Chronicles of a Time Traveler: Time Amazon, #4

By Doug Molitor

The future will be stranger than you can imagine.

Humanity faces extinction, unless time travelers Ariyl Moro and David Preston can unravel the connection between Thomas Edison, asteroid mining, the Golden Age of Pirates, killer robots and a bevy of Hollywood sex goddesses.

Sci-fi meets romantic comedy...with sword-swinging adventure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Third Street Press
• Release date: Jun 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781948142304

Book preview

1

Outback To The Future

Compared to the humiliating chaos that was the Preston family dinner in Los Angeles in 2018, I actually found it a relief to end up in the ice-locked Australian outback in the summer of 2109 A.D. (We had made the time-leap from the back alley behind the steakhouse, as cops banged on the locked door whose knob had been snapped off by one of the girls.)

We saw nothing but deep snow and freezing gray skies. Jumping back a decade at a time, we found the same frigid vista in 2099, 2089, 2079, and 2069.

However, January first, 2059, we were in a typical Aussie hot spell, albeit cranked up to fifty-six degrees Celsius by mid-century global warming.

No, we didn’t bring a smart phone to ask for the weather, as it seemed likely the software and satellite links of a 2018 phone would be utterly obsolete in the latter twenty-first century. We only knew the temperature because my mentor, physicist Sven Bergstrom, had supplied me with his old mercury thermometer.

Time Travel Agent Dylila Duprae tried 2065, then 2060, then June 2059, but at each date, the shift to the ice age had already begun. So it was back to a broiling New Year’s Day 2059, and then moving forward day by day, until January sixth, when the Crystal refused to move us to the next date, or even to midnight. That meant the date of the apocalypse was January sixth, 2059 A.D.

After the sub-zero chill, it was a pleasure to experience the hot red dryness of the Gibson Desert, a hundred miles east of Kiwirrkurra Community. At least for the first ten seconds or so, until the wall of stifling hot air, the sizzling sand, and the searing sun went to work on me; I began sweating from every pore, especially under my hair.

I stripped off my flannel shirt and tied the sleeves around my head, with the back of the shirt protecting my neck, kind of a half-assed kaffiyeh. Meanwhile Dylila and my love, Ariyl Moro, morphed their SmartFab dresses into bikinis, and their jackets into beach towels.

Yes, the girls were actually going to sunbathe while we waited for Armageddon in arguably the remotest spot on earth. And believe me, I’d have been delighted to view their lush expanses of pulchritude if my entire body was not feeling like a match head being whipped across a rough surface.

We had arrived at noon. In Fahrenheit terms, it was 130 in the shade. And there was no shade. I would not survive till sundown in this inferno.

Did I mention I’d just finished my third glass of wine in ten minutes, give or take ninety years?

I begged Dylila to jump us ahead a few hours.

David, we seriously depleted the Time Crystals’ charge with all this time-hopping. We need enough power left to escape when the war starts.

Well, my bet is that Kiwirrkurra Community is on no one’s nuclear target list. Unless Queensland joined the H-bomb club.

Can you just cool your jets for ten minutes while we soak up some rays? asked Ariyl, who undoubtedly was as immune to melanoma as she was to clubs, swords, and minor bullet wounds.

I can’t cool anything in this incinerator, I snapped. If we can’t jump to sunset, then just kill me now.

In answer, an enormous fireball appeared in the southern sky, trailed by a fast-rising roar and then a sonic boom that almost knocked me over.

What the hell? I exclaimed. Who started this war, Antarctica?

That’s no missile! shouted Dylila.

"It looks like the asteroid in Planet Killer!" yelled Ariyl.

That’s what it is! hollered Dylila, taking hold of her Crystal.

The roar of the blinding white object was ear-splitting as it tore apart the sky, leaving a spreading vapor trail of superheated clouds.

Link Crystals—return to start point! bellowed Dylila.

Nothing happened.

Goddamn it, return to start point! Dylila screamed over the ear-splitting din. She whacked her Crystal. Unlink Crystals! Return to start point!

Still nothing happened.

All of our Crystals were flickering like a porch light about to fail.

Shut your eyes! Dylila shrieked. Don’t look!

Then something happened.

Even through closed eyelids, we could see the entire northwest sky turn as bright as the sun. We waited for seconds that seemed an eternity, and then the three of us were violently thrown to the scorching sand as the desert floor began to writhe like an angry sea. A blast-furnace gale howled till I thought it would pop my eardrums. The Earth was a giant gong just struck by the hardest hammer in the Universe.

Then everything went black.

2

The Family Circus

Iopened my eyes to an extreme close-up of a cobblestone street. That was because I was lying face down on it. My head was thrumming like a clashed cymbal. I immediately had three burning questions:

Where am I? How did I get here? And most importantly, what the hell’s my name?

