Temporal Technologies needed to be specific in its business plan. How were they to convince investors that time travel was a good idea? In a world with time travel, how do you make certain you invented it first? How do you protect your intellectual property when time travel exists?
Bob didn’t know, but he sure was glad he had all that money from the Sherlock Holmes stories.
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The mountain can be seen for miles around, rising up from the forest of the flat land around it. It has been used as a landmark since humans have stood on two feet and will be there long after our extinction.
The mountain hadn’t been formed from the Earth, you see, the Earth had formed around the mountain. It was no mountain at all, but a chrysalis and the Earth its final membrane. Everything that happens upon our celestial body, beyond its pupa maturing, is inconsequential. Most of us try to ignore this.
Some sense this and are driven mad trying to prove what they know to be true. Others who intuit the beast within, worship at the foot of the mountain, dancing naked at midnight, offering fiery rites and sacrifices to appease what might emerge.
Whatever grows within the mountain? It cares not.
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He didn’t know why he was grumpy, which only made him grumpier. If that was possible. There was no cause for it, other than ingratitude. He screamed at that intrusive thought, telling it he was ungrateful, that he knew how lucky he was. He had a home, a steady paycheck, knew where his next meal was coming from. Lucky indeed.
When he began arguing with the voices in his head, he knew he was in trouble. Sometimes he dreamed of trepanning himself, let all the bad spirits out. Instead, he reached for another drink.
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His uniform marked him as a soldier from the war, but little else did. He did not come in and stand at attention or announce his rank, but moved like a shadow to hang his cloak. He carried no saber, but she had learned many of the officers had abandoned these in the face of the artillery.
That new invention of the battlefield must have left its mark on him as she had no other explanation for his face. Nearly half of it had curdled into a terrible pink scar, the eye misshapen, what remained of the nose pulled into deformity by the new restrictions of his skin.
She had never seen such a thing before, causing her to pull the sheets to her. Her reaction stopped him, the toes of his boots just at the line of light the room’s narrow window threw across the floor. She expected her reaction to anger him, but if any was there it passed quickly. With felt bicorn in hand, his eyes fell to the floor. “My apologies, mademoiselle. I had heard you were a woman of great compassion. I will not trouble you if my appearance is as monstrous as I feared.” He stood there a long moment, then moved to return to the coatrack.
“Wait,” she commanded him. When he looked back at her, she studied him for a time. Finally, she pulled the sheets away, revealing her nakedness and making room for him on the bed. “Take off your clothes and lie with me,” she ordered. “We will talk and tell the truth like children. What is good. What is bad. Most of all, we will speak of our loneliness.”
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I became instantly nervous when I saw the 865 area code come up on my phone. I’ve lived in California for years now, but there are still three numbers from back home that I recognize even before technology swallowed my memory. One was my mother, the other was my lawyer, and the third belonged to her.
While there’s a lot to complain about when it comes to modern technology, I always enjoy the personal pictures I had set to display whenever a loved one called. Now, though, sitting in L.A. traffic, I felt the car go cold as the screen only showed a gray box and the number. My thumb hovered over the screen, watching it vibrate, knowing it would never go to voicemail.
I tapped the screen and spoke, “You’re dead, Chelsea.”
“Oh honey,” the tinge of a southern accent in the voice that answered still made my toes curl, but in a different way now. “Don’t be mean. I’m moving and talking, aren’t I?”
In the face of the impossible, I threw up logic as a useless defense. “Does that take a lot of concentration? To talk you have to breathe, which you don’t need to do. So do you, like, have concentrate to move the air in and out so you can make your vocal cords work?”
There was laughter, as artificial as the process I had described. “You’re so smart.”
“If I’m so smart,” I said, imitating the old tête-à -têtes we used to have, “how did you get ahold of my new number?”
“Oh that wasn’t even in the hard part.” I could practically see the little twist of a grin under the button of her nose.Â
At her words, my heart felt still as the traffic. “What was the hard part?”
“Finding out where you are, silly!” Her tone was high and bright and made me shudder. I could still recall the feel of her tongue along my neck the last time that had happened. “It’s still daytime out there, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I looked out the window, the light already starting to fade, the sun having disappeared somewhere into the Pacific Ocean.Â
“Not where I am.” she sing-songed her replied. “I’m on top of a semi blazing my way through Oklahoma right now.” I could hear her fingernails scratching into metal. “Well, as soon as the driver gasses up we’ll be blazing.” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “He doesn’t even know I got out of my box. I’m just laying here on top of the trailer watching the stars burn.”
“We’ll be able to do that together soon,” I heard the thumping of her rolling over, the hollow echoing of her body across the metal of her perch. “We’ll be able to watch the stars until they burn out.”
“Chelsea,” I spoke quietly. Pleadingly might be a more honest word. “Don’t do this.”
“Are you worried about how I’ll look?” she snapped. “Well, don’t. Skin care products can do wonderful things these days. And my hair looks better than ever.” I heard a noise like string snapping and then chewing. “As soon as I get all the bugs out of it.”
“No.” I bowed my head to rest it on the steering wheel. Chelsea’s vanity was one of the reasons I had left her and it was everyone’s bad luck I had done it at night. “I’m sure you look great. But I’m trying to build a new life out here, away from everything back home.”
I could hear the sweet smile in her voice. “And when I find you we’ll have all the time we need.”
I watched the car in front of me pull a few inches ahead. “What you have isn’t life, Chelsea. It’s a curse.”
“Why do you have to be so negative?” she shot back. It was the same, old angry tone she used when I didn’t want to play along with her one of her schemes.
“Chelsea, I’m older now. I’m not the person you knew. I’ve changed.” I paused, then, “That’s what people do when they’re alive.”
She gave out a cackle that shook my bones. “Don’t worry! I’ll fix that.”
“You can’t fix it,” I tried to sound reasonable, keep the dread out of my voice. “It’s – ” I stopped, realizing there wasn’t a point to arguing with the dead. “I’m hanging up now. I’m driving and traffic is starting to move,” I lied.
“Fine, we’ll talk when I get there.” She hung up in a huff.Â
Damn it. Now I’d have to move again.Â
God I hate Halloween.Â
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