by Wendy Nikel
“That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone think she’d do something like that?”
“Tell me—what’s being reported in your time, a year after the disaster?”
“Not much,” I admit. “It’s still under investigation.”
“When the Continuum’s Governing Board finally releases its report, it will include testimony from a security guard who claims he pursued an unidentified, unauthorized woman through the colony’s restricted areas just before the order to evacuate. The Governing Board—desperate to defend themselves against charges of neglect and mismanagement—will latch onto this idea and within days of this announcement, this unknown woman will be the most-wanted terrorist of the 22nd century. I contacted you before this all went public so that you wouldn’t be alarmed.”
I curse beneath my breath. “Is she in danger?”
“I’ve sent her into the past,” Dr. Wells says, “where she’s living under another name as a contemporary. No one, not even TUB, should be able to trace her. However…”
Here, he holds out a folder. Inside are copies of census records, birth records, marriage certificates, and a few faded black-and-white photos.
“What’s all this?” I ask, turning over an image of a young girl with a pug on her lap.
“That,” Dr. Wells says. “Is Elise’s great-great-grandmother. She was born in 1875. She is the most vulnerable of her direct ancestors.”
My head jerks upward. “What do you mean, most vulnerable? What is TUB planning?”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Wells admits. “They’ve gone dark. I haven’t been contacted since my Retriever brought back that report. However, I have friends in genealogical libraries and research centers around the world, as well as those who work with all the major search engines. It’s important, you see, that Retrievers not cross paths with their direct ancestors. That sort of entanglement can cause all sorts of trouble. Perhaps you’ve heard of a Grandfather Paradox?”
It sounds vaguely familiar, but Dr. Wells doesn’t give me time to respond before continuing.
“It deals with the matter of what would happen if a time traveler were to kill his own grandfather before his father was conceived. There could be no time traveler then, could there? Would the traveler cease to exist and therefore be unable to kill his grandfather? Or would time splinter into an alternate path, leaving the traveler no present to return to in which he exists? Some hypothesize that a paradox like that would unravel the universe. You see what trouble that might cause?”
I nod mutely, still staring down at the image.
“I am concerned that TUB may want to test that theory. If they cannot get their hands on Elise herself, they may simply attempt to eliminate one of her direct ancestors instead.” He grabs one of the pages from my hands, upon which is a family tree. Slowly, he tears the sheet in half, severing the names on the top from those on the bottom. “Thus, destroying her family line and preventing her existence.”
“And this is the ancestor they plan to go after?” I hold up the photograph. “How do you know?”
“I told you, I have well-connected friends. When TUB broke off communication with me, I asked them to keep an eye on Elise’s family tree. Fortunately, one of them alerted me when she noticed a suspicious number of searches coming up for a particular young woman in the late 18th century. She was an only child, orphaned at a young age, and spent one summer in her early adult years on the road as a magician’s assistant. I’m sure you can see the potential there. A young woman with no family, no roots, always a stranger in town, with no one to look out for her… It would be a golden opportunity for them, a time when she would be incredibly vulnerable.”
“Yes, I see, “ I say, frowning. “But what do you need me for? What could I do?”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Dr. Wells says, pushing his glasses up farther on his nose. “I suspect they mean to kill her, and I need you to go back there and stop them.”
CHAPTER THREE: April 15, 1893
My body jerks to a stop.
The DeLorean Box—Dr. Wells’s time travel machine—has disappeared, replaced by brilliant sunlight and the chattering of birds. My head feels like it’s been run over by an airtrain, and I reach into my pocket to ensure that the Wormhole Device—the dark orb that’s my ticket home—is nestled safely in my pressed suit.
I lie there for a moment, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. Who does Dr. Wells think I am? The Terminator (the one from the second movie, obviously)? If so, hopefully protecting Elise’s great-great-grandmother won’t prove quite as dangerous as protecting John Connor. And hopefully she isn’t as irritating as the kid in that movie. At any rate, I’m a computer geek, not a bodyguard. What am I doing in a place like this, decades before the first computer will be invented? I must be out of my mind.
