Time Goes By

By Erica H. Smith

Kidnapping, intrigue, technological crises, personal struggles: life has never been so complicated for the employees of Constantine and Associates. George Merrill undertakes a desperate quest through time to find his beloved Olivia Lake, while his colleagues follow their own paths to the same goal, traveling from Moscow to Dunkirk, from Washington to Paris to Casablanca. Andy Bishop explores a perilous political landscape, Beatrice Rivas makes the longest journey of her life, and Olivia fights her own battles, stranded amid the bombs and bloodshed of the Second World War. But something—or someone—is drawing the time-traveling comrades toward a fateful reunion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erica H. Smith
• Release date: Nov 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310796197

Erica H. Smith

Erica H. Smith lives in Maryland. In her spare time, she blogs about the joys and sorrows of vegetable gardening, invents frumious and uffish recipes, and crafts an incriminating internet search history.

Book preview

What country, friends, is this?

Boston Harbor, said a voice at his shoulder, as though he had spoken aloud; it came out Bawston Hahbuh in the gravelly New England accent. He turned. A waterman of any era might have owned that florid, sun- and salt-roughened face, but the jumper’s experienced eye picked up the style of the collar, the line of the coat, the cut of the beard, and he made a stab at mid-nineteenth century. A quick glance back at the shoreline supported the guess.

Never weary of it, the man added. It ain’t only doing my job to ferry folks here and back again. Where you headed?

A map appeared instantly in his mind; there was really no choice about where he ought to be going. George’s Island, he said. Captain.

The man raised an eyebrow. Ah? You know what’s out there? Or did you pick the one that’s called after you, George Merrill?

How did you know my name?

The captain tapped his head with one finger and smiled, then turned to peer at a lighthouse in the distance; it blinked back through the early morning haze. The boat was moving smoothly across the water, although George had no notion how: no sails, no vibration of a motor. They are going there as well, the captain said after a moment.

Who?

Them, he explained, nodding his head toward the boat’s bow. George looked.

Olivia. His breath caught at the sight of her familiar profile: unmistakable, as were the sable hair knotted at the back of her head and the angle of her shoulders. In blue-gray like the morning, she was corseted and gloved and hoop-skirted; two little boys were running about the deck in her vicinity, and next to her, with a protective hand on her arm, stood a dark-haired man.

He thought Bernard first, forgetting that Olivia’s husband—former husband, now, although their legal status remained in limbo—was two hundred years and an ocean away in seventeenth-century Holland. And then the man’s face came into view, and George stiffened, cold with anger. Brant. Sam Brant.

Damn him to hell and back again.

Return fare’s extra, said the captain. It’ll cost you.

George ignored him. His hands itched for Brant’s neck. How dare he touch Olivia, as though he had the right—possessively, like a husband, like… The children, dodging from rail to rail, laughing, caught George’s eye again, and his stomach clenched. Then one little boy tripped over a coil of rope and fell flat on the deck. Pushing himself to hands and knees, he began to howl. Olivia’s expression of remote amusement became one of concern; she took a step forward, freeing herself from Brant’s grasp. But before she could reach the child, another woman appeared and the boy lifted up his arms, gasping Mama. She nodded to Olivia and gathered both her children, retiring. George’s breath released in an audible sigh, and as if propelled by a hand on his back he stumbled forward.

Olivia saw him then, reacting with evident shock and fear. Her mouth formed a silent word—his name, perhaps—and then Brant spotted him and stepped forward menacingly, a gun in his hand. Remington .44 six-shot revolver, 1858, said the reference file in George’s head. The last weapon Brant had aimed at him had been a single-shot pistol dating from the late 1770s—quite sufficient to send George to a hospital fighting for his life—and the upgrade amused him.

Keeping pace with the times, are you? he said.

Anachronism is the mark of the devil, answered Brant, and fired.

The bullet spun toward George slowly enough to track but not to dodge, at least not in air suddenly the consistency of water. Shrieking like a goosed soprano, the tiny orange demon straddling the missile was clear in view down to its miniature horns and bat’s wings; it disapproved of this rifled barrel nonsense and didn’t care who knew it, but was determined to hang on. George wondered why he’d never spotted its kind before. Obviously they rode every projectile ever fired. It would probably hurt him quite a lot, going in.

The demon’s joyride ended abruptly as Olivia shot out a gloved hand and plucked the bullet from the air. Her closed fist shook with the effort of containing the creature, then opened, palm to the sky, and a glitter of dust like tiny iridescent feathers fell from between her fingers. What remained vanished upwards with a buzzing noise, echoed by a hiss below. Brant’s revolver had metamorphosed into a snake. He let out a cry and dropped it, and it slithered across the deck and into an open hatchway. George gathered himself for a leap at Brant’s throat.

And then the world changed. Just shadows and light at first: but then Olivia breathed in hard and George followed her eyes. For a moment he gazed back at the Boston skyline—unusually clear and close as though the fog had cleared from both the air and his sight—and found nothing strange in the low brick buildings, the church spires, and the lonely thrust of the Bunker Hill monument in the distance. Then ghostly shapes unveiled themselves: huge rectangular prisms, phantoms of twentieth-century skyscrapers. Incomplete skyscrapers: in several places the superstructures were visible, and construction workers swarmed over the outsides of the buildings like insects. They were swaying one edifice up as though it were the wall of a timbered barn, presumably using skyhooks for leverage: sixty stories of glass and metal prefabricated in another dimension and erected here, complete yet transparent, an illusion, a mirage.

None of the other passengers appeared to have noticed what was happening on shore, but George couldn’t take his eyes off it. He stared, dizzy, in deep empathy with the laborers perched on the illusory crossbeams hundreds of feet in the air, and reached out for Olivia to balance himself; his searching hand met nothing, and the wind whistled past his ears as though he were falling. She and Brant faded into ethereal outline like the buildings.

This isn’t where I am, George, she said, her voice whipping away in the salt breeze; they were gone before he could answer.

