There was something under my bed, I was sure of it.

It shuffled and shifted, clawing at the wooden frames and murmuring ever so faintly in the dark. Once, after losing my quilted blanket to a tug-of-war match with it, I ran downstairs and woke up Mummy and her boyfriend. With a flashlight that shone like a little moon, Mummy searched the shadowy space beneath the bed and uncovered a broken toy-rocket, an empty packet of cookies and my crumpled blanket. The floorboards below were loose and damp and I told her how they sometimes creaked when the wind was still, but she didn’t check them.

Annoyed, she locked me in the attic room with that thing.

It’s hard to sleep if your blanket is constantly stolen, so on most nights I stayed up, looking out of the window into the inky-blue sky, glimmering with stars. The air was moist and chilly and I shivered, hugging my pillow to my chest. I could spell “crescent” and “gibbous” correctly and I had a book of constellations that Daddy gifted me last birthday before he left, so the night sky stretched out enticingly before me, like a puzzle to be solved.

Pluto was no longer a planet, which made me rather sad. My classmates thought it was weird that I was hung-up over a “stupid planet” but I suppose they never knew what it felt to be left out of games or have your own family pretend that you weren’t ever there, which is what happened with Daddy. Mummy even took down the family photographs where he was in the frame and I was afraid she’d throw out the book too, so I carried it with me when I went to school.

Soon enough, I was so immersed in mapping Canis Major and Cassiopeia and Cygnus the Swan with my sleep-deprived eyes, that I didn’t mind the presence that sometimes joined me. He- I decided on a whim to think of him as a boy because I didn’t really know what boys were like and the thing looked nothing like the girls from school, although now I cannot remember what he looked like, except as a vague whitish shadow that sometimes glowed- he helped me identify the constellations and explained why the moon wore a different face each night and said that his home was in a star system far away, one that our eyes could not see, a place he could never return to.

“Why?” I asked, curious, offering him a cookie. I sneakily got him cookies and milk every other night. When he licked the milk, he sort of glowed and became more solid-ish. It was all very exciting.

He said his spaceship was destroyed when it landed on earth and all crewmates but him, perished because of something to do with the radiation. I didn’t exactly get it, but it sounded like he’d have died too, had it not been for the warmth of my blanket and that safe space of dust and darkness beneath my bed, like the gap between stars.

On my next birthday, Mummy invited some of my classmates over, but no one showed up. I didn’t mind as long as Daddy turned up. I was sort of hoping that he might sneak in from the window when Mummy was baking. I even kept an eye out for him when we curled up on the threadbare sofa and watched a show about the solar system on Discovery Channel. Apart from the chocolate cake with frosting that looked like tiny stars, I didn’t get any other present. Daddy had promised me a book on the moon and I couldn’t tell Mummy about it because she got sadder whenever Daddy was brought up.

Later I told Po (we were discussing Apollo 11 and he nodded gleefully at the second syllable, and that’s how the name stuck) about how I wished to go to the moon like Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, rather than to the beach over the holidays, and when Mummy and I returned, suntanned and laden with sea shells, I found a brass handheld telescope sitting on my dusty bed.

For one delightful moment I thought it must’ve been Daddy who came to the house when we’d been gone and had helped himself to all the cookies, but I noticed my missing blanket that I’d neatly folded before we left and was a little disappointed. Then, I started fiddling with the telescope and realized just how powerful its lens was, pinpointing my eyes to the farthest reaches of space, and I felt a rush of gratitude and affection for Po. I was crying even during dinner and Mummy thought I just missed the sea.

Together, each night Po and I wandered among the stars and followed golden-white comets as they streaked from one galaxy to another. I quickly got bored of the moon and her grey shadows and instead was mystified by the iridescent colors that danced on Saturn’s many rings and the glimmering mountains of ice on one of Jupiter’s moons. But Po guided me to distant stars and galaxies that had numbers instead of names, where clouds of gas and lava swirled deliciously in bewitching patterns, where his home lay, a home he dearly missed and longed to return to.

Whenever his home was mentioned, he sort of dimmed, like a star snuffed out. It was a cue for me to get another cookie. At times, he worried that his home may no longer be there as he explained that it took a long time for light from distant galaxies to reach us and when we looked up at the night sky, we saw the universe not as it is but as it had once been. I tried to cheer him up, saying that when I was old enough and got better at math, we’d build a spaceship together and find out for ourselves. To this he’d give a sad nod and patiently teach me how to map the stars. We filled the backs of my notebooks with a dozen charts.

He wasn’t completely hopeless though because he told me once, that after he died, his spirit would soar among those vast stretches of black emptiness, till he found his way home and how if I looked through my telescope carefully, I’d see a new star in one of those distant galaxies, shining brightly than the rest, because he’d remember me and light a beacon.

Even with the cookies, he must’ve known he wouldn’t last long, because barely a week after he said that, he died.

I’d knitted a new blanket for him, as I was tired of sharing and going cold each night, but when I crawled under the bed to surprise him, there lay a pool of milky-white water. I screamed and ran down to fetch Mummy but by the time she came up, there was nothing left but a dark wet stain, as though the universe had soaked it up. She blamed me for spilling water and shut the door.

It never struck me before just how lonely the universe was.

The stain is still there, like an ugly shadow and maybe because it is under my bed no one tried really hard to scrub it clean. I searched the sky each night for his star but there were so many, it was hard to tell them apart, without Po to guide me. In vain, I reread our star-charts and tried to plot new ones, till the math made my head dizzy (Po was the one who did the calculations) and tears blurred my vision.

I asked questions in school about lightspeed and quasars and blackholes, that annoyed my classmates and teachers, but I was determined to not give up. I repeatedly cleaned the glass of the telescope and bought new notebooks that I quickly filled with more maps and equations. By then Mummy had a new boyfriend who got me a library membership and my head was crammed with the names of scientists and astronomers that I found very difficult to pronounce.

Po’s departure had left in my heart a gaping hole, that swallowed everything I put in it.

On sleepless nights, I gazed into the sky imagining how long it would take for a spirit, without a body or a spaceship, to sail from earth, through the silent ocean that glittered darkly with stars and moons, to follow the curve of faraway light-beams, looking for home. I dreamed of building a spaceship that could travel faster than light, putting on an astronaut’s suit and following Po, in a cat-and-mouse chase among the constellations.

It was all that kept me alive, kept me glowing.

Then one night, while fiddling with the brass knobs of the telescope to adjust the distance, I finally saw it. The star, Po’s star, tucked away in a distant galaxy that hadn’t yet been named or numbered- a beacon beckoning to me.

With the new Flinch&Wince™ integrated tech, the Aesthesian2040i reacts just like a real person! With over 1000 screams, cries, moans and groans in the sound library, you can fully customize your Aesthesian’s responses to any and all sensation. Our standard model now also cries tears at only the touch of a button. Want them to bruise? Want them to bleed? For only a little bit extra…

“Bleeding? Sounds a bit messy doesn’t it,” Wilmien said, cutting her gaze toward her husband. He was the anal one when it came to cleanliness, applying the same meticulousness to the sanitation of his house as he did to his court cases. Hannes glanced back at her, his brows puckered in their customary frown. Twenty years ago she hadn’t been able to look away from his wide and easy smile and the divots it left in his cheeks. Now she couldn’t bear to make more than a few seconds of eye contact. It wasn’t the beginnings of the beer-boep straining the buttons of his shirt, the bald patch no amount of comb-over could hide, or the fact turning forty had instantly transformed him into his father. None of those were the reason Wilmien cursed herself for not getting out sooner, for not having the courage to be honest with herself before she invested soul and emotion in a relationship to make others happy.