Groaning, I push myself upright. First things first: figure out where I am.
According to Dr. Wells, this tiny Midwestern town on the shores of Lake Huron is the next stop on the circuit of the Amazing Velés, the traveling magician whom Elise’s ancestor, Juliette Argent, has been hired to assist.
So far, all I can see, though, is cornfield after endless cornfield, with little green plants bursting out of the ground all around me. I brush off my dirtied trousers, check the sky, and start off in what might be a northerly direction, already thrown off that I can’t just check that fact with a few taps of my PVDs.
It’s been a long time since I’ve found myself in such a rustic place. Dodge and I, in our shimmery city of the future, hardly have any reason to leave our self-sufficient little neighborhood, much less the city limits. Maybe I ought to take the kid to see the countryside sometime. Though in my time, it won’t look or sound or smell like this vast sea of grain—so much is run by automated systems in the future that even in sparsely populated areas, there’d be the hum of irrigation pipes beneath our feet and quality control drones taking measurements overhead. Here, everything is achingly still.
By the time I reach the bare, dusty road that runs like a stripped electrical wire into town, I’m sweaty and tired. The 19th century clothing Dr. Wells loaned me doesn’t wick moisture like the synthetic stuff I’m used to back home, and I cringe at the dark stains already forming in the armpits of my jacket. Yuck. Great first impression I’ll make, waltzing up to the little town’s spring carnival. I shrug out of the outer layer and throw it over my shoulder.
A wagon rattles up from behind, emerging from among the sprouting grain and churning up a brown cloud of dust. I hop into the ditch and watch as it passes. The small, smudge-faced children wave, their legs dangling off the back, and I smile in return. It’s hard to imagine someone plotting a murder in a place that looks so much like a Norman Rockwell painting. Still, I’ll have to keep my guard up for TUB’s men.
The fairgrounds are easy to find. Horses, sheep, and chickens wander noisily about between rows of hand-constructed booths advertising games and tests of strength and skill. Kids rush by in sunhats and shirts that were maybe once some shade of white, clutching the hands of younger siblings behind them.
The aroma of fresh food fills the air: sweet and savory, meat on a stick, pretzels, and all kinds of candies and baked goods. My stomach grumbles. How long has it been since breakfast, when I ordered two omelets through the Punch-In system for Dodge and myself?
I ought to buy something to eat. Corn on the cob, dripping with butter? Fresh apple pies with brown sugar sprinkled on top? Fried chicken? The fair’s offerings all sound amazing, but when I reach into my jacket pocket, my gut sinks. The Wormhole Device is still there, but the billfold is gone.
Frantic, I check the other pockets. I even scan the ground around me, though there’s no way it’s there. If I dropped it, it’d have been when I landed in this era or when I’d thrown the jacket off, way back in that cornfield, now miles away. It’d all been so open, so empty, and I’d walked so far. There’s no way I’d find it again. I run my fingers through my hair. Great. What now?
D
r. Wells had recommended that I get a job with the traveling magician so it won’t seem suspicious that I’m following them across the Midwest but, even assuming all goes well, I’ll need to eat before my first paycheck. I need to eat tonight. What will I do? What can I do? What would Elise do?
A gathering crowd catches my eye. Excited spectators press in on some sort of rowdy event around half a dozen looming poles and, despite my recent setback, curiosity gets the best of me.
“What’s going on here?” I ask a man to my side as I crane my neck to peer over the crowd.
“Pole-climbing competition.”
Huh. “Is there a prize?”
“Biggest prize of the day: a hundred dollars cash.”
A hundred dollars. Admittedly, I have no idea what that means in 21st century dollars or 22nd century credits, but it ought to be enough to get by until I can secure a job with the Amazing Velés.
“Are they still accepting competitors?” I ask.
