Ancient Egyptian; I really am homesick today. "Okay, then what?"
"You grant clemency to the Lybian rebels."
"Clemency? Those guys gave me real trouble last summer, raiding caravans and burning my new schools. Remind me. Why was I planning to spare them?"
"In order to set an example, my lord. To illustrate your innovations called 'due process' and 'rehabilitation,' as I recall. Have you changed your mind?"
"Well . . . no, I guess not. It'd be more satisfying to set another kind of example, though. One involving hungry lions. Oh, never mind. Is there anything else?"
"Only an audience with the High Priestess of Isis, who craves a few moments from the Father of Waters."
At this I groan. "Aw, man, do I really have to see her?"
Mirimani smiles gently. We've been through this before. "No one commands the Pharoah of all Egypt. But you have found the wisdom of Isis indispensable in the past."
Her phrasing tugs with bitter irony.
In the past, Mirimani? Oh, if only you knew how far off you are.
2
All right, picture this. Two babes come swaying into Mulligan's Bar, wearing identical black dresses with slit sides and plunging backs. One blond and the other with tightly curled hair that's a deep, almost black, henna red. They seem awkward on spike heels—wobbling a little—yet getting the hang of it fast. Athletic types. No. More than that.
Right away the old radar is up, beeping. They're knockouts. Tall, luminous, luscious . . . every male in the place takes notice. So does every female. You'd have to be dead not to.
Let me get something straight—I wasn't asking for trouble. Just stopping by the old haunt to relax with a brew—one!—after a racquetball match. I demolished poor Fred from Accounting pretty easy, 31, picking up fifty bucks on bets and feeling smug over grind
ing his nose in it. I'd been riding my underlings at work, too—working off the steam that kept building up in my life. The feeling that I should be doing more. More than middle management. More than this.
Sandy expected me home by six-thirty. I really meant to be prompt. Maybe put in some quality time with the kids.
The after-five crowd was trickling in. My fave time of day. Allowing for a twenty-minute commute, I had three quarters of an hour to just relax and be me. If I cut it close.
I had promised Sandy to do better, and really meant it this time. She had caught me chatting up an intern at the office picnic and raised hell. Then, two days later, I came home late and brewed up a bit. She didn't seem to understand that I was still a fun kinda guy. That's what originally drew us to each other, right? We sure had some wild times.
Only now she was auditioning for the role of Wounded Hausfrau and I hadn't changed. Why should I? part of me protested.
Another part answered—Come on, sport, you know you've crossed the line a few times since you got hitched. She's worth some extra effort. So are the kids. Give it a rest.
I'm sure every married guy has those conflicts, right? Well, a lot of us.
So there I was, just mulling it over, dealing with it, when the two lookers came in.
Lookers in both senses—they sat down and right away started looking at me.
Ah, those sheath dresses, hose, and high heels—tight skirts, covering without concealing two great bodies. And the faces—just my type. High cheekbones, full lips, arching eyebrows, long hair. Redhead's dusky complexion set a nice contrast to the blonde's cool snow. Couldn't be better if I'd ordered them from a menu.
Okay, maybe I was a little irked with Sandy. Maybe I was tired. Give me credit—I went over there more out of curiosity than anything else. I mean, how often do two knockout babes send you pickup looks across a bar?
For just a moment, I recall, something about these two—the way they moved—made me think of . . . soldiers.
The thought was kind of weird. Unnerving.
It didn't stop me, though.
"Do I know you ladies?"
Not as amateur as it sounds. If they say no, turn it into a compliment, something about getting to start fresh with two such lovelies, blah blah. When I was in practice, I could come off even a routine opening with confidence, like answering a backhand serve.
Only the blond surprises me.
"Oh, we know you. You're famous."
I gave her a quick look to see if this was irony, but she's beaming a big, white smile. Good teeth, great glossy lipstick, and not a hair out of place. Maybe they'd been in Mulligan's before and heard something.
I tossed it off with a disarming chuckle. "Whatever they're saying, officer, it ain't true."
"Oh, no, Alec," the redhead said, "you're renowned."
All right. A bit nervous now. They knew my name. I glanced around to see if any of the guys were giggling in a corner, having put these two up to it.
"Renowned, eh? How come I don't see myself on magazine covers?"
"Not now—in the future." And she motioned for me to sit down.
