Timeshares Part 1

Timeshares.

by Jean Rabe & Martin Harry Greenberg.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

"A Timely Introduction," copyright 2010 by Jean Rabe "The Authentic Touch," copyright 2010 by Word Fire, Inc.

"Timeless Lisa," copyright 2010 by Robert E. Vardeman "Been a Long Time," copyright 2010 by Matthew P. Mayo "Unsolved Histories," copyright 2010 by Greg c.o.x "Limited Time Offer," copyright 2010 by Dean Leggett "The Shaman," copyright 2010 by Annie Jones "A Portrait of Time," copyright 2010 by Kelly Swails "But I'm Not the Only One," copyright 2010 by Chris Pierson "It's Just a Matter of Time," copyright 2010 by James M. Ward "Time Sharing," copyright 2010 by Jody Lynn Nye "Two Tickets to Paradise," copyright 2010 by Vicki Steger "The World of Null- T," copyright 2010 by Gene DeWeese "Bruck in Time," copyright 2010 by Patrick McGilligan "Memories of Light and Sound," copyright 2010 by Steve Saus "A Night to Forget," copyright 2010 by C.A. Verstraete "A Pa.s.sion for Time Travel," copyright 2010 by Donald J. Bingle "No Man's Land," copyright 2010 by Allister Timms "By Our Actions," copyright 2010 by Michael A. Stackpole "Spoilers," copyright 2010 by Linda P. Baker

A Timely Introduction

If it was truly possible to vacation in time, I would visit early America on the off chance I'd meet Benjamin Franklin. I always thought it would be great to share a meal with him and talk about politics and electricity. Maybe fly a kite together. George Was.h.i.+ngton could join us-I'm still curious about the whole wooden teeth thing. And I'd like to chat with Thomas Jefferson about his recommended authors. After all, Jefferson wrote one of my all-time favorite quotes: "I cannot live without books."

So early America for me.

But just for one of my timely sojourns.

Then there's Rome in the time of Caesar-I could spend a week or two there. I studied Latin in high school and have kept up with it enough that on a good day I just might be able to make it through a marketplace to sample the wines and wares. I've no interest in watching whatever b.l.o.o.d.y act would be taking place in any arena.

Or maybe I'd go back to see the very first football game ever. I am a football junkie. That would be a seriously delicious kick, especially if I could get a seat on the 50-yard line.

I think I'd even give prehistoric Africa a try, just to see the dinosaurs. Real dinosaurs, not the skeletons on display in museums or the cinematic ones of Jura.s.sic Park Jura.s.sic Park and the like. and the like.

Yeah, now that I'm thinking about it, if I was going to take a vacation in time it would have to be for the dinosaurs.

Up close and personal with a stegosaurus first, then a meet-and-greet with Ben Franklin.

Fortunately for you, the authors in this collection went to all manner of interesting places not on my list-a veritable whirlwind tour across the globe and through the centuries. They opened my eyes to some interesting possibilities.

Allister Timms took a risky vacation during World War I. Robert Vardeman went looking for a costly work of art, Jody Lynn Nye discovered a cla.s.sic romance, and Vicki Steger found paradise. Greg c.o.x's traveler found danger, Chris Pierson's found John Lennon, and Michael Stackpole's found Jesus.

Each vacation in this anthology will stir your imagination and make you think about your own possible Timeshares Timeshares journey. journey.

Where would you go?

Or, more precisely, when when would you go? would you go?

Enjoy the trips Timeshares Timeshares offers up in this collection. offers up in this collection.

Me? After reading all of the tales I'm thinking paradise might not be so bad. Maybe I could take John Lennon and Leonardo da Vinci with me.

-Jean Rabe

The Authentic Touch Kevin J. Anderson

Kevin J. Anderson is the author of more than one hundred novels, forty-seven of which have appeared on national or international bestseller lists. He has more than twenty million books in print in thirty languages. He has won or been nominated for numerous prestigious awards, including the Nebula Award, the Bram Stoker Award, the SFX Reader's Choice Award, the American Physics Society's Forum Award, and the New York Times New York Times Notable Book Award. Notable Book Award.

