The marina maintenance shop is a low building opposite the high-and-dry with three bays with electric doors. The area in front of the doors is typically cluttered with more boats than the crew of mechanics can ever actually fix in a day, but my bosses, especially Tammy in the office, are nothing if not optimistic when they make promises to customers. Larry, my usual shop supervisor, tries to keep Tammy in check, but boat owners are a demanding bunch and always eager to have their boats back in order, mostly so they can go back in the racks and not get used for another three months.
Today appears to be another hectic morning. I imagine it is even more so since I have been missing work all week. I don’t know how Dave managed to not mention my absence in his message. Had Tammy been listening in? Was his voicemail about bringing back his tools some sort of code to tell me to be careful? If so, I missed the message. Dave is not really the type for codes anyway.
Since my gate card is in my missing pick-up truck, I park the bike in the visitor lot outside the fence and use the pedestrian gate. Rounding the tail end of a used Bayliner on a trailer, I spot my truck parked in my usual spot near the side of the high-and-dry. It gives me pause. I walk slower past the next pair of boats and keep them between me and the maintenance shop. Something is definitely not right here. My toolbox has been rolled into the shop work area near a motor-less Crownline cabin cruiser. In the next bay, Dave is puttering around the back of a center-console skiff. He laughs about something and makes a comment to someone. A moment later a man walks out of the parts room and strides over to my toolbox. He’s me.
“Holy shit.” I duck low behind the boat in front of me and backpedal a few feet, hoping no one has noticed me walking up. What on earth is going on?
I skirt around the front end of the trailer and squat low so I can see under the bow. From my vantage point I can just make out the other me fiddling with something on the top of my toolbox. Something about him looks a little off. It’s odd to be looking at myself from a distance, but this is even stranger than that. The man in the shop isn’t just me—he looks different. He looks older.
“Shit shit shit.” I slink back behind the boat, not sure what to do. If anyone sees me, I could cause some sort of temporal paradox or at minimum cause some serious confusion for my coworkers. I mutter under my breath. “Who are you, and why are you doing my job?”
I try to process through my options. The man in the shop is definitely not a past version of me. It’s hard to say how much older than me he is, but it has to be at least five years. Maybe more. Something about him just looks weathered. Ruling out the past, I need to figure out whether he could possibly be a future version of myself, or whether he is an alternate version of me—some other derivative or an imposter from a different timestream. Just what I need. More of me to deal with.
I do a mental run-through of the few encounters with other versions of myself I’ve had. It was always from a distance. The alternate version of me I glimpsed when I visited a wrong 2009 never saw me. I dealt with other versions of me from a distance during the chronothon, a nearly paradoxical issue that I resolved mostly by avoidance of direct contact. I’ve never had one this close to me before and definitely never had one attempting to commandeer my life.
I climb up into the boat on the trailer, keeping low and ducking into the cabin so I can get a better look from cover. I peer through the cabin’s circular port window, trying to get a clear view of this imposter. He’s not wearing a chronometer. That makes sense. Even if he wasn’t elbow deep in boat motors all day, Dave would certainly have asked him about it. Dave is not one for subtlety or even privacy. I’m at a loss for what to do until the other me, obviously feeling the heat of the day, shoves the sleeves of his T-shirt up over his shoulders, trying to cool off in the stifling summer humidity of the shop. That simple motion gives me the info I need. It’s not much, but it allows me a quick view of the inside bicep of his left arm. The skin is slightly less tanned and decidedly bare.
The inside of my own left arm now sports a tattoo, a recent acquisition from Bozzle, my friend and fellow competitor in the chronothon. The eight-pointed compass rose is my reminder of that event and also a way to keep track of my own history. The lack of a tattoo on the other me’s arm tells me that whoever he is, he was never this version of me. That is enough to go on. Whatever happens next, at least I don’t have to worry about a potential paradox. With that issue determined, I resolve to have a word with him.
There are different types of customers at the marina. There are the serious fishermen who get out all through the week, the weekend warriors who love taking their friends out for days of drinking and sun tanning, and the folks who like having a boat more for the sake of saying they have one. This last type rarely ever use them, especially during the week, and today that’s what I’m looking for.
It takes me a few minutes to sneak around to the side door of the high-and-dry and into the stacks. Vern Bennett, wearing his usual camouflage hat and tank top, is working the forklift and I have to wait until he has shuttled a boat outside to the docks before attempting to scale the racks.
The high-and-dry is able to stack boats three high, and the one I want is on the top level. Doctor Herbert Longletter owns the now dusty cabin cruiser and the staff has a running bet on how long it will be till the boat touches water again. It’s been in its spot for nearly ten years and, with the exception of occasional cleaning and tune-ups by the staff, it has not moved. The current odds favor it being there till Doctor Longletter is dead. For me, it will do perfectly.
