Shipbuilder (4 page)

"Wow."

"Do I pass?"

Sam lifted his shoulders. "I would say yes, but I don't trust my judgment. So how did you…" he made vague motions around his chest.

Casey grimaced. "Just bound them up with cloth. Squished 'em, basically. Good thing they're not too big to begin with."

He just nodded. "It might work, Casey. It's worth a try, I suppose. People will think you're a boy anywhere from twelve to fifteen years old." Then he glared at her. "You're sure I can't talk you out of this? You really are taking chances."

She shrugged. "I'm not getting any work the other way, Sam. Odd jobs are better than nothing." She reached for the doorknob. "May as well jump in. I won't go far this time."

He looked worried and unhappy as he lifted a hand in farewell. "Please, be careful."

She raised a fist, just to remind him, gave him a brief smile, and darted out the door.

April 20, 1906–May 1906

Sam and Casey went to breakfast early, with plans to continue their job searches. Three other boarders were in the tiny dining room ahead of them, gathered around a newspaper spread out on the chipped and scratched wooden table. They looked at Casey with uncertain glances.

"Ain't she from there?" one of them muttered, and another nodded.

"Where? What's going on?" Casey asked.

In answer, they moved aside so she and Sam could look at the paper.

San Francisco
Leveled by Earthquake!
ran the headline. Casey froze, as did Sam behind her. They read the article amid anxious questions from the boarders. Casey answered as best she could. Yes, she had friends in the area and yes, she hoped they were all right. No, she no longer had family there. Then she burst into tears and ran from the room. Startled, Sam grabbed some scones and tea and followed her.

She was sitting on the bed, head buried in her arms. "Casey," Sam touched her shoulder. "Casey, this is one of the things we wondered about. The same things do happen in this timeline. But we don't know anyone there, now. None of your family is there."

She raised her head and wiped tears from her face. "I know. It's not that. It's just... reading about home. And it could happen. It could happen again at any time and I will never know. I'll never know anything again, about my family or my friends."

Sam turned and sat against the wall, his face thoughtful. "I've been thinking about the future, Casey. What we left behind. Do you realize we left clues about what happened?"

She shook her head, brow crinkled in puzzlement. He continued. "In the park, I had the time machine with me, and a laptop. They were left there. Someone has to notice."

A look of horror dawned on Casey's face. "What would they do with it? Could someone accidentally set the machine off again?"

"No, not at all." Sam felt sure of that. "The thing is, that particular experiment was unauthorized. I've told you what was going on. No one knew what I was doing that night. But they'll be able to trace it. I had the time machine, and I accessed the system to run the experiment. Presumably, when they don't hear from me, they'll investigate. They'll want to get the time machine back, if nothing else."

"What if a random person found your laptop? Could they boot it up? Maybe get your information and see what you were doing?"

Sam shook his head. "Needs a password. And believe me, it's well-encrypted. I did, perhaps carelessly, have my business card tucked in the case. Just my name and cell number. My cell phone is with me, so calling that number won't do anyone any good."

"The party you are trying to reach is outside the calling area," Casey murmured.

Sam looked at her, his face serious. "Indeed. But there's something else you need to understand."

Her eyebrows twitched. "What?"

"My team has researched this for years. We've done hundreds of experiments. None of them has given us positive data. Do you understand what I mean by that?"

"You have no results. All your inferences are made from a lack of data as opposed to empirical results from your experiments."

Sam nodded, reluctant. "Yes, exactly. When we sent something back in time, we knew it went somewhere because it disappeared. But it never showed up in our past. We were considering the possibility that sending something back in time creates a new and different timeline. A new universe, if you will, with the same history as ours, but only up to the point the object went back to. In our case, January 24, 1906."

"What happens to the original universe? Is it still there?"

He chewed on his lip, nodding. "I believe so. At least, we never noticed a difference when we ran our experiments. All the timelines could co-exist, theoretically. But my point is, that as far as you and I finding our way back to our own, original future, or even living long enough to get back–that won't happen. Any future we get to from here will be a different universe."

