by Rysa Walker
I light one of the fake cigarettes from the front of my pack as I approach the group of men on the other side of the crowd. One of them is Phelps, a.k.a. Tubby, and while I couldn’t swear to it, I think the two men leaning against that red pickup were with him when they lit the cross outside Ida’s place. For the next ten minutes, I mostly listen as they talk about the defense fund for Scoggin and a speech that Martin Luther King gave at the Coliseum in Raleigh two weeks ago.
“No way that crowd was five thousand,” one of them says. “Although my brother told me they had nearly that many at the Klan march anyway. Woulda been more if King hadn’t rescheduled on us.”
“Paper said those Beatles had twenty-eight thousand in Deetroit,” Phelps says. “Hard to believe.”
“Not really,” Scoggin says. “It’s Detroit, after all.”
They laugh. I paste on my well-worn fake smile and join them.
“Hey, at least we kept ’em out of the South,” Phelps says. “Memphis City Council canceled the concert.”
I’m debating whether to correct this bit of misinformation, but Scoggin beats me to it. “Nope. It’s back on. And hey, maybe that’s okay. I hear there may be a few surprises waiting for Mr. Bigger than Jesus.”
This isn’t news to me. The cherry-bomb incident at the Mid-South Coliseum is well-documented. Rich says it’s the main reason that this was the Beatles’ last tour.
“Whatever they’re plannin’, they better be careful,” someone says. “Those concerts are crawlin’ with security.”
Scoggin sniffs. “Most of the security ain’t Beatles fans. And more than a few of them are our people. They’re not plannin’ anything too major, anyway. Just a little something to put the fear of God in those boys. Humble them a bit, you know?”
“My younger sister lives outside of Memphis,” Phelps says. “I might just keep on driving that way after we’re done in Raleigh. Ain’t too keen on hearing their sorry excuse for music, but those limeys getting humbled a bit might be something worth seeing. Personally, though, I think we oughta just line ’em up and shoot ’em.”
This seems to be the general consensus of the group, and from that high point, the conversation devolves into theories about the racial heritage of Ringo, who one guy says has a Jewish nose and eyes. Apparently, George Harrison is half-black. One of them pulls in some of the crazy speculation in the little pamphlet making the rounds about how the band’s music hypnotizes impressionable teens and turns them into godless communists.
In the past, I’ve joined in with rumors or the occasional joke about whatever they’re discussing. It’s part of my cover. It’s why I’m here, to learn what makes these people tick in a way that you could never learn from reading pamphlets or even watching the few videos of them speaking in this era. But slipping back into the role isn’t as easy as I thought it would be after spending a month at the diner. Before, I’d always felt that these rallies were elaborate charades. Just a bunch of grown men playing dress up. I knew they weren’t innocuous, and there were certainly rumors about “wrecking crews” and “corrections” by the inner circle in Pitt County. But those were history. Things that happened centuries before CHRONOS decided to make me their little social experiment.
It feels more personal now, after watching these guys torch a cross in front of an old woman’s business and destroy her livelihood over something as petty as the occasional across-the-color-line sale of a box of fried chicken. And the men standing here around this tree could well have been involved in the murders that Eddie and Larson were talking about outside the restaurant that night.
“You’re kinda quiet this evenin’, Troy,” Scoggin says.
“Yeah.” I give him a tired smile. “It’s been a long day. And I was just thinkin’ about the whole HUAC thing. It’s a damn shame.”
I leave it at that, and they all nod in agreement. But what I meant is that it’s a damn shame Scoggin is the only one out of this crew who will end up in jail.
FROM THE NEW YORK HOURLY INTREPID (NOVEMBER 19, 2098)
Cyrist Bicentennial Meeting in Southern Florida
(Fort Myers, FL) Nearly eight hundred clerics from around the world will gather this week near the banks of the Estero River in Florida to commemorate the Cyrist International bicentennial. A highlight of the week will be the anointing of a new Sister Prudence, the prophet and titular head of the church.
A hundred years ago, a mandatory synod for all Cyrist clerics would have been unthinkable, given their vast numbers. Synods were restricted to district Templars, and even then, attendance was in the thousands. Today, however, Cyrist temples are fewer and smaller, and their leaders are easily accommodated at Estero, often hailed as the birthplace of the Cyrist faith, even though this was far from the first Cyrist community. In fact, a group that followed the religious texts known as the Book of Cyrus and the Book of Prophecy, both of which date from the 1400s, founded one of the very first North American colonies.
It was reportedly a prophecy from the latter book that enabled Cyrus Reed Teed of Chicago to purchase land for the Estero settlement, which he named Nuevo Reino. Nearly fifty people, mostly women, followed Teed south over the next few years, hoping to create a religious community based on Cyrist tenets.
What made Estero and Nuevo Reino unique was the central role they played in the rapid growth of the Cyrist faith. The death of Cyrus Teed in December 1901, barely a decade after the group moved south, might have meant the death of the community, as often happens with small sects centered around a single charismatic leader. Instead, a woman known as Sister Prudence assumed leadership, claiming that she was the resurrected Brother Cyrus.