Now I know it's a gag. But nobody was cackling beyond the potted plants. Mulligan himself seemed unaware, busy with customers. I decided to play along, plopping in a chair.
"Oh, yeah?"
"We're serious," the blond said. "We really are from your future."
"Sure, like in those movies." The guys knew I was a lifelong sci-fi fan. Whoever set this up, I'd have to come up with something good to top it.
"Indeed—" the redhead nodded "—our research shows several cinematic dramas in your era approached the general concept, so you should easily grasp what we're talking about. Please do accept it. We are real, from two centuries ahead of this day."
I gave them a smile of disbelief, with a Cary Grant cock of the head. "Hm, well, they do make real beauties in the twenty-third century."
For the first time, something I said affected her. A modest blush, apparently sincere. I blinked, more surprised by that than anything she had said. This was no hired hooker or actress. She was nervous underneath and actually appreciated the compliment. My opinion meant something to her.
"So, are you ladies tourists? Come back in time to do a little slumming with the ancestors?"
The blonde was more businesslike. "We are not tourists, Alec. Our mission is serious. We are at war."
I blinked. A surprising turn. My latest theory had been that they were sorority pledges from a nearby college, pulling mind games on some locals as part of an initiation stunt. The future babes trip had just the right flavor for a tease fantasy. But this—
"At war?"
"Yes. And we are losing."
"You . . ."
"We," she corrected. "All of us. Humanity."
"Uh huh, I think I saw that movie. You want me to go forward in time because I'm a typical primitive warrior type. Only a real man can defeat the alien invaders or rogue computers or mutant spiders, because your males are too civilized."
They gave me a "don't be ridiculous" look.
"Our warriors are strong, Alec," the redhead said, "both men and women. Indeed, many of our greatest heroes and most innovative thinkers are descended from you."
That made me blink a couple of times, momentarily at a loss for words. What a line! I should try it myself sometime. Somebody at the sorority had an imagination, all right.
Well, if they wanted to be outrageous, fine.
"Descended from . . . Oh, I get it now. You've come back in time to ask me for genetic samples?"
The blonde put her hand on my thigh, a pleasant warm pressure, and rather more alarming than I expected. Her smile broadened.
"Yes, but more than that, we need your help."
"No fighting aliens in the future? Shucks."
A small corner of me felt strangely disappointed. I kind of hankered after that.
"We would not risk your life. But you can save humanity, Alec. If you are willing to accept a most difficult, onerous but ultimately rewarding task."
3
The ambassador from Babylon brought mostly the same old crap. Jewelry that my kid might've spurned at a discount store, back home in Chicago. Some pathetic rugs. Spices to cover the smell when food starts to go stale.
We'll fix that problem by next year, if I keep making good progress setting up Pharoah Laboratories, Inc. I think I can remember how to make a refrigerator and there's no lack of willing labor. Nor any corporate bean-counters or stockholders to hinder us. We'll keep trying till we get it right.
I'll have cold beer yet! You'll see.
The ambassador looked scared, trying desperately to impress me with his gifts. Well, can't blame him. Babylon and all the other ancient powers are pissing in their pants because Old Kingdom Egypt now has muzzle-loading cannon.
He seemed especially upset over the girls. He brought twenty of them. Real beauties. Didn't Pharaoh like 'em?
Shucks. The ever-efficient priestesses of Isis whisked them all away before I could even get a good look! Only those who actually volunteer—of their own free will—may come back to the palace, later. It's my own law, dammit.
To compensate, I enjoyed making the ambassador sweat some more. But not too much. To my surprise, I've found a little groveling goes a long way.
Anyway, the Libyan rebels were next. They should put on a good show.
4
All right, so there we are are in the bar, see? I'm getting into their little game—this time travel story thing. As I said, it just had to be a sorority prank. A sexy little mind tease. Even the "future war" scenario fit in. Maybe they were "assigned to protect me" from some horrible android assassin. Why not play along? It wouldn't be sporting to spoil their fun, right?
Only part of me was getting worried. The part that knows people, often letting me manipulate them to my own advantage. The part that does well at poker. The part that knew these weren't ditzy sorority chicks out on a dare.
They were f
ormidable women. Capable adults, serious and determined. Whatever they were up to, they meant to accomplish it.
Part of me already half believed them.
"Um . . . a task?"
"In another era."
"Another . . . right. You want me to come with you in a time machine."
