The Time Traveler's Almanac (47 page)

Scott will roll his eyes. He will have lost count of how often he has explained this.

“I don’t want my senses any further ahead than they have to be. And I never see what will be. I see everything that may be. Well, you I always see clearly, but you’re special.”

“You stupid motherfucker. You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you? You get to be a special snowflake but never have to prove it.”

For an instant, Tony will blur and scatter. Scott, now sensing almost two months ahead, has never seen Tony do this before. Tony, like everyone else, has multiple potential futures. Until now, however, Scott has never seen them.

As translucent Tonys scatter around the room, so do translucent Scotts. One Tony slams a Scott against a wall, punching his stomach. Another hits Scott where they stand. Some step back toward the closets, the desk, and Tony’s film gear, turning away from Scott. Others stare at Scott stunned. Only one lays his arms around Scott, gently stroking his back.

Scott and his future self both feel all these alternatives at once. His mind reels from the shock of pain breaking against his nose. A salty, metallic taste slides down his throat, even though he may not bleed that night. Tony’s potential punches to his torso stun, and even if they never happen, they will still knock the wind out of Scott about 50 days from now. Simultaneous with the pain, Tony’s phantom gentle arms caress him. Phantom whispers, like the rustle of leaves, soothe him.

An instant later, Tony will snap back into focus. As the phantom Tonys collapse back into the real one, the phantom Scotts collapse too.

Tony will stare at Scott, his jaw slack. His gaze will sweep over Scott, taking in the grimaces, tears, and the body twisted with pain from the futures that Tony will not have chosen.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.” Tony will caress Scott, his arm moving smoothly across Scott’s back. “I’ll never even think about hurting you again. I promise. The actors who I picked have been real assholes, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’m sorry.”

Tony will be unusually attentive that night. He won’t press, though, when Scott refuses the attention.

*   *   *

Three and a half months from now, both closets will be empty. Tony’s gear will be stacked in black boxes almost exactly where Scott is sitting right now. The future Scott will be sitting on the bottom bunk, cross-legged, folding his shirts. His pants will already be packed in the suitcase sitting on his desk. The refrigerator will be empty and unplugged, its door ajar.

The dorm room door will swing open and clang against the wall. Tony, wrapped in his winter coat, will look like the snowman a five-year-old might make. As far as Scott’s time-shifted sight has shown him, Tony will have been true to his word. He will not have hurt Scott.

Tony will reach for a box of lenses, then stop. “Are you ashamed of me?”

Scott will look at up him. “What?” He will drop his cast T-shirt from the Theater and Dance Department’s fall musical onto his lap. “Why would you think that?”

“You never bring any of your friends here.” His gaze will sweep past him like a final exam. “You do have other friends, right?”

Scott will look at his bean bags on the desk, his acting texts sitting on the closet shelf, and climbing gear lying on the closet floor. “Sure. But this is the room where I don’t have to work to untangle my senses. Bringing my friends here would make it like the rest of the world for me.”

Tony’s face will twist into a frown. He’ll pull his chair from his desk and sit in it backwards facing Scott. Tony’s arms will rest on top of the chair back.

“It’s ironic that I have to talk to you about the future.” He’ll take a deep breath. “You know this will end, right? It’s winter break.” He’ll shrug. “After the spring semester, I’ll be gone, but you’ll still be here.”

“You’ve met someone else?”

Tony will laugh. “No, I only direct like Fellini. Six months from now, I’m going to graduate. You should keep your options open.”

Scott’s brow will furrow. He’ll look at the boxes of gear, stacked ready to go. “You’re moving out?” He’ll pick up his T-shirt and twist it in his hands.

“No, of course not, Scott. And you’re not moving out either.” Tony will sit next to Scott, his hand on Scott’s thigh. “If you want to keep fucking, I’m completely willing. As much and as often as you want. But us, it’s going to end in six months. You have lots of possible futures and they probably don’t involve me. Just saying…”

Scott’s eyes itch. His T-shirt will be a pretzel in his hands.

“Can you leave me alone for a moment?”

Tony will nod. He’ll stand, avoiding the top bunk, his face apologetic. His hands will slap onto his topmost box of gear. With a grunt, he will heft it out of the room.

