Fantastic Hope

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  Stanley waved drunkenly as she left. Belatedly, he realized he should’ve tried blinking Morse code at her. Lisa was a genius. She would’ve gotten it and sent a SWAT team.

  “She’s cute and nice,” Chris said. “I think she’s really into you.”

  “Shut your handsome face, Chris. Leave Lisa out of this!”

  “No, really. I think you should ask her out on a date.”

  “Ha! Look at me. I’m a slob. A woman like that would never have anything to do with the likes of me! She’d never have my little future Hitler babies.”

  “That was just a hypothetical. I never specifically said—”

  “I’m a loser, Chris. I’m such a loser that the world’s friendliest Terminator had to travel back in time to shoot me to save the universe from how much I suck!”

  “I’m not actually a robot.”

  “You are a robot!” Stanley had gotten pretty loud, and people were starting to look their way. “But I’ll show you, robot man!” He tried to stand up, almost made it over Chris, and wound up falling on the table instead.

  A few minutes later, Ox Knuckles’ owner and bartender, a big guy named John, was helping Stanley out the front door. “Stan’s a little morose, but he doesn’t usually drink this much. Would you make sure he gets home safe?”

  “I sure will,” Chris assured him. “I believe the excessive alcohol consumption was the result of his stressful day.”

  “Wait, John.” Stanley’s speech was slurred, and he was seeing two bartenders, but he had to get help. “Don’t leave me! I’m Sarah Connor and he’s from the future!” He grabbed John by the apron. “The future.” Then Stanley had to lurch to the side so he could throw up in the bushes.

  * * *

  —

  Stanley woke up the next morning with the worst hangover he’d had since college. His head hurt, his eyes hurt, even his liver hurt. He was in his apartment, in his own bed, still wearing the same clothes just minus his shoes, and his cat, Fluffles, was sleeping on his head.

  Suddenly remembering that a future ninja was out to get him, Stanley lurched upright, sending Fluffles flying. Panicked, he looked around, but everything appeared normal.

  Fluffles meowed at him angrily, like What the hell, man?

  “Thank goodness. It was all a terrible dream.”

  “Oh, you’re finally awake.” Chris walked into the bedroom, dressed like he had just returned from a jog. “Awesome.”

  Stanley screamed and flung his pillow at Chris.

  Chris easily caught the pillow, and sighed as he pulled the little gun out of his pocket. “I really thought we’d worked past all this running and screaming last night. When I tucked you in, you even said that was the best conversation you’d had in years.”

  Sadly, that was probably true. “Are you going to shoot me now?”

  “You’ve still got a few minutes left before I’m allowed to. I slept on your couch so I could catch up with you nice and early. As fun as this assignment has been for me, and I really have had a wonderful time hanging out with you, there’s a fourth-century Byzantine who needs to get pushed in front of a speeding horse.”

  “Did you really go out for an early morning run before coming back to assassinate me?”

  “It’s a beautiful day. Why wouldn’t I? By the way, I said hello to all your neighbors. They seem really nice.”

  Chris was just too damned cheerful, and Stanley was too hungover to deal with it. His soon-to-be murderer went over and opened the curtains to let in the bright morning sunshine, which really stung the old eyeballs. Then Chris pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “I enjoyed our philosophical discussion last night. I think we’re friends now. So please take my advice in the helpful spirit in which it is meant, and not as a personal attack. In the common vernacular of your people, it is time to get real.”

  Stanley laughed and then found another pillow to cover his face with. “I’ve never had an intervention from a time traveler before. Go for it.”

  “You really need to quit feeling sorry for yourself, Stanley. I see in you incredible potential, but as long as you blame others for your problems, it gives you an excuse to wallow in self-pity rather than move forward. You used to have dreams. You used to want to create things. Life is what you make of it. Though bad things will happen along the way, ultimately you are the one most responsible for how your life turns out.”

  “So now you’re a motivational speaker too?”

  “I thought it was pretty good. I gave this same frank talk to young Abraham Lincoln and he turned out okay.”

  “He got shot too.”

  “True, but it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey . . . I read that on a poster once. But basically, Stanley, you are the greatest hindrance to your own happiness.”

  Under the harsh light of day, Stanley knew that Chris was telling the truth. Being totally honest with himself—and facing certain death made that easy—he realized that he’d wasted a lot of time spinning his wheels and whining about things he didn’t even really know much about. It was just easier and safer than actually doing stuff. Doing stuff was hard.

  But if you never tried anything, you’d never accomplish anything, and that kind of sucked.

  Stanley sat up, feeling some pride for the first time in a long time, and said, “You know what, Chris? You’re right. I’m going to turn things around. Starting right now.”

  “That’s the spirit, Stanley.” Chris checked his watch. “I would suggest a celebratory breakfast, but it is almost eight and I still need to shoot you.”

  With his decision made, Stanley just needed a distraction. Luckily that was the exact moment that Fluffles the cat brushed past Chris’s leg.

  Stanley pointed at his cat and shouted, “Land shark!”

  Chris leapt up. “Crap! Where?”

  And then Stanley tackled him.