“You’d better hurry,” the whiskered man says, pressing me forward into the crowd.
I mutter my apologies and weave my way to the wooden fence separating the spectators from the participants.
“Anyone else want to test their skill?” the barker calls.
“I’ll do it!”
“Good! Good!” The barker’s an enormous man with a handlebar mustache and a suit two sizes too small. He directs me to the pole nearest the crowd, and—as I throw my jacket over a fence rail and scramble to roll up my sleeves—he plows through the rules. “All competitors must have one foot on the ground until the whistle is blown, at which point they will begin their climb. There’s a bell at the top of each 40-foot pole, and the first person to ring the bell goes home with the prize. Ready?”
The crowd cheers. I nod.
“Good luck, son,” the barker slaps my back and jerks his head at something over my shoulder. “You’re going up against a crowd favorite.”
I strain to see who the barker’s referring to, but before I get a chance, he starts counting down.
“Focus,” I mutter, surveying the spruce pole. Crowd favorite or not, I have to win if I want to eat tonight.
“Five… four…” shouts the crowd. “Three… two…”
At the sound of the whistle, I start climbing. The pole’s essentially just a tree trunk with the branches chopped off, so the trick is to wrap my arms around it and shimmy upward, using the meager natural footholds it provides. I try to remember the rock-climbing lessons I took at the state-of-the-art gym back in the 22nd century, with a bio-sensors suit measuring my body’s functions and an AI personal trainer in my ear, giving me tips and encouragement. It doesn’t take long to realize that this is nothing like that.
From the corner of my eye, I see a competitor on a nearby pole slowly falling behind, and it gives me a confidence boost. I’ve got this. My muscles have been trained by the most high-tech AI, the most advanced machines. Cheers go up from the crowd, but when I chance a glance below, their attention isn’t focused on me, but on the competitor behind me—the one the barker called the “crowd favorite.”
I’m nearly to the top. Just a few more arms’ lengths. Below, the crowd is whistling and hooting, hollering and yelling, and the frenzy drives me to climb faster, faster. I reach up, stretching to grasp the bell—
From somewhere behind, another bell rings just before mine.
Second place.
I wrap my legs around the pole and wipe my brow, fighting back disappointment. Second place. One second too late, and now not only will I have nothing to eat this evening, I’ll have to sleep—out under the stars, most likely—in torn and sweaty clothing. What had seemed like the perfect solution at the time, in retrospect, feels pretty stupid.
I begin my careful descent from the pole, trying not to tear my pants any further. Meanwhile, on the ground, the crowd is still going wild with excitement for the winner. I pause to wipe some more sweat from my eyes, shifting my weight and leaning around to catch a glimpse of the man who’d beat me out.
“And our winner today,” the barker announces from below, “our crowd favorite, who’s already won the ax-throwing competition and the butter-churning competition—”
The crowd howls with laughter.
Butter-churning?
“—the fine little lady who’s taken our fair by storm—”
Fine little lady? I jerk around and catch a glimpse of the barker raising the arm of a slim, dark-haired young woman, who beams out at the crowd.
“—Juliette Argent!”
Elise’s great-great grandmother looks up and flashes a brilliant smile at me that seems equal parts apology and boast. I’m suddenly lightheaded, and my fingers slip from the tree bark. With a cry of surprise, I plummet to the ground.
CHAPTER FOUR
I don’t black out entirely, though I might prefer that over witnessing the fuss the crowd makes. They press in with gaping mouths and arms reaching to steady me as I struggle to catch my breath. Once upright, it’s like gravity goes wonky on me, and I nearly knock over the men trying to support me. They lower me to a seated position and barrage me with a sea of questions.
“Are you all right?”
“Bit dizzy there, eh?”
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Anyone know if this bloke has family here today?”
“What’s yer name, son?”