Once Vern is out of sight, I scale the side of the racks nearest the Longletter boat. Until recently, a fear of heights would have kept me from attempting this stunt, but a lot of things have changed about me since becoming a time traveler and heights no longer get my heart rate up like they used to. It could be that time travel has presented so many new ways to die that heights just couldn’t measure up. It’s these dangers that I bring to mind as I ensconce myself in Doctor Longletter’s cabin and set my chronometer.
Mym’s dad, Doctor Quickly, seemed to take guilty pleasure in elucidating the variety of ways time travelers could snuff it. Involuntary fusion was high on the list—accidentally jumping to a space an object already occupies. I make sure to stand clear of the spartan furniture in Longletter’s cabin to avoid that fate.
The floor is plastic and flat, a good surface to travel from, no soft carpet or cushioning that might retake its original shape during my absence and end up fused into my sneakers on my return. I decide to use the edge of the mini countertop as my anchor. The chronometers are designed to ground through the nearest object that doesn’t contain gravitites. I didn’t bring my degravitizer along to check whether Doctor Longletter is a closet time traveler and has somehow gravitized his boat. I let the thought go as highly improbable and work on the assumption that the boat will make a good anchor.
I press my fingertips firmly to the countertop as I dial my settings to arrive at 4:30 that afternoon. Failure to keep firm contact could cause me to ground through the floor, which in this case wouldn’t be that bad. In other scenarios, not keeping contact with an anchor while jumping could be devastating, especially if that means you don’t have firm contact with any anchor at all. I recall a brief image of the other me at the end of the chronothon, suspended in the lab at the St. Petersburg Temporal Studies Society.
My other self made the jump without an anchor, in order to rid the lab of blood samples that could be used against my friends. The sacrifice worked, but it was a one-way ticket to the Neverwhere. I linger on the memory of watching my other self disappear. Does he know that I survived? Is he aware somehow of what happened after his death? I try to imagine what that felt like, sacrificing everything. As many questions as I have about his fate, I have no illusions about how much I owe him. It’s everything.
I shake away the memory and concentrate on the task at hand. I double-check my settings, mentally note the time, and press the pin on the side of the chronomet
er.
I’ve blinked across the day.
The sun now lights most of the floor of the high-and-dry. I move toward the door of the cabin and punt something into the wall. Looking down, I find the key to my motorcycle on the floor next to my foot and my cell phone in the corner where I kicked it. Damn. That was lucky. I mentally chastise myself for not emptying my pockets of non-gravitized objects before jumping. Luckily both bounced clear when I vanished. Had they landed under me, I could have arrived with them imbedded through my foot. Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I climb down the girders again and drop to the dirt.
“Hey there, Ben.”
Shit. I turn around to find Vern standing five feet away over a dirty, red Igloo cooler. He’s popped the top on a can of Miller Light. “Hey, Vern. Getting an early start?”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?” Vern chuckles. He shifts his gaze nervously and nods toward the stacks. “Whatchyou doin’ up there?”
I glance up at the boats above me and try to think of a convincing lie. “Customer called and wanted me to look for his wife’s camera. Thought she might have left it in the boat.”
“No joy?”
“Nah. It’s probably in one of their vacation houses somewhere. You know how doctors are. Would have been old and ratty if she left it here anyway. They haven’t used the boat in years.”
“You had me worried they might be taking it out. Got ten bucks on it making till at least 2015.” Vern holds his beer low behind his leg as he gestures with his other hand, perhaps hoping I’ll forget I’ve seen it. As much as I probably ought to be worried about our forklift driver drinking on the clock, the fact that he doesn’t want to be caught means he owes me now, and he’s not likely to mention this conversation.
“All right, Vern, I gotta get going. Catch you later.”
Vern ducks out of my way, beer still low and out of sight. “Right on, man. See you tomorrow.”
My truck is still here, meaning my other self ought to be too. I walk out the back side of the high-and-dry and skirt around the building to the employee parking spaces. My supervisor has already left for the day. Typical. Larry takes full advantage of being on salary whenever possible, usually lighting out by four every afternoon. The shop gets more relaxed once he’s gone, especially Dave, who uses the opportunity to gab about whatever information he hasn’t managed to spill in the course of the day.
I peer through the windshield from my hiding place behind my truck and watch the shop on the far side. True to form, Dave is leaning against my toolbox chitchatting while the other me cleans up his tools. Dave’s Subaru is parked next to my pick-up and it’s a guessing game as to which of the two will leave first. I have my hopes set on Dave clearing out, giving me a chance at catching my other self alone.
In a frustrating turn of events, the two men eventually walk out of the shop together. I mutter a few choice swearwords and start to look for another place to hide. Luckily, when the men are halfway to the vehicles, the other me stops and feels in his pockets, then has to turn around, apparently lacking his keys. He waves Dave on and the two part, Dave climbing into the Subaru and driving away while I hide on the opposite side of my truck.
I’m curious how my other self will react to my presence. My heart is beating faster, not sure what to expect. I lean on the back of the truck and wait.