Mainz, Germany, 1452

All these dirty, crowded medieval towns looked the same to him. He double-checked the small glowing screen on his locator/communicator/emergency signal. Yes, Mainz, Germany. 1452. Right on target.

He was no historian and had no aspirations to become one. To him, historical settings were to be studied on an entertainment screen or read in a novel, not to be experienced firsthand. But a job was a job . . . and the job had taken him here.

His name was Bill-"Bill the PR Man." Not a very memorable name, but his parents had given him little to work with. Bill Smith, not even a middle name. When he'd started his career, talking himself up to various corporations and showing off his skills, Bill had considered changing his name. Maybe something that would leave a more distinctive and powerful impression-"Brom Zanderley"-or stuffy and imposing-"P. Jason Higgenbotham"-but he was Bill Bill, and he felt like Bill Bill, and so he turned the disadvantage into a focus, making the very simplicity his calling card. Bill, the PR Man.

Honesty, veracity, authenticity. "I want your clientele to remember you you, not me," he told his customers. The name and that att.i.tude had served him very well.

And now it had taken him across the centuries just to do a simple brochure. But it was perhaps the most important contract job in his career.

In Mainz, he drew a deep breath, driving back the dizziness and the slight nausea that always resulted from traveling through time. For some reason, though no other travelers had mentioned it, Bill always tasted vinegar in the back of his throat during a transport. Other people experienced severe waves of diarrhea for the first hour; given the alternative, he preferred the vinegar taste.

The night was dim, and fog seeped along the streets, but the swirling mists did little to lessen the stench. Once a person traveled back more than a few decades, Bill had found that all historical places carried a definite and oppressive odor odor. Not surprising, considering the lack of hygiene, the garbage and sewage, even dead bodies lying around. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to vacation vacation under conditions like this. But he certainly wouldn't call attention to the unpleasantness in the promotional literature. Rose-colored gla.s.ses, soft focus, a bit of license with descriptive language . . . while still keeping that authentic touch. under conditions like this. But he certainly wouldn't call attention to the unpleasantness in the promotional literature. Rose-colored gla.s.ses, soft focus, a bit of license with descriptive language . . . while still keeping that authentic touch.

From a tavern at the other end of the alley he could hear loud Germanic voices singing and arguing. High overhead, a thick-armed woman opened the shutters of a window and poured the contents of a chamber pot down into the street, missing Bill by only a few yards. He hurried away, shouting up at the impolite person, "Watch what you're doing!" But of course she did not understand modern English, and he received a volley of curses right back.

Bill moved out of the alley toward a wider street, getting his bearings. He wore period costume-scratchy fabric, rough and uncomfortable seams. Surrept.i.tiously, he glanced down at the screen of his locator again. The techs had missed the target by two blocks. Not bad, considering the centuries crossed but they would have to fine-tune their skills before large waves of customers signed up for the Timeshares service. It would really ruin a vacation if a customer materialized through time on the wrong side of a cliff . . . or in the middle of a crowded square in colonial New England where people might be inclined to point and cry out, "A witch! A witch!"

Scouts had gone ahead to chart all the locations, as they would for any approved vacation. Bill consulted the photos and saw what he was looking for-a nondescript print shop, although it wasn't exactly called a "print shop" yet. n.o.body in 1452 Mainz was going to run down to the corner to make quick copies.

All the cramped businesses on the street were closed up and shuttered for the night. Timeshares headquarters had chosen the late hour intentionally, but night watchmen prowled up and down the streets carrying lanterns, and Bill did not want to b.u.mp into the medieval equivalent of a street gang.

Walking along, studying the buildings in the dim light, he compared the doors of the shops to the photo taken by the scouts. It was a very distinctive place. He found the correct door. He paused, looking up at the half-timbered structure, the window box cluttered with dead flowers, water stains and moss on the plaster. Not much to look at. Sooner or later, there would probably be a placard hanging outside, but so far no one knew what Johannes Gutenberg was doing in there and printing that enormous Bible, at forty-two lines per page, was going to take him a while.