Bereft, shaking, he made his way sternwards, his eyes glued to the shoreline. The ghostly workers were having difficulty with their barn-raising; whatever they were using for ropes kept slipping, and panes of glass tumbled repeatedly to the ground, catching the light like sparks. The boat’s captain was facing away from shore, but he nodded as George approached. Aye, he said. I know.

But why? Why are they doing it?

The captain tapped his head with a finger again. Questions, he said. Always questions. Oughtn’t to be talking to you. Boss wouldn’t like it. He don’t approve of conversation with the passengers.

Who is your boss?

Begins with C, said the captain, and winked. Can’t say more. You’re supposed to give me a tip, you know.

I don’t think I have— He searched his pockets.

Not there. The captain reached behind George’s ear, and then flicked a coin into the air, catching it neatly. Franc for your thoughts, he said.

Get a lot of international custom, do you? When do we get to the island? The shoreline had receded considerably during the course of this brief conversation, the workers now invisible and their activity signaled only by flashes of sunlight against glass.

Nearly there now. See? He gestured George to the rail.

The island was there, indeed: nestled at the foot of a waterfall, startlingly wrong in the broad harbor, wrong even in this dream-world. It was a green island, with rocky shores; the turrets and walls of a fortified castle rose among the trees. Poised on the brink of the fall, the boat somehow did not plunge over the edge, but George knew with certainty and terror that he would have to make that journey himself.

Better not to think about it too much, came the captain’s voice behind him, already fading, and George found himself at the mercy of gravity. He fell, his head and stomach protesting the loss of altitude, his limbs flailing. The streams of the waterfall sparkled like the tumbling panes of glass; the air was misty with its spray. The river below him was full of jagged rocks. As the water and the stone came up to meet him, he gave one last violent struggle and woke with an inarticulate cry.

* * * * *

14 February 2174

Hey, George said, easing a tentative hip onto the bed. You look well. How are you feeling? Oh, I brought you some flowers; your mother’s putting them in a vase.

Marisol Delgado smiled at him, a shadow of the smile he was used to. She was thinner, too. His hands still remembered the contours of her body, and could tell how different they would feel now. And there would be scars now on the smooth skin: surgical scars from the organ replacements, and a gash where Brant’s knife had ripped into her stomach.

Thanks, she said. Better. I’m feeling better. How about you?

Oh, fine. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he shouldn’t dismiss his own wounds so casually, as though there were no reason she shouldn’t have healed completely in six weeks. I mean, I’m still having to watch those sudden moves. Just this morning, he went on, patting his chest ruefully, "I woke up from a bad dream with a big twitch, and—"

I’ve been having bad dreams, too. He waited, but she didn’t seem inclined to share the dreams, only their existence. We have something in common: that was the message, simple, eager and artless. Maybe it was her outfit—pajama-like, pale gold with little flowers—but she seemed so much younger here in her parents’ house. Younger than twenty-four, certainly, like a junior cousin of the Time Travel Institute technician he met regularly in the course of their professional duties. And not off duty in the your-place-or-mine sense, either. He supposed he ought to be thankful for that. But it bothered him that he felt inclined to cuddle her.

You might need to ease into working in that room again, he said. But I bet Tim misses you. She smiled absently. In fact, George hadn’t been back to the TTI lab since Brant’s attack either, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the time machine they’d all personified with a nickname had been looking a bit down with the sexiest of his technicians off the job.

Marisol’s mother came in, glancing at them and putting the vase of yellow roses on a side table. Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Merrill? she asked. She was a handsome woman, what Marisol might be in thirty years: strong-looking, the bronze skin beginning to wrinkle and the amazing figure to sag and thicken, but still capable of illuminating any room she stepped into.

No thanks. I can’t stay long. Work, you know.

Well, it’s nice of you to come and see Marisol. She kept asking for you in the hospital, especially when she was so weak at the beginning, and at first we didn’t want to tell her you couldn’t visit because you were making your own recovery.

He came as soon as he could, Mom. And I wish you’d told me he’d been shot.

Better you didn’t have to think about it. I’m glad you’ve made a reappearance, Mr. Merrill. Might I have a word with you before you go? She kissed Marisol, rather possessively, and left.

"I’m moving back into my own apartment next week," said Marisol.

George nodded. My mom moved in with me when they let me out of the hospital. I kicked her out after six days. Nicely, of course. Listen, I really do have to go soon—

Sweet of you to drop in on your way. Hope it wasn’t too much bother.

He took in the tone, drew on the map in his head the large triangle that represented home, office, and present location, and, helpless, went on as though she hadn’t spoken. But I did bring you something else besides the flowers. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Marisol opened the bag, looking suspicious. The chocolates prompted a faint smile, the other box a quizzical frown. She shook a small candy heart into her hand, and read the words on it. ‘You’re history.’

It would be that one first. Go on.

She shook out another. ‘Jump me.’ Inconsistent message, George. Another. ‘Make time for me.’ Two more. ‘Any time, baby.’ ‘Hottest in history.’ Oh, I get it. She popped hottest in history into her mouth and sucked. How’d you know I’ve been craving sugar? she produced indistinctly.

Experience, he said. Anyway, I thought they were cute. It’s a new line. I got them for people in the office, too. Don’t think I’ll pass them out at the meeting with the boss today, though.

She giggled. I’d like to see Charles Constantine’s face when you invite him to ‘jump to my place.’ Here, you have some. He held out his hand and she let several hearts fall out of the box. What do they say?

‘Past you by.’ P-A-S-T. Ha. ‘Out of date.’ Dealt me quite a hand here. What’s this one? ‘George Merrill is a time-jumping loser.’

It does not say that.

You’ll never know, he told her, eating it. And then there’s… He squinted at the last little heart, and his sank. Same as the one before, really. His voice betrayed him, though.

George? What is it? Marisol took the piece of candy from his hand. ‘Past tense,’ she read, and looked at him questioningly.

Olivia always complained about the verb tenses when we jumped, he said, not really explaining.

Any news?

How would there be? But the doctors will clear me to fly any day—if my lung was going to go for a third collapse it would have done it by now—and then I’m heading for Europe to… do whatever I can.

Oh, George.

"I’ll be back. We’ll be back."

Tears lurked in Marisol’s eyes. You find her, George.