Then I threw up. Conveniently, I was lying in the gutter, and my puke ran downhill from me.

From the looks of it, I’d drunk a lot of red wine recently. But I couldn’t remember where or when. I didn’t see much food. Mainly greens and bread.

No wonder I feel so hungry. And thirsty.

I was lying in a deserted alleyway between two brick buildings. It was a brisk but sunny morning. I could feel the world warming up.

Why was I so cold? Perhaps because instead of wearing my shirt, it was tied around my head. I quickly slipped my hands into the sleeves and buttoned it up. Then I got to my feet and walked down the winding alley towards an open square.

My headache was skull-splitting, but I couldn’t pay full attention to it, and still do justice to the existential panic rising within me. I was a man without a past.

Why can’t I remember anything before right now? Is this only amnesia, or something even worse? Have I gone insane?

I felt utterly alone.

Where can I go? Who do I trust?

Most keenly, I felt I was missing someone. Someone very close to me. But who? Was I married? Did I have any family?

There was no wedding ring on my finger.

Yet my loneliness was palpable.

And I was still starving. And parched.

There was a barrel of rainwater near a drain spout. It looked clean and clear. I sniffed it, then cupped my hand for a drink, then swished out my mouth, then splashed my face with the cold water. I was fully awake now, but still lost.

Who am I? Why am I here?

Instinctively, I reached for my hip pocket. Why? Whatever it was I was hoping to find, it certainly wasn’t a pocket full of sand.

Hot sand.

Weird.

---

I looked around. The city was in a valley bordered by forest and snow-capped mountains. There was no shoreline anywhere in sight. It was not a hot day. From the angle of the sun it wasn’t yet midday, and nothing I could see was anywhere near as toasty as the stuff in my pocket. So where did I get it? And what was I doing there?

Of course, that led me back to the big question, of what’s my name. Still no brainstorms on that score.

But it struck me that if I could figure out where I was, perhaps that one simple connection would start to make the rest of the jigsaw puzzle start falling into place.

Unfortunately, I didn’t recognize this city. It was a beautiful old European town in a mountainous region, which didn’t exactly narrow things down. It looked like one of those places that hadn’t changed in centuries.

Speaking of which...that’s when it hit me that I didn’t know what year this was. I didn’t even know what century I lived in. My heart began to pound in terror.

I passed a darkened shop window. Standing in the bright sunshine, I could see my reflection. I looked long and hard: I certainly knew the face, but I still couldn’t put a name to it.

Dark hair, cut short. Blue-gray eyes. Faint depressions on either side of my nose, like I’d worn glasses at some time. But I didn’t have any on me. I seemed taller than average, but not that tall—maybe five-eleven? Late twenties. I was fresh-shaved.

My clothing seemed unremarkable: a dark flannel shirt with a white undershirt, and brand new Levi’s.

At the last second, I noticed the reflection of a huge derelict behind me—as he raised a thick cudgel and tried to brain me with it.

Instinct kicked in. I whirled and blocked the blow, seized his stick and wrenched it from his hands. With a powerful swat he knocked it from my hands—it clattered on the paving stones—then he seized my lapels in a grip of iron.

He no longer had a weapon, but neither did I. We grappled. He was enraged, either drunk or crazy, or more likely both. He wore filthy ragged clothes and reeked of stale beer and fresh vomit, but he was strong and outweighed me by a good forty pounds. I figured I’d had it.

Then some innate muscle memory kicked in. I didn’t know what I was doing, but in a move I’d apparently practiced, I twisted away from my attacker while knocking his hands from me. Then I dropped low and swept his legs out from under him.

He hit the cobblestones hard. Alas, he landed next to his cudgel, and he grabbed it. Providentially, there was a cast-off wooden pole nearby. I seized it and parried his stick, sending it flying, and gave him an extra knock on the noggin. With that, he fell back on the pavement, all the fight gone out of him. I didn’t stick around to check his condition.

I tossed the pole aside and hurried out into the main street, figuring there would be safety in numbers.

The locals seemed to be dressed differently, perhaps more expensively than I was, and more than a few glanced at my garb in curiosity.

I searched around for...what, exactly? Assistance? Police?

I looked back and saw my assailant was still sprawled in the shadows of the alley. I didn’t want to have to explain why I’d knocked him senseless. A policeman would want me to explain myself. He’d certainly ask my name. I had to avoid that question.

After all, what would this town’s police do with a man who admitted he’d lost his memory? Put me in a hospital, a prison, or an asylum? All three seemed equally likely, and equally unacceptable.

I was determined to stay on the outside, in my own custody, until I could spark a familiar memory.

As I crossed the town square, I forced myself to slow to a casual walk. And just in time. A short distance away, a uniformed man with a tall helmet, whom I took to be a constable, turned to me. He gave my clothing a curious inspection. He started toward me, clearly intending to question me, but at that moment, a cute little tyke with blond curls tapped his knee with a woolen cap that was too big for her. She was taking up some kind of collection.