*   *   *

Right now, the bean bag thunks into Scott’s left palm. His eyes still itch and he feels the grief he’ll feel again at the end of the semester. A ghost Scott moves to shut the dorm room door. If he closes the door, he and Tony will never meet. Tony will never learn how to hurt Scott in a way that only he can be hurt. Tony will never hurt him in a way that anyone can be hurt.

Scott sighs. All he’s done for years is hide. He’s already lived that kind of hurt. He throws a bean bag into the air and waits for the man with the flyer to arrive. He’s seen the movie of his life. Now, he’ll live the whole thing.

FORTY, COUNTING DOWN

Harry Turtledove

Harry Turtledove is an American writer sometimes known as the Master of Alternate History. In addition to writing fiction, he has also edited anthologies, including one on the theme of time travel. This story was first published in
Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine
in 1999 and is a companion piece to his other story in this anthology, “Twenty-one, Counting Up.” Both stories feature the same main character, Justin Kloster.

“Hey, Justin!” Sean Peters’ voice floated over the top of the Superstrings, Ltd., cubicle wall. “It’s twenty after six – quitting time and then some. Want a drink or two with me and Garth?”

“Hang on,” Justin Kloster answered. “Let me save what I’m working on first.” He told his computer to save his work as it stood, generate a backup, and shut itself off. Having grown up in the days when voice-recognition software was imperfectly reliable, he waited to make sure the machine followed orders. It did, of course. Making that software idiotproof had put Superstrings on the map a few years after the turn of the century.

Justin got up, stretched, and looked around. Not much to see: the grayish-tan fuzzy walls of the cubicle and an astringently neat desktop that held the computer, a wedding photo of Megan and him, and a phone/fax. His lips narrowed. The marriage had lasted four years – four and a half, actually. He hadn’t come close to finding anybody else since.

Footsteps announced Peters’ arrival. He looked like a high-school linebacker who’d let most of his muscle go to flab since. Garth O’Connell was right behind him. He was from the same mold, except getting thin on top instead of going gray. “How’s the Iron Curtain sound?” Peters asked.

“Sure,” Justin said. “It’s close, and you can hear yourself think – most of the time, anyhow.”

They went out into the parking lot together, bitching when they stepped from air conditioning to San Fernando Valley August heat. Justin’s eyes started watering, too; L.A. smog wasn’t so bad as it had been when he was young, but it hadn’t disappeared.

An Oasis song was playing when the three software engineers walked into the Iron Curtain, and into air conditioning chillier than the office’s. The music took Justin back to the days when he’d been getting together with Megan, though he’d liked Blur better. “Look out,” Sean Peters said. “They’ve got a new fellow behind the bar.” He and Garth chuckled. They knew what was going to happen. Justin sighed. So did he.

Peters ordered a gin and tonic, O’Connell a scotch on the rocks. Justin asked for a Bud. Sure as hell, the bartender said, “I’ll be right with you two gents” – he nodded to Justin’s co-workers – “but for you, sir, I’ll need some ID.”

With another sigh, Justin produced his driver’s license. “Here.”

The bartender looked at him, looked at his picture on the license, and looked at his birthdate. He scowled. “You were born in 1978? No way.”

“His real name’s Dorian Gray,” Garth said helpfully.

“Oh, shut up,” Justin muttered, and then, louder, to the bartender, “Yeah, I really turned forty this past spring.” He was slightly pudgy, but he’d been slightly pudgy since he was a toddler. And he’d been very blond since the day he was born. If he had any silver mixed with the gold, it didn’t show. He also stayed out of the sun as much as he could, because he burned to a crisp when he didn’t. That left him with a lot fewer lines and wrinkles than his buddies, who were both a couple of years younger than he.

Shaking his head, the bartender slid Justin a beer. “You coulda fooled me,” he said. “You go around picking up high-school girls?” His hands shaped an hourglass in the air.

“No.” Justin stared down at the reflections of the ceiling lights on the polished bar.

“Middle school,” Garth suggested. He’d already made his scotch disappear. Justin gave him a dirty look. It was such a dirty look, it got through to Sean Peters. He tapped Garth on the arm. For a wonder, Garth eased off.