Thanks. Bye. He put the remaining candy hearts into her hand, patting it, then hesitantly leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. A whisper of jasmine scent came off her skin, a synthetic enhancement, taken internally, of the sort time jumpers were banned from using. Synthetic, but very much a part of Marisol as he’d known her, and he couldn’t help how it stirred him; he’d been without intimate female companionship for almost eleven months even without counting the jumping time. Determinedly faithful to Olivia in his mind, he was still having difficulty convincing his body to go along. He pulled back quickly, and the corner of Marisol’s mouth twitched up.

Happy Valentine’s Day, she said in a tart voice, now looking and sounding ten years older than her real age.

Ha. Well, I must go, and I think your mother wants a word on the way out. He began to make her one of those abbreviated bows he’d picked up in the eighteenth century, that eased partings so well, then paused when she let out a little sound.

George, I— she began, and stopped.

What?

She hesitated. No. Nothing. Sorry. The last word was not an apology for inarticulateness, but he let it pass, finished his bow, and left her.

Marisol’s mother rose from a chair in the dim living room as he approached; she moved with the leonine grace of a trained athlete. Ms. Ferrari? Um… I was pleased to find your daughter much improved.

She stepped forward into the light, twirling one of his roses between her fingers. Yes, she is, isn’t she? The doctors have been wonderful. She ought to be back to normal very soon now. Ferrari paused, her fingers stilling on the stem of the rose; she looked him in the eye and added in the same honeyed tones, No thanks to you, of course.

That was hard to answer. Had George been absent when Brant materialized on Tim’s platform out of the year 1784, Marisol would have been on duty in any case. Whether Brant would have stabbed or shot her before he was whisked away again was impossible to tell; if she’d done what she was told he might have left her alone. Or might not. The immediate cause of her injury, however, was her attempt—foolish, useless, undeniably courageous—to save George from Brant’s bullet by sounding the alarm. And George had been there for possibly laudable but certainly nonprofessional reasons. At the moment Brant had appeared, he’d been prone on the floor asking Marisol’s forgiveness for the pain he’d caused her in the past. A knife in the stomach was poor recompense.

I do blame myself, ma’am, he said, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.

You’d better. You nearly killed her. Brant held the knife, George thought, but didn’t say it aloud. I’m glad you dropped in today, since you’ve got an obligation to her. But this shouldn’t become a regular indulgence. You’re not good for her.

Just color me pink and stamp PAST TENSE on me, and I’ll make your teeth rot. I quite realize that, ma’am—

Well, I wish you’d realized it earlier, then. She turned away, and George was preparing to apologize again when she went on: I know what happened with the Tea Party jump.

Oh shit. Marisol, what did you say? She’d been delirious for a long time—or so Beatrice had reported—and her babblings might have let her mother put the tale together. Or, though George hated to think it, she could have explained the whole thing while in her right senses, if she’d resented him enough.

Listen— he began.

I wonder if you just do it for the notches in your bedpost, Ferrari went on, plucking rose petals and letting them drop one at a time to the floor, or if it’s more malicious than that? You didn’t seem to care what my innocent daughter might lose by it.

There was no way to say it gracefully: I wasn’t the first, and I wasn’t the last; I was the guy in the middle, or so your daughter tells me. And George wasn’t certain Ferrari was referring to Marisol’s virginity, though to some people that kind of innocence still meant a lot, if not as much as it had while the virginity cults held sway in the twenties and thirties. She’s an adult woman, he tried. She’s capable of making her own choices.

She most certainly is. And I believe she’s too smart to choose you. The last of the rose petals fell, and Ferrari thrust the stem toward him. Even without the fancy private education and the useless degree in music. College over the net was good enough for everyone in this family.

God, Marisol, did you give her my entire biography? Of course—

"Your sort always think they can get away with anything, especially with someone who’s actually worked to get their job. It’s a good job, and it should be less dangerous than mine or my husband’s—Ferrari’s eyes were intent on his, uncompromising and formidable—and she needs to keep it. She doesn’t know yet how rough the working world can be, and she doesn’t deserve to find out like this."

Not her virginity, then. Her professional reputation. And unlike the other, that charge had some validity. He wasn’t sure any longer whose idea it had really been to disguise Tim’s readings so that Andy Bishop, whose name wasn’t on the contract, could jump along with George to the Boston Tea Party—and, incidentally, save him from being drowned in the harbor by overenthusiastic colonials—but it was Marisol who’d been most likely to lose her job as a result, and she’d gone along mostly because of an absurd crush on George. Her reward had been one date, one night of sweaty jasmine-scented passion, and the opportunity to watch him fall madly in love with another woman while he left her hanging. Fucked her and dumped her. And forgot to tell her. But getting her fired might have been worse.

No one ever found out, he said, untruthfully and inadequately.

Not from what I hear. Or else why is her boss talking about not letting her come back?

Just recently? Ferrari nodded. That might be… something else, then. Something that, naturally, George was not allowed to talk about. But not my fault this time. I hope. It’s got to do with politics, he hastened to add. An international relations thing. Nothing personal.

That job is important to Marisol. And to me, Ferrari said, her voice now entirely drained of sweetness. "You’re going to see that she keeps it. And if you step out of line one more time, I will report you, and you’ll lose your job. I promise you that. I’ve had an ear to the ground about you for a while. And an eye following you."

Any other body parts I should know about? George almost interjected before thinking better of it. I’ll do my best, he said; the shrug in his voice came through too clearly and Ferrari tensed.

You’ll do better. The steady gaze grew more threatening as she moved nearer to George. She looked very like her daughter, and that made the closeness disconcerting, but thoughts of womanly attraction were far from his mind now. I know about St. Agatha, too, she breathed.

What? he managed. How in hell…?

You heard me. And now I think you’d better leave. Thank you for the flowers. She waved at the petals scattered on the carpet, and slapped the naked stem into his hand, which closed about it automatically. He mustered what dignity he had left and turned for an exit, and then back as Ferrari added, And by the way.