He chuckled, reached into his uniform coat, to give her...well, I have no idea how much he gave her, because I was already quite a few steps away, turning the corner onto a side street, still walking calmly, resisting the urge to panic. I had a sense that looking frightened would not go over well with these people, whoever they were.

I walked one block on that street, then turned right down another alley, heading back towards the town square.

As I did, my fear slowly faded and a strange self-assurance took its place. All right, I was a mite confused for the moment, but I had no reason to be afraid. Somehow, sometime, I had been taught how to wrestle, and possibly to fight with sticks. I had the conviction that my knowledge of fighting was way ahead of anyone here. I was confident I could take down a larger opponent, especially clumsy bumpkins who didn’t know the techniques that I just used. And I could even fight off someone who came at me with a club. That gave me some comfort.

However, knowing I could take care of myself in a brawl didn’t fill my growling stomach. I kept walking, looking around for some sign, some writing, that might orient me geographically.

As I approached the square from this new angle, a brass band struck up a melody. I felt like I should know the name of this tune, but like every other memory at the moment, it eluded me.

I emerged into the bustling marketplace. The aromas of foodstuffs—cooked meats, fried potatoes, freshly baked bread, ripe fruit, flowing beer—being sold in stalls made my hunger pangs twice as sharp.

If there was one fact I did remember, it was that food costs money. And all I had was a pocketful of sizzling grit.

I wandered, pondering my dilemma, weighing the possible consequences of stealing some food. That policeman had looked a bit old for the job—if he was the one they yelled for, I was reasonably sure I could outrun him.

But no. I was not a thief. I felt sure of that. I needed to clear my head, and think my way out of this dilemma.

So deep in thought was I, that I bumped into a big wooden notice board on a post. Painted atop it in old Gothic letters was the name and province of this town:

Zwickau, Sachsen

Sachsen...Saxony. So I’m in Germany.

But that wasn’t what held my attention. Pasted prominently on the board was a gaudy circus poster.

I stared at the young woman in the colored lithograph. Why did she seem so familiar? Had we met?

She was a pretty, robust brunette in circus tights and a leather gladiator skirt. The header on the poster announced:

Die Familie Brumbach präsentiert stolz—die junge Katharina, die weibliche Herkules!

I was arrested by her gaze. She looked proud. Sure of herself. Serene. Exactly the opposite of how I felt at the moment.

And why wouldn’t she look proud? In the crook of each of her arms sat a full grown man. Despite their big mustaches and their athletic builds shown off in circus tights, the two men looked slender compared to her.

Die weibliche Herkules indeed!

Hope surged...could this smiling stronglady be the familiar person who I felt was missing?

Is it possible I know her? Would she know me?

I stared at her face, then noticed the blond hair piled atop her head. Wait, no...why did I imagine it was blond? This girl had brown hair.

Her beaming face seemed like a comforting memory that had been blurred.

But her strength! How could I have met such a powerful woman and not remember?

Probably the same way I could not recall my own name.

Yet I did remember something. For some reason, I was not surprised to see the young lady in the poster lifting two men with such ease. That suggested to me that I must have at least seen her in action.

I read the print below her picture.

100 Goldmark, wenn Sie die mächtige Katharina im Ringkampf besiegen können!

There was a blank space below that on which someone had painted:

Zwickauer Marktplatz. 1-2. Juni 1900.

Ach, heute kommt der Zirkus, commented a well-dressed burgher to my side, appraising the same poster.

The circus arrives today. Which mean today is June first, 1900, I thought.

That date seemed somehow remarkable. Why? Had I forgotten something important, that was scheduled for today?

How should I know? I couldn’t even remember my own birthdate.

But a hundred gold marks! Well, that settled it. Whether I knew this Katharina or not, I desperately needed a grubstake. And it seemed to me there must be far more unpleasant ways to make a hundred marks than winning a wrestling match with a pretty girl.

I might as well try, I said wryly to the man beside me. Even if I lose, how can I lose?

The quip was lost on him. "Verdammter Engländer," he muttered in contempt.

Yes, I suppose he must be right. I’m an Englishman. At any rate, I’m definitely thinking in English. And I just spoke one of those thoughts aloud to a German...who apparently does not care for the English.

I had only a dim recollection of what England and Germany were. No specific history came to mind. I hadn’t the foggiest notion of who led them, nor the current state of affairs between them. I sure hoped that they weren’t at war. Which I had a vague suspicion that they might have been...at some time or another.

Damn it, what was wrong with my memory? I gingerly ran my fingers over my aching skull in search of bruises or bleeding wounds that might explain my confusion. All I found was a lot more sand, so I bent over and vigorously brushed it out of my hair.