“Our compounds are all vegan and organic.” The salesdroid flashed a set of even, if too-small, teeth. The name on its badge read ‘Max-4,’ the generic moniker for all such bots. “The excretions wash out of most fabrics and off most surfaces with warm, soapy water.”

“And the rate of regeneration?” Hannes asked.

“That depends on the extent of the damage,” Max-4 said with annoyingly perfect diction. “All our models come with an extensive breakdown of recovery times.” The droid produced a glossy pamphlet and passed it to Hannes. “Basic fist-induced damage, for example the equivalent of a heavy session with a traditional punching bag, will take less than three hours to fully heal.”

“What about bullets?” Hannes asked and Wilmien stiffened.

Max-4’s eyes quivered for a moment as it processed the request. Wilmien tensed, half-expecting even a droid to stand in judgment, but Max-4’s face remained inscrutable. No, she was projecting again. Droids like this weren’t capable of expressing emotion.

“Getting hit with a round of twenty-two at about a hundred meters would take approximately an hour,” Max-4 said, words delivered matter-of-factly yet still landing like a fist in Wilmien’s gut. “A nine-mil slug to the head point blank could take anywhere between twelve and twenty-four hours to fully regenerate. Not that we recommend shooting your Aesthesian in the head,” Max-4 added, lips twitching in an ersatz grin. Wilmien might’ve missed it if she hadn’t been staring at the droid’s lips, if she hadn’t been imagining what it would feel like being kissed by smooth silicon. Would those lips taste of plastic? High-end Aesthesian mouths could be flavored.

“The standard warranty doesn’t cover deliberately induced head trauma,” Max-4 continued. “And should you wish to terminate your contract with Aesthesis Inc. pick-up can be arranged at no extra cost. All parts of the Aesthesian are recyclable.”

Wilmien narrowed her gaze at the droid and Max-4 seemed to notice, pale eyes flicking between her and Hannes. Whatever Max-4 parsed from her expression it caused the droid to correct its own. Its quirked lips smoothed into blank docility. Wilmien wondered how sharp Max’s teeth were. Would they nibble; would they bite and leave her bloody?

She coughed and turned away, letting her gaze rove over the rows of racked Aesthesians. They came in an array of skin tones with various hairstyles. Some were dressed in company-standard gray jumpsuits while others were garbed like fashion house mannequins. Most stood with their heads bowed and eyes closed. A few stared straight ahead, unblinking. Awake, but seemingly unaware.

Gender expression ranged from the traditional binary to complete androgyny, and biological attributes were fully customizable. For quite a bit extra, Wilmien could even have the android custom-sculpted. Previously, it’d been possible to have an Aesthesian modeled after celebrities, but that caused one too many social media fiascoes and expensive lawsuits. Options had since become more limited and ethical. At the moment, the trend—in certain circles—involved replacing a dead partner with an Aesthesian facsimile.

Tantamount to taxidermy. Wilmien glanced at Hannes, imagining having a droid in his stead. Didn’t she deserve an upgrade in the spousal department? In the dark and quiet of 4am, forced awake by Hannes’s whiskey-induced snoring and her own squirming thoughts, in those moments she plucked the truth from her heart and held it in the gentle cage of her fingers, letting its fragile wings flutter against her palms.

She never should’ve married a man—let alone this one. But he was safe and came with the stamp of family approval.

While Hannes continued to discuss various specifications with the salesdroid, Wilmien wandered closer to the inert Aesthesians. One caught her attention, beautiful even in standby. Something in the face, the bow of the sultry lips and the wide-set eyes reminded her of the girl she’d known when she was sixteen, the girl she’d spent two years dreaming of undressing; the girl who’d gone with Wilmien’s older brother to his Matric dance.

Shevani. The name was a thorn catching at the fraying tapestry of her memory, a soul-scouring what if.

She reached out a tentative hand and touched the arm hanging slack in its socket. It was oddly warm, soft to the touch and dusted with fine, dark hairs. She squeezed a little harder, digging her purple nails into the synthetic flesh. Its eyes opened, pupils constricting. It tilted its head to focus on her. The eyes were a shade too light, the hair chestnut instead of mahogany, but the rest was uncanny. Some people sold their faces to companies like Aesthesis Inc. especially young students always desperate for cash.

Tingles laced up Wilmien’s spine and a welcome if unfamiliar ache began between her legs. The crescent marks her nails had made were slowly fading. She swallowed and licked her lips. As much as she might want to deny it, her daughter’s proclivities certainly hadn’t been inherited from Hannes.

This is for Crystal, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the bayonet of jealousy skewering her ribs. For the child she’d never really wanted but felt obliged to beget. For the little girl that had torn screaming into Wilmien’s world and demanded love she didn’t even know she had to give, needed to give. Motherhood had been all-consuming, suffocating at times, and yet a welcome reprieve from the marriage she already regretted.

Was Crystal’s disposition Wilmien’s fault? Didn’t every parent blame themselves for the failings of their children. Not Hannes, he refused to believe his child might harbour darker tendencies. Sullen, withdrawn, and prone to violent outbursts, that’s how Crystal had been described by the doctor Wilmien had taken her to—before Hannes put a stop to the visits. Wilmien understood only too well. Crystal was a mirror, the reflection cracked and tarnished. It was one Wilmien didn’t like looking at now that the corners of Crystal’s cupid-bow mouth were snagged with a familiar cruelty. All the “I hate yous” and “leave me alones” punctuated by slamming doors left Wilmien bruised and exhausted. At least with this purchase, Crystal would have a more resilient target for what Hannes had decided was teenage angst.

But there was no reason the Aesthesian couldn’t provide catharsis for more than one family member, surely? The thought eased the envy prodding at Wilmien’s heart.All our models are sex-capable. The words from the brochure scorched a trail through her mind before Hannes’s grumbling drew her attention.

“…for a little bit extra, no doubt,” Hannes said with a harrumph.

“You get what you pay for, sir,” the droid said. “The Aesthesian range is state-of-the-art synthetic tech. Of course, if finances are a concern we do offer payment plans for—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Hannes puffed out his chest, oblivious to how easily he was falling for the sale’s pitch.

Wilmien glanced back at the Shevani lookalike. It was still looking at her; the marks she’d left on its arm mere memory. Her heart hammered a little faster in her chest as she imagined the patterns her teeth could make on a canvas so easily renewed.

“I’ll give you a moment to decide,” Max-4 said.

“We’ll take one like that.” Wilmien pointed to the droid. Its eyes had closed again. “But with darker hair and eyes to match, please. I think Crystal would prefer it,” she added when Hannes squinted at her with eyes like a highveld winter sky. His hair—what was left of it—was a near translucent blond. When they had sex—not for months now—it was long, black hair Wilmien imagined knotted in her fingers.

“An excellent choice,” Max-4 said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll have one customized and delivered within three work days. Now, if you’ll come this way, we can discuss the details of your package.” Max-4 gestured toward a private cubicle. There were several others sat at similar partitions with their Maxes, all identical and smiling while the humans signed contracts and even wiped an occasional tear from leaking eyes.

Wilmien held her breath while Hannes scoured the fine print in the contract with his attorney’s gaze. She exhaled only when the delivery date had been secured.

The car started for home on autopilot—easier to let the AI navigate five ‘o clock Joburg traffic—as she scanned the papers Hannes handed her. He seemed content to stare across the vehicles trundling bumper to bumper toward the northern suburbs. Wilmien searched the manual until she found what she was looking for. She crossed her legs, tight, grateful for the rigid seams of her jeans, and memorized the requisite code.