Yes? he began to reply, and the fist caught his open jaw, slamming his head back into solid faux oak; sagging, he slid down the door to his knees, feeling like he’d been kicked by a horse.

Don’t you dare come near my daughter again, Ferrari said, and walked away.

* * * * *

George spent the rest of the trip to the office rubbing his jaw and thinking about everything he could have said to Ferrari but hadn’t. Not a sufferer from l’esprit d’escalier, he always managed to come up with clever responses on the spot; sorting out the ones that got him into worse trouble from the ones he could actually vocalize was a skill he had finally mastered at thirty-one. Not regretting his silence, and its attendant weakness, wasn’t. The trip was slow, with heavy traffic.

When he came in the door, Constantine and Associates’ receptionist was—an unusual circumstance of late—sitting at the reception desk. Dear Beatrice, he said, handing over what looked to be a highly redundant box of chocolates, pray add me as a footnote to your list of Valentines, and answer me a question. Is the TTI laying off staff already? Isn’t that a little premature? The wrinkles around her eyes deepened with amused curiosity, and he explained: Marisol.

Really? I hadn’t heard anything, but… She gave him a keen glance. I’ll look into it.

She’s not even the most recent hire, he added. Nothing definite yet, but I take her worries seriously. Beatrice, you’re an angel.

You owe me a drink, said the angel dryly. And Charles wants you in conference room two in twenty minutes. Bruises and all.

George took his bruises off down the hall, and made his way to the vast cavern of the jumpers’ room, honeycombed with tiny six-sided office spaces. The room was not usually this crowded, but few of his colleagues were out on jumps or recovering from them afterwards: a bad sign. He took the least-populated route, dodging the welcome back greetings thrown his way, and ducked into his own workspace feeling relieved.

That was record time; it used to take me fifteen minutes on a quiet day. Not only had he become less gregarious over the last year, but people had stopped expecting it of him. The steady stream of gossip, facetious congratulations, bragging about exploits, flirting—especially flirting—had dried up, or ran along a different course now; the map had altered and he felt alien in his own country. It’s all Olivia’s fault, part of his brain informed him before he could twist the thought into All due to Olivia. He owed her a great deal, of course: the discovery that his heart had more staying power than he’d given it credit for; and, for whatever it was worth, his life. But he’d changed, knowing her; and change was awkward.

Realizing that yet again he was making himself conspicuous by standing stock-still in the middle of his cubicle staring into Olivia’s vacated one next door, he sank onto his chair and fixed his inattention on the hovering net image above his desk. There was a report he’d promised Charles, and had even worked on desultorily for a day or so last week, before cutting short his return from sick leave and disappearing again. He called the report up now and gazed blankly at it, wishing he were anywhere else. Preferably, wherever Olivia was.

Well, dammit, I know where she is. Or… was. Brant had kidnapped her using one of the new-on-the-market personal time-jumping devices, Jardine International’s Saut de Soi. The device’s advantage was freedom from a government lab, the ability to manage jumps entirely on your own with whatever you could carry—Brant had presumably carried Olivia—but this was balanced by the inability to travel in space as well as in time. Where you started was where you finished, and you did your research to be certain you didn’t end up buried or stuck inside a wall or falling out of the sky. George hoped Brant had done his research. In any case, the where was easy: Vienna. He just didn’t know the when. And in his experience, whens were much larger than wheres. Or… not larger but more profoundly divisible, each second a separate universe, each rivulet of time an unbridgeable waterway. Land on the wrong bank of the Danube and you could cross; jump to the wrong month and you might as well be centuries away.

A knocking startled him; he spun around and then breathed out with relief. Sneaky, he told Rinaldo Dickinson, who sketched him an at-ease salute in response and leaned on the table forming one side of George’s doorway.

Years of patient training. Besides, you’re easy to creep up on these days. Have a good weekend? Who punched you at the wedding?

No one, George said, declining the bait. I danced with the lovely bride and shook hands with the unreasonably lucky groom, and ate some very nice cake, and tried to avoid telling people what I do for a living. What’s going on?

We have a meeting in a few minutes. I thought I’d remind you.

You too? Who else?

The Big Three. Rinaldo’s official tenure at Constantine and Associates had only been half a year—though apparently he’d been on some private payroll for months prior to that—and, the consummate outsider, it had taken him a while to pick up the slang, but he used it easily enough now. You needed company experience to realize how much Charles Constantine depended on Seema Pezek, his Chief Financial Officer, and Fred Nez, who held the title of North American Coordinator but could just as easily have been known as Boss’s Right Arm. Only Boss’s Soul and Conscience, out at the reception desk, knew him better.

Beatrice going to be there? George asked, and Rinaldo shook his head. How about Andy?

A slower, more meaningful shake. No. You know, you’d think—

Would you now? broke in George. I don’t see why. What Olivia let slip in pillow talk doesn’t count as being invited into the Inner Circle.

True enough. But secrets are secrets. Rinaldo’s lip twitched slightly, but not in a smile. You haven’t even come close to forgiving him, have you?

It’s a little more complicated than that. A pause followed. How was your Civil War jump last week?

The usual chaos. I truly must thank Sam Brant some day for providing me with a persuasive minor battle injury—Rinaldo held up his right, four-fingered hand—"so that I continue to land all the jumps having to do with warfare. Of course, I landed them all before he chopped it off, so it’s actually irrelevant, but he doesn’t have to know that. Anyway, the main benefit to the month I spent there was that John Mosby was a blessing to the eyes, and I got to look at him a lot."

How pleasant for you. Though I actually meant to ask how the jump itself went, the transfer.

Oh, for your survey. Nothing out of the ordinary. Not at all like jumping to Vienna in January: no bumps, no unusual awareness, no visual flashes amid the blankness.

Well, that’s consistent at least. George sighed.

Still only European jumps, then?

I haven’t heard about rough rides going anywhere else. The official statistics did not document the jumpers’ dizziness and feelings of abandonment, or use metaphors involving choppy seas and nineteenth-century railroads. But they did show that three-quarters of jumps to Europe in the last two months had been disrupted in some way, affecting dozens of jumpers; several had landed in the wrong place and fifteen (ten from America, four from Europe, one from India) had never returned. Urban areas were more vulnerable than rural; the period of the jump seemed to matter not at all.