  The two of them collided with the window, which shattered, and then they were plummeting toward the ground. Stanley only lived on the second floor, but hitting the grass still really friggin’ hurt. Stanley groaned as he sat up, and then realized that he was really thankful he’d hit the lawn, because Chris had landed on the fence, and was dangling there, impaled through the back by half a dozen iron fleurs-de-lis.

  “Dude, are you alive?”

  Chris lifted his head. “I am actually. Though even by my standards, this is quite the predicament.”

  “Oh man, Chris, I’m sorry. That looks like it really hurts.”

  “It sure does.” He tried to wiggle free, but was good and stuck. “But my terrible agony is not the important thing right now. The important thing is that you stood up for yourself despite overwhelming odds. I think you’ve made some real breakthroughs. Well done, Stanley.”

  “Thanks.”

  There were sirens closing fast. “Don’t mind those. I had already called your emergency services to report that a man had been shot in the chest at this address, so that they would be able to render aid in a timely manner.”

  “That was really thoughtful of you, Chris. Not the shooting me part. That part I was never on board with. But having paramedics already on the way was a nice touch.”

  “Like I said to begin with, I didn’t want to kill you. I’m just supposed to shoot you in the heart. The crystalline entity was very specific, right atrium because that’s the lowest-pressure zone.”

  Stanley staggered to his feet and waved his arms overhead so that the approaching ambulance and police cars would see them. He didn’t want Chris to die, but it would be great if they could lock him up in some maximum-security prison for future robot people or something. “Over here!”

  “Hey, Stanley, one last thing.”

  “Yeah, Chris?” He turned back to discover that one of Chris’s arms hadn’t been impaled, he still had his pistol, and it was now aimed right at St
anley’s chest. “Aw, come on, man.”

  POP!

  * * *

  —

  When Stanley came to there was an angelic being shining a light in his eyes, and for a second he was worried that he was going to have to rethink his longtime commitment to snooty evangelical atheism, but then his eyes focused and he realized he was staring up at . . .

  Lisa the Trivia Queen?

  “Hey, Stanley. You’re finally awake. You’re probably a little confused. That’s normal. You’re in the hospital. Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. Luckily for you, the best heart surgeon in the state had just barely got to work when they brought you in . . . That’s me, by the way. Not to brag but I’m pretty amazing at my day job.”

  Stanley looked down at the gold name tag on her white coat. Holy shit. She was Dr. Lisa. No wonder she always got all the science questions right.

  While Lisa told him about his injury, the surgeries she’d performed to save his life, and how it was going to take months of recovery, his eyes wandered over to the flowers and get-well cards on the table next to his bed. There weren’t very many, which was a shame, but not unexpected. However, one card was leaning against some flowers, and it stood out because the handwriting was very loopy, with an excess of happy faces and stars drawn on it.

  Stanley! Good move with the land sharks. Those things are the worst! Because I think you are so cool I asked the boss. It turns out sometimes the universe has to be mean to be nice. He says the doctor needed to see you at your most vulnerable so that she could fall in love with you so your great-great-great-granddaughter can defeat the Glorgan Armada at the Battle of Io. Shhh. That part is secret. I told you that you should have asked her out. You are the best.

  —Facilitator Chris

  PS What are you waiting for? Go for it!

  Stanley managed to croak, “Lisa . . .”

  She leaned in close to hear him. “Yeah, Stanley?”

  “Wanna team up for couple’s trivia night?”

  She grinned. “I thought you were never going to ask!”

  NO GREATER LOVE

  KACEY EZELL

  Jennilee Abrams put her fingertips to her mouth in order to keep from crying out. Tears ran unheeded down her face as her mother crushed her other hand in a grip hard as iron. Anna Abrams was, in truth, only about ten years older than Jennilee, but her marriage to Jennilee’s papa, Dalton Adams, made her Jennilee’s second mother. Anna eased up for a moment, causing Jennilee to sigh in relief, but then another contraction hit hard, and Anna clamped down again.

  Papa stroked Anna’s sweaty hair back from her brow, kissed it lightly. “You’ll be safe here,” he whispered, his words broken by worry. “I’ll come back in a day or two, after the storm has blown over. I’ll be able to get through the pass with snowshoes. But if we don’t go, the company will never get the handcarts through, and this cave isn’t big enough to shelter all of us.”

  Anna opened weary eyes long enough to plead with her husband. “Please don’t leave me alone,” she whispered. “It hurts, Dalton. The baby’s too big, I can feel it!”

  “Take heart, Anna,” Papa said, “this is your first time. Your body knows what to do. I’ll be back in the morning.” Though his voice was strong, Jennilee could see the anguish in his eyes, and the terrified knowledge that he knew his words were likely a lie.

  “Papa,” Jennilee said, her voice barely carrying over Anna’s harsh, panting breaths. “I can stay and help Mother Anna, I know what to do.” And, in fact, she did. At fourteen years of age, she’d already attended and assisted three births. That was how it was for the Mormons. The regular doctors and midwives back east wouldn’t dirty themselves to help, so they’d had to care for their own.