A strapping spaceman, greased black hair visible through his fishbowl helmet, was climbing through some twisted wreckage. Maybe it was alien plants. Who can say but the artist? Behind him a spaceship that looked an awful lot like a cruise ship with three bumps on top hovered in perfect profile. The cover story was titled Secret Weapon, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the astronaut was the eponymous weapon. Doubtful. Still, something like that would make a nice souvenir. The art was nice enough. They let us take little things like this with us, as long as we don’t go overboard and we don’t try to sell them. I counted out the extra dimes, handed them to the kid behind the counter, and walked out with my brand new April 1968 copy of Analog, as well as the day’s newspapers.

With lunch over I had little else to do but head back to my dingy hotel room. The day had been like most: eat breakfast at the diner, ride the bus uptown during rush hour, walk around aimlessly – never the same route two days in a row – until lunch in the park, then ride the bus back to the hotel. I’d taken to getting the newspapers at the shop by the bus stop closest to the hotel, whether or not that was the stop I got off at. Walking around was a great way to bump into people and overhear what they were talking about, a tried and true method.

Timmy spotted me crossing the road to the hotel and ran over from the apartment complex across the street. He had his baseball glove and ball in hand, as usual.

“Howdy, Mr. Smith! Got your papers again?”

“You bet.”

“Boy, you sure are predictable.”

I mocked surprise, “Am I?”

Timmy fell in step and we walked together toward the hotel entrance. “So, what’s going on around the neighborhood?” I asked.

“Same old boring nothing. Ain’t nothing ever happening around here.”

“I wouldn’t say that. In my experience there’s always something happening everywhere. After all, if nothing happened anywhere then where would anything ever happen?”

Timmy curled his upper lip. “Huh?”

I couldn’t help but laugh and give him a poke with my elbow.

“Hey, what’s that?” Timmy had the copy of Analog pulled out from the middle of my newspaper stack before I knew what had happened. It must have slipped out when I nudged him.

“That’s just some light reading material. I thought it might help me fall asleep tonight.”

He eyed the dashing spaceman with jealousy. I held my hand out to reclaim my souvenir and he reluctantly relinquished it. “Do you think men will walk on other planets? Like after we go to the moon and set up moon bases and stuff?”

How could I tell him? How do you tell a kid in the 1960s that no, mankind will never walk on other planets. That we’ll stop after sending a dozen men to prance across the surface of the moon. That the dreamers of a generation will see their hopes dashed against the rocks, obliterated by cynical politicians and a disinterested public.

I tussled his hair with my free hand. “How would I know that, silly?”

Timmy scrambled to straighten his hair, “I don’t know. You seem pretty smart. Like Mr. Donovan. He tells me a lot of cool stuff.”

“Oh, and who is Mr. Donovan?” I thought for a second, “Oh, is he the new guy that showed up a few days ago? The guy that took the room at the end of the hall?”

“No, he’s at the top of the stairs,” which, I should point out, are at the end of the hall. “He’s from the future!”

I blinked for several seconds at that. “Come again?”

“Mr. Donovan is a time traveler sent here from the future! He’s told me stuff about space ships and something he calls microcomputers and how I’ll live to see them change the world!” Just then Timmy’s mother called after him and he ran off waving goodbye before I could say another word.

As I crested the stairs to the second floor I paused. I should knock, I thought. No, it’s silly. By force of will I continued down the hall to my own room. Once inside I dropped the papers in the arm chair before checking my recorder. I’ve never had a problem with one of these, nor has anyone I’ve ever known, but it doesn’t hurt to check. There was several hours of new footage on its drive. I flipped through a few clips idly, checking sound and tracking – again, needlessly. That’s when I realized I was still holding the magazine. The worrying part was that my hand was shaking. Throwing the magazine on the table I dropped down into the armchair, removing the stack of newspapers unceremoniously from my underside. The stained ceiling lay before me, the same stain that kept me silent company whenever I was frustrated. A genuine concern overcame me as I reflexively groped at my stomach. I could feel the small disc a half centimeter under my skin.

Don’t do it, I thought. It’s stupid and a waste of your time. How’s it going to look if you’re wrong and, let’s face it, you can’t be right.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I was standing before Mr. Donovan’s door, my fist prepared to knock. Well, I thought, it’d look doubly ridiculous if I didn’t knock at this point. So I did.

There was an immediate muffled reply. I couldn’t make it out so I responded in a generic way. “It’s Mr. Smith, I’m your neighbor from down the hall.” It suddenly occurred to me that “hotel neighbor” was a ridiculous concept, but maybe he would take it in good spirit.

There was the distinct sound of the door unlocking and before me stood a short plump balding man in a cheap suit. He would fit in anywhere in the city just as well as me in my tweed jacket and slacks. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”

What the heck was I planning on saying? Hi, I’m wondering if you’re actually a time traveler because the nine year old I talk to said you were?

His questioning face told me I had to say something. “Do you know Timmy next door?”

The man stuck his head out in the hallway, looking away from the stairs.

“Sorry,” I injected, “not in the next hotel room. He lives in the apartment building across the street. About so tall, usually carries a baseball mitt?”

“Oh, yes. The energetic young lad. Yes, I’ve spoken to him a few times. Quite chatty, that one. Boy after my own heart.” His eyes were jovial. “Would you be the father?”

“No, nothing like that. I guess you could say I’m a friend of his.” Then it came to me. I’m looking out for the boy. Seems you told him you’re a future man. You shouldn’t fill his head with such nonsense or something like that. “Well, I’m just wondering… he told me you were from the future.”

“Did he?”

“He said you told him you were.”

“But you’re not his father?”

“No.”

“Then why do you care what I said to him?”

This was going nowhere. I may as well go for broke and maybe the guy would just think I was crazy and would leave me alone. Hopefully forget about me. “Well, he said you used the word microcomputer.”

The small man gave me a sideways glance. “Do you know much about microcomputers?”

“Yes. Quite a bit actually.” May as well go all in. “Microcomputers and wireless networks.”

His eyes grew wide. Next thing I knew he’d grabbed my arm and yanked me inside his room; he was pretty strong for a little guy.

He just stood there staring at me, like I was supposed to do something. I reached into my chest pocket and removed my cigarette case. I slid my thumb from end to end to release the latch, my DNA unlocking the security mechanism. Instead of cancer facilitators the open case revealed a full color, three dimensional projection in all its illuminated glory.

The man was clapping and squealing like a toddler at the zoo. He recomposed himself before presenting me with a hand, which I shook. “John Donovan.”

“Mathew Smith.”

“I assume that is –”

“Not my real name, no.”

“Same here, but it will suffice. Really, what are the odds?”

The relief was too much. I started laughing like a child. “Astronomical! To encounter another Traveler, and one staying in the same hotel!”

“I know! It’s unbelievable!”

“Hence my concern!”

He clapped me on the back and invited me to have a seat at his modest desk. In turn he sat on the edge of the bed.

“So when are you from?” I asked.

“Well now, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.”

“Please, I have to know.”

“Really, I couldn’t –”

“Here, I’ll make it easy. I’m from 2118. There, now you know.”

His face changed subtly. “Well now, that is interesting.”

I waited for him to reciprocate. My face prodding him. “Well,” he finally began, “let’s just say I’m upstream of you a ways.”

There was the slightest clench in my stomach. “How far?”

“Far enough. That’s as much as I’m prepared to say.”

“Of course,” was all I could respond, though I think it came out little more than a mutter. Then, after clearing my throat, “I’m sure you understand that I’m very surprised to encounter another Traveler here. It makes me believe my mission was a failure, that perhaps my life is in danger.”

