Borrowed Time (25 page)

Betty’s scream, long and laden with terror, echoed through the night, bouncing off the walls of the suburban houses as lights began flaring behind windows and doors banging open throughout the neighborhood.

By the time the first men arrived, some bearing handguns or improvised weapons, Betty was clinging to Jim, quivering, with tears streaming down her face. “Those two got into my room!” she yelled, pointing at Oldham and Gordon. “They threatened me with that knife and said they were going to do . . .
terrible
things to me! They said they’d killed other kids, too! Oh, but Jim was worried about me and he came by to look at my window and saw them pulling me out and he attacked them even though they had knives and he was sooooo brave.”

Betty stopped her semi-hysterical account long enough to gaze at Jim with such feigned but fervent admiration and gratitude that he nearly broke into laughter, which might have caused someone to question her story. But then some of the men were pounding Jim on the back and calling him a real man, while others were grabbing Oldham, who seemed frozen with horror, and Gordon, who was shouting out that they were all damned until someone rocked his head back with a hard blow.

The police officers who showed up were big men who didn’t seem to worry about inflicting bruises as they handcuffed Oldham and Gordon, and then bundled them into the back seat of the police car. “Runaways. Armed assault. Burglary. Kidnapping,” one of the officers said to Betty’s father. “And, uh . . . ” The officer glanced toward Betty and lowered his voice. “Attempted rape and murder. Don’t worry. The judge will take care of these two. They’ll be locked up for a long time.”

“Betty said they mentioned two other boys by name,” Mr. Knox said, “and boasted of having killed them. I had her write down the names and the cities where the boys lived.”

The police officer took the paper, then turned a very hard look on Oldham and Gordon. “Murders. If what they told your daughter is true, they’ll never come out of prison, sir, juveniles or not.”

“The smaller one is yelling something about being from the future,” the other police officer commented. “He’s a little young to be a homicidal maniac, but you know kids these days.”

“It’s that Dr. Spock,” the first officer said.

“And their music. Have you heard that ‘Louie, Louie’ song?” the second officer said as they climbed into their car.

Mr. Knox offered his hand to Jim as the police drove away. “Mrs. Knox and I were a little concerned about Betty getting too serious with you, but from this night forward you’re okay with us, son. I can’t imagine a better man for my daughter.”

#

“How was Christmas?” Jim asked as he sat down beside Betty on her porch steps.

“Better than I expected.” Betty held up a large magazine. “I wrote a story about what happened with Oldham and Gordon, and I just got a letter saying this magazine’s editor bought it. Only, instead of changing the names to protect the innocent, I used all our real names.”

“What magazine –“ Jim stopped when he saw the cover. “
Analog Science Fact and Fiction
? You sold a story to
John W. Campbell
?”

“Yeah. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I . . . I . . . ”

“And,” Betty continued, “I used our names, like I said. There will be thousands of copies printed of that story. It will be in the data bases. Back in 2040, any search of past documents will ping on that story for certain because it has both of our names, and then the project’s researchers will see Oldham’s and Gordon’s names and characters, and know what took place.”

“You used the real events?” Jim asked, thumbing through the magazine quickly. “I mean, the time travel and everything?”

“Of course I did. It’s part of getting our message out, and I had to be certain that in 2040 they’d understand what had occurred, what had actually happened to all those other poor people who came back when I did. And I wanted them to know that James Jones is a hero.”

“Betty, I didn’t –“

“Did I tell you yet that I’m going to marry you someday, Dictionary Jones? And we’ll write more books and stories that contain what we want to say in ways that people today can accept, and publish your game, and I’ll nudge researchers to aim them in the right directions, and some day I’ll officially be Doctor Knox again and we’ll be conducting the research. We’re going to do this thing.”

Jim grinned at her. “Yes, we are. I wonder how many people reading that story will realize it’s true? Science Fact, not Fiction.”

“I had to use what really happened,” Betty said, pointing to the magazine. “You can’t make this stuff up.”

