Time Twisters Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  PRUNING THE TREE

  OCCUPATION DUTY

  MUNDANE LANE

  THE POWER AND THE GLORY

  VOICES

  DOWNTOWN KNIGHT

  PARSLEY SAGE, ROSEMARY, AND TIME

  A BETTER PLACE

  CHAOS THEORY

  THE MAN IN CELL 91

  OYER AND TERMINER

  STANDING STILL

  ONE RAINY DAY IN PARIS

  TRY AND TRY AGAIN

  YESHUA’S CHOICE

  THREE POWER PLAY

  ONE TIME AROUND?

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  “The aliens really came! The invasion fleet is really here!”

  “UFO?” the President said. “Why do you call it that?”

  “Unidentified Flying Object, sir,” said General Ashcroft, who stood stiffly at attention to one side of the President’s desk. “A term invented in a proposed Air Force project called Blue Book. We decided not to fund their investigations. It was pure silliness.”

  “The fact is, Mr. President, we should have kept watching the skies. But no one ever thought.”

  Jimmy sighed, “And now it’s too late to change the world.”

  “It may not be too late,” President Dole said. “Not strictly speaking, anyway. You see, Mr. Andrews, you’re not the only crackpot we keep on the payroll. Another one of my pie-in-the-sky geniuses, a Dr. Hawking, claims to have concocted a time machine. His strange quantum theories, his speculations about time and wormholes, have made him a laughingstock among his peers—but if he says the time machine will work, then I’m willing to give it a shot. Preferably before those aliens launch their weapons.”

  “A time machine!” Jimmy could not keep the delight out of his voice. “And you want to send me back to . . . change history? Alter key events, do whatever I can to ensure that science fiction becomes popular?”

  “And let’s not forget the fact,” Ashcroft interrupted, “that in our current crisis, you are completely expendable.”

  —from “Mundane Lane”

  by Kevin J. Anderson

  Also Available from DAW Books:

  Slipstreams, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and John Helfers Here are twenty stories that span the genres by authors as varied as Alan Dean Foster, Robert J. Sawyer, Tanya Huff, Jane Lindskold, Irene Radord, and L. E. Modesitt, Jr., where: a mountain man has an encounter with a very aggressive demon in Yellowstone Park; a butcher’s widow whose discovery of a dybbuk will reveal a revelation about a legendary killer; Victoria Nelson’s vampiric detective work leads her to a case where blood is the clue; and Nicholas St. Claus has retired from the toy business to become a private investigator.

  Forbidden Planets, edited by Peter Crowther

  In 1956, film history was made with the release of Forbidden Planet, a movie that became a science fiction classic, a science fictional retelling of Shakespeare’s The Tempest, and itself the inspiration of Star Trek and many other well-known TV series and movies. Now, to mark the 50th anniversary of this seminal film, Peter Crowther has invited some of science fiction’s most creative minds, such as Paul McAuley, Alastair Reynolds, Paul Di Filippo, Stephen Baxter, Ian Mc-donald and Michael Moorcock to explore worlds of their own creation, places where humans should not venture but do. Here are twelve tales of the perils that may await hu-mankind on distant worlds or in different dimensions, life-transforming or endangering encounters that can redefine our very concept of both reality and sentient life-forms.

  Cosmic Cocktails, edited by Denise Little

  Bars and taverns are a time-honored human tradition—the perfect gathering places to trade news and gossip, to hang out, to celebrate, or just somewhere travelers can pass the time. Each has its own special and loyal clientele, though some welcome all comers. But what will such watering holes be like in the future? In fifteen original yarns by authors such as Loren L. Coleman, Sarah A. & Daniel M. Hoyt, Phaedra M. Weldon, Peter Orullian and others, you’ll encounter: an alien life-form that needs to be drunk to get drunk; a reporter on the trail of the true story about a legendary space pilot; a couple of spacers who’d been led to a bar they might never blast out of again; and a saloon where time travelers might run out of time. . . .

  Copyright © 2007 by Tekno Books and Jean Rabe.

  All Rights Reserved

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1390.

  DAW Books is distributed by Penguin Group (USA).

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-10931-1

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Introduction copyright © 2007 by Jean Rabe.

  “Pruning the Tree,” copyright © 2007 by Christopher T. Pierson.

  “Occupation Duty,” copyright © 2007 by Harry Turtledove.

  “Mundane Lane,” copyright © 2007 by WordFire, Inc.

  “The Power and the Glory,” copyright © 2007 by Robert E. Vardeman.

  “Voices,” copyright © 2007 by Jackie Cassada.

  “Downtown Knight,” copyright © 2007 by James M. Ward.

  “Parsley Sage, Rosemary, and Time,” copyright © 2007 by Jon L. Breen.

  “A Better Place,” copyright © 2007 by Linda P. Baker.

  “Chaos Theory,” copyright © 2007 by Stephen Leigh.

  “The Man in Cell 91,” copyright © 2007 by Gene DeWeese.

