It takes me a moment to realize that the tree is out of place here. There is nothing growing anywhere else in sight. It’s here because I am. The man finally detaches his gaze from the tree and scans the area. His expression, previously merely determined, has taken on a wary hostility. He shakes an arm loose from beneath his robes and brandishes a long, curved knife. He waits, perhaps for a sound that will reveal the presence of an intruder. I hold my breath and try to wish my oak tree out of existence again. Get rid of the evidence. I don’t want to vanish. I fear this man, and I have an almost primal urge to avoid him at all costs. I dare not move, thinking that even the water must belong to him and could betray me.
The man raises both his arms, elevating his dripping sleeves from the water and closes his eyes. He is concentrating on something and he begins to hum. Softly at first, then louder. The humming builds to a peak before he lets out a shout that sounds like “Ha!”
Saint Petersburg vanishes. Everything except my tree.
I’m somewhere else entirely.
Desert.
Rocky, sandy hills are all around me, stretching out in every direction. My oak tree is the sole green invader. My ruined wall and the water I’ve been crouching in are both gone and I’m left exposed, blinking in the blazing sunlight. Just a few dozen yards of sparse dirt separate me from my companion. He appraises me with the same intensity he had shown the ruins of St. Pete. The corner of his mouth twitches and his fingers tighten around his knife. I realize that I’m holding my bat in front of me so I lower it to one side, holding my other hand up in what I hope is a gesture of peace.
He shouts something at me in a language I don’t understand.
“I don’t want a fight,” I shout back. “I just want—” I don’t know what I want. I want to not be here, for one, but that doesn’t seem like the right thing to say. “I’m going to go my own way.”
The man with the knife speaks again, this time in a Middle Eastern accent. “English. What are you?”
I don’t know how to answer that.
“Who sent you?” the man barks.
“I’m—” I falter again. The story of how I got here hardly lends itself to brevity. “I’m from Saint Petersburg.”
His brow furrows. “Another sacrifice?”
It’s clear we’re not on the same page. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t want anyone thinking of me as sacrificial, no matter when they are from, so I’m quick to respond this time.
“No. Not a sacrifice.” I cast a few more glances at our sandy surroundings. There is a scent of smoke in the air. “Just—visiting.” I take a step away. “Where are we?”
The man slides his knife back into his robes. I relax a little.
“Enough of you.” The man’s hand flashes back out of his robes, stretching and somehow grabbing ahold of me even from a distance. I’m frozen in shock from the impact. I can see his hand, still yards away, but I can feel it on my face as if he was next to me, clamped on my forehead, fingers boring into my temples. I grunt from the surprise and the sudden pain, swinging the bat ineffectively in an attempt to dislodge his grip. Safely distant from my flailing, the man furrows his brow and squeezes harder.
“Gahhh!” I drop the bat and grasp at my head, trying to find his invisible hand and pry it off. There is nothing to grab. I get the horrifying sensation that the man is now inside my skull, wrenching at the roots of my mind, tearing my very soul out of me. The pressure is unbearable. Get out. Get out get out get out. I scream and scratch at my head, trying to hold onto myself. I can feel myself slipping, my consciousness dimming, a step away from oblivion.
My vision flickers.
Anger and my instinct to fight battles with my sheer terror. I won’t die again. I shout at him to get out of my mind, but no sound escapes my lips. For all my rage I’m a flame being pressed between fingers, furious but fleeting—nearly snuffed out.
“NO!” The yell is in my voice, but I didn’t scream it. A shape drops from the branches of my oak tree and lands in the dust near the trunk. The familiar figure is still barefoot and ragged, but he springs upright and goes rigid with intensity as he throws both of his hands out in front of himself. “Not him!”