"Maybe someone will figure out how to build a bridge," Casey said.

“A bridge?”

"Between universes."

Sam looked thoughtful. "That's a very interesting idea."

She thought of something else. "We're the only ones who will know if something changes if you and I cause the future to be different." She looked uncertain at this prospect and Sam held up a finger.

"Now, I don't know if that's a good thing or bad thing, but I've been thinking about it. We have no idea what will change because of our presence. Even if we don't decide to change something deliberately, I think it's impossible that we won't have some effect, somewhere. And I want to know what happens. I want to keep studying this and hopefully, in this timeline, we can make some real progress in the knowledge of time travel."

"How?"

"I wonder if we should somehow leave messages for the future. A trail of sorts, to show what we did. You've seen the notebook I had in my pocket when we came here. You know I've been keeping a diary of sorts. But maybe we should each keep one and record what we remember of our twentieth century. Leave a way for future historians to determine the effect we've had. And not just historians. For me, too."

"You?"

"Well…" he paused, not sure if she would approve of his idea. "For my future self. Assuming I'm born in 1946 and go into physics, having access to all this would be helpful. It's an idea I've been thinking about. It hasn't quite come together yet, so I'm not sure I can explain it."

"Okay," Casey said. "Let me know when you figure it out. But sure, I can keep a diary, too. We need to record what we remember of the future, too. We have to, Sam. We owe it to our families and friends, if no one else."

Sam nodded. "We can call them time travel journals. We'll have to buy notebooks." He lifted a brow at Casey. "Something else to spend money on."

"I have some blank paper in my backpack," Casey said. "We can start with that."

~~~

A few days later, a letter came from Einstein, and Casey listened as Sam read it aloud, hope hammering her chest. But the hope faded at the carefully worded letter. Einstein expressed amazement at Sam’s thoughts, but left enough unsaid to keep from committing himself. He seemed to think Sam might be insane, but wanted to keep his options open. He asked for more time to think about it. He encouraged Sam to continue writing to him and said he hoped they could meet at some future time to discuss Sam’s ideas.

Casey bit her lip as Sam folded the letter, his face discouraged and bitter. “I can’t depend on Einstein,” he said, staring at the pages in his hand. “We revered these early physicists. I can’t believe they would all be so afraid.”

“Write him again,” Casey said, trying to sound upbeat. “He’s our best hope for figuring out what happened. Maybe you were too circumspect. I know you don’t want to come right out and tell him you traveled through time. But try again. Make him understand. We really need his help, Sam.”

“What about his life?” Sam asked her, more disturbed than she had ever seen him. “His work is seminal to every bit of the physics done after this year. How will my interference screw that up?”

She rested her forehead on her hands as she thought. When she spoke, her words were quiet, but firm. “We have to make a decision, Sam. Is there only one timeline? One timeline that we have somehow rewound by one hundred years, and that if everything remains as before, will end up exactly at the same place as before? Or are we on an alternate timeline, a new universe, as you’ve suggested? The original universe goes on as before, no changes. But our new line, here with you and me in 1906, is as new and innocent as a newborn baby. Anything is possible. Any future is possible. In this timeline Sam, it doesn’t matter what we do. It’s all new.”

“It’s hypothetical, Casey. You and I have no way of knowing what is the true state of affairs.”

She was impatient. “I know that. But we have to decide.” She shook her head, angry and dissatisfied. “We either live in constant fear that the next breath will forever end everything we ever knew, or we live as if we have real lives to live.” She started to cry. “I’ve just turned twenty-one, Sam. I want a chance to live.”

He agreed he owed her that chance. He wrote to Einstein, again.

~~~

After giving it considerable thought, Sam decided not to press his luck overmuch at Queen's. He would need their cooperation eventually, but he wanted to be in a stronger position when he next approached them.

