The Time Travel Chronicles (36 page)

“Leave this with me, counsel. I’ll get back to you.”

Axworthy left, and Hoskins scanned the brief list. She then leaned back in her leather chair and began to read the needlepoint on her wall for the thousandth time:

My object all sublime

I shall achieve in time—

She read that line again, her lips moving slightly as she subvocalized the words: “I shall achieve
in time
 ...”

The judge turned back to the list of tyrannosaur finds. Ah, that one. Yes, that would be perfect. She pushed a button on her phone. “David, see if you can find Mr. Axworthy for me.”

* * *

There had been a very unusual aspect to the
Triceratops
kill—an aspect that intrigued Cohen. Chronotransference had been performed countless times; it was one of the most popular forms of euthanasia. Sometimes the transferee’s original body would give an ongoing commentary about what was going on, as if talking during sleep. It was clear from what they said that transferees couldn’t exert any control over the bodies they were transferred into.

Indeed, the physicists had claimed any control was impossible. Chronotransference worked precisely because the transferee could exert no influence, and therefore was simply observing things that had already been observed. Since no new observations were being made, no quantum-mechanical distortions occurred. After all, said the physicists, if one could exert control, one could change the past. And that was impossible.

And yet, when Cohen had willed the rex to alter its course, it eventually had done so.

Could it be that the rex had so little brains that Cohen’s thoughts
could
control the beast?

Madness. The ramifications were incredible.

Still...

He had to know if it was true. The rex was torpid, flopped on its belly, gorged on ceratopsian meat. It seemed prepared to lie here for a long time to come, enjoying the early evening breeze.

Get up,
thought Cohen.
Get up, damn you!

Nothing. No response.

Get up!

The rex’s lower jaw was resting on the ground. Its upper jaw was lifted high, its mouth wide open. Tiny pterosaurs were flitting in and out of the open maw, their long needle-like beaks apparently yanking gobbets of hornface flesh from between the rex’s curved teeth.

Get up,
thought Cohen again.
Get up!

The rex stirred.

Up!

The tyrannosaur used its tiny forelimbs to keep its torso from sliding forward as it pushed with its powerful legs until it was standing.

Forward,
thought Cohen.
Forward!

The beast’s body felt different. Its belly was full to bursting.

Forward!

With ponderous steps, the rex began to march.

It was wonderful. To be in control again! Cohen felt the old thrill of the hunt.

And he knew exactly what he was looking for.

* * *

“Judge Hoskins says okay,” said Axworthy. “She’s authorized for you to be transferred into that new
T. rex
they’ve got right here in Alberta at the Tyrrell. It’s a young adult, they say. Judging by the way the skeleton was found, the rex died falling, probably into a fissure. Both legs and the back were broken, but the skeleton remained almost completely articulated, suggesting that scavengers couldn’t get at it. Unfortunately, the chronotransference people say that back-propagating that far into the past they can only plug you in a few hours before the accident occurred. But you’ll get your wish: you’re going to die as a tyrannosaur. Oh, and here are the books you asked for: a complete library on Cretaceous flora and fauna. You should have time to get through it all; the chronotransference people will need a couple of weeks to set up.”

* * *

As the prehistoric evening turned to night, Cohen found what he had been looking for, cowering in some underbrush: large brown eyes, long, drawn-out face, and a lithe body covered in fur that, to the tyrannosaur’s eyes, looked blue-brown.

A mammal. But not just any mammal.
Purgatorius
, the very first primate, known from Montana and Alberta from right at the end of the Cretaceous. A little guy, only about ten centimeters long, excluding its ratlike tail. Rare creatures, these days. Only a precious few.

The little furball could run quickly for its size, but a single step by the tyrannosaur equaled more than a hundred of the mammal’s. There was no way it could escape.

The rex leaned in close, and Cohen saw the furball’s face, the nearest thing there would be to a human face for another sixty million years. The animal’s eyes went wide in terror.

Naked, raw fear.

Mammalian fear.

Cohen saw the creature scream.

Heard
it scream.

It was beautiful.

The rex moved its gaping jaws in toward the little mammal, drawing in breath with such force that it sucked the creature into its maw. Normally the rex would swallow its meals whole, but Cohen prevented the beast from doing that. Instead, he simply had it stand still, with the little primate running around, terrified, inside the great cavern of the dinosaur’s mouth, banging into the giant teeth and great fleshy walls, and skittering over the massive, dry tongue.

Cohen savored the terrified squealing. He wallowed in the sensation of the animal, mad with fear, moving inside that living prison.

And at last, with a great, glorious release, Cohen put the animal out of its misery, allowing the rex to swallow it, the furball tickling as it slid down the giant’s throat.

It was just like old times.

Just like hunting humans.

And then a wonderful thought occurred to Cohen. Why, if he killed enough of these little screaming balls of fur, they wouldn’t have any descendants. There wouldn’t ever be any
Homo sapiens
. In a very real sense, Cohen realized he
was
hunting humans—every single human being who would ever exist.

Of course, a few hours wouldn’t be enough time to kill many of them. Judge Hoskins no doubt thought it was wonderfully poetic justice, or she wouldn’t have allowed the transfer: sending him back to fall into the pit, damned.