A string of remarkably accurate prophecies and astute investments followed, and the religion spread rapidly to all corners of the globe. While a schism in the 1950s split the Cyrists into two groups, Orthodox and New, it did not stem the growth of the church. By the late 1990s, Cyrist International was one of the largest religions in the world, counting many leaders in government, finance, and industry among its adherents.
In 2015, an attack by an extremist group within Cyrist International killed more than a dozen Cyrist leaders, but the second phase, a planned bioterror attack on the general public, was narrowly averted. Government authorities estimated that the casualties could have numbered in the tens of thousands. In the wake of the scandal, Sister Prudence (presumably the daughter or granddaughter of the original prophet) stepped down as the head of the church and assumed a largely ceremonial role.
The decline of Cyrist International during the years that followed stemmed largely from financial malfeasance on the part of its leadership, many of whom were charged with (and several convicted of) investment fraud. Member surveys also showed a growing disenchantment with some of the more rigid rules of the faith, and disappointment with the quality of the financial advice being passed along by their religious leaders in exchange for their monthly tithe.
Cyrist International has quite a bit to celebrate this week, however. In addition to ushering in a new prophet, they seem to be reversing more than seven decades of steady decline in membership. This resurgence is due, in part, to publicity after their Book of Prophecy predicted the worldwide terror attacks of March 2092.
∞6∞
MADI
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
NOVEMBER 9, 2136
Seeing the other version of myself is almost like looking in a mirror. The primary difference is that this other me doesn’t move when I do. There’s no sand on her knees, no hi-tech joggers tucked under her arm, and she’s still holding her vial of seawater. She also looks slightly ill, as if someone recently punched her in the stomach. Although, that might be a similarity rather than a difference. I can’t see this version of my face right now, and her expression is pretty darn close to how I’m feeling.
And we’re not the only ones who look ill. Everyone in the room appears on the verge of throwing up.
After a moment, RJ lets out a low, shaky whistle. “You’re not g
oing to need that chemical analysis, Lorena. And Madi seems to have solved Alex’s question about how to replicate those medallions.”
He points first to the key in my hand and then to an identical key, hanging from an identical black cord, which is currently around the neck of the other me.
“Except I also repli . . .” I was going to say I also replicated myself, but I stop in midsentence, realizing that my words are coming through in stereo.
The other me manages to get the word replicated out, and then she stops, too.
“Are the rest of you . . .” Lorena winces, rubbing her temples. “Are you remembering two different things? Because I sure as hell am.”
“Yeah,” Alex says. “This is wrong. Really, really wrong. Madi, you need to go back and fix this.”
Jack glares at him. “No! Absolutely not. This was caused by you suggesting that she go back and fix something!”
“What?” Alex protests. “I didn’t tell her to spin off a fucking clone! I don’t even know how—”
Lorena holds up her hand. “Everybody calm down. We need to think things through. You’re the physicist, Alex. What could cause this? How can two versions of the same person—two copies of the same matter—exist simultaneously?”
All eyes turn to Alex, who is clearly uncomfortable at being put on the spot.
“Like I just finished saying, I don’t know. My best guess would be that . . . maybe . . . the device emits some sort of field. A protective—” He stops and barks out a nervous laugh. “Or not so protective.”
I’m not sure what he means until I follow his gaze. The other me is now gone.
Just . . . gone.
“Did she use the key again?” Lorena asks.
“I was looking right at her,” RJ says. “She wasn’t even holding it. So if Madi is right and she needs to have the thing in the palm of her hand to use it, then no. She simply vanished.”
“When did she arrive?” I ask.
“A few minutes ago,” Jack replies. “What exactly do you remember?”
I give them a brief recap. Getting the sample. Realizing that a boat was approaching. Deciding I’d have to leave my shoes behind.
“Then I came back here. I asked Lorena what exactly she was going to do with the sample, and she explained about the acid levels. Then Alex noticed my shoes were missing and said that I couldn’t just leave them there. And partly because I thought he was right and partly because I really wanted my damn shoes back, I decided to pop in and grab them during the short period while I was facing the ocean. Things got weird, though. A stupid bird on the beach startled when I jumped in, and the other me turned around and looked straight at me, just as I was grabbing the shoes. And then I jumped back and she’s already here . . . and . . .”
They all start talking at once. The only thing I’m getting from it is that they have two competing and very different memories of what happened.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. “There’s something I need to get from the library.”
Whatever failings my great-grandfather may have had—and, according to Nora, they were many and egregious—James Coleman kept a well-stocked bar. The fact that he kept this well-stocked bar in the library where he worked suggests to me that he may have followed at least the first part of Hemingway’s possibly apocryphal advice to write drunk and edit sober. After a brief inventory, I select a bottle of bourbon, along with five shot glasses.
Lorena declines. She’s breastfeeding and has noticed that her daughter doesn’t sleep as well if she drinks. I didn’t even know they had a baby, but then I know almost nothing about them, aside from the fact that RJ is listed in that little book with me and Alex as part of the team that invented time travel.