  “Jennilee!” Ina Abrams, Dalton’s first wife and Jennilee’s actual mother, gasped. “No! What if—”

  “Mama,” Jennilee said quickly, cutting her mother off before she could articulate the fear that hovered over all of them. If Anna didn’t deliver the baby soon, she and the child were both likely to die, and Jennilee would be left all alone. His brave words aside, the chances that Papa would actually make it back through the pass were minimal. If she stayed, she was as good as dead.

  But if the small company of handcarts didn’t make it through the pass before this storm hit, they were all as good as dead. The carts were smaller than wagons, and required at least one adult to push them along, two if they were heavily laden. Though the mobs who’d chased them out of Missouri and Illinois hadn’t left their family with much, what they did have was on that cart, which was already starting to founder as the falling snow slicked the winding path. If they lost the cart, her entire family would lose all that they had to eat for the rest of the long trek to the promised land. Better that she and Anna died than their whole family suffer and starve to death.

  The thought should have chilled her worse than the building wind outside, if not for one thing.

  Jennilee had faith.

  Deep in her mind, words of scripture reverberated, just as they’d done when Anna had fallen to the ground, unable to walk any farther along the perilous track toward the mountain pass: Greater love hath no man than this, that he should lay down his life for his friends.

  She didn’t know how, but as surely as she knew her own name, Jennilee knew that her Heavenly Father had a plan for her. And if this was part of it, then so be it.

  “Mama,” Jennilee said again. “I can do this. The Spirit guides me. I will stay and help Anna, and Papa will come back for us once the handcarts are safely through the pass. But you’d best get moving, before the rest of the company leaves you all too far behind to catch up with them. The little ones are cold and getting tired. We’ll be fine here.”

  Ina Abrams stared at her eldest daughter for a long moment and then slowly nodded before dropping the knapsack she had slung over one shoulder.

  “There is food in here,” she said. “And water for two days. Be smart, and stay with Anna. You know what to do, like you told your father. Be sparing with the food, but not the water. You’ll need a clear head.” As ever in times of great stress, Ina took refuge in the practical.

  “Thank you, Mama,” Jennilee said, and accepted the hard hug for what it was: the substitute for the emotions her mother couldn’t express any other way.

  Dalton Abrams kissed his daughter on her head, then his younger wife one more time before he and Ina left the cave to take up the trek once again.

  * * *

  —

  “Push . . .” Jennilee murmured, the sound of her voice lost under Anna’s frantic panting and grunting. Things were not going well. Jenni could feel the baby’s head, but Anna’s labor had stalled. Though she kept her voice and hands as calm as possible, Jenni fought to keep panic from rising within. She’d attended births before, but she’d never faced this situation. And never alone, without the wisdom of older, more-experienced women. And certainly never while crouching in the dark on a cave floor, while wind and snow whipped in white fury outside.

  “Jenni.” Anna’s voice was barely a breath.

  “I’m here, Mother,” Jennilee said.

  “I can’t. Anymore. The baby. Is wrong. Turned wrong.” Each whispered word came through chapped, strained lips.

  Jennilee shook her head hard. “You can, Mother. You have to. Just one more push, just one—”

  “Too . . . weak.”

  “Anna, you’re not. One more, now push!”

  Anna’s hand squeezed once more, her strength a fraction of what it had once been. Her body squeezed as well, moving the child’s head infinitesimally down toward Jennilee’s waiting grasp.

  “That’s it,” the fourteen-year-old girl breathed. “That’s it . . .” Though she’d never done anything like it before, Jennilee cradled the infant’s skull in her hands and gently, steadily pulled toward herself. Anna let out a breathy,
faint scream as her body convulsed once more, and the child slipped free amid a gush of hot liquid.

  Jennilee pulled the tiny baby boy out into the open air. His head and face were misshapen and bruised, as he’d tried to pass down the birth canal without turning facedown. She cradled him close to her chest with one hand while she fumbled about on the cave floor for the sheathed knife she’d found in her mother’s knapsack. She found it, cut his cord, wiped his face with the cleanest piece of cloth she could find, and bent to breathe life into his tiny lungs. He gave a little cough, jerked spasmodically, and sent up a thin, high wail.

  “I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me.” Jennilee whispered the words to herself as she marveled at the little boy’s perfect form. His cries continued, and Jenni turned back to her stepmother.

  “Mother,” she said, “Look, you have a beautiful son . . . Mother?”

  She leaned close to see Anna’s still face in the fading light from the cave entrance. With shaking hands, she checked Anna’s neck for a pulse. Nothing.

  Jennilee Abrams sat back on her heels, cradled the tiny body of her little brother close to her chest, closed her eyes, and cried.

  * * *

  —

  She didn’t cry for long. Ina Abrams had raised her daughter not to waste time with foolishness. Jennilee did take a moment for a silent prayer of thanksgiving, but then she set to work. It was one thing for her to sacrifice her own life, but this tiny boy certainly deserved his chance at mortality. So, she had to find a way to save him.

  First, she chafed as much warmth into the baby’s little limbs as she could, then she fashioned a sling for him inside her clothes so that he could share her body heat. The poor baby was starving, and began immediately rooting toward her chest, which led her to the second priority. Food.