"Investors," he told Casey, as he adjusted his cravat one morning in preparation for a day of job hunting. "I need investors. They don't call it networking these days, but that's what I need to do. Meet people. Impress people. Find out who they know and who I need to know. I either find someone to employ me, or even better, find people to invest in my vision of the future."

"Which is?"

He gave her a wicked smile. "Well, for starters, you want a better sound system, right? Sound is a big deal right now. Communications, in general, is ready for a big leap. The telegraph, and even telephones, are almost commonplace, and Marconi's wireless is coming into its own. But their range is still very limited. I can bring them to the next level in a matter of months if I have the backers for it."

"And," he wagged a finger in front of her, "it can only help Ireland to be on the forefront of all that. Anything we can do to improve Ireland's economy just might distract them from blowing each other up over religious and political differences. It's worth a try."

Chapter 5

May 1906

The hours were long and the pay was negligible, but on occasional warm days, the job of "free-lance contractor" had its pleasurable moments. Casey sat on a bench in the Botanic Garden, with her legs tucked up under her, hands resting on her knees. She stared at her tree, letting the sun warm her back, listening to birds sing. The little oak seemed unfazed by its backward trip through time, and had grown a couple of inches over the last few months. She came to see it as often as she could. Somehow, as long as the little tree was okay, Casey felt like she would be okay, too.

After a while, she tilted her face to the sun, sighed, replaced her cap and stood. She was hungry and had not made any money today. Almost none this week. Sam was not having any luck, either, and their rent was overdue. She knew they didn't have it. Tomorrow, they would have to leave the boardinghouse, and their prospects for shelter were slim. Her stolen moment of peace over, Casey headed back into the market.

She had just stepped onto the walkway fronting the stores when a rock came hurtling past her, grazing her leg. She yelped and jumped back. The rock smashed into a shop door, a hail of stones close behind. Casey flattened herself against a building just as the yelling started, and she turned in dread to see a gang of men and boys coming up the street. Rocks were the least of their weapons: some of them carried cricket bats or torches, many had guns. They flaunted the weapons as the rocks flew. Several of the rioters entered a store, reappearing within moments, dragging two men with them. They threw the prisoners on the ground and kicked them, while others swung at the shop's window with a bat, sending glass flying into the street. A torch was waved at the shopkeeper, who fell to his knees in apparent supplication. Another shop was attacked just as a second gang appeared from a side street. They joined in the fray, two of them close enough to Casey to head for her.

"No papists! Papists go home!" They were nearly at her side and she frantically waved her hands. "I'm Protestant! And American!"

A hand closed on the back of her neck and a face shoved itself in front of her eyes. "Wot's yer name?" came the demand.

"C-Casey. Casey Wilson."

"Yer American?"

"Yes! Ow!" His hand had tightened on her neck.

"Come on, then. Be a good Protestant and give us a hand." One of them thrust a bat into her hands and pointed at the shop next door. "That shopkeeper hires Catholics. Let him know he's wrong to do that."

As she stared at him, screams filled the air. A nearby house had been set ablaze and the occupants were streaming outside. Most of them were men and they had weapons too. The brawl distracted Casey's tormenters. She dropped the bat and ran.

They were after her in an instant, rocks grazing her as she ran. She ducked down a side street just as a rock clipped her shoulder. Terror put speed to her feet as another rock landed in the middle of her back. She tripped forward, past training instinctively making her turn it into a forward roll. The roll caused the rest of her training to flood her muscles and she leapt to her feet, turning with a side snap to the boy just reaching her. Her foot connected with his thigh, knocking him down. Not slowing, she went for the next guy, with a forward snap to his chest that quite possibly broke a rib as he fell, unable to breathe. The two others behind them stopped short, unwilling to get within her range.

She narrowed her eyes, and her mouth twisted in contempt. “Help your friends. I’m going home.”