Thought it was imagination when it happened to me, Rinaldo added. Or Tim playing tricks.

George laughed. I wouldn’t say that in front of the lubbers. They don’t think he’s real. But me too, with the Amsterdam jump.

Did you interview the TTI team who brought me home? Since I was unconscious at the time, I can’t help you, but it would be interesting to know what happened to them.

They didn’t notice anything. But the problem wasn’t as widespread then. All the disappearances were in the week before the European Alliance pulled everyone’s jumping rights.

It was a good call, you know. George shrugged, and Rinaldo went on, Inconvenient and frustrating as it may be.

Dammit. I know that. It’s just… George steadied his voice. "They always say, with the rescues, that it doesn’t matter how long you wait to go after someone, since time here has no relevance to time there. And then they always go right away. When they do go, that is, and don’t just leave people to rot—"

It’s on a case by case basis, and sometimes there’s just no chance—

"Yeah. And why are you standing up for the system all of a sudden?"

Rinaldo lifted an eyebrow. It’s worked for me before.

At times George nearly managed to forget that Rinaldo had once been Sam Brant’s jumping partner at a rival company, as well as his co-conspirator in Brant’s first disappearance. On that occasion, Rinaldo’s well-acted description of Brant’s tragic death during the Stamp Act riots had persuaded the TTI that no rescue attempt was necessary.

Anyway, Rinaldo went on reasonably, no one could have gone after Olivia if they didn’t know where to go. I know you’re willing to jump blind and wave your arms around in hopes of hitting her, but it’s not very practical, and besides you had to get yourself fixed up first. The jumping ban is just bad luck. And I really think we ought to get to that meeting now.

Agenda: calm down, George; we’re doing everything we can; be patient; and by the way, where’s that report? Right? Do I still have to go? He waved a hand to close the floating report, shoved back his chair, and got to his feet. They walked in silence all the way to the conference room.

Come in, said Charles pleasantly when the door opened. I’ve got a proposition for you both. George, how would you like to go to Moscow again?

* * * * *

So let me get this straight. You’re throwing Rinaldo as a bone to the Russians in exchange for sneaking me around the jumping ban?

They’re not going to eat him, George, said Charles. They value expertise, as you may recall from your own visits. And Rinaldo has a certain fund of knowledge that will come in handy.

Oh, shit, came a murmur at George’s side. Napoleon. Sevastopol. The Russo-Japanese War. The siege of Leningrad. Shit.

We may be able to do them some other favors as well, Charles added.

Essentially, it’s bribery, put in Seema, apparently unperturbed. There was probably a line item in the budget.

Charles cleared his throat in a way that managed to sound both aggrieved and amused. I prefer to think of it as keeping the door open.

"Haven’t you got a foot in the door already? George asked him. Or have I been entertaining fantasies all these years about your status with the DSI? Don’t you have a rank and a number and a book full of secret passwords, and license to kill, and your own airship full of gorgeous women?" Charles was, in fact, either celibate or extremely circumspect about sex, and had never killed anyone as far as George knew (though he wouldn’t have bet on it), nor had his association with the U.S. Department of Security and Intelligence been consuming enough to take away from a long career on the history faculties of several universities prior to becoming a time travel contractor. But the exaggeration prompted a sharp-edged smile.

There’s a thing called the chain of command, George. Heard of it? No? Didn’t think so.

Dammit, boss. If I’ve neglected to follow your orders a time or two—

Not likely, since I never give them. That wasn’t what I—

I bet Olivia thought she was following orders. And Bernard. George reined himself in; he could see Fred preparing for patient intervention, and Rinaldo looking faintly alarmed. Sorry. Old news. But the DSI can’t help?

That’s what I meant, said Charles. Though in this case it’s not so much a matter of command hierarchy as of interdepartmental cooperation. Olivia is the TTI’s responsibility—except where Intercrim has precedence because of the kidnapping on Austrian soil—while the DSI is concerned with Brant and the other Arcadians, like Kaufmann and Jardine. But Brussels won’t let us touch them, and the State Department is pretending appeasement while still trying to get its own way. Everyone is stepping on everyone else’s toes.

And instead of stepping harder you think you can dance around them? They do dance well in Moscow, I’ll give them that. Especially after several glasses of vodka. Last time I was there, the things they did to Rimsky-Korsakov… well, never mind. He watched Seema and Fred file this under That Crazy George, and went on. Are you sure you want to be in their pockets that deep, though? And take the responsibility for the risk to Rinaldo?

It’s fine, George— Rinaldo began, but Charles cut him off.

He shouldn’t have to actually do the jumps himself, just consultations. And it may be the only way to reach Olivia.

Who is the TTI’s responsibility, you say.

Charles made a gesture of conciliation. Ours. Mine, and yours. Better?

Much, thank you. Their eyes met, briefly. Well, I can still see some difficulties—not knowing where to go being one, and wondering whether I’ll get there and back again being another—but I’m relieved to be the designated rescue team.

We thought you’d prefer it that way, said Seema. Or rather, she went on with a rare smile, we couldn’t stand the thought of being anywhere near you while someone else was doing the honors.

And besides, Fred added, there’s the DNA issue. Though we don’t know yet how it affects your jumps on the Russian machine, rather than Tim—

They call it the Ferryman, interrupted George. "Perevozchik. And various diminutives. You mean it’s possible I won’t be able to get to Olivia from Moscow, if Brant’s jumped them into a time breach? A looped breach, I mean. I realize the risk of the other kind."

We really don’t have enough data on that to speculate, said Fred. But on the whole it seems more likely that having jumped with Olivia you are a better candidate for reaching her than someone who hasn’t.

Rinaldo’s jumped with Brant, George said, and then wondered why he had mentioned it. Surely he’d be better off working on his own, no matter how dependable he’d come to consider his friend. He’d grown too used to having a partner.

"Sounds like I’ll be busy lecturing Russians who like getting shot at. God help me, I don’t even speak Russian. Rinaldo held up the maimed hand against retorts. Yes, I can cram one more lot of grammar and vocabulary into my head. If necessary."

