Unhappenings (29 page)

or a week, I forged on with my new optimism. Occasionally, I would make minor discoveries, and although they would invariably be facets of time travel someone else had already established and named, the fact that I arrived at them independently infused me with an altogether new confidence. For the first time, I started to believe I was the same person as the man who invented the technology that brought me here.

During that week, Helen was away for three days, and I managed to endure it. Our time apart, however brief, tested my resolve to see her as nothing other than a best friend. Until I was ready to make her a traveler, I couldn’t afford to take the chance. She began to remark on my transformation, and credited it to our day out, which she believed rejuvenated me.

One day I went to visit her at work, with a purpose. Incredibly, she was not alone. An old man had wandered into the print collection. From the look on his face, it appeared to be a new discovery for him, and the reverence with which he took books from the shelf and cautiously leafed through them, it struck me that this experience must have allowed him to relive his youth, when books were a thing to hold, not download. Then I remembered what year it was, and realized with a start that he was probably ten years younger than my present incarnation. His youth happened after mine. This was no nostalgic wonder. It was probably just mystified curiosity. Unfortunately for me, he had picked an inconvenient time for his epiphany. I had things to discuss with Helen that were not for public consumption.

“Things going better?” she asked.

“Quite so,” I said, pulling up a chair.

Then she threw out her usual bait. “So, what kind of progress are you making?”

I gestured back over my shoulder at the new bibliophile, still engrossed in his discoveries, and put my finger to my lips. Then I took a pencil from her desk, and a slip of paper.

“Still can’t tell you,” I said. “You know the rules.” As I spoke those words, I wrote different ones on the scrap, and passed it to her.

The note said:
Time Travel.

She read it. Her eyes bugged.

“Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said, scribbling furiously.

The note she passed back to me said:
WHAT???

“You know I trust you,” I said. “But I really can’t share.”

I passed her the note:
Can we get out of here?

“I know, I know,” she said casually. “You here for lunch? It’s early, but I could eat.” She dropped the note into a shredder.

“Sure,” I said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she said.

She managed to contain herself until we got out of the building. Once outside, she whispered, “Oh my God! Is this for real?”

“It’s very real,” I said.

“Are you… I don’t even know what questions to ask you.”

“It doesn’t matter because I can’t answer them anyway.”

She pouted.

“I’m sorry. I’m not even allowed to tell you what I already have.”

“Wow,” she said. “Just wow. Why did you tell me?”

“Because I wanted you to know,” I said. In truth, I wanted to prepare her. Time travel was about to become a huge part of her life. I wanted it to be as little of a shock as possible. “I’ve been kind of leaning on you, and you deserved to know what the stress was all about. It’s a very difficult assignment.” We walked in silence for a bit. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m trying to decide whether to believe you,” she said.

“Do you think I would lie about this?” I asked. It was not defensive. I truly wanted to know.

She looked me in the eyes.

“No,” she said.

“Good. Because I wouldn’t.”

“This is kind of a heavy thing for me to carry, you know.”

“I know,” I said. “I wouldn’t have put it on you if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

After a few seconds, she again said, “Wow.”

“I know. We probably shouldn’t talk about this anymore,” I said. “I’m glad you know, though.”

She smiled softly. “I hope you know how much it means to me that you trust me like this.”

“I do,” I said, and for a moment, I considered telling her everything. I almost did. But as soon as I pictured myself confessing my feelings, I was assaulted with the image of Helen disappearing into oblivion. Soon she would be safe. I would have to wait.

came home to find Athena in my kitchen.

“Since when do you have a cat?” Penelope was standing on the table, gratefully receiving a little attention behind her ears.

I shrugged. “About a year, by the looks of it. She kind of unhappened to me a week ago.”

“I like her,” she said. “What’s her name?”

“I have no idea, so naturally, I am calling her Penelope.” That elicited a weak smile. “I’m a little surprised to see you.”

“I wasn’t happy with where we left things.”

“I’m not happy about it either,” I said, pulling up a chair. “And I don’t want you to go away again, so I’m not going to pursue it.”