Justin finished the Bud, threw a twenty on the bar, and got up to leave. “Not going to have another one?” Peters asked, surprised.

“Nope.” Justin shook his head. “Got some things to do. See you in the morning.” Out he went, walking fast so his friends couldn’t stop him.

*   *   *

As soon as the microchip inside Justin’s deadbolt lock shook hands with the one in his key, his apartment came to life. Lamps came on. The stereo started playing the Pulp CD he’d left in there this morning. The broiler heated up to do the steak the computer knew was in the refrigerator. From the bedroom, the computer called, “Now or later?”

“Later,” Justin said, so the screen stayed dark.

He went into the kitchen and tossed a couple of pieces of spam snailmail into the blue wastebasket for recycling. The steak went under the broiler; frozen mixed vegetables went into the microwave. Eight minutes later, dinner.

After he finished, he rinsed the dishes and silverware and put them in the dishwasher. When he closed the door, the light in it came on; the machine judged it was full enough to run a cycle in the middle of the night.

Like the kitchen, his front room was almost as antiseptically tidy as his cubicle at Superstrings. But for a picture of Megan and him on their honeymoon, the coffee table was bare. All his books and DVDs and audio CDs were arranged alphabetically by author, title, or group. None stood even an eighth of an inch out of place. It was as if none of them dared move without his permission.

He went into the bedroom. “Now,” he said, and the computer monitor came to life.

A picture of Megan and him stood on the dresser, another on the nightstand. Her high-school graduation picture smiled at him whenever he sat down at the desk. Even after all these years, he smiled back most of the time. He couldn’t help it. He’d always been happy around Megan.

But she hadn’t been happy around him, not at the end. Not for a while before the end, either. He’d been a long, long time realizing that. “Stupid,” he said. He wasn’t smiling now, even with Megan’s young, glowing face looking right at him out of the picture frame. “I was stupid. I didn’t know enough. I didn’t know how to take care of her.”

No wonder he hadn’t clicked with any other woman. He didn’t want any other woman. He wanted Megan – and couldn’t have her any more.

“E-mail,” he told the computer, and gave his password. He went through it, answering what needed answering and deleting the rest. Then he said, “Banking.” The computer had paid the monthly Weblink bill, and the cable bill, too. “All good,” he told it.

The CD in the stereo fell silent. “Repeat?” the computer asked.

“No.” Justin went out to the front room. He took the Pulp CD out of the player, put it in its jewel box, and put the jewel box exactly where it belonged on the shelf. Then he stood there in a rare moment of indecision, wondering what to pull out next. When he chose a new CD, he chuckled. He doubted Sean or Garth would have heard of the Trash Can Sinatras, let alone heard any of their music. His work buddies had listened to grunge rock back before the turn of the century, not British pop.

As soon as
Cake
started, he went back into the bedroom and sat down at the computer again. This time, he did smile at Megan’s picture. She’d been crazy for the Trash Can Sinatras, too.

The music made him especially eager to get back to work. “Superstrings,” he said, and gave a password, and “Virtual reality” and another password, and “Not so virtual” and one more. Then he had to wait. He would have killed for a Mac a quarter this powerful back in 1999, but it wasn’t a patch on the one he used at the office. The company could afford the very best. He couldn’t, not quite.

He went to the keyboard for this work: for numbers, it was more precise than dictating. And he had to wait again and again, while the computer did the crunching. One wait was long enough for him to go take a shower. When he got back, hair still damp, the machine hadn’t finished muttering to itself. Justin sighed. But the faster Macs at the office couldn’t leap these numbers at a single bound. What he was asking of his home computer was right on the edge of what it could do.

Or maybe it would turn out to be over the edge. In that case, he’d spend even more lunch hours in his cubicle in the days ahead than he had for the past six months. He was caught up on everything the people above him wanted. They thought he worked his long hours to stay that way.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Justin murmured. “And it may do me some good.”

He didn’t think anyone else had combined superstring physics, chaos theory, and virtual reality this way. If anyone had, he was keeping quiet about it – nothing in the journals, not a whisper on the Web. Justin would have known; he had virbots out prowling all the time. They’d never found anything close. He had this all to himself … if he hadn’t been wasting his time.