Thank you, said Charles. Now, I’ve got to talk money with Seema for a while, but I think the short form goes…?

We can keep out of the red, Seema reported, without cutting staff, if Fred manages to win as many American-based contracts as possible; luckily there are still lots of Revolutionary War reenactment studies up for grabs. You’ll get paid, she went on, turning to George and Rinaldo. At non-jumping rates, I’m afraid, though I believe that should cover the rent and the bar bills.

Ha, said George. So—when do we leave?

Friday, if possible, said Charles.

Four days to pack is generous. We’ll get on it. And how about—

Fred will give you anything you need; he’s taken over what European duties there are, since… well.

Yes, I was going to ask—

I can answer questions later. Right now the financial situation— and somehow George found himself outside the room with Rinaldo, questions still outweighing answers.

Isn’t Friday traditionally an inauspicious day to begin a journey? Rinaldo asked when the door closed behind them.

I haven’t had an auspicious moment in months. Why start now?

There was at least one extremely auspicious-looking moment between you and Olivia that I walked in on at the hospital, Rinaldo said, grinning. Or doesn’t that count? No, I suppose not. Considering. His grin faded. Well, I’d better get started on the Russian. I should be able to learn at least ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye,’ and ‘get your head down, you idiot!’ in four days.

When he was gone George reversed his steps and headed back out to the lobby. Beatrice had a box of chocolates open and was reaching for one as he got to the desk. Five kilos on the hips every Valentine’s Day, and I’ve been an unattached widow for thirty years, she said. Have one. Or two. You like the cherries, right?

I’m easy, he answered, picking a chocolate at random and not eating it. Beatrice—

I haven’t had a chance to call anyone at the TTI yet, dear. Sorry.

That’s all right. I was wondering if you were doing anything after work. She raised her eyebrows at him. If not, could we go find that drink I owe you?

Chapter Two

15 February 2174

So I put on my best mother confessor face—that’s what he thinks I am, you know—and since he seemed unsure where to begin, I made a guess. ‘It’s not that you don’t want to find Olivia,’ I said, ‘or that your feelings for her have altered any. But her disappearance left the two of you at a delicate stage. You would have taken the next steps naturally if you’d been left to yourselves, but Sam Brant got in the way, and now your reunion is more of a giant leap, and you think you’re going to fall off a cliff.’ Beatrice sat back and crossed her legs—really the sofa in Charles’s apartment was getting rather flaccid in its old age; she ought to encourage a new one—and went on.

"I was about to tell him not to worry—and was feeling quite proud of myself; the look on his face was priceless—when he informed me that I was exhibiting my usual brand of precipitant clairvoyance, because that was exactly how he felt, but not what he’d bought me a drink to talk about. And I said, ‘Oh, Marisol then?’ and he said, ‘No. Janet.’ And I’m afraid I started to laugh."

Charles smiled. George and his catalogue of women. Though Janet’s hardly one of them.

No, but he’s oddly concerned about her. And he doesn’t care for the silence. Neither, to be honest, did Beatrice.

I can’t tell him any more than I have.

The tension in Charles’s voice warned her to tread gently. Officially, I understand, she’s simply disappeared. Less officially, she’s joined the Arcadians. George thought that unlikely.

Really? He’s made his dislike of her pretty plain. And vice versa, I must say. Whenever I announced George’s assignment to a European jump, under Janet’s supervision, they’d both flinch. I used to draw attention to the relationship on purpose. Quite amusing.

It’s not a matter of liking or disliking. There are Arcadians George likes. He seemed taken by this Nora Dijkman he met in Utrecht, and of course her brother and sister-in-law. And then there’s Bernard—

Who was never an Arcadian. Charles’s tone was like a flail of grass, supple but sharp-edged. And I didn’t think George liked him.

Something of a change of heart there, I’ve gathered. Though more to do with finally finding the right scent on each other after much circling and growling than with anything ideological. She laughed and reached for her wine. Unless I’m too distracted by the picture of Bernard as male animal to understand what George was getting at.

Bea! You continually manage to surprise me.

"Didn’t you ever wonder why he suddenly upped and married a woman half his age? I admit Olivia has enough brains to suit the most cerebral of professors, but…"

He didn’t have to marry a student to find someone who’d have sex with him.

Not sex, I think, per se. Beauty. He did teach art history, after all.

She’s not really that pretty, said Charles, his objective-scholar-not-swayed-by-feeling expression firmly in place.

No, but she’s beautiful. Weren’t you ever jealous?

He settled back into his chair, put his head slightly to one side, and gazed at her for a moment, his expression unaltered. No. Not at all.

Thirty years dropped away, without even a blink. She let the seconds pass, heart thumping uncontrollably, then broke the moment with words she thought she’d forgotten. Turn and give heed; not in my eyes alone is Paradise.

Dante? he said, looking away, and took a sip of his own drink. You do still manage to lure me off-topic with facility, I must say. What were we talking about?

"Janet. And her relationship to the Arcadians. You lured me off-topic, I suspect."

Ah. Well, I shouldn’t think George finding some Arcadians likeable is logically consistent with his assigning Janet to the category because he dislikes her, but then George is not a logician. Beatrice was about to object that George’s feelings and deductive ability weren’t the point, when Charles made a turn in the right direction. However, I think the relevant dislike here is Janet’s for me.

You didn’t treat her very well.

As an employee, no. I did not. She was quite right that my withholding information interfered with her ability to do her job properly. But that doesn’t seem reason to run off to Europe and start consorting with—

The enemy? You do have a black-and-white view of things, Charles.

The Arcadians in Europe pose a real threat. They’ve always been in favor of more access to time travel, and now that they have the means—

Perhaps. But you’re not in a good position to argue that; people will think you’re just protecting your own profits. And those of your competitors, no doubt. Why should anyone hire a very expensive firm to do their time travel research when they can make a one-time purchase and do it themselves without government interference?

And play around in the past like children crawling through tunnels and going down slides? Or worse, trying to build the playground themselves. That’s what I’m afraid of, not losing business.