  “Oyer and Terminer,” copyright © 2007 by Joe Masdon.

  “Standing Still,” copyright © 2007 by Donald J. Bingle.

  “One Rainy Day in Paris,” copyright © 2007 by Skip and Penny Williams.

  “Try and Try Again,” copyright © 2007 by Pierce Askegren.

  “Yeshua’s Choice,” copyright © 2007 by Nancy Virginia Varian.

  “Three Power Play,” copyright © 2007 by Wes Nicholson.

  “One Time Around?” copyright © 2007 by John Helfers.

  INTRODUCTION

  Jean Rabe

  Time is the fire in which we burn.

  —Gene Roddenberry

  Time . . . we never seem to have enough of it, do we? We’re usually always running out.

  We’re late for this or that.

  We flunk time management courses.

  We grow old too quickly.

  Occasionally, there’s too much of it—when in hurricanes, floods, wars, and other disasters we pray for the clock to speed ahead so things can be resolved and made better.

  But more often than not, we always want more time, one more day on the calendar.

  Ah, time—what if it could be tweaked? What if forces could manipulate it so that presidents might not be assassinated or space travel might be avoided? What if the outcome of wars could be finessed? What if villains and heroes could be plucked from one timeline and placed in another?

  What if and what if.

  The notion of time travel stirs our imaginations.

  Time has been the object of novels, movies, college courses, games, and this anthology. It is the subject of classic quotes by famous folks:

  Time and the hour run through
the roughest day—William Shakespeare

  The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once—Albert Einstein

  Time only seems to matter when it’s running out—Peter Strup

  We must use time as a tool, not as a crutch—John Fitzgerald Kennedy

  There is time for everything—Thomas Edison

  Time is what we want most, but what we use worst—William Penn

  All great achievements require time—Maya Angelou

  The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time—Bertrand Russell

  Tempus fugit (time flies)—Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso)

  Time flies like the wind. Fruit flies like bananas—Groucho Marx

  Lost time is never found again—Benjamin Franklin

  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—Charles Dickens

  Time certainly changes in each of these tales from some of the best voices in science fiction and fantasy. The master of alternate history, Harry Turtledove, takes us upcountry from Gaza with his story. Kevin J. Anderson considers time . . . and space . . . in his stroll down Mundane Lane. James M. Ward lets an influential family play with time. And Gene DeWeese, Nancy Varian, and Jackie Cassada mix time and religion. Linda Baker takes us to the future, Robert Vardeman takes us to Tesla’s lab, and John Helfers takes us home.

  If you’ve a little time on your hands, settle yourself into a favorite easy chair, put your feet up, and delve into Time Twisters.

  It won’t be time wasted.

  Good reading,

  Jean Rabe

  PRUNING THE TREE

  Chris Pierson

  I saw it happen. Right in front of me. It’s still sinking in.

  The cars came around the corner, into the plaza. Open-tops, a convoy of them, like you see on TV. The people were smiling and waving. It was a beautiful day, sunny, warm, the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air. Not bad for November—part of why I moved down here. Everyone was shouting his name, waving signs and flags. Women cried to see him. Men stood proud. I felt it, too. That was the way he was, the way we always wanted a president to be, really. Not like the other guy, sweating on TV during the debates, always looking like he was up to something. Thank God he lost.

  And his wife . . . man, what a beautiful woman. I’m not the kind of guy who uses words like poise, but yeah, she had it. They even made the governor look good, sitting next to them. I was proud to be an American that day.

  For a while.

  They came around the corner. It gets hazy after that. They came around the corner, into the plaza . . . hang on, give me a moment. It’s still a little hard to talk about.

  Some people say they saw puffs of smoke, but they can’t agree about where they were. Behind the hill, up in one of the buildings . . . I heard one guy say Secret Security did it, which sounds like bull to me, but I don’t know. I’m not sure what to believe any more. You’ll see why.

  I didn’t see where the shots came from. I just saw him grab his throat, like he was having trouble breathing. Then the back of his head blew up. I saw his wife trying to help him, but I fought in the war. I know when a man’s hurt, and when he’s dead. He couldn’t be helped.

  They’d killed President Clayton.

  I hear the cops caught a guy. Communist, they say. Had three names—they always have three names, don’t they? John Wilkes Booth with Lincoln. Alan Harvey Emory with Hoover. Now this guy, this Gary Robert Anderson. I dunno, maybe the news just likes to use their middle names to make it sound more serious. Like Jim Clayton getting killed isn’t serious enough.

  They caught the shooter in a movie theater, of all places. Watching a show. Yeah, that’s where I’d go, if I’d just shot the President’s head off. A lot of people don’t think he’s the guy. I guess we’ll find out, soon enough. Soon enough. I don’t think it was the Soviets behind it, myself—Morchenko and his boys are still supposed to be our friends, last I heard. I think it was Himmler’s lot. They’re still pissed that Clayton named Leibowitz his vice-president. Now we’ve got ourselves a real-life Jew in charge, running all forty-six states. There’s gonna be another war now, just you wait. Probably by summer. They’ll try to invade Britain again, and this time they’ll have Spain on their side. We’ll have to help Churchill out of a jam again. Leibowitz won’t sit by. President Leibowitz. Still sounds weird, but it’s only been a couple weeks.