“How so?”

What kind of a question was that? “Well, my chip, of course,” and my hand automatically went to my stomach. “I’ve been syncing it every day. Even if there was data loss I would still make an oral report. I can’t believe they sent you back here to the same place and time as another Traveler.”

My eyes must have been questing for answers because he waved me away. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about your mission, and I’m just as surprised to encounter you as you are to meet me.”

“Then can I ask your purpose here?”

“The standard; to study the reactions of the native population to recent events, to get the man on the street’s opinion, so to speak.”

“That’s much the same as my objective. What is your specialty?”

“I’m a sociologist. I’m studying how a culture deals with an unending conflict in the shape of the Vietnam War. My dissertation was on the Forever War of the twenty-first century. Yourself?”

“Mass psychology. I’m studying the contemporary public’s perception of the war and the cultural tumult surrounding it.”

Donovan waved his hand again, “See? Entirely different specialties. That explains why we’re both here.”

“Well, not entirely different…”

“Say, how long have you been here?”

“I’m two weeks into a four week stay.”

“Four weeks! Well, I’m only here for one week and I’m already three days into that. Say, how about you and I pool resources?”

Such a thing was unheard of. Two Travelers from different presents engaging in any appreciable interaction was unprecedented. As it was our interaction was likely the longest known about in my present.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely! Your participation would be extremely beneficial to my work. What do you say? I take it you have a recorder capturing all the local television and radio stations? Yes, of course you do. We could add your recordings to my data. Three weeks worth for the price of one!”

“But those should already be in the Time Vault…”

“Redundancy never hurts.”

My brain was yelling at me to get up. Get up and walk out of the room. This is a bad idea. You shouldn’t be here. You should never have come here. Go to your room, gather your things, trigger your bungee and report back. That’s all that matters. Report back.

“Yes. Yes, I think we should work together,” was what I said instead.

---

Most of the cars in the parking lot across the street were from the mid to late 1940s. Granted they made them to last back then, but it mostly served as an indication of the poverty that gripped the neighborhood. From what Timmy had told me there were a good number of single moms living in the apartment complex, along with a lot of immigrant families just starting out in America. I smirked at the thought of calling this country America. Goes to show you how effective infiltration training is in altering one’s thought processes. “The Former United States” was what I’d have to write in my official report. I remember thinking it would probably just be easier to write “America” and do a find and replace search later.

Of course, that’s if I ever wrote my report. That ball came back in the pit of my stomach, the same one that for two hours had been forcing away my appetite to the point that I’d all but decided to skip dinner. Why didn’t Donovan know I’d be here? I’d spent a half hour considering the idea that he was lying about his origin, that he was actually from my past. In the end I couldn’t work out a reason why he’d lie about that. He’d have to know I’d figure it out when we started working together. He undoubtedly would have a computer of a make and model that I’d recognize. Besides all that, if he was from my past then I’d know he was going to be here – my mission would never have been approved otherwise.

It was time to think it through from the beginning. Time travel does not allow us to move to the future, that’s the first law of time travel, “the inclined plane of temporal mechanics,” my professor had called it. The metaphor is apt because although it is possible to shift mass backwards in time – with a massive expenditure of energy – to shift it forwards in time requires an astronomical expenditure. Something like the entire energy output of the Sun for a week to move the mass of one human being forward one year. The consequence is that no Traveler has ever gone to the future.

That begs the question, how am I getting home? That’s where the tachyon bungee comes in. The physics is way beyond me, but it is (evidently) possible to tether an object to its point of origin in both time and space through the use of tachyon particles, some sort of weird matter that I’ve been told won’t give me cancer even though they are streaming through me all the time. That’s where the disc in my belly comes in. It functions as the anchor for my tachyon bungee. I trigger it and it snaps my whole body back to the very instant I departed. I’d spend four weeks in 1968 and not even a nanosecond would pass in 2118 for my whole trip. The bungee technology has been in use for decades, with every time traveling researcher using one. The early models could be a problem – some folks came back missing some extremities – but the worst that had happened in years was a woman that came back needing a skin graft. To outright die is a near impossibility – or so I’d been told.

But it’s worse than that. Though its a near impossibility, no agency wants to take the chance of not getting the data from an endeavor like this, so along with the tachyon bungee each disc contains a wireless data storage device that houses the records from the mission. Synced nightly with my cigarette case hand computer, the onboard micro-storage is radiation shielded and encased in titanium. The disc constantly monitors my vital signs. Any significant problems and it snaps the bungee so no local coroner finds the advanced tech. My hand computer has its own bungee remotely synced to the disc. The whole kit and kabootle will go to 2118, taking my corpse with it. No fuss, no muss. Even if nothing but a smoking mass makes it back to 2118 my report would still be filed in the Time Vault.

Which brings me to the Time Vault. Built to withstand anything short of a direct hit from a nuclear warhead it houses the records of every time traveler since the program began. The data storage technology has been tested to last at least 10,000 years – that’s right, they sent one back to 8,000 BCE, but don’t ask me where it’s buried. When I get back my recordings will immediately go into the Vault to be followed a few days later by my official report and video debrief. Even if my records were destroyed there should at least be a mention of my trip in the Vault. “Sent Agent to March 1968 etcetera, all records lost for unknown reason.” That would have to send up a red flag for anyone wanting to go to 1968. Anyone like Donovan.

Could Donovan be from an unregistered time travel outfit? What would be the purpose in that? Could he be a time criminal? No, that’s ridiculous. The energy cost alone would eliminate any gain. The past can’t be changed, that’s a physical fact. Call it time travel law number two. The past is the past. Any Traveler sent back was always sent back and will always be sent back; they’re part of the timeline and always have been. Besides, Time Crime just doesn’t pay. The resources needed to construct and utilize a time machine are so immense that any time criminal would already be one of the richest people alive.

I was left with one set of facts: Donovan was from my future and he was a time traveling researcher like myself. That’s it. Maybe I did file my report. Maybe Donovan knew I was here. Maybe he didn’t. He was undoubtedly lying to me, but I had no clue what about or why. My only option was to get close to him and try to find out. My life was at stake, because either I don’t make it back to file my report, or Donovan came here to intercept me for some unknown purpose. Either way, I’m in a lot of trouble.

---

Donovan easily established his credentials as a sociologist. His read of the public’s perception of the war was spot on, though he seemed to lack familiarity with some of the references I’d used in my own preparation. In our conversations it became clear he had never read Mark Bowden’s award winning Hue 1968, which I found invaluable for an understanding of the Tet Offensive. In general he felt well read on some nuance, and less so on others. I don’t purport to be all knowing or all remembering, but the gaps in his knowledge continued to trouble me. When I would prod him about these gaps he would give me that jovial smile and wave of his hand and dismiss it as evidence of his poor memory.

One evening we decided to get take-out and go over the day’s newspapers together. A few hours in I handed him a page six story concerning the Pueblo.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“It’s an update on the Pueblo Incident. Not really any new information, but it’s interesting in that the reporter’s professionally neutral tone carries an undercurrent of questioning the official story of how the Pueblo was captured in the first place.” I rubbed my bloodshot eyes as I spoke. “Actually, it’s a very nice example of the Credibility Gap. After all, this is the decade that birthed not only the term, but the concept.”

Donovan’s eyes skimmed the article twice. “This has nothing to do with Vietnam.”