The thick iron padlock hanging from the door latch was the height of medieval security, but with a screwdriver, a lock pick, and a little trial and error, Bill easily removed it and slipped inside a darkened workshop that smelled of ink, wood shavings, and cat urine. Now there was one detail the history books hadn't included.

He clicked on his bright and totally anachronistic flashlight so he could look around, then opened his leather satchel to remove the stack of tan, rough-surfaced sheets of papyrus. They were still moist and still smelled a little rotten from the manufacturing process; they had been made only two days ago, back at the Nile Delta in the first century A.D.

Bill had traveled back to ancient Egypt to obtain the actual papyrus-again, for the authentic touch. He had, however, underestimated how difficult it was just to pick up some paper. Since papyrus was a common substance in Egypt at the time, he thought he could just go down to a marketplace and pick up a ream.

Though Bill did not speak the difficult language, the ancient Egyptians along the Nile were accustomed to strange merchants coming from far-off lands. Near the open-air, reed-roofed shop, workers harvested the tall green sedge from the swamp, peeling the stalks to take out the pith, laying down strips, crisscrossing them, pounding them, pressing and drying the sheets, then sc.r.a.ping them smooth with a well-worn seash.e.l.l.

Bill had paid the papyrus maker well and had received fifty rough-cut sheets, enough for the first printing of the Timeshares brochure. Since the Timeshares Travel Agency advertized authenticity above all things, they couldn't do any less with their promotional materials. He had already told Rolf Jacobsen, the mysterious and wealthy head of the agency, that these brochures must be used for only the most elite potential clients. He didn't intend to go through all this ha.s.sle for a second printing.

Even more difficult than obtaining genuine papyrus had been securing the original artwork. It had sounded like a good idea. He'd gone to prehistoric France to track down a Neanderthal tribe, and he had commissioned original drawings from one of the cave painters. Attempting to art-direct a Neanderthal had been a challenge unlike anything else in his career, but Bill had gotten his sketches, daubed and chalked onto flat pieces of slate, which he'd then taken back to the present and the headquarters of Timeshares, where the art could be scanned and incorporated into the brochure layout.

The final materials would also include photos of the time-travel facility, its high-tech interior with spindle-shaped apparatus topped by silvery spheres haloed by crackling static electricity. Rolf Jacobsen wanted it to look sleek, futuristic, high-tech, but in a "Jules Verne" sense rather than a "neon, hard-edged, Hong Kong" sense. So far the interior of Timeshares had undergone numerous face-lifts and retoolings. Bill had no idea what the final interior was going to look like; it might even change weekly. In his opinion, the time-travel device looked more like something out of Dr. Frankenstein's lab than a comforting and safe gadget, but he didn't say anything. His only priority was the sales brochure.

Bill had already written the text: "We're not just a travel agency-we're a time time travel agency. We offer excursions into the past and future. Take a vacation wherever and whenever you like." travel agency. We offer excursions into the past and future. Take a vacation wherever and whenever you like."

Inside the dim workshop, Bill studied Gutenberg's clumsy looking printing press, a c.u.mbersome gadget whose design was based on an old wine press. Gutenberg's workers would line up the small wooden letter blocks in the tracks, use an ink roller, and then crank down the press upon each sheet of paper.

The next page of Gutenberg's Bible had been set up for the following day's printing. He took a quick snapshot with his imaging device so that he could rea.s.semble the letters when he was done, though he didn't understand many of the German words or the too-fancy type style. "Quickly, his fingers rattling the wooden blocks by the glow of his flashlight, he slid all the words off into a tray, and then painstakingly mounted his own letters, his own text.

"Afraid of flying? The high cost of gas got you down? Want to really really get away? Step into our perfectly safe time-travel device and find yourself in exotic historical locations. Adventure and mystery guaranteed, danger definitely possible. It'll be the experience of a lifetime-of anyone's lifetime." get away? Step into our perfectly safe time-travel device and find yourself in exotic historical locations. Adventure and mystery guaranteed, danger definitely possible. It'll be the experience of a lifetime-of anyone's lifetime."