  There’s gonna be another war. World War Three. If we’re still here.

  If any of it’s still here.

  Because I know something, and you’re not going to believe it when I tell you. Something that makes Jim Clayton getting shot look like nothing. You probably won’t believe me. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me, and I’m me. But I gotta tell someone. I can take it if you laugh. I just need you to listen.

  All right. Here goes.

  Like I said, I was down in Jackson the day Clayton got shot. I watched him go down, saw the flecks of blood on his wife’s face, the bits of skull on the trunk of that open-top Tucker he was riding in. Jesus, I’ll be having nightmares about that till I die. If I die. If I last that long.

  Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  After the shots, the motorcade took off. Men in dark suits and sunglasses everywhere. One pointed a gun in my face, then moved on. No one knew what the hell was going on, not the people, not the cops, not the Feds. Everybody scattered. We all thought we might be next, like a presidential assassin would stick around to pop random civilians. We weren’t thinking straight. And I’m not proud to say it: I ran. Ran crying, even before they broke out the tear gas and fire-hoses to quell the riots. I just had to get away. It was chaos.

  I made it half a mile before the adrenaline started to fade. I don’t even remember most of that. I was in a part of town I didn’t know too well. I’ve only lived in the area three months, and I stay home with my wife most evenings. Christ, my wife. She hasn’t stopped crying over Clayton. The woman cries in her sleep.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her the other thing.

  There was a bar there, and the door was open. I thought, yeah, I could use a drink right now, so I went in. The place was close to empty—just a couple of coloreds at one of the tables in the back. Colored bartender, too. That part of town. I got nothing against them, though—I’m pro-Full Rights—so I sat down, ordered a drink. They had Kraft on tap. I got a shot, too. Good whiskey, from Lower Canada. Smooth going down.

  The TV was going. Ben Lambert, old stone-face from FBC news, was on, and he was crying and saying Clayton had been pronounced dead at 2:43 PM, Monday, November 14, 1966. May God rest his soul. I watched a bit of it, but it didn’t say much new. No one seemed to know what was happening. I let it fuzz out, ordered another shot, and nursed my beer. I didn’t even see the bartender when he went over and shut the door. I just heard it when he shot the bolt.

  I set down my beer, looked around. The other coloreds had gotten up too, and were closing the windows. One went and turned off the television. I stood up, getting scared for the first time. I thought these people might be some of King’s Avengers, looking for a white man to hang from a tree. Shit, I liked Martin Luther King. I broke my radio when I heard he’d died when that nut blew up that bus in Memphis. That lunatic had three names too, but damned if I can remember the middle one. Dick Something Nixon.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked.

  “Easy now, mate,” the bartender said. He didn’t sound like any colored I’d heard in the South. Fellow sounded like he came from overseas. British? Australian? I never found out.

  “Easy?” I asked. “You’re not gonna make pale fruit out of me?”

  The guy frowned, like he’d never heard the phrase before. “Pale what?”

  “White lynching,” said one of the others, an older woman with the same accent. “I read about it in Cimino’s last report. Happened all over the South in this fork.”

  “It was going on in last fork I was in,” said the third colored. He sounded more normal, but he wasn’t from
these parts. Minnesota, maybe. That weird, sorta-Swedish accent. Coulda been Upper Canadian, I suppose. “It’s why they sent us, instead of Nelson’s crew. We’re safer here.”

  “Look!” I snapped. “Would someone just tell me what’s going on?”

  “Easy,” the bartender said again. “We ain’t gonna hurt you. We just want to ask you some questions.”

  “See,” said the woman, “we’re kind of lost.”

  “Why don’t you sit down,” said the bartender. He held out a hand. “I’m Paul. Paul Clayton.”

  That put a shock through me. “Like the President,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Who?” he asked.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “The President, Paul. Just got shot. Weren’t you paying attention to the tube?”

  “Oh,” the bartender said. “Yeah, him. Sorry.”

  “Jesus,” said the other guy, the Canadian-sounding one. He headed toward the front door. “I’ll keep watch. You two handle the Q&A.”

  “My name’s Emma Truman,” said the woman. “Also like the President.”

  I frowned. “I don’t remember a President Truman.”

  They all looked at one another. Paul grinned, then shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Emma. “Over by the door, that’s Tom Mansfield. What’s your name?”

  “Jeff,” I said. “Jeff Wilcox.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Jeff.”

  “Look,” I said. “I’m not sure what’s going on. The President’s been dead for an hour, and now you three abduct me. This is weird, you know?”

  “Honey,” said Emma, her eyes very serious, “I’ve seen weird. This is nothing.”