“Not directly, no, but it speaks to the overall feeling at the time. Like I said, it reflects the Credibility Gap.” Confusion was plain on his face, so I elaborated. “It’s the idea that the White House has a lack of credibility, that they can’t be trusted concerning exactly where the Pueblo was when it was captured, and similarly can’t be trusted about the Vietnam War. Had the boat crossed into North Korean waters before it was intercepted, or was it actually in international waters like the White House claims? Was it a legal seizure for trespass or wasn’t it? The public doesn’t know who to trust, and the reporter’s tone carries that – it’s subtle, but it’s there. I think that’s a large reason President Johnson is about to announce that he won’t seek reelection.”

Donovan was nodding slowly as I spoke and continued after I’d finished. Eventually he placed the newspaper back on my pile and muttered a barely perceptible “interesting” before going back to his own stack.

I watched him for a minute before checking my wrist watch. “Sorry to do this, but I’m feeling pretty tired. Do you think we could call it a night? It’s almost 10:30.”

He responded with his usual jovial smile. “Not at all. I would like to scan this material before I leave, if that’s all right.”

There had to be a dozen Sunday editions laid out on my meager table, not to mention the various news magazines we’d picked up. “I’m probably going to crash as soon as you walk out the door. If you like I can help you carry these to your room.” I really hoped he didn’t want that. I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it the meter and a half to bed.

“No need, I’ll just be a moment.” From his jacket pocket he removed a small cylindrical cigarette lighter. After a rapid gesture my tired eyes couldn’t follow he’d extended the cylinder to triple its original length and broke it in half along its axis. The two halves were connected by a translucent screen, on which were characters I recognized as some variant of Chinese, though I couldn’t place the dialect. I could make out Latin characters interspersed with the logograms. My recognition was made all the harder since I was looking at the characters from an angle behind the translucent screen.

“Donovan, what language is that?”

He feigned ignorance of my question with a distracted “Hmm?”

“The language. Is that a Chinese variant?”

He snapped the hand computer closed and with a swift gesture it was a normal sized cigarette lighter. “Oh, that’s just my horrible handwriting. Good evening, Mr. Smith.” He made for the door.

“But you didn’t scan any of the papers!” My exclamation was unintentional. After seeing his hand computer I had pressing questions.

“Yes I did. I told you, it would only take a moment.”

I was on my feet, arms waving impotently at the stack of folded papers. “But you could only have imaged what’s on top…”

Donovan waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, I see your confusion. My scanner images holographically on a molecular level. I’ve copied every page, inside and out. It will take some processing power to reconstruct the image, but I’ll do that when I get back to my own time. Good night, my friend.” Donovan bowed slightly and let himself out.

---

The lunch talk at the diner was largely concerning Johnson’s announcement the day before that he was officially out of the presidential race before it even began. Apart from the private minutiae of daily life I overheard people speaking of little else. I knew my cigarette case was recording more than I could hear from its position on the counter in front of me. Back in my room I could order it to reconstruct the conversation from any point in the room with near-perfect acoustics.

But imaging an entire stack of upside down newspapers… I’d never seen a device that could do that.

I’d drifted off to sleep that night telling myself that advancements in technology were to be expected. Who knows, there could be scientists in my present working on just such a piece of equipment. Another decade or two and it could maybe be miniaturized, depending on what principles it worked on. I’d seen kids play with something like that transparent screen of his. Current technological vogue put them out of style for serious work, but maybe they’ll come back.

I rolled my coffee cup between my hands, letting my eyes skim the morning paper. Sometimes I read it, sometimes I used it as something to stare at while concentrating on the conversations of the people around me. It all depended on what the topic of conversation was. That morning I kept falling back into the printed page. The local paper had chosen to reprint Martin Luther King Jr.’s complete speech at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C. the day before. My eyes fell on one paragraph in particular. It read,

“First, we are challenged to develop a world perspective. No individual can live alone, no nation can live alone, and anyone who feels that he can live alone is sleeping through a revolution. The world in which we live is geographically one. The challenge that we face today is to make it one in terms of brotherhood.”

This was my third trip through time, and I’d always been able to maintain the air of the observer that they drill into us in training, but there was something about reading the words of such a great man and knowing they had been spoken only yesterday. That if I ran out of this diner, I could possibly find him and shake his hand. I wondered what he’d be like. I mean really like. In person. Just to speak to him alone. It’s silly, but I wondered what it would feel like to shake his hand. Would it feel special? I’d shaken a President’s hand once, I mean my President, the one I voted for in 2108. She came on a tour of the training facility my third year of classes. I wish I could say it was exciting or even interesting, but when one is training to travel through time little else holds interest. I hadn’t even dated these last few years. Everything took a back seat to my training.

The preceding two weeks I’d really come to enjoy reading the daily newspaper and the connection to the world it gave me. My first assignment had been as a medic in the American Civil War. I was there recording the history that few survived to record. I remember thinking, “Nobody back home can imagine what I’ve seen here.” Not that we don’t have wars, but there’s a minimum number of casualties where I’m from, and wholesale suffering during war has been alleviated to a large extent. That’s one thing globalism did right: we’re all so economically and culturally interconnected that large scale global conflict is inconceivable. Anyway, I didn’t have much opportunity to read the newspaper from the battlefront in 1863. Ditto my second assignment to observe the tumultuous 2016 presidential election in Florida – not a lot of relevant information was consumed from newspapers that year. I resolved to try and read the newspaper more when I got home. Presumably a few still exist…

My contemplation was broken by a tap on the shoulder.

“Hello, my friend.” Donovan wore his usual smile. “You mentioned this particular haunt the other night and I thought I’d join you for lunch. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m happy to see you. I stopped by your room several times yesterday but you didn’t answer. Is everything all right?”

Donovan took a seat on the vacant stool beside me, which necessitated a short hop to raise him up to its level. “Oh yes, quite all right. I spent the day at the library scanning documents.”

“I imagine you could scan the whole library in just a few minutes after what you showed me the other night.”

He pulled a menu from the holder between us. “Sadly, no. It takes some time to save the data between imagings and the field of view is relatively small. Plus a level of discretion is of course required.”

“Of course,” was my noncommittal reply.

“Speaking of archival data, I was hoping to stop by tonight and copy your audiovisual recordings as we discussed. Adding a further two weeks to my report would – how do you say – shine my resume.”

Any opportunity to see his computer in action could only shed light on my mystery. “Of course. We can do it after lunch if you’d like.”

“Splendid.” He swiveled on the stool to gaze around the room. “I see the lunch rush is still ongoing. Might be worth hanging around a bit.” He pulled his hand from his trouser pocket and gingerly placed his lighter on the table. I wondered if it was recording visual as well as audio with some sort of omnidirectional lens. I turned away from it, suddenly uncomfortable with the thought that I would be the subject of observation and scrutiny by a team of future historians. “Visible here,” the most senior would begin, “is the Unknown Traveler. A man who claimed to be from the year 2118 though no record of his transit exists in the Time Vault.”

I downed the last half cup of my coffee and stood up. “Actually, Donovan, I’d like to get going. You’re welcome to stay for lunch or come with me, whatever your schedule requires.”

I busied my eyes with counting the change for my tab, but there was detectable pain in his voice. “No worries. I’ll come with you if you’re still willing to let me copy those files.”

“Yes, of course.” I collected my cigarette holder and he his lighter.

Donovan and I walked in silence for several blocks until I asked, “How many trips have you been on?”

“This is my fifth,” was his reverent reply. “It has been a true honor.”

“Do you expect this to be your last trip?”

“Who can say? If there is one constant across time, it is the enigmatic logic of bureaucrats.”

I found his jocular tone insulting, given my uncertain future.