Time breaches?

Bound to happen. Either by accident or not.

Like Bernard. And yes, if the breaches are looped and can be entered from our point in time, that could cause confusion for jumpers. But still, it’s an industry problem.

It’s everyone’s problem. And it will interfere with legitimate research.

Those new children in the neighborhood, she said, smiling, wanting to play in our sandbox.

Wanting to dig holes in every inch of it, and piss in them.

Charles! Where did you grow up? Comfortable banter: she knew the names of the cities and the reputations of the streets, by heart. I do see, though. This is a control issue. We’re the government, ma’am; let us do our job.

He opened his mouth, shut it again and frowned at her. You used to be more tolerant.

There’s one government man I still tolerate frequently. When he isn’t being deliberately disingenuous. She waited: he was thinking about it. Say, say to her, oh say, Heart whispered. No, Dante would not help her now.

Explain to me, she said instead. Why are you so worried about something that hasn’t happened yet and may not? Personal use of the Saut de Soi is already against the law in this country, and Europe may follow suit.

She was playing devil’s advocate: smuggling and illegal operation of an easily disguised device would be difficult to detect, and the U.S. and E.A.—the latter vacillating madly in any case—were not the whole world. But it got him talking; he pointed these things out to her and added: And who says it hasn’t happened?

The jumping problems in Europe, then?

Possibly. I’m a historian, not a physicist. I’ll let other people figure out how.

The best person to ask would be Gerrit Dijkman. After all, he designed the thing.

Charles twitched. No one else would have noticed, but Beatrice knew him down to muscles and raw nerves. But I suppose it’s too late, she went on, unless someone wants to jump to seventeenth-century Holland. And they’re not allowed, are they?

He hasn’t left yet.

It was a reluctant admission, so she didn’t ask how he knew. George is still beating himself up over telling Nora he’d met them, she said. It doesn’t make instinctive sense, of course. They arrived in Holland long before either Bernard or George and Olivia, so it was easy to assume they’d left long before as well. But that’s not how time travel works, and George should have recognized the possibility.

Yes. I don’t know how much harm it’s done.

All Nora said back in December was they were leaving early in the year. Does mid-February still count as early? Do you think they’ve been held up?

Perhaps.

He’d gone laconic again. Well, there was no use pushing. She changed the subject. What about Simone Jardine? Do you think she’ll get in touch with George? Another twitch: this was intriguing. He did try to show Nora he was interested in associating with the Arcadians, she went on, but it seems Brant may have spilled the beans to Kaufmann about his real loyalties.

Charles took a sip of his drink and then examined it thoughtfully. "What are George’s real loyalties, I wonder?"

You’re not doubting him?

I’ve known him for five years. I’ve always been able to rely on him. But…

You’re not sure why? Charles gestured her to go on. She who finishes sentences. An unusual job description, but it paid well enough. Loyalties, hm. He has no allegiance to the abstract, of course. He’s not a patriot, like you, nor does he have my blind faith in an invisible deity. Charles’s lip curled; they were his words. He’s worked very hard for you, though he pretends laziness when it suits him. Apparently he’s devoted to the job.

It satisfies a craving for adventure and novelty.

Yes, but I think there’s more than that. A craving for reality, perhaps? To be sure, he could take care of that by becoming a carpenter or a gardener. But I don’t mean ‘real’ in the physical sense, entirely, though certainly George has an appetite for the physical that—

Bea, I’m tempted to pour you another glass of wine. That’s the second time this evening you’ve looked faintly libidinous.

How unexpected of me. The look in his eyes was a challenge; she held out the glass. We might as well make the experiment, she said. Charles tipped the bottle with great precision, as though he were measuring the dose in milliliters.

So, he said, rising to fill his own glass from the cocktail tray on the sideboard, what aspect of reality were you referring to, then?

People, I suppose. And their worlds. It reassures George to travel through time and discover humanity in its sameness and variety, human nature in its horror and glory, and all the echoes of his own heart and soul.

Sometimes I thought he wouldn’t come back.

She shook her head. You see, he thinks you’re real too. And you’re his boss. He has a simple mind, in a lot of ways. Like a puppy.

Is this about the growling and circling again?

No, no. The gratitude of puppies. Oh, dear. I have had too much wine. All right, not that; he’s too resentful of being helped. But you did take him in, and he’s been sitting and staying ever since. What trouble was it again you rescued him from when you first met?

I wouldn’t say I rescued him. Reeled him in, perhaps. Maybe you should compare him to a fish, instead. He grinned. Would you like a loaf of bread with that simile? Did you know, by the way, he added, wandering further afield, that what really settled us on the path to theocracy in the mid-twenty-first century, the actual last turning point, was a joint effort between the government’s nutrition experts and the advocates for responsible use of aquatic resources, in which they rewrote the biblical tale so what Jesus had to work with was a basket of pita, a bowl of hummus, and a tomato?

They didn’t think anyone would notice?

It was only a media campaign. But it did put the final straw on the camel’s back of church and state separation. And at the same time cast that administration, the last one with any restraint, out into the desert of public opinion.

Well, sure. They forgot the parsley and the lettuce. If they were going to be blasphemous and idiotic both, they should at least have made a complete sandwich. And the tomato was anachronistic. She paused. Have you got any crackers?

He laughed. Some of those little rice ones you like, I think. I’ll be right back. Feel free to fill up your glass. He ducked into the kitchen; she could hear him humming something dirgelike and tuneless that meant he was pleased with himself.

Trying to get me drunk, Charles? Why? Not for the usual reason men tried to get women drunk, or at least what she’d been told as a girl was the reason, though it hadn’t worked out that way in practice when she grew into womanhood. Neither her husband nor her lover had then been a drinker; Charles was still moderate in his imbibing. Tony, of course, was long dead. No doubt he had died clean, sober and irreproachable, with every medal he’d won pinned to his chest. Poor Tony. She had no remaining evidence, no clear memory or written record, of why it was she had married him; the sorrow and guilt attached to his death were etched onto her soul forever. By dying, he had molded her existence far more than by living.

