* * *
I woke up suddenly because of a big jolt. You have no idea how scary a jolt feels when you’re in a spaceship. I jumped up from the seat. I was afraid there had been some kind of decompression or collision.
My eyes hurt. The light was very bright. I squinted. The people sitting all around looked up at me like I was crazy. I leaned forward and smacked my head into a metal pole. I fell back into my seat and looked around.
I was on the M104 bus northbound on Broadway in Manhattan
The man sitting next to me touched me on the knee. “That’s what you get for falling asleep on the bus, son,” he said with a chuckle. “But it was a big damn pothole!”
“Where am I?” I stammered.
He looked out the window. “86th and Broadway. You miss your stop?”
“I … uh …” I reached in my pants pocket and pulled out my key ring. It still had my apartment key. I stood up and looked out the window. The old familiar West Side cityscape passed by.
Crap, I’ve got amnesia. I must have had a pressure embolism on the Orion, I thought to myself. I wonder how long I’ve been back?
I looked down at a lady who was reading The New York Post. The day was the same—May 4, 1985.
Now I was more confused than ever. I kept looking around for some clue, but things were just like they had been before I left, or so it seemed.
I got off at 110th Street, walked past Tom’s, and went to my apartment building. I looked up and saw there was no hover cab stand on the roof. The doorman smiled at me like I had never been gone. I went up to the door of my apartment and put the key in the lock.
I opened the door and looked inside. It was a mess, like before—but a different mess. I walked inside. Everything looked familiar, but off and out of place. I walked around and took stock. The calendar on the wall also had the same date. I found a pay stub from E.F. Hutton. I was working as a personal financial advisor—making decent money, too, better than I had before.
I also found a small notebook with some familiar names and unfamiliar ones—including one girl I once had a crush on.
I picked up a copy of The World Almanac I always kept on my desk for reference and began flipping through it.
The whole world had changed. It wasn’t the world I knew before.
Instead of the competition of a space race, the U.S. and Soviet Union had an arms race. There was a whole shelf of science fiction books by “Admiral” Heinlein I had never seen before. There were no robots, no androids, and no colonies on the Moon and Mars.
I found a yellowed copy of the Daily News in a pile, folded over to a page with the story about how Desiree’s body had been found in Long Island after one of the bank robbers turned state’s witness. And yes, she had smothered in the trunk of a car. They had dumped the body behind a sand dune on a beach.
I sat down and thought real hard. There’s been some kind of quantum reality shift, and for some reason I’m unaffected, I figured.
I watched cable television and changed channels constantly to learn about the world I was living in. I did that until 2 AM, when I finally fell asleep, and then in the morning I shit, showered, and shaved and went off to work at E.F. Hutton.
I didn’t know what else to do with myself.
Epilogue
It’s been over 30 years now, and I’ve never seen any indication anyone else lived in that world, much less remembered it.
I left E.F. Hutton after a few years and went to work for Senator Greenman. I started in a very lowly position, but worked my way up pretty fast. In 2000, I started my own political consulting firm, and I’ve done well enough. I specialize in making right-wing Republicans sound moderate. I guess it comes from growing up in a world where moderate Republicans survived politically.
John Anderson was never president; Reagan was. That young KGB flak from East Germany seems to have done well for himself. In this world, Ambassador Neave was blown up by the IRA in 1979. And Commander Carter left the Navy in 1953 and took over the family peanut farm. Later, he went into politics.
It’s been a long night, I suppose. If it wasn’t for my watch, I wouldn’t know what time it is. We must be deep underground Manhattan.
You must have learned about my story from that paranormal forum I’ve posted to. I give you credit for looking it up and making the connection.
Whether you believe my story or not, it happened. To me. Call me crazy. I know there’s never been a manned Martian landing, much less a colony. Right now the only Martians are the rovers launched by NASA.
Or so I thought until you told me otherwise.
Now you tell me China’s secret Mars rover landed in the Valles Marineris and started driving around until it went around a bend and found …
Yes, I know what this is a picture of. Like I said, it’s a small cemetery. I haven’t seen this lonely place since I turned my back and left it in 1985. You say the rover sent back this photo. Amazing.
I wonder why it still exists when everything else about the other timeline disappeared?
The two crosses together. That’s where I buried Mark and Elena. That cross off to the side is Desiree’s grave. And no, those aren’t Celtic crosses. If you look closely, you’ll see those are really cogs in the center. What else would you put on the grave of a robot? That was my touch, an idea I came up with as I drew the sketch out for Jake Lingvall.
You do look like you’re intrigued by my story. And you have been very quiet. I appreciate you not interrupting or asking questions, or else it would have taken even longer for me to get it all out.
I never personally told anyone about all this. I didn’t want to be hauled off to the looney bin. I did tell the story anonymously online on that forum. I suppose you traced my computer’s IP address. Sorry you had to go to all that trouble, but of course I had no idea what you found on Mars.
There was no need to snatch me from my apartment, either. Or be so secretive. You guys have seen too many Men in Black movies.
What’s that? Why did everything change and the graves remain? Good question. Maybe because I was the only person ever there? Maybe because some quantum probability wave didn’t reach that far. I don’t know, your guess is as good as mine.
I posted in that paranormal forum fifteen years ago. So, how did you track me down now? Ah, I see, the business card I stuck in Desiree’s cross. The rover’s arm plucked it out. Good rover. How many David F. Shusters are there in the U.S.? I wasn’t hard to find.
Can I have a drink of water? I’ve been talking all night and all morning. Now what do you want? Yes, I know what is written in pencil on the back. My phone number on Mars, and the song lyric.
What does that say? I need to prove my story? Balls. Of course I know what it says. I wrote it.
Ah, crap, I’m losing my voice. Lean over, I can only whisper. I’ll tell you.
Thanks for the water. That’s better. There. Satisfied? I told you I knew what it said. What damn government agency are you with, anyway? What else do you want from my poor life?
Of course, I’ll help you any way I can to solve this mystery. I’d love to know myself what happened to change the timeline.
I’d love to go back to Mars.
Wasn’t there a song by Blondie? Stop looking at the pictures rolling around in your head? Take me back along another track?
I wonder whether in the modern day there, in that other timeline, after 30 years, they still remember me?
I bet Jenny does.
The End
About the Author
Lou Antonelli has had 103 short stories and three collections published since 2003. SFWA-pro publications were in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Daily Science Fiction (2x), Buzzy Mag, and Jim Baen’s Universe.
He was a finalist in 2013 for the Sidewise Award in Alternate History for “Great White Ship” (Daily Science Fiction, May 2012). He was a two-time Hugo nominee (Short Story and Best Related Work) in 2015.
His collections include Fantastic Texas, published in 2009; Texas
& Other Planets, published in 2010; and The Clock Struck None and Letters from Gardner, both published in 2014.
His steampunk short story, “A Rocket for the Republic,” was the last story accepted by Dozois before he retired as editor of Asimov’s Science Fiction after 19 years. It was published in Asimov’s in September 2005 and placed third in the annual Readers’ Poll.
He is the managing editor of The Clarksville Times in Clarksville, Texas.
A Massachusetts native, he moved to Texas in 1985 and is married to Dallas native Patricia (Randolph) Antonelli. They have three adopted furbaby children, Millie, Sugar, and Peltro Antonelli.
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