I can’t do much more than try to grin it off as I struggle to shake away the black specks hovering at the edges of my vision. I squeeze my eyes shut and when I open them again, the dark-haired woman is standing directly over me, her head tipped in scrutiny, like she can tell my clothing’s just a costume. That I’m just playing a part. That I don’t really belong here.
“Give him some room.” She waves her hand about to break up the crowd and kneels beside me. “Are you all right?”
I try to speak, but my mouth is dry, my head’s still spinning, and my heart’s beating wildly in my chest. I can’t tell if my disorientation’s from the fall, the landing, or the intensity of the woman’s eyes on me. She gestures to some men. “You two help me get him over to the wagons where he can lie down.”
The men each grab one of my arms and lead me away, following the hypnotic swish of the magician’s assistant’s braid.
“Wait!” I say. “My jacket!”
Juliette glances around, then marches back over to the fence and grabs the jacket herself. I cringe as she flings it carelessly over her arm, but the Wormhole Device remains tucked safely inside as she leads the sorry bunch of us down the dusty path, weaving between carts of fresh vegetables and down a row of worn wagons on the edge of the fairgrounds.
“Right in there.” Juliette gestures to a covered wagon of sorts, where a few wooden crates function as steps up to a cozy room, where thick canvas serves as a shield from the elements.
The men deposit me upon the bed, which is really just a pallet covered with blankets and a layer of hay as a mattress. I’m still feeling dizzy, so I lean back and rest my head against the pillow, breathing in the scent of hay and… what is that? Lavender?
“Technically, I’m not supposed to have men in here,” Juliette says sharply, pouring a bit of water from a pitcher into a delicate teacup. “But Viggo’s wagon is the only other place I know with a bed, and he keeps his dog Brutus tied up there while we’re at shows to discourage thieves. Believe me, you wouldn’t want to cross that beast. Nearly bit my hand off when I tried to pet it.” She offers me the teacup, and I push myself upright to take it, her fingers brushing mine in the process.
“I’m Juliette, by the way.”
“Chandler.” I sip the water, somehow managing to slosh half of it down the front of my shirt. Juliette turns away, but not before I see her smile at my clumsiness. I suppose I should be grateful that she finds me amusing right now.
“You have any family out there I should hunt down to come care for you?” She jerks her head toward the open flap, where outside, the crowds bustle by.
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“No. No, I came alone today. I take it you work at the fair?” I ask, trying to act casual. The last thing I want is for her to think I’m some creep who knows more about her than I ought to.
“I suppose I do.” She wrings out a wet cloth into the basin and holds it out. “Here, put this on your head. I just joined up with Viggo—sorry, the Amazing Velés, I suppose I ought to call him—not too long ago. I’m his assistant.”
“So this is your wagon?” I glance around the space with new curiosity. It’s neat and tidy, with few furnishings or decorations, and no personal items besides a battered brass cage with a bird inside that tips his head at me and chirps.
“Viggo’s, technically. It used to be his former assistant’s, but she up and eloped back in Cleveland last season.” She hoists herself onto the chest of drawers and rests on the edge of it. Then, as if realizing how unladylike she appears, sitting there swinging her legs in her brown trousers, she daintily crosses her ankles beneath her.
“Isn’t he worried you’ll do the same?”
Juliette rolls her eyes, but her cheeks color with such warmth and loveliness that it only proves my point. Elise was an attractive woman, no doubt, but she had a plainness about her, too, which allowed her to blend into crowds easily. Her great-great grandmother, though… with those big, expressive eyes and her lips, so quick to smile… She’d stand out anywhere.
“Our first show is this evening,” she says, evading my question. “You ought to come. That is, if you’re feeling well enough by then.”
She turns those big eyes on me, and I feel as though I’ve gotten the wind knocked out of me again.
I struggle to sit up. I can’t think straight in here. I need fresh air, somewhere that isn’t heady with lavender and where those bright, intelligent eyes aren’t on me, studying my every move. If I stay in here much longer, I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep from confessing everything to her. “I really should be going.”