Author's Note on
Crow’s Feat

I learned a number of things from this story. One of them is that you should never send Stan Schmidt (the editor of
Analog
) a story set partially in Elizabethan times, because Stan will insist that the Elizabethan English used be absolutely accurate as to words and grammar. And I learned that much of what is commonly “known” about William Shakespeare isn’t actually so. Finally, I learned that Kage Baker was a fine writer and an even better human being. She not only helped me with the Elizabethan grammar, she also pointed me toward the right depiction of Shakespeare. This is the closest I ever came to a collaboration with Kage Baker, who sadly died of cancer in 2010, and I treasure it for that reason. It may not be my best story, but it is the story that has Kage’s touch on it.

Crow’s Feat

An odd quiet pervaded the crowded city, a quiet filled with the cries of humanity and assorted animals, punctuated by the creak of wood in wheels, doors, and beams. Paul Randal Gallatin, unnerved by the absence of machinery clamor and amplified music, shivered occasionally as he inhaled a pervasive, ever-changing and incredibly foul mix of stenches which filled the air in counterpoint to the lack of noise. He hesitated, warned by some sixth sense, just before a cascade of filth plummeted to the cobblestones immediately ahead as some upper-story occupant emptied a chamber-pot into the street. The romance of Elizabethan England, like forbidden love it seemed, was best admired from afar. Up ahead, Gallatin finally caught sight of his goal, the tavern where hopefully-discreet inquires had led him to hope he would find his quarry.

#

Cocktail Party. Paul Gallatin switched hands on his beer, hurriedly wiping the now-free right to rid it of moist condensation before shaking the hand proffered by a slim man whose haircut was exceeded in cost only by his designer suit. “Heyniceseeingyou. Whatdoyoudo?”

Gallatin nodded politely. “I’m a writer.”

Eyebrows rose dramatically. “Really? That’s great. What do you write?”

“Novels and short stories. My latest book is part of the Servian Quadrant series.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard of that. Sounds like astronomy or something.”

“Science Fiction, actually.”

The eyebrows dropped. “Oh. So you aren’t a
real
writer.”

Gallatin bit back his first reply, then smiled thinly. “How about you? What is it you do?”

“I’m a lawyer,” the expensive suit noted with obviously forced modesty.

“A lawyer?” Gallatin let his eyebrows rise to match the earlier gesture aimed at him. “So you fight battles in the courtrooms? Confront murderers and get them to confess their crimes?”

“No, not that. My specialty is Patent Law.”

“Oh. So you’re not a
real
lawyer.” Gallatin left the suit standing, mouth agape, to make his way to the buffet table. He hadn’t quite reached it when another hand thrust into his field of vision.

“Greetings! You’re Paul Randal Gallatin? You’re a good writer.”

Gallatin smiled back at a chunky man grinning heartily through a dark beard. “I like to think so.”

The other man nodded. “As you should. What we think of things matters a great deal. That’s quantum physics, you know.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “And I’m a physicist. Name’s Ivan Grashchev, but call me Ivan Ivanovich.”

“Ivan . . . ? I’ve heard of you.”

“Thank you,” Ivan beamed. “I like your books.”

Paul Gallatin smiled again. “No. Thank
you
. I didn’t expect to meet a fan here.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Hopefully to generate some new fans. I need every one I can get.”

“Better stay away from the lawyers, then.” Ivan strolled toward the buffet, urging Gallatin along with one hand. “I’m surprised, though. Your books sell pretty well, don’t they?”

“Pretty well isn’t good enough, today.” Gallatin took a deep breath. “The publishers want best-sellers, and nothing but. I’m what they call a mid-list writer. I sell enough to generate some profit, but not enough by their standards.”

“You don’t sound too happy.”

“I’m not.” Gallatin stood beside the buffet, waiting while Ivan shoveled a wad of thin-sliced ham into his mouth. “It gets old. I’ve thought about quitting. You pour your heart and soul into writing, and connect with some people, but it’s like the Red Queen’s race.”

Ivan nodded in understanding. “You have to run as fast as you can to stay where you are? I guess every writer can’t be Shakespeare.”

Gallatin grimaced. “Shakespeare? Don’t get me started. That man never wrote a word.”

“Ah. Are you an Oxfordian, or something more exotic?”