The process of setting the letters was tedious, but authenticity was the most important thing. If Mr. Jacobsen advertized that his clients would experience real history, then the brochure had to be the real thing. Fortunately, all of his promotional text fit onto a single page, even with Gutenberg's large letter blocks.

As payment, in addition to Bill's standard fee, Timeshares had offered him an excursion to anyplace he chose, any time. He could witness the greatest events in history, meet the most important figures in all of human civilization. Instead, Bill had asked for a week in the most luxurious resort in Cancun on the Caribbean coast. He had his priorities.

When he had the appropriate words in place, he used a stiff ink roller to cover the printing surface with pasty ink. When it was ready, and before he could make a mess of things, he placed a sheet of clean papyrus on the flat block beneath the press and cranked down the letters, pus.h.i.+ng hard to make a clear impression. Then he unscrewed the press, raised it up, and peeled off his sheet of papyrus.

The rough surface of the reeds made the impression blurry and weak in certain spots, but the letters were readable. With so few sheets of papyrus, he couldn't afford to make many mistakes. Not perfect, but authentic authentic. That was what Mr. Jacobsen wanted.

Timeshares clients would coo over the imperfections and would marvel at the difficulties that had been required just to make this flier. However, Bill didn't think that the clients would be quite so forgiving of imperfections when they encountered glitches on their very expensive time-travel vacations. . . .

He balanced the flashlight where it would better illuminate the work area and put another piece of papyrus under the press, rolled the ink over the printing surface, squeezed down the block letters. He had to get through at least fifty sheets.

That Cancun resort was going to feel wonderful when he was done with this.

Bill finished printing the last sheet an hour before dawn. He didn't think Mainz had a good coffee shop nearby, so he would have to return to the present for a good strong cup. Now it was time to put everything back in order in Gutenberg's print shop.

He called up the digitized baseline image he had taken, referring to the biblical words he had disa.s.sembled. The verses weren't familiar to him, especially not in old German. He plucked out the letters he had used for the Timeshares brochure and began to realign the sentences and verses on the page. Bill realized he was short on time, and he moved quickly, several times scrambling letters, which forced him to remove the little blocks and rea.s.semble the words.

Outside the shop, he saw light in the street, a figure moving along. The segmented window gla.s.s in Gutenberg's workplace was rippled and murky, but a man with a lantern was visible out there. A night watchman. He'd probably seen the glow of the flashlight inside the shop.

Bill had left the padlock dangling open on the door, and now the watchman rattled it, and then shouted, apparently calling for help. Bill nearly panicked, but he hurriedly added the last letters to the verses on that page.

The door creaked open, and the watchmen swung his lantern, illuminating the cluttered workshop. "Sorry, I was just leaving," Bill said, grabbing his stack of papyrus sheets and stuffing them into the leather satchel.

The night watchman yelled something incomprehensible but indisputably German and indisputably furious. Bill shone the flashlight beam in the man's face, blinding him, and grabbed for his locator device. He punched the panic b.u.t.ton.

Back in the Timeshares control room, somebody would be watching (unless they were on a cigarette break). From the other end of the cobblestoned street, some of the drunken and surly oafs from the tavern came lurching along to help.

Bill punched the panic b.u.t.ton again and again. When the big smelly men crowded the door, pus.h.i.+ng their way to Gutenberg's shop, Bill grabbed his flashlight, his locator, and his leather satchel with the printed brochures. He stepped back, putting the printing press between himself and the angry men.

Then he felt the flas.h.i.+ng blue crackle around him, the dizziness and nausea, the taste of vinegar in the back of his throat.

And he found himself surrounded by clean, modern equipment and air that smelled of ozone rather than printing ink and cat p.i.s.s.

Rolf Jacobsen met him outside of the field area, arms crossed over his chest and a proud look on his face. Once the Timeshares agency began to operate in full swing, Jacobsen planned to be more of a silent partner and not see off all travelers, but Bill knew that Jacobsen had a hunger for attention. Maybe he would come to watch; maybe he wouldn't.

Bill let out a long sigh of relief and held out his leather satchel. "I have your brochures, Mr. Jacobsen. They turned out rather well."