The new man’s arrival is enough of a surprise to momentarily distract my attacker. The pain in my head abates and is then stopped as a brick wall appears between us. The man from the tree and I are now in the interior of a building I recognize. The colorful felt banners hanging from the top of the wall give it away. It’s the inside of my grade school gymnasium. The tree is still with us. It’s growing up from the wooden floor and clean through a set of aluminum bleachers. My savior looks at the tree and then hisses at me. “Get rid of that thing. He’ll remember it too.”
I falter for words. There is just too much to process. I collapse to the waxed hardwood of the basketball court. My mind is still recovering from its near extinction and I haven’t any clue how I’ve gotten here, let alone how to banish my imagined but persistent tree. The other factor that is causing my mind to reel is that the other man is clearly recognizable now, despite his tattered appearance and overgrown facial hair. The hazel eyes staring at me with intensity are plenty familiar.
He’s another me.
The ragged me squats down next to my position on the floor and places his hand on my shoulder. “The tree. Concentrate. Remember that it doesn’t belong here and it will go.” He points to the oak, as if I could have failed to recall where it was. The top branches are growing through the roof. He then points to the window of the door near the bleachers. “Hurry!” The view outside is still sand dunes and sun. He grips my shoulder tighter, fear in his voice. “You are still binding us to him. Remember this place as it was.”
I struggle to concentrate on the scene around me, climbing to my elbow and picturing moments from grade school. Pep rallies. Basketball games. I get one image in my mind of Meghan Daniels addressing the auditorium in a vivid green dress as she ran for class president of the sixth grade—the day my years long crush on her started. I’m distracted by sand blowing through the crack under the door. The door is rattling on its hinges. I close my eyes and remember. Green dress. White barrettes. Remember.
The rattling stops.
When I open my eyes, the tree is gone. The sand is gone. We are still in the gymnasium, but the view out the window has changed. The other me moves to the door to look. He pushes open the double doors and nods. The blazing clear sky of the desert has been replaced with dotted cumulus clouds. Beyond him is the green grass of our school’s soccer field. The streets of my hometown in Oregon lie beyond the chain link fence at the end. I lie back on the floor and stare at the fluorescent overhead lights buzzing behind the cages meant to protect them from errant dodge balls.
The other me comes back to interrupt my view. He looms over me now, the ragged man from a tree. Another puzzle to solve.
“What is this place?” My voice comes out scratchy.
The ragged me glances around the gymnasium then looks back down. “The past.” He extends a hand to help me up. “The past we remember, anyway.”
I grip his hand and let him pull me to my feet. “This place is all memories?”
He nods.
“Who was that then?” I point toward the door. “The sand man. I don’t remember meeting him before.”
Ragged Me twitches a little. “No. This place is memories, but we aren’t the only ones here. Some people remember worse things.” He gestures toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I stagger after him, still aching somehow from the attack on my mind. I feel like he bruised my soul. I pause as we near the door, cautious. “He can’t find us here?”
“I don’t think so.” He considers the view outside. “Unless he has been here before. Have you ever taken anything from Oregon to Iraq, or maybe Iran? Have you ever left anything there?”
I shake my head, confused. “No. When would I have done that? I’ve never been to Iran.”
“Ye
s you have. We were just there. So was your tree.”
“Well, I’ve never left anything—” I look down at my empty hands. “Oh shit. I left my softball bat there.”
“It’s okay. We bought that in St. Pete. It won’t connect to here. Come on. We should be safe for now, but we’ll be careful.” He strides into the daylight.
I follow him out the door, still mystified by this place, but happy to have an ally. I pause and pull my scrap of yellow paper from my pocket and scribble another line on my list.
5. This place is the past we remember.
I watch the figure of the other me striding barefoot across the soccer field. His ragged jeans are scraping the tops of the grass. His presence means that I’m not the only time traveling version of myself who’s had trouble staying on the right side of reality. If he’s here too…
I scribble one more line.
Someone has killed me at least twice. I need to warn the others.
<><><>
St. Petersburg, 2009
“That makes four of me that you know of.” I’m sitting across the kitchen table from Mym trying to process all that she’s told me.