“You say my records will impress those bureaucrats, maybe even help secure yourself another trip?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Yet you still won’t tell me when you are from.”

Donovan shook his head. “I sympathize, but you know I can’t divulge information about the future.”

“You divulged information to Timmy. You told him about computers and space flight.”

“I told the boy nothing that he couldn’t have read in a science fiction story and provided even less to back up my claims. Knowledge of the future won’t help you, same as it can’t help prevent what’s going to happen in less than a week. I saw what you were reading when I approached you at the diner; his picture accompanied the speech. You and I – separate or together – are incapable of altering what is to come.”

“I’m not talking about a fixed historical event. I’m talking about my life.”

“How are they different? How do you know that your death isn’t historical fact for me? You suspect I was sent back here knowing you would be here. I tell you I knew no such thing.”

“So my report wasn’t in the Time Vault.”

Donovan once again shook his head. “I have no answers for you, my friend.”

“Then perhaps I have no records to share with you.” We had stopped walking at some point, but now my trek resumed. Donovan scrambled to catch up.

“Let’s say for arguments sake that your report doesn’t make it to the Time Vault. Don’t you feel some obligation to complete as much of your mission as possible? To preserve some record of your accomplishment?”

“So I die tonight, is that it? I don’t make it back but you’re leaving tomorrow. My disc malfunctions or something and you’ve come to get a record, to solve a mystery that’s – what – fifty, a hundred years old?”

“Smith, I can’t provide you with any answers. If you believe nothing else, please believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe, but you can stop calling me your friend.”

Donovan’s pace slowed and he fell in behind me. I could just hear his concessionary reply.

We turned onto the street that lead to the hotel. I could hear Donovan’s heavy footsteps following me several feet behind. Timmy was playing in the parking lot with a few of the other boys from the apartment complex. I watched them play in a focused effort to not think about Donovan or my uncertain fate. If today was to be my last day then I would live it in the present. If not my present, then the present of the people I find myself meeting.

The boys were playing catch, throwing the ball clear across the vacant parking lot. I realized that all the boys should be in school, and I resolved to ask them why they were not.

Then it occurred to me. Let them skip school. They were having fun, and really what does it matter? Either they go to school or they don’t, it won’t change the future – it can’t change my past. If the past is immutable then so is the future.

“Donovan,” I called over my shoulder, my tone blithe, “I do believe you are making me a nihilist.”

“I believe this job does that after a while.” His tone was uncharacteristically somber.

I was startled by the loud crack of a ball on bat. One of the boys had nailed what would have been a home run on any field, far outpacing the parking lot. Timmy ran headlong straight at me to catch it, just as I heard a truck round the corner Donovan and I had come down minutes earlier. I turned to face the truck. It was one of those big box trucks, the cab bright red in color – I don’t know why I remember that part so clearly, but I do. It was a candy apple red, all shiny. I knew the driver couldn’t stop in time; he’d taken the corner faster than he should have, probably running late in his deliveries. My head jerked back to Timmy. The boy was already in the street, running backwards, eyes at the sky to track the ball. His gloved hand was stretched out in anticipation of the catch. His friends were screaming, not in panic but in joy – they believed he would catch it.

I threw up my arms, waving them wildly. I should have screamed, but in the moment I couldn’t. My legs weren’t as frozen as my throat, and I lunged into the road to grab him, not daring to look at the oncoming truck. The horn blared – my God, it sounded like it was right on top of me. I willed my arms to reach for Timmy, only to find myself thrown to the ground. I hit hard, a shock radiating from my elbow into my shoulder. A moment later I heard an impact and then a scream. I looked down at my prone body to see what had dropped me and found Donovan’s arms wrapped around my waist, his face buried in the back of my knees. I looked up and saw Timmy’s body laid out in the road, motionless. Children were yelling and from somewhere a woman appeared, screaming frantically. Some time later Donovan tried to help me up but I shoved him away.

“Why did you do that? I could have saved him!” My fists were balls of rage, but Donovan’s voice was as calm as ever.

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“What are you talking about? I was right there! I could have reached him in time!”

“But you couldn’t have saved him.”

“Yes, I could have!”

Donovan shook his head, “No, you couldn’t have. We can’t change the past.”

I took a deep breath. I wanted to strangle him, exchange his life for Timmy’s, but I couldn’t make such a scene. “Donovan, we’re part of the past. We can’t change anything big, we can’t kill Hitler or save Lincoln, but nobody would have noticed this one boy.” The last word choked in my throat and I realized my eyes were filling with tears.

“Nobody would have noticed him?”

“Exactly!”

“Then nobody will miss him.” Donovan walked on toward our apartment complex. I turned back to the scene and saw Timmy’s playmates crying on the curb, hugging one another. I was witnessing the birth of a mass of regret and blame that would carry forward through time. I saw his mother running from the apartment complex – screaming and crying – past Donovan as he continued his nonchalant march across the street.

---

I spent a long time in my room after that. Crying, punching the wall, kicking the furniture, productive stuff like that. Eventually after, I don’t know, a few hours? I went over to Donovan’s room. I was honestly surprised he opened the door for me. In retrospect I think it was his generally jovial nature. That and I now believe he really was a nihilist.

He was packing his meager possessions into a period appropriate suitcase. On the bed was a single newspaper, painstakingly folded just so. I picked it up and noted it was the latest edition.

“Souvenir?”

“Yes. Maybe it’s a bit unimaginative.” His tone was somber.

A small smile crossed my lips, I’m not sure why. “I got myself one of those old pulp science fiction magazines. Seeing it is what prompted Timmy to tell me about you.”

“My, life is full of coincidences.” His tone was almost mocking.

The slightest trace of the smile melted from me. “Timmy is dead now.”

“Yes. An historical fact.”

“It didn’t have to be.”

He pushed a folded shirt into the suitcase with more force than was necessary. “Please. Leave it be.”

“No!” I was enraged again, ready to punch the wall but considering substituting Donovan’s arrogant face. “It did not have to be. We could have saved him – I could have saved him, but you stopped me. Why?”

“Do they teach you nothing where you are from?” There was a harshness, a raw hate on Donovan’s face that I’d not believed possible. I stepped back instinctively, as if a friendly dog had just bared its teeth at me.

“The past can not be changed. Stop being such a baby and accept your role in this. We are observers, nothing more and nothing less. We are not participants in this time. We can not alter any events.”

“Says who?”

“Says physics.”

“But we’re here. I’ve eaten their food, I’ve talked to –” my voice caught. “I’ve talked to them. They’re good people.”

“So what?” He spit the words. “Their being good doesn’t affect the chronometric equations. There is no `good person’ factor in the equations that lets you alter the timeline.”

“But I’m here. I could have saved him without altering the timeline. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I could have saved him because I’m here.”

“Then go save Martin Luther King.” Donovan’s tone was mocking, his hand jabbing toward the door. “Go on, then. You’re here, after all.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll fail.”

“Why?”

And that was it. I’d fail because I’d have to. Because Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968. That single event was part of a chain of dominoes that fell forward through time, triggering other events in an immense tapestry that was mathematically unalterable. I couldn’t save him because it would unquestionably alter the past.

“You don’t know that saving Timmy would have altered the past.” My tone was little more than a whisper. It was all I could muster.

“I do now. Because I stopped you. Something would have stopped you. If I hadn’t jumped you then maybe the bus would have killed you along with him. Then you’d disappear in front of all those people. Wouldn’t that have violated a non-contamination rule where you come from? We can’t tell people about the future and we can’t show them our technology. We may not be able to alter the past, but don’t forget what happened in Roswell.”

“Don’t lecture me on temporal accidents. I know how to handle myself.”