“I’ve never decided. But how can you hand some man the mantle of the greatest writer of all time when we have absolutely no manuscripts in his own hand, and he left a will which didn’t even mention his alleged writing?”

Ivan grinned. “Would you like to write a best-seller, my friend? Be a ‘real’ writer and make your publishers beg for more?”

“Sure. Have you invented a magic lamp I can wish for that on?”

“Maybe.” Ivan grinned wider. “My lab’s in this building, you know. Used to be in the basement, but when scientists win enough awards they move them into nice, clean labs where they can see sunlight and be shown off. Want to come see what I’ve done?”

“Sure. At the very least it might inspire a story.” Gallatin followed as Ivanovich headed out of the room, veering off course slightly to refresh his drink at the bar. An elevator dropped them several stories, then paused expectantly until the scientist slid a card into a waiting slot to trigger the doors open.

The lab looked suitably high-tech, marred only by the mess and tangle of actual science underway. Ivanovich led the way over heavy power cords until they reached a large gleaming box in one corner, its dimensions broken on one side by a small shelf holding a laptop hard-wired in place. “Lovely, isn’t it?” the physicist beamed.

“Uh, yes. What exactly is it?”

“A mass-particle reorientation device. You realize time is just a measurement we apply to particles, correct? So, it’s quit simple, actually,” the scientist explained, gesturing with his drink while his other hand stroked the stainless steel exterior. “You know how every advance in quantum mechanics has occurred?” Without waiting for a reply, Ivanovich continued speaking, even as he began punching commands into the keyboard. “You simply have to believe everything you knew beforehand is wrong. So, lo and behold, I applied that philosophy to the problem of what you would call time travel.”

“Time travel?” Gallatin stared at the mechanism. “You’re joking.”

“Not at all. And this little toy, my literary friend, is going to make you and me rich and famous.”

“Rich and famous?” Paul Gallatin laughed. “What are you thinking, we should go back and bet on horse races we already know the results of?”

Ivanovich waved his drink again, this time dismissively. “No. That sort of thing is for people with no imagination. But you and I, we have imagination, right? Tell me, how many copies do you think a book would sell if it proved your belief that Shakespeare was a fraud?”

“There’s been a lot of theories -“

“No theories!” Ivanovich wagged a reproving finger. “Proof. Evidence. Incontrovertible.”

“Ivan, if any such evidence ever existed it vanished a long time ago. You’d have to go back to Elizabethan England . . . ” Gallatin’s voice trailed off as Ivanovich smiled hugely. “My God. You could do it. Find handwriting samples, talk to people who knew, place the real evidence where you could be sure it would survive and where only you knew to look. Even talk to the man himself!”

“Exactly.” Ivanovich typed a few more figures. “It’s all ready. Have a nice trip.”

“What? Me?”

“Of course, you.” Ivanovich swallowed the rest of his drink. “I don’t know the right things. I build machines. You know literature and history and enough about this Shakespeare to find the truth, right?”

“Well, yes, I think so. Maybe. It’s just that -“

“Here’s your chance to live one of your fictions. Then write a book which will be a bestseller, make a few millions, make us famous.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” Gallatin wavered.

Ivanovich shrugged. “Crossing the street is dangerous. Hey, at least back then you can’t get run over by a car, eh?” He dug in one pocket for a moment, then offered a few coins to the writer. “Elizabethan currency. Not much, but you might need a little.”

Gallatin took the coins, his mind still churning. “Do you always carry Elizabethan currency in your pocket?”

“Only when I know a certain writer is coming to a party. Sometimes even us non-writers can predict the future, you see.”

#

The tavern’s greatroom, its outlines obscured by weak illumination coming through small, heavily-leaded windows, stank of other smells than those which warred outside. Against one wall a table rested, its sole occupant drinking ale.

Gallatin stared, overcome by emotion despite himself. The man slumped in his seat, eyes fixed on the table before him, looked older than expected, but then he’d already seen enough of Elizabethan life to understand how it would age anyone prematurely. Life, too, presented a million variations in appearance which fixed portraits could never capture, especially those done perhaps a century after a man’s death. Gallatin took a few more steps, pausing in front of the man’s table. “Are you William Shakespeare?”