However, one could not alter the past—not even with a time machine, as they all knew quite well—and there was no use wallowing. She adjusted her expression to reflect the right sort of hunger, and took another sip of wine, so that when Charles reentered the room he caught her with the glass in her hand and smiled.

He put down his tray and fixed her a cracker with a pinkish topping; it tasted of fish. She gave him a severe look. Neither blasphemous nor environmentally unfriendly, he defended himself. But not a very good match for Chianti; sorry. He ate two of the crackers himself and then abruptly asked, So do you consider George stable enough to handle whatever’s coming his way in Russia?

She considered, letting the wine bathe her tongue. As long as he has a job to do he’ll be fine.

That’s what I thought. I don’t doubt his ability to rescue Olivia if he can find her. What if he can’t?

Well, he’s handling frustration much better these days. After all, he’s had a lot of practice recently. Very little of that sense, when you’re with him, of standing in the middle of a small room while he throws himself into the walls. More that he’s looking for a ladder to climb up to the windows. Refreshing. She hesitated before going on, having not yet isolated what it was Charles was holding back. He came up to me today, looking like a different man than last night, and said he knew where Olivia was—beyond just Vienna, I mean—but he wouldn’t tell me; superstition, perhaps.

Ah. That. I suggested it to him, though I believe he thinks he figured it out on his own. And I did advise him to use caution, though I didn’t expect he’d extend it to you. Get him in private and he’ll open up, no doubt.

And what would he say? she prompted.

Well, you remember last fall when George and Olivia were doing all those jumps trying to find Brant in Europe? Using that diary?

She nodded. Before he left England, Brant had written a list of dates and locations in a notebook—4 July 1776, Salzburg, and the like—and left it with his housekeeper. Rinaldo had retrieved it for them. Following Brant as he traced his prewritten map around the continent, George and Olivia had never quite come close enough to put their hands on him. Frustrating and expensive, she noted. Charles had complained about the expense, even though he’d only borne the loss of George and Olivia’s labor. He had not expressed any frustrations.

Nor had he shown any joy at the project’s end, and she heard none in his response now. It was worth it, though, don’t you think? In Maine.

We just had trouble wrapping our heads around it. And I wish we had managed to. When the partners had reached Vienna in March of 1782, the last location on Brant’s list, they were given a note with the next hint about his whereabouts. Except this time, once the researchers had deciphered the cryptic words about rivers and traitors, it led George and Olivia to a date earlier than any other: they’d arrived at the mouth of the Kennebec in September of 1775 in time to watch Benedict Arnold set off to attack Canada, and also in time to capture Brant and bring him home. Seven years before they’d last seen him.

In fact, Brant had remained in Vienna until 1784, when he unexpectedly encountered Rinaldo, there on a research jump. He’d hit his former partner over the head and cut off his finger for the DNA necessary to hijack the time machine on its return trip, but not before extracting from Rinaldo news of the events in Maine. Then Brant had returned to the TTI lab, forced Marisol to enter the coordinates for the last stage of his journey, stabbed her and shot George, and vanished into 1775 to meet his fate.

Quite probably we couldn’t have done anything to prevent the disaster, said Charles. But the point is that Brant didn’t find out about his capture in Maine until Rinaldo told him, in seventeen eighty-four. And yet—

He knew in eighty-two. If he sent that note. She looked at Charles and caught his nod. "Of course. He did send it, but not that him. Not the one who lived there, but the one who visited there with Kaufmann’s help, from today’s Vienna. She paused. With Olivia. That doesn’t make sense. Why does he need her? You’d think she’d make the job harder. Charles shrugged. Anyway, George can find her now," she added.

He has somewhere to look, yes. Fewer wasted jumps. The Russians won’t be indulgent forever.

The offhand tone shocked her, even more than the months of ambivalence over the pursuit of Brant in Europe. She thought she knew what had been behind that, but this was inexplicable. And it gets him out of the way? she asked: this time, a challenge. Charles said nothing in return, only met her gaze with his most infuriating bland expression, then deliberately rose, retrieved the wine, and filled her glass again.

Unless you’d prefer sake to go with the crackers? he said. I believe I have an ancient bottle in the back of a cupboard.

What right do I have to think, hm? The quote from his favorite old movie did nothing to break his equanimity.

Well, there are other means of blurring deductive faculties, he said, returning to his chair and facing her again, but that would go against our long tacit agreement.

The point of tacit agreements is you don’t talk about them. I’m too old for hangovers, Charles.

Sixty-two isn’t old.

How generous from the man of fifty-six. And don’t begin a speech about the charms of older women; stay on topic. What is it you don’t want me to say?

His mouth twitched; it was too simple a ploy. I only wanted to ask your opinion of George’s psychological fitness. That’s all.

He’s fine. No, he wasn’t; but she didn’t want to discuss the effects of guilt, the tyranny of momentum, and what she thought was the beginning of awareness that grace and mercy played a role in his existence. Though to her mind he’d made an error in equating Olivia with that grace, or perhaps with the workings of his own conscience. Every time I’m about to make an utter fool of myself, she turns up and stops me, he’d said. And all I want to do is lie down on the ground and humble myself, and thank her. But I can’t, because there’s never time; the job doesn’t wait. I want a chance to say how much I owe her, and how little I deserve her. And I don’t think I’m going to get it. And then, very quietly: I’m almost afraid to get it. He felt in himself only the chill of fear and uncertainty, but to Beatrice he burned almost visibly with determination as well, and she thought fire would win in the end.

She also thought he hadn’t considered that Olivia might owe him something as well.

I shouldn’t worry about him, she said to Charles. All you can really do with George is set him loose and see what happens, anyway. I realize that’s against your philosophy.

The one where I think they’re all toy soldiers I’m moving around a battlefield?

That one, yes, she said, her breath catching. An exaggeration, I’m sure.

He ate another cracker, then turned his attention to his drink. She gave him the moment; it was only more time, after all. It hurt, losing Bernard, he said finally. I was so certain that it was my fault. But I couldn’t tell anyone.

Olivia had the right to know. So did I, Beatrice wanted to say.

"I would have told her I thought he was dead. In the present day,