Stupid judge. Why, now that he could control the beast, there was no way he was going to let it die young. He’d just—

There it was. The fissure, a long gash in the earth, with a crumbling edge. Damn, it
was
hard to see. The shadows cast by neighboring trees made a confusing gridwork on the ground that obscured the ragged opening. No wonder the dull-witted rex had missed seeing it until it was too late.

But not this time.

Turn left, thought Cohen.

Left.

His rex obeyed.

He’d avoid this particular area in future, just to be on the safe side. Besides, there was plenty of territory to cover. Fortunately, this was a young rex—a juvenile. There would be decades in which to continue his very special hunt. Cohen was sure that Axworthy knew his stuff: once it became apparent that the link had lasted longer than a few hours, he’d keep any attempt to pull the plug tied up in the courts for years.

Cohen felt the old pressure building in himself, and in the rex. The tyrannosaur marched on.

This was
better
than old times, he thought. Much better.

Hunting all of humanity.

The release would be
wonderful
.

He watched intently for any sign of movement in the underbrush.

A Word on Robert J. Sawyer

Robert J. Sawyer—called "the dean of Canadian science fiction" by the
Ottawa Citizen
and "just about the best science-fiction writer out there" by the
Denver Rocky Mountain News
—is one of eight authors in history to win all three of the science-fiction field's highest honors for best novel of the year: the Hugo Award (which he won for
Hominids
), the Nebula Award (which he won for
The Terminal Experiment
); and the John W. Campbell Memorial Award (which he won for
Mindscan
).

Rob has won Japan's Seiun Award for best foreign novel three times (for
End of an Era
,
Frameshift
, and
Illegal Alien
), and he's also won the world's largest cash-prize for SF writing—the Polytechnic University of Catalonia's 6,000-euro Premio UPC de Ciencia Ficcion—an unprecedented three times.

In 2007, he received China's Galaxy Award for most favorite foreign author. He's also won twelve Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy Awards (“Auroras"), an Arthur Ellis Award from the Crime Writers of Canada,
Analog
magazine's Analytical Laboratory Award for Best Short Story of the Year, and the
Science Fiction Chronicle
Reader Award for Best Short Story of the Year
.
 

Rob's novels have been top-ten national mainstream bestsellers in Canada, appearing on the
Globe and Mail
and
Maclean
’s bestsellers' lists, and they've hit number one on the bestsellers' list published by
Locus
, the U.S. trade journal of the SF field
.
 

Rob is a frequent keynote speaker at conferences, teaches SF writing occasionally, and edits his own line of Canadian science-fiction novels for Red Deer Press.

His novel
Flashforward
(Tor Books) was the basis for the ABC TV series of the same name. He enjoyed spending time on the set and wrote the script for episode 19 "Course Correction."
His
WWW
trilogy,
Wake
,
Watch
, and
Wonder
(Ace Books), is all about the World Wide Web gaining consciousness.

For more information about Rob and his award-winning books, check out his web page:
http://sfwriter.com
.

by Lucas Bale

“T
HIS
IS THE MONEY CARD. All you have to do is find this card.”

Some too-trendy jazz from the bar behind me skitters through an open window and into the summer evening heat. Bleecker Street hums and a handful of New Yorkers have stopped to watch me take this guy’s money. One of them scrolls idly through his iPod.

“That’s all you have to do. You find this, and you get whatever’s in your hand doubled.”

“Yeah, you just show me the money, man,” the guy says, and his crew, rich-kid bridge and tunnel boys, double over. He’s hilarious. They love him. I love him. He’s perfect.

“Show me the money,” he says again, this time a pastiche of Cuba in
Jerry Maguire
. It’s only just come to him. Like I said, he’s hilarious. You think I haven’t heard that one before?

I love three-card monte. It plays on machismo. That
I’m cleverer than the next guy
thing
every schmuck seems to have in this city.

I flip the outer card a couple of times to show there’s nothing else concealed in my hand, but really it’s all about drawing the eye. Each time I do something with a card, I flick my hand away. The eye follows it, of course—it’s only natural to be attracted to the movement—so I get a half-second to work the other cards. That’s where I keep the double-facer, joker and ace, the middle card. I keep talking too, so they have to concentrate on my face and my words. They love the banter. There are guys who do this with shills who bet and lose, then bet and win to make it look like the tide is turning. I hate that. I don’t work with others out here on the street. I don’t have friends. There’s no point. I don’t stay in one place long enough.

Some guys use a table—I don’t. It’s restrictive and cheap. Those guys, they got no class. A guy with a table is a small-time hustler. Not me. I got class. I got
game
.

I always put the card in the mark’s hand. They can feel it there, a friend. No way a card they’re holding can betray them, right? I mean, they can see it,
right there
. It’s face down, but I don’t have it—
they
have it. What could I do when it’s in their hand?

The guy tosses me a look. “Forty dollars.”

He’s confident. He thinks he knows where the ace is. He thinks he can outsmart me, believes it completely. These bridge and tunnel jerks always do; that’s why I set up near one of their Village dives. And always early evening. A few beers and they’re jazzed up, ready to party. Full of testosterone. I love these guys, all Breitling watches and sun-white teeth—real dicks. It’s the alpha dog upbringing.