He straightened himself, his face one of questioning disbelief. “Do you?”

Once again I found myself backing away from this short rotund man. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know what you’re afraid of. Believe me, I know. But you have no idea why I’m so mad at you.” He took two steps toward me and I steadied myself against the desk. “You couldn’t save that dumb kid just like I can’t save your sorry life.”

“So I do die here.” The resignation in my voice surprised me.

“I have no idea.”

“How is that possible?” I found my vigor had returned. Indignation rejuvenating me. “You say you can’t save me then claim you don’t know what happens to me? Why is my report not in the Time Vault?” I screamed that last bit.

“I have no idea what’s in the Time Vault!” As soon as he said it he regretted it. That much was plain on his face.

I think I just stood there for several minutes. Could have been seconds, could have been hours. Finally I gasped out a question along the lines of “When are you from?”

Donovan slumped onto the bed. His head was cradled in his hands like a child who just awoke from a nightmare. His voice barely escaped.

“You would call it 2457.”

I knelt down beside him. “But the Time Vault… it can last for 10,000 years. Donovan, I don’t understand. Why didn’t you access it?”

“It was destroyed.”

My heart was trying to escape my chest. Between breaths I gasped, “How?”

Donovan raised his head from his hands, his face white as the sheets. “The War.”

“What war?”

His face hardened. He swallowed hard. “You’ll see.”

I don’t have clear recollection of what happened next. I remember grabbing Donovan. I was shouting questions, demands. I don’t think he said anything. He may have wept, but that could have been me. I think I punched him a few times. I must have, because I recall I was on top of him one second, then he was gone and I punched the floor.

After I calmed down I realized that his suitcase was gone as well. It must have had its own bungee. His souvenir newspaper never made it inside.

Ekon

Red heat lamps cast their glow and penetrating warmth through the blanket draped about me. The warming room was crowded, at capacity. Other than one man grumbling under his breath, no one said anything. At the edge of audibility there was classical music. I recognized the piece: Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

The hibernated must be awakened once every one hundred years, at minimum, to reduce health risks. That’s the technology aboard the Carthage, anyway. By now, 600-some years from port, certainly things had changed back home.

My shivering had at last stopped and I was warm enough to drop the blanket to the floor. A knee-high quadrupedal bot entered and handed me my watch, data speks, and clothes. It was a serve bot I had a hand in designing centuries ago, I noted with a touch of amusement. The watch displayed a message as soon as it felt the skin of my wrist: LUCIUS, CONFERENCE ROOM 7b, AS SOON AS ABLE.

My data speks indicated this was not my routine hibernation emergence. I stood, stretched, donned my clothes.

Every step I took along the meandering trail obscured the path behind without revealing what lay ahead. Gusts of wind tossed my hair about and swung the lantern in my hand. Its swaying glow did little to dispel the shroud of gloom cast by a moonless night as I made my way through the snow-covered underbrush.

“I can barely see,” I grumbled, mostly to myself.

On my shoulder, Pito, my familiar, peered into the shadows with oversized rodent eyes and seized on my uncertainty. “It’s too dark to be walking alone through the woods, Brynn. Let’s go home and come back in the morning.”

The little coward. “Quiet,” I hissed at him. The tiny squirrel recoiled out of sight and onto my nape. “I’m not letting ma die because I’m scared of the night.”

Minutes passed with only the crunch of icy twigs under my boots to punctuate their passage, until guilt got the better of me. “Are you pouting?”

“Why would I?” Pito said. “It’s not like you called me a coward.”

“I didn’t.”

“You thought it.”

I sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry. Happy?”

“I’d be much happier if you stopped for a moment and thought through what you’re doing,” Pito said, inching outwards along my shoulder until I could see him again in my peripheral vision. “Tywyll isn’t known for his charitable ways, how’re you planning to pay him for the elixir?”

Pito had me there, and knew it. When old man Aeron’s newborn son fell sick with the coughing fever two springs past, Tywyll demanded a gold sovereign for the few drops of elixir that brought the infant back from the brink. We had neither Aeron’s gold, nor his silks. “I’ll bring him firewood for as long as it takes to pay off the debt.”

Pito snorted. “Look around you, what need has Tywyll for firewood in the middle of the woods?”

“Then I’ll do anything he asks. I’ll sweep his hut. Fetch his water from the stream. I’ll cook his meals. Rub the bunions on his feet. Anything.”

“Your ma wouldn’t want that for you, Brynn,” Pito said. His gentle reprimand grated more for being the truth.

“Well, ma isn’t here, is she? She’s bedridden with black fever and if I don’t do something soon, I’ll lose her. Can you understand that?”

Pito didn’t answer. Instead, he shuffled his tiny feet over the fine hairs of my nape, sending shivers down my spine. His eyes had grown wider still, staring ahead with unconcealed apprehension. I followed his gaze to a column of milky blue smoke rising above the snow-clad canopy of silent poplars.

A hundred strides later, I shifted the lantern to my left hand, steeled myself, and knocked on Tywyll’s door; timidly at first, then with growing urgency. I took a step backwards when the door creaked open revealing a darkness like ink framing the grey outline of the magic peddler. Tywyll stank of ash and stale mead. My belly grumbled.

“Brynn.” Tywyll tilted his head, and looked past me at the winding path that led back to the village. “Your mother’s not with you?”

I pushed down on the rising bile. “Master Tywyll, ma’s ill. She’s hot to the touch, and covered in rubicund welts. She won’t eat or drink, and mumbles to herself in delirium when not passed out.”

My entreaty didn’t at all resemble what I had rehearsed in my head, and I blamed Pito for the divergence. Still, Tywyll’s eyes gleamed with understanding. He ushered me inside and latched the door behind.

A fire crackled in the hearth. I suspected Tywyll mixed in some herbs or aromatic weeds with the firewood, but rather than mask the heavy miasma of ash and spoilt brew, the spicy fragrance accentuated the stench.

Tywyll shuffled to the hearth and eased himself into a wooden chair polished to a high sheen with frequent use. “Ill, you say? Shame, that. Fetching woman in her day.”

He seemed lost in his memories until I cleared my throat. “A little elixir will see her right as rain, I’m sure.”

Tywyll regarded me with penetrating eyes, reflecting the shimmying flames in the hearth. “Great is the need for the elixir and precious little is the supply. What have you brought to trade? A family heirloom perhaps?”

I swallowed noisily, suddenly wishing I had followed Pito’s advice. “We don’t have much by way of heirlooms,” I stammered, and raised a hand to stave the brushoff blooming on Tywyll’s face, “but I’ll bring you three chickens, heavy with eggs.”

“Chickens? Eggs? Are you daft?” Tywyll bellowed, rising off his creaking chair.

“How about firewood? Bone dry oak or birch, every eventide, for three years?”

“I can get that myself,” Tywyll grumbled as he ushered me towards the door.

“Wait, Master Tywyll,” I pleaded as he reached around me to unbolt the door, and shoved me out. “Ma’s going to die without the elixir. I’ll give you anything. I’ll do anything, if you save her.”

“Brynn, don’t,” Pito squealed.

“Anything,” I insisted.

The door stopped in its arc short of sealing. Tywyll pushed his head through the gap with a calculating look in his eyes. “Surrender me your familiar.”

“My …,” I trailed off uncomprehending.

“That’s the price,” Tywyll said, “come back when you’re ready to trade, but don’t wait too long. The elixir will do your ma no good dead.”

I rushed the closing door, reaching it as Tywyll bolted it from inside.

“Ask for anything else, but I can’t part with Pito. Anything at all,” I said, pounding the door. “Please.”

