Robert Sawyer - End of an Era

No such luck. A thin layer of phosphorescent blue jelly seeped out of the cut, stanching the flow. I was running out of ideas, not to mention stamina. My heart pounded and I felt my strength flagging.

Klicks had screamed in pain.

That was my one hope. I gave his crash couch a healthy twist, setting it spinning around, then jumped as far as I could across the room. Klicks wheeled to face me. We danced for position, him swinging his great arms again the way a bear swipes with its paws. Finally he thought he had me trapped in the corner where the flat rear wall met the curving outer wall. He stood spread-eagle, his legs apart, his arms raised, trying to prevent me slipping past. This was the moment. The one chance, the only hope. I ran straight at him and, with all the force I could muster, brought my knee up into his groin, slamming it as brutally as I could, all my inertia and all my strength concentrating on bashing his testicles back up into his body cavity.

Klicks doubled from the waist, his fists moving under human instinct instead of Het command to protect his private parts from further assault. In the brief interval while the Het struggled to regain control of its biological vehicle, I made my final move. I grabbed Klicks’s elephant gun from where he’d left it propped up next to the microwave-oven stand and smashed the length of its steel barrel across the back of his neck. He stood as if frozen for several seconds, then slumped to the ground, possibly dead, certainly unconscious. I suspected that if Klicks had survived the blow, and that was indeed in doubt, it would only be a matter of minutes, or even seconds, before the Het would find a way to turn this biological machine back on.

I hurried to the medicine refrigerator, mounted between doors number two and three. We’d been provided with a complete pharmacopoeia, of course, since no one knew what Mesozoic germs would do to us. I hadn’t spent much time inside the thing before, but thankfully all the drugs were categorized by function. Peering through clouds of my own breath condensing in the cold air from the interior, I scanned the labels. Analgesics, antibiotics, antihistamines. Ah! Antiviral agents. There were several vials in that section, but the one I seized upon was para-22-Ribavirin—better known as Deliverance, the miracle AIDS cure.

I plunged a syringe through the rubber cap, drawing forth the milky liquid. I knew how to use needles from my work in the comparative-anatomy lab, but—my father’s pain-racked face flashed before me—I’d never injected a human being before. I ran to Klicks, my footfalls echoing in the steel-walled room, and bent over his crumpled form. He was still breathing, but shallowly, slowly, life apparently ebbing from him. I forced the needle through the thick wall of his right carotid artery, pumped the plunger down, and, never taking my eyes off him, slumped back against the door to our garage, the agony from my shattered nose growing, throbbing, multiplying.

It took a while—I’d lost track of the passage of time—but finally small amounts of blue jelly began to seep from Klicks’s temple. But something was wrong. It wasn’t undulating the way I’d seen the Hets move before, nor was it glowing. I rolled him over so that his bruised face was visible. One of his eyelids was stuck shut by dried blood, but the other fluttered open for a few seconds and he spoke in a rasping whisper. “You animals—”

I got an orange garbage bag and a spoon and, taking immense care not to touch it, began scraping away what little of the jelly had escaped. No more than two tablespoonfuls. The rest, dead or dying I hoped, seemed destined to remain inside Klicks’s head until his own antibodies and white corpuscles could deal with it as they would any other inert viral material.

I stuffed the bag into a metal box, went down the ramp to our outside door, and heaved the box as far as I could in the reduced gravity. It sailed out onto the cracked mud plain far below; in the moonlight, I saw it bounce twice when it hit.

I made it back to the medicine refrigerator, filled another syringe with Deliverance, and injected myself as a precaution. Then I opened the first-aid kit mounted on the refrigerator’s top and found a wad of white gauze. I held it tightly against the center of my face, stumbled back to my crash couch, and lay down on my back, the shift in posture sending daggers of pain through my head. I hoped and prayed with all my might that Klicks would pull through.

Tess gave me a big hug and a kiss when I got back to Toronto from Vancouver. I squeezed her, but my mind was elsewhere. We’d had a good marriage, as far as I could tell. We’d enjoyed each other’s company. Both of our careers had prospered. And the lack of children? Well, she had always said that it didn’t bother her, that she, too, felt they’d be an inconvenience, at odds with our lifestyle. And yet, in that other, original iteration of the timeline, she had left me for Miles Jordan. Klicks had always wanted kids. Was that part of the reason?

I wished to God that I’d never found that alternative diary. Ignorance really can be bliss. To think that my personal life was as tenuous and unstable as Ching-Mei said the universe itself was—it was enough to drive me crazy.

Ching-Mei had tried to explain how that other diary had come to be in my possession, how the memory wafer in my palmtop could have somehow swapped contents with the one the time-traveling Brandy had taken to the past with him. She spoke about shunting and Huang-Effect reversals and chaos theory, but she was guessing, really. It didn’t matter. The damage was done.

“How was the flight?” asked Tess, removing her arms from me.

“Typical Air Canada.” My tone was cold, dry.

Tess’s eyes flicked across my face, looking, I guess, for the emotion underlying the weariness in my voice. “Sorry to hear that,” she said at last.

I hung my coat in the hall closet and we made our way up to the living room. We sat together on the L-shaped couch, beneath a framed landscape painting done by Tess’s uncle, a not-bad artist who lived in Michigan. “Anything exciting happen while I was away?”

“Not really,” she said. “Wednesday, I went to see that new James Bond film—I must say Macaulay Culkin makes a surprisingly good 007. And last night I had Miles over for dinner.”

Klicks here? While I was away? “Oh.”

“By the way, I balanced our bank account while you were gone. Why’d you charge your plane tickets on your MasterCard? Shouldn’t the museum have paid for those?”

Oh, crap. “Uh, well, the research was personal.”

Tess blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, it’s not important.”

She looked up at me, searching. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. Just fine.”

Silence for a time, and then, softly: “I think I’m entitled to a better answer than that.”

“Look,” I said, and instantly regretted it, “I’m not giving you the third degree about what you did while I was away.”

Tess smiled with her mouth, but I could see by the corners of her eyes that the smile was forced. “Sorry, honey,” she said, false sun in her voice. “It’s just that I worry about you.” Her eyes flicked over my face again. “I wouldn’t want you to have a midlife crisis and go running off with somebody else.”

“I’m not the one who’s likely to do that, am I?”

She went stiff. “What do you mean by that?”

Christ, I was saying things that I shouldn’t. But if what we had wasn’t as special to her as it was to me, I had to know. I had to. “How was Klicks?” I said.