“The ones from here anyway.” She’s fiddling with her empty coffee cup. “There could be more alternates later on, or if someone else split your timestream. They wouldn’t necessarily be time travelers though.”
“Good. This is already confusing enough. Some versions of me better be staying where they belong.” I fidget with my now updated logbook. “I can see why ASCOTT puts so much emphasis on the Grid. I knew running into other selves was a thing for time travelers, but I wasn’t expecting to have to share a medicine cabinet.” Or my dreams.
Mym’s attempts to save her dad in the 1980s apparently yielded its share of duplicates. From what she knows, there is at least one more of me unaccounted for somewhere and a few of her as well.
“This other you from the marina—he said he had a place to stay?” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“He’s staying with a friend.” I pick up his chronometer and study it. “Doesn’t seem like he has any plans to leave.”
“Okay. At least that’s one less variable to deal with. Who is the friend he’s staying with?”
“Kaylee. She’s—an old friend.”
Mym eyes me skeptically. “Uh-huh. How old?”
“Well, I guess she’s not so much old, as . . . irrelevant?”
“What makes her—”
Mym’s MFD erupts on the table. Loud, persistent sirens accompany a buzzing vibration. Mym grabs for it immediately, giving me a respite from the conversation.
“Damn.” Her eyes scan frenetically across the screen.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got to go. We’ve had a security breach at one of dad’s labs.” She abandons her seat and rummages through her bag on the kitchen counter. “I need to make sure he’s all right.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say. “Is everything okay?”
Mym pulls a deck of playing cards out of the bag and starts degravitizing it on the countertop. “Stay and wait for Tucket. He’s due back any minute. I’ll send word as soon as I figure out what’s going on.” She pauses and then hands me her MFD. “Actually, take this. I have another one where I’m headed. I’ll message you.”
I accept the multi-function-device and watch as she finishes degravitizing the cards. “Which lab is it?”
“Valencia. 2017.” She grabs a handful of my shirt and kisses me quickly. “I’ll be right back.” The next moment she has spun the dials on her pendant chronometer and disappeared.
I pick up the deck of cards she left behind, then set it back down carefully, not sure whether she intends to return via the same anchor. I back away from the countertop and consult her MFD. The device is not unlike a mobile phone, flat-screened and compact. Various icons glow on the screen. One in particular is getting new alerts or messages repeatedly because it keeps hopping around the screen to attract attention. I tap on it and watch as the screen becomes a video monitor.
The scene displayed is the interior of an industrial loft. It’s a space I’ve never been to, but it resembles others of Doctor Quickly’s labs—clean, comfortable spaces full of as many armchairs and books as there are scientific tools. The drastic difference here is that the place has been ransacked. The screen cycles through various angles of the loft shot from security cameras. Furniture has been knocked over and drawers dumped out. A wastebasket is on fire. The shot that arrests my attention, however, is a ground level view of an interior wall. A framed piece of art has been flung to the floor and the wall has been spray painted with a symbol—a flaming circle with wings. There it is again.
The screen view shifts before I can get a better look and I struggle to stop the flow of images. I’ve only managed to freeze the next shot of a ripped up armchair when Tucket reappears next to the refrigerator.
“What up!” He grins and immediately looks around for Mym. “What happened to—”
Before I even have time to respond, the front door bursts open and three people pile through. Mym is trailing her father, Doctor Quickly, and his long-time friend and chronometer-maker, Abraham Manembo. Both of the men are in deep conversation with each other and seem to be paying little attention to their surroundings. A fourth member of the group follows Mym in. Muscular and bearded, the man smiles when he sees me.
“Cowboy Bob!” I set the MFD on the counter and head for my suddenly crowded living room. Bob crushes my hand with his and smiles as he shakes it. His dark eyes and sun-seasoned face seem near the same as I saw him last, though it’s hard to tell with time travelers.