Jacobsen opened the satchel and withdrew one of the papyrus sheets, looking down at the printing, smudged one of the letters with his fingers.

"The ink will need to dry for some time, sir. Be careful."

"We'll digitize and print the other artwork and photos onto these. Authentic and perfect. Exactly what we want." The leader of Timeshares gave a sincere smile. "Our project is just beginning, Bill."

"Thank you, Mr. Jacobsen, but I am glad to be done with this project."

The head of Timeshares had expected nothing else. "We will be happy to recommend your PR firm to many of our sister companies and investors."

"Thank you, sir. I can always use the work. For now, I'd like to change out of these-" he frowned down at his heavy, scratchy clothes "-authentic period garments."

Jacobsen gestured him toward the changing rooms. "Be my guest."

Bill was glad he wouldn't have to go back in time again. He had seen enough of history, and that last trip had been a little hair-raising. He'd been so rushed putting the wooden blocks back onto the page of Gutenberg's Bible. Under such circ.u.mstances, perfect accuracy couldn't be expected.

He went off to the changing area where a locker held his real-world clothes. In his hand he still held five of Gutenberg's wooden blocks. In his rush to rea.s.semble the page, he hadn't had time to include the last word on the page, "nicht." Just a little thing, but he didn't know which Bible verse he had unintentionally altered.

Somehow, he had left out the word not not. "Thou shalt" instead of "Thou shalt not."

Oh well, he wondered if anyone would notice. That was for history to decide.

Timeless Lisa Robert E. Vardeman

Robert E. Vardeman has written more than seventy science fiction, fantasy, and mystery novels. His most recent t.i.tle is a novel in the Star Frontiers trilogy, The Genetic Menace The Genetic Menace. In addition to Timeshares Timeshares, Vardeman's short stories can be found in the recently published Stories from Desert Bob's Reptile Ranch Stories from Desert Bob's Reptile Ranch, which contains two dozen short stories collected from the past thirty years. Branching out into e-books, his work can be found on the iTunes store (at www.zapptek.com/legends) and at Amazon's Kindle store. He currently lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with his two cats, Isotope and X-ray. One out of three of them enjoy the high-tech hobby of geocaching. For more info, check out the author's Web site at http://www.CenotaphRoad.com.

"You'll be hit with severe diarrhea, maybe for a week," the time tech said, never looking up as he made his way down the lengthy checklist scrolling on his handheld computer.

"I know," Alexander Carrington said, s.h.i.+fting nervously. The stainless steel walls, ceiling, and cold, cold floor caused him to squint as light was reflected in all directions. Electrodes in every corner of the room focused on the spot where he stood. He wished the tech would turn up the temperature, though the freezing temperature might be required for the time transit. He didn't know, and that bothered him. There was so much he didn't know and everything looked different this time.

"I've taken some A- D." He glanced at the satchel near his feet and felt sweat beading on his upper lip. He fought the urge to swipe it away, fearing he would draw unwanted attention to himself.

"Oh, yeah, right," the tech said, still not looking up. "This is your second trip back. Must be nice. For what Timeshares pays me, I can't afford a cup of fancy designer coffee, much less a month in 1519."

"I'm a Renaissance scholar," Alex said defensively. He fought the urge to clamp his eyes closed to prevent staring at his satchel. He could be thrown in jail for a long time if the tech found what was concealed in the false bottom. He would get an even longer sentence if he was caught on the way back with the real contraband.

"Yeah, see that. How come an Italian scholar is going to France?"

Crunch time. Alex had to sound convincing and una.s.suming. He had to lie through his teeth, yet it wasn't a real lie.

"Leonardo da Vinci moved to France before his death. I need to doc.u.ment his last days and maybe even hear his last words. For posterity."

"Yeah, for posterity." The tech heaved a sigh and finally said, looking up, "You know the drill, but I have to go through it all. Or you can just sign here. Says you know about time disjunctions, the need for inertial ma.s.ses to balance back and forth-doesn't matter what, just that they do-and how you shouldn't screw with major events."

"What about minor ones?"