The other me makes it about halfway across the lot before he looks up and sees me. His expression is not so much surprised as irritated. It’s a bizarre feeling to be staring at myself. My face looks off, mostly because I am used to seeing myself in a mirror, not this opposite and asymmetrical version of me—the way I really look. Will look, anyway, in however long till I’m that age. My dark hair is still half-heartedly pushed away from my face, a few days of stubble darkening my jawline, familiar T-shirt and flip-flops. There are changes though also, a hardness in the eyes that I don’t see now when I look in the mirror. This other me looks just a bit more worn.
“I wondered when you’d show up.” He stops about twenty feet away, fiddling with my spare truck key in his fingers. “Figured you’d notice the truck going missing. Just a matter of time, I suppose.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? Working.”
“You don’t belong here.”
The other me slowly crosses his arms and sighs. “Don’t I? It’s my life as much as yours.”
“Not this one. Where’d you come from?”
The other me looks me over. “Look, I get that you got here first. I saw you’d come back to the apartment—saw you with her.” He scowls a little. “I just want what’s mine. I know we have a problem here, but we should be able to work something out. Learn to share.”
“Share what? My life?”
“Hey. It’s our life. I have just as much right to be here as you. If the Quicklys hadn’t screwed us over, neither one of us would be in this mess, but we are, so we have to deal with it.”
I try to figure out what he’s talking about. “So what version of me—of us—are you? You met Quickly in 1985? What happened?”
“Elton Stenger happened.”
I recall what Mym had once told me about her different attempts to save her father from Stenger, the killer from our time. It hadn’t worked on the first attempt. She had made multiple tries before finding the combination of events that ultimately led to my success in getting rid of him. The failed attempts left loose ends.
“What happened to the others?” I ask. “Francesca and Blake. Carson.”
The other me narrows his eyes. “They didn’t make it back.”
“So you came back on your own, and what? You just planned to go back to work?”
“There’re worse plans, believe me. It took me a few years of doing, but this is the November Prime, where I belong.” He stabs a finger toward the ground. “And before you get riled up and start saying that you were here first or whatever, just know that I’ve got just as much right to be here as you.”
I consider what he’s saying. It’s true that my claim on this timestream is just as tenuous as his. There are multiple versions of us now that could call this place home. It complicates things.
“I haven’t seen you near the apartment.” I say. “How long have you been back?”
The other me walks over and leans against the truck. “A few days. I was steering clear till after we talked. Wasn’t sure how you’d take it so I kept putting it off. I just pop in here or there when I need things. Change of clothes. Stuff I didn’t think you’d miss.”
“That’s why my closet seemed so bare. I thought I’d just—wait, did you use my toothbrush yesterday?” I recall the soggy bristles. “Oh God, how often have you been coming in?”
“I snuck in to get cleaned up after work. I’ve been sleeping at Kaylee’s, but she’s a little weird about me keeping things there. I didn’t want to shower over—”
“Kaylee? You got back together with Kaylee? What the hell, man? Isn’t she a little young for you?”
The other me glowers back. “Hey, I might have taken a while to get back, but I’m not that old. Maybe thirty-two or three, if that.”
“You don’t know for sure?”
“No. Do you?”
The question takes me aback. I haven’t done a great job of recording how many days I’ve been traveling. Could the few months worth of traveling I’ve done have bumped me past a birthday?
“Look, man,” he says. “Whatever the situation is going to be, we can work it out. Maybe we can trade off weeks at work or something. Share costs. I don’t know. Two is better than one, right? All I know is I’m back. I might be a little older than I should be for this date, but I don’t care. This is where I’m from and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Have you talked to anyone else?”
“No. Just Kaylee, and a couple of her friends. I almost went to see Francesca, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” He stares at the ground momentarily and I can’t help but wonder what h
appened to my friends in his timestream. I decide I may not want to know.
I consider the maintenance shop. “You can actually keep the marina job. I was planning to quit anyway. Things are a bit different for me now.” I look at his crossed arms. “Where’s your chronometer?”
“Kaylee’s place.”
“Dude, you can’t just leave it lying around. It’s priceless. If one of Kaylee’s stoner buddies came across it . . .”
“It’s not lying around. I hid it. I’m not an idiot.”
I contemplate the situation. Older Me just stares back at me. It must be just as strange for him to be looking at me, a slightly younger reflection. Despite the weirdness of the situation, I’m comfortable around him. He somehow feels like family, already trustworthy regardless of our differing pasts. Finally, I sigh and put my hands in my pockets. “I’d feel better keeping the chronometer at my place. Why don’t I follow you back to Kaylee’s and grab it. You can keep the truck, and we’ll figure something out about our stuff. I’m not sure what Mym is going to think about this . . .” The other me’s face twitches a little. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing. Just haven’t had to deal with her in a while. What’s she doing here?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“Oh God. You’re dating the girl who got us into this mess?”
“She also saved us.”
“Saved you, maybe. Not how my story went.”
I study his face, wondering if I even want to know what he’s talking about. “Look, you’re back, so let’s just deal with that. I don’t know what any other Myms did in other timestreams, but my Mym is cool and you’ll have to get along with her. I mean, not too well or anything . . .”
In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 109