No one tried to stop her.

~~~

 “I don’t get it!” she yelled at Sam later that afternoon. Mrs. Fitzsimmons had fussed over her bruises when she got home, and then had given Sam a piece of her mind for letting Casey run around town dressed as a boy and without any protection. Casey and Sam were in the little parlor now, waiting for dinner. “There must be some signal between people. They have to have this planned out. But how do they know who’s Catholic and who’s not? It’s not as if the Catholic’s have purple skin or feathers growing out of their heads!”

Sam just shook his head, torn between his anxiety over her safety and a fatalistic amusement that somehow, all of this was his fault. “I don’t know. I imagine word gets to them about where the Catholics are working. And I’m sure they have a signal.” He sat on the sofa and rubbed his face. “I’m just glad you’re all right. Thank goodness for that karate training.”

She sniffed. “My leg hurts like hell. I haven’t been practicing, you know.”

“Maybe you should.” He was despondent. “I didn’t make any money today, either. I don’t know where we’ll end up, but it will probably be a more dangerous area. I asked Mrs. Fitzsimmons if she could let you stay if you could help out around the house or with cooking. Even if she just gave you a cot in the basement. But she said she can’t.”

Casey was touched. “She probably gets that all the time. A certain amount of hardheartedness is necessary, I guess. But thank you for trying.”

“I don’t know where we’ll go.”

“We’ll find something.” She turned to the stairs, intent on putting on a skirt for dinner, and hoping her words were true.

~~~

They weren’t.

Hunger forced them to a charity meal at a church, for dinner the next night. Casey tried to be upbeat as they took their bowls of soup and bread to a long table. “I grew up in Berkeley. It’s not as if I’ve never seen homeless people. We’ll find a protected spot and sleep in our cloaks.”

But Sam refused to let her sleep outside. Desperate, he asked everyone around them where he could send Casey. Then he began going to other tables to ask. She tried to stop him, telling him that she’d be okay, but finally, she forced him to sit in an empty corner and listen to her.

“Jesus, Sam! Do you know what you’re doing?” She whispered furiously, hoping she wasn’t calling attention to them. “In the first place, you’re letting everyone know that we’re alone and helpless. They’ll see you as an old, weak man and me as a small, weak girl. You’re making us marks, do you understand?”

He stared at her, then closed his eyes. “Damn. I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s stupid.” His eyes snapped open. “But you need to be somewhere safe.”

She shook her head. “Not without you.” Despondent, she turned and sat next to him on the bench. “I’m afraid to go somewhere without you. What if I can’t find you again? I’m a single girl. What if they send me someplace like those laundries or something?” She looked up at him and winced at his astonished expression.

“I’m not suggesting leaving you, Casey.” He touched her hand. “You’re single, but you’re not alone. I’ll tell them I’m your guardian, just like we told Mrs. Fitzsimmons. I just want you someplace safe and warm for the night. We can meet up in the morning at a prearranged spot.”

A volunteer approached them, her hands full of dishes, her smile friendly. “Some are sayin’ you need a place for your daughter to stay,” she said to Sam. “Sometimes, there’s still room at the poorhouse. Might be that both of you can get in.”

~~~

They stayed for a week in the poorhouse, men on one side, women on the other. True to his word, Sam met Casey every morning at the door to the dining room, where they could pick up a bowl of porridge and day-old bread. Sam went out every day to look for work, and they put Casey to work cleaning in the kitchen. They wouldn't let her go out on her own and she didn't dare put on her boy clothes.

Between the two of them, they scraped enough money together to rent another room, smaller and meaner than the first boardinghouse. This one did not include board and there was no place to cook anything. Sam had hopes he could build a hot plate out of scrounged parts. Until then, they would eat cold food or try to get dinner at the charities.

Worst of all, Sam had picked up a virus in the crowded shelter. He coughed a lot, and had a low fever. He just couldn't shake it, whatever it was, and Casey lived in fear of his illness getting worse. There was no running water in the building, and the water pipes outside worked only a couple of hours a day, and not at all on Sunday. It was a struggle to stay clean and almost impossible to clean their room. Casey looked for work, with worry a constant companion.