I pour a shot for the rest of us and toss mine back. The bite is sharper than I remembered, since I generally stick to wine. But that’s a good thing. It takes the focus off my tangled brain.
After the burn subsides, I lean back into the sofa. “Okay. Now I’m ready for your version of what happened. And then I’d love to hear any theories Alex may have on how I managed to duplicate myself.”
“Well,” Jack begins, “the other you remembered seeing you grab the shoes. She watched you blink out, and then she waded into the water to collect the sample. But the boat was a lot closer when she noticed it.”
“Most likely she was distracted,” RJ says. “From trying to figure out why you jumped back to steal her shoes.”
“My shoes.”
He gives me a shrug. “Same difference.”
“Anyway,” Jack says, “she jumped back as soon as she spotted the boat.”
I nod. “Makes sense. She didn’t have to worry about going back to the stable point for the shoes, because she knew they were already gone.”
“Yes, but she also realized the guy in the boat had a gun,” Alex says.
Oh. So maybe the other me did look worse when I first saw her.
“I heard something, too. But I thought it was probably the boat motor backfiring. I left before I knew one way or the other.”
“Do you have the sample?” Lorena asks.
“No. I gave it to you before I left.”
She shakes her head. “The other you was still holding the sample when she disappeared.”
“I know that. I saw it in her hand. But I gave you the sample I collected before I left.”
“Not in this reality,” RJ says.
“She’s not going back,” Jack tells him as I pour myself another shot. I’m trying to figure out whether I like or dislike the fact he’s stating this so definitively, without even asking me. But he’s right. I’m not going back.
“Of course not,” Lorena says, although she sounds a bit reluctant to me. I guess she sounds that way to Jack, as well, because he stares at her for a long moment, eyebrows raised.
“It’s just academic curiosity,” she explains. “About the acidity levels, not the time travel. You can mark me in the convinced column for that. I guess there could be an alternative explanation for what we just experienced, although I can’t really imagine what it might be. So . . . maybe this would be a good time for Madi to explain where she found that device.”
I spend the next few minutes telling RJ and Lorena about finding the medallion, my first trip to Estero Island, my near drowning, and my encounter with the members of the Cyrist colony nearby.
“Is the orange light only visible when it’s activated?” she asks.
“No. I can see it right now, even through my shirt.” I tug on the cord and center the medallion in my palm. “And now, in addition to the light that surrounds the medallion, I see the interface that allows me to select or set a stable point.”
“Can I try it?” RJ asks.
“Sure.” I pull the cord over my head and toss him the key. “But if you’re not seeing a bright light coming from the thing already, I don’t think you’re going to get the interface to pop up.”
“Jack and I tried,” Alex says. “Nothing.”
Nothing is exactly what Lorena and RJ get, as well. “Is it just skin contact that activates it, or specifically your palm?” she asks, handing the medallion back to me.
“Good question. I’ve been going on the assumption that it only works in my hand, since that’s how June, the doctor at Estero, told me to use it. But I don’t really know.”
We spend a couple of minutes testing it out. I can see a hazy version of the interface when it rests on my leg and a slightly clearer one if I balance it on my inner arm. But the only way to stabilize the display enough to make it usable is to hold the key in the palm of my hand.
“It probably works better in your palm because you have more nerve endings there,” Lorena says. “That’s just a guess, but it makes sense. And it’s clearly activated because it detects something in your body that’s missing in ours. The next step is to figure out exactly what it’s detecting. I’d like to run a blood analysis, if that’s okay?”
“Now?”
“Well, I’d take the
sample now. But I want to do a full-spectrum analysis, so this portable unit isn’t going to be adequate.”
Reluctantly, I roll up my sleeve. She taps my upper arm with one of the microneedle gadgets, and I feel a slight suction as the sample is drawn.
Once she’s done, I turn to Alex. “Could we get back to the duplicate me? Where did she go?”
He laughs nervously. “You seriously think I’m going to have an answer for that off the cuff? This is way beyond my current level of understanding. My best guess is that you just spun off a bubble universe. An unstable bubble. And I’m not at all sure what the ramifications of that might be.”
“So . . . why was she the one to disappear? I mean, why her, instead of me?” What I really want to ask is whether there’s a way I can make certain that it will always be her instead of me if this ever happens again. That sounds kind of absurd, given that she is me, but I really don’t like the idea of this me being the one to disappear.
“There’s this theory called quantum Darwinism,” Alex says. “It’s kind of like . . . well, like Darwinism. Except . . . quantum. Usually it pertains to slightly different information about quantum states, though, not to people. But the idea is that when you have these different versions, only one can continue to exist. And the one that survives is the one that is best adapted to the environment. The one with the most complete and coherent information. If you extrapolate that to the current situation, the one with the most complete information is you. You’re the one who went back and crossed your own, earlier, path. Does that make sense?”
RJ and Jack nod.
“Kind of?” I say.
Lorena says, “No. It doesn’t.”
Alex rolls his eyes. “It’s tied into Everett’s Many-Worlds Interpretation. Come on, Lorena. I know you understand that one.”
“Yes, but the MWI is just talking about mathematical possibilities, not literal universes. And not unstable universes.”