No answer came.

At first the disease seemed minor, no reason for fear. Cooper, the drilling superintendent, checked some dials and smiled. “We’ve put your straw in Ganymede. Take a drink.”

Next to the pump, clear water from the moon’s underground sea flowed into the sample containers. “Testing before drinking, I want to see what’s in it first.”

“Afraid you might not like the taste?” He was joking as usual, but his voice sounded shaky. He sat on a rock to watch the samples being collected.

When the containers were full, I turned to see Cooper clutching his stomach. “What’s wrong?”

Gingerly he stood. His usually ruddy face was pale. “Stomachache.”

“We’re done for the day. Go see what the doc has for indigestion.” Indigestion, no worries.

Next morning in the lab, the base commander’s voice came over the com. “Scott, go to sick bay. They need help with lab work.”

That was the medtechs’ job. “I’m about to analyze our new samples, can’t it wait?”

“Go now.”

The sick bay door was locked—why lock a door on Ganymede? I knocked and Dr. Susan Alidou, our chief medical officer, came out and quickly closed the door behind her. She wore a mask and a yellow protective garment that formed seals with her gloves and boots.

I smiled. “Looking sharp.”

She didn’t smile back as she handed me a second outfit. “Put these on right away—mask, gloves, everything. Make sure the seals are tight.” A shout came from inside sick bay, and she ran to see what it was.

After putting on the protective stuff, I went into sick bay. The acidic smell of vomit hung in the air. Every bed was full, some of the patients were softly moaning. Susan and her two medtechs were frantically working on Cooper. His eyes were wide open and unfocused. Yesterday morning, he’d been healthy and fit. After a few minutes, Susan straightened up and pulled a sheet over his face. A cold wind of fear made my hands tremble.

Susan led me to a small lab and pointed to a tray of blood and tissue samples. “We need to identify the illness right away. Analyze those and see if the AI-1070 can find anything in its libraries.”

I did a full chemical analysis of all the samples and took pictures at a level of magnification that would show every molecule. Susan came back as the AI processed the information. Its flat mechanical voice announced, “Tests detected no sign of any known pathogen or toxin.”

Susan snorted with impatience and told the communicator to open a link to the Byrd, the ship that brought us here and still orbited above us.

In a moment, the smiling face of Dr. Simpson, their chief medical officer, filled the com screen. “Morning, Susan, how-”

Susan cut him off. “We have a medical emergency. Twenty-five cases of an unknown illness that doesn’t respond to medication, two fatalities so far, and more if we don’t solve this fast. We’ll uplink data on tissue, blood, and urine samples, and patient vital signs. Symptoms are nausea, rash mostly on the face and hands, fever, and in a few cases hallucinations. Send that information to Mars Base and Earth and tell them to figure out what it is ASAP.”

We talked to Simpson again later that day. He sounded so very calm. “Three of Earth’s best labs have all the information you gave us and are working on the problem full time. But the symptoms are so general-.”

Susan’s voice got loud. “We have ten more cases and more fatalities. My patients may not have much time.”

Simpson shook his head. “You’re in a terrible situation. It almost makes me think of the Ganymede curse.”

Susan’s eyes blazed. “Forget that garbage. Get me an answer.” She hit a switch, and the screen went black.

Simpson’s mention of the “curse” got me mad too. When planning for our base started, they sent unmanned probes to orbit Ganymede. The first three crashed on the moon’s surface. Two attempts to land personnel also crashed, with a loss of all 6 crew members. Exploring new worlds is hard and dangerous, and accidents are to be expected, but they still lead to stupid talk.

Susan lightly touched my arm. “I hate to ask this, but could you dispose of the dead?” She sighed. “We’ll have memorial services later, but immediate cremation may help in infection control.”

“Sure, I’ll take care of them both.”

“Four now.”

Each body was wrapped in a sheet, placed on a gurney, and wheeled to the plasma incinerator. I put the body in a chamber, closed the gate, and said a little prayer. Then the incinerator destroyed everything in the chamber, including the germs. That didn’t help. Five more people died the next day.

On the third day, the base commander staggered into sick bay, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead and a rash blooming on his cheeks. He shouted, “I saw them, in my quarters, small and horrible.”

Before the plague, he had been a model of calm reason. Susan came up behind him with an injection to knock him out, then she laid his unconscious body on the nearest bed. He was dead in an hour.

Susan took her frustrations out on Simpson. “I’ve tried every antibiotic, every antiviral, and every antiprionic I’ve got. No response to any of them. Fifty-six cases, ten deaths so far. We could lose every person on this base, and what are you doing?”

Simpson let out a deep breath. “We’ve got lots of people working around the clock, on board, on Mars, on Earth. It’s everyone’s highest priority—only priority. I have to go now.” The screen went dark.

Susan shook her head. “So easy when you’re orbiting above the problem.”

On the fourth day after onset, twenty people were dead and eighty were dying. One group went into the auxiliary dome that held the hydroponics bays, barricaded the connecting corridor, and sent a message that they would kill anyone who tried to join them. Their next message was a despairing voice saying, “The plague is here.” Then silence.

The morning of the seventh day, we lost both medtechs. Susan walked with those bodies to the incinerator. Later, she came to the lab and stood by the door. “A long time ago, I read a story about how a doctor in the early twentieth century treated pneumonia before antibiotics. He’d take the patient’s temperature, pat them on the shoulder, speak in a soothing tone, and listen to them talk while he hoped nature’s healing power would work. That’s what I’ve been doing, and that’s what you’ll have to do.”

“I’m a research biologist, not a doctor.”

“There’ll be no one else.”

I took a few steps toward her. Across the dark skin of her cheeks, the rash wrote its story of coming death. What was there to say but “I’m sorry.”

“I have a few more hours, and I’m going to use them.” She worked with her patients until finally she called me to come. She died the next day.

I stripped off the germ proof clothing. It hadn’t helped Susan or the medtechs. Each morning I went around the beds dispensing comfort and noting who was ready for cremation. Each afternoon Simpson told me how hard they were working to find an answer. No answer came. Soon every other living colonist was infected. There were fourteen patients, then eleven, then seven, then three, then none.

I asked Simpson why I was still alive.

“In almost every epidemic, some people don’t succumb–like the hemorrhagic fever epidemics early in the last century. Some develop the disease but recover. Others don’t get sick at all. Everyone’s immune system is different. Usually the survival percentage isn’t this small.”

“We’ll have to abandon the base. I can’t fly the shuttle by myself. Will you send one down for me?”

Simpson disappeared, and the screen showed his captain. “I’m sorry, Scott, but we can’t do that.”

“So how are you going to get me back?”

“Scott, we don’t understand this plague. You may be a carrier. I can’t risk my crew.”

“I can’t stay down here!”

“We sent down rations for 147 people. Enough of the hydroponics farm and power plant were set up to let one person survive indefinitely.”

Indefinitely! “Do you have any idea when you can bring me aboard?”

He wouldn’t look directly at the screen. “We don’t have enough fuel and supplies to remain in orbit any longer.”

“So you’re going to leave me?”

“We have no choice but to return to Mars now. Another mission will be out here in about a year—maybe then.”

“A year alone!”

“We’ll be in radio contact, and so will Mars Base. You have the AI-1070 and enough of an entertainment library to keep you occupied forever. I’m sorry, Scott.”

The communicator screen went dark. The screen that displayed the view from an external telescope showed the Byrd, a glowing orb that burned brighter as it fired its engines to escape orbit then gradually grew smaller and dimmer until it looked like just another of the cold unfeeling stars.