With a grunt of disgust, the German moved off into the marketplace crowd. I walked in a different direction, towards the music.

I understood his words. And I understand the poster. Especially about the hundred gold marks. So I speak and read German as well as English. Why? What am I doing in this foreign land, with nothing in my pockets but heated sediment?

I followed the jolly brass melody to what looked like a colorful gypsy caravan, surrounded by a clutch of tents pitched on a nearby greensward. On the grass grazed a brace of draft horses which no doubt hauled this family circus from town to town.

Posters for their show adorned the wagon—renderings of Philippe Brumbach, a carnival strongman, and his wife Johanna, clearly another strongwoman like Katharina, who looked like she might be the pair’s daughter. Philippe was depicted breaking chains with his chest, and Johanna was flexing a biceps that looked bigger than mine.

My hopes were fading that I could have ever known this family. They seemed pretty damned unforgettable, regardless of amnesia.

As I came around the side of the wagon, I found myself facing an audience of four hundred or more. They were pressing in on a square wooden stage three feet high (hinges on the sides suggested it was collapsible for easy transport.) Its boards were covered by padded canvas and ringed by three thick ropes stretched around the four corner posts.

The music came from what had to be the Brumbach Family band, in bright red (if ill-fitting) uniform jackets and caps: four boys and four girls, ranging in age from maybe eighteen down to ten, on trombone, French horn, saxophone, trumpet, cornet, clarinet, flute and glockenspiel.

Strange how I knew the names of those instruments, but not their oh-so-familiar melody.

A tall, strapping woman I recognized as Mama Brumbach blasted away on a tuba, displaying remarkable lung power. You could hear her oompahs for miles.

I counted half a dozen more, even younger Brumbachs: One sitting by the stage minded a toddler sibling, while the other four circulated through the crowd with caps and tambourines, soliciting donations for the show.

At center stage stood an enormous hairy man; he didn’t resemble a weightlifter so much as Bigfoot wearing pants. True to his poster, Philippe Brumbach had a respectable looking iron chain locked tightly around his enormous rib cage. The music was building to a crescendo as he took deeper and deeper breaths. But there were people wearing tall hats in my way. I tried to squeeze around them and insert myself closer to the stage.

"Ungeschickter Dummkopf!" snarled a well-dressed man whose foot I’d accidentally trod upon. He shoved me from behind. I turned.

"Entschuldigen Sie—!" I began. Then I heard a sharp KA-CHINK!

The crowd exclaimed and burst into applause, and as I turned back there was a triumphal flourish from the family band. While stepping on feet, I’d missed Philippe’s big feat. I could see the broken chain lying by his boots. Another flourish from the band, as he held it up for the approval of the audience.

The littlest Brumbachs made another pass with their collection plates.

As if to prime the donor pump, Philippe reached into his pocket, and held up a gold coin as big as your eye, bearing the profile of a mustachioed monarch.

Kaiser Wilhelm the Second! His Majesty’s noble profile adorns this golden coin worth twenty marks, ladies and gentlemen, he announced in German. Then he put three fingers together, and when they opened, he held two coins. He did the same sleight of hand three more times until he was holding a quintet of them. I never saw how he did it. For a huge man, he was awfully dexterous.

Now, he dropped the five of them into his palm, clink-clink-clink-clink, like tiny xylophone notes.

One hundred gold marks for anyone, man or woman, who thinks he can win a wrestling match with one single girl—my eldest daughter, the undefeated Katharina Brumbach!

He gestured grandly at one of the tents lining the back of the ring. The canvas flap lifted, and out stepped the young lady from the poster, wearing a white corset cut like a one-piece bathing suit.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Her siblings’ band struck up another familiar tune. Maybe my mind was starting to clear, because I remembered the title of this one. It was called Ride of the Valkyries. Whatever a Valkyrie was.

Katharina leapt up onto the stage, kicked one long, thick leg over the ropes, then lithely swung the other after it.

Her poster didn’t do her justice.

3

Saxony Single Girl

Junoesque was the word that came to mind. Pretty, yet powerful. Girlish, yet amazonian.

It is only fair that you know what you would-be wrestlers will be letting yourself in for, announced Papa. He held up a shiny horseshoe, and clanked it loudly on the corner post. The finest steel! I allow my horses to be shod with nothing less. Then he held it out to his daughter.

Come, Kati, show the people what you can do with this!

Katharina gripped the U-shaped steel. With a tight smile, she twisted the ends apart, and the U became an S.

Men gasped and women cheered. Also the other way around. I did too. It was pretty goddam thrilling.

She held it up as she walked around the ring.

Come now, don’t be bashful! crowed her father. Who here thinks he can defeat the mighty Katharina?

I had positioned myself by the steps leading to the stage, so I was the first one up to the ropes. Another six or seven men (and