She frowned. “That seems too easy.”

“It is,” I said. “It absolutely is. But right now I have a much more pressing issue than whatever my mysterious future self is up to. I have questions, and if you can answer any of them, I’d be extremely grateful.”

I waited for a reaction, but she just sat back in her chair.

“No promises. What do you want to know?”

“Why are we invisible when we travel? You and I have appeared in the middle of crowds in broad daylight, and no one ever bats an eye. Why?”

Athena thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Okay, I can answer that one. It’s a cognitive dissonance side effect of the jump field. No one expects people to materialize out of thin air, or disappear into it, so when they see it happen, their brains adjust to believe that we must have already been there. The effect is more dramatic for backward travel than forward travel, by two orders of magnitude. And it doesn’t work on anyone who is expecting you, or anyone who is staring at the exact spot where you materialize. There are also a few people who aren’t affected at all, but it’s something like one hundredth of a percent of the population.”

“Huh. Does that mean travel is generally safe no matter where or when you go?”

She shook her head. “There are still risks. Cameras aren’t affected by the field in any way, so you don’t want to materialize anywhere you might be recorded. Even cameras that monitor in real time are a danger. Anyone who sees you suddenly turn up filtered through a monitor will see it for exactly what it is.”

“Noted,” I said. “Okay, how about this: you told me at one point that a typical jump has a seven year margin of error. Why is it that almost every time I jump on my own I land exactly where and when I intend to?”

“That I can’t say,” she said flatly.

“Because you don’t know, or because you don’t want to?”

“A little of both,” she admitted.

“But it is different for me, isn’t it?”

“Oh my, yes,” she said. “I don’t think there would be any point to my denying that.” This was not what I wanted to hear. I intended to travel with Helen. If my jumps were precise and hers were wide, we would get separated.

“How does tandem jumping work, then? Why do we stay together?”

She frowned. “Because our modules communicate when we are in contact. Why are you asking me this?”

I ignored the question. “That’s interesting. Would you be able to provide me with another module? I’d like to study it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Are you sure? It would be very helpful for me to see how it interacts with mine.”

Athena stared at me in bitter silence.

“Are you going to give her a choice?” she asked finally. “Or are you just going to hijack her?”

My heart sank as I realized how stupid it had been to imagine Athena would not see right through me. I also felt guilty for not being forthright with her. Unfortunately, I chose to lash out in my own defense.

“Like you gave me a choice?”

She moved her hand to cover the pocket inside her jacket that held the small silver bead she would one day put inside my arm. This Athena was younger than the one who made me a traveler, and she told me at the time she had been carrying the bead for years without knowing when she would finally give it to me. I could have taken it from her right then, I suppose, but that would have cost me more than I would ever dare sacrifice.

“I haven’t done that yet,” she said quietly.

“But you will. And you won’t even warn me. How is this any different?”

“You were already a traveler, that’s how,” she said. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

I took a deep breath. This was not how I wanted our conversation to go. I needed Athena in my corner on this. She was the only person I had ever consistently considered to be a trusted ally.

“For the record, yes, I am going to give her a choice. I have already told her that my work involves time travel. I am going to break this to her in stages, and then I am going to tell her why I want her to travel with me.”

“And if she says no?”

My stomach churned at the prospect. “I honestly don’t know. But I have to try.”

Athena stood. “I will not help you with this. What we are… You cannot wish this on another person, Nigel. You cannot.”

“I don’t want to lose her,” I said. It rang pathetically in my ears.

“You…” Athena looked away from me, but I could see her lip starting to tremble. “Don’t do this,” she whimpered, fighting back tears. “Please don’t do this.”

I had no idea what to do or say. “Athena, please. If you know something about Helen, just tell me. I’ll do the right thing, I swear. But I need to know what’s going to happen to her.”

She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes.

“You will know,” she said.

She was either laughing or crying when she said it, but it was impossible to tell which, and she didn’t stay long enough for me to ask.