“I hear this is where all the high rollers hang out.” Bob claps me on the shoulder. “Chronothon champion now, eh?”
I shake my head and smile. “Oh, you know it. Living the life of luxury as you can tell.”
Bob looks around my cramped apartment, then nods toward Tucket. “This must be your butler.”
“I’m actually Tucket Morris,” Tucket replies, offering a hand to Cowboy Bob. “I’ve never had any training as a butler. I don’t think the Academy offered that. I studied pre-millennium culture and the influences of twentieth-century music on the time travel community.”
“U2? Nirvana? Who’s your poison?” Bob asks gravely. His eyes twinkle with amusement.
“Well my favorite band has always been Avocado Problems, but when it comes to twentieth century bands it really all starts with The Beatles.”
“You play at all?” Bob asks, picking at an imaginary guitar. “We should jam sometime.”
Tucket lights up at this suggestion and starts into a conversation on his favorite guitars. I leave him to Bob and make my way to Mym. She reaches for me.
“Hey, sorry to just invade like this.” She keeps her voice low. “Seemed like the safest plan at the moment, get everybody together and see what to do.”
“I saw some of the footage on your MFD. Someone ransacked the lab?”
“Yeah. We don’t know exactly why, but dad has a few ideas.” Mym angles us toward her father and Abraham. Abraham looks serious, no sign of the brilliant smile that usually contrasts sharply with his dark black skin.
Doctor Quickly inclines his head toward me also. “Ben, sorry for the short notice, but we thought we’d better rally the troops as soon as possible. Is your friend here reliable?” He glances toward Tucket. Bob has skillfully maneuvered Tucket into the kitchen and out of earshot.
“He’s all right. Technically he got sent here by ASCOTT, but I trust him.”
“ASCOTT may be the least of our problems right now,” Doctor Quickly replies. “Where can we talk?”
I steer our group into my bedroom and shut the door behind Abraham once we’re inside. He pats me on the shoulder and, when he speaks, his voice is full of concern. “It’s good to see you, Ben. How have you been sleeping?”
“I wish sleep was my only issue. The dreams have been coming on when I’m awake now.” I turn to Doctor Q
uickly. “Which I actually need to talk to you about. I saw a symbol on the wall of your lab in the security footage. A sort of flaming circle?”
“It’s one of the clues we’re working with,” Quickly replies. “One of the few we have. As you know, this isn’t the first time one of my facilities has been attacked. I’ve faced my share of hostilities over the years, but this group seems new.”
“You saw them?”
“Indeed. They waited till they knew I was there and attempted to gas the place. A rather nasty nerve toxin meant to incapacitate me. I have protocols in place for that eventuality, so I was able to get out, but just barely.”
“Who were they?”
“Kidnappers,” Mym interjects. “The toxin wouldn’t have killed him. The lab security system identified it as a knockout gas. They tossed the place, and vandalized it, but we’re guessing the vandalism is just a cover for the abduction attempt or possibly a robbery. We won’t know till we can have a closer look. And we don’t know why they’re targeting dad.”
Abraham crosses his arms. “It would be a simpler question with anyone else. Harry here would be useful for any number of schemes. Suggesting someone wants to make use of his knowledge or equipment doesn’t narrow things down very well. We need more information on this group and what they’re after.”
“I hate to say it,” Quickly replies. “But I’ve made enough public appearances in my life that it’s likely that a persistent kidnapper could find me elsewhere and succeed. They can find another version of me. Kidnap me somewhere easier, if that is what they’re after.”
“That’s assuming they are time travelers.” Mym says. “They could have been linear.”
“Too hard to say,” Doctor Quickly replies. “Too many variables. We need more information. What is this you were saying about the symbol? You’ve seen it before?”
“Just recently,” I reply. “The last . . . vision . . . I had earlier—well, actually later today—that symbol was in it. It was on a notepad.”
“Where was this?” Doctor Quickly asks.
In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 111
