Stephen Baxter: Time

“We don’t know how. We think we know when, however. Two hundred years from now.”

The number — its blunt precision — startled them to silence.

Malenfant looked from one to the other — the suspicious ex-wife, the frowning congresswoman, the mysterious prophet — and Emma saw he was, rarely for him, hemmed in.

Malenfant drove them back to the Portakabin. They traveled in silence, sunk in their respective moods, wary of each other. Only Cornelius, self-absorbed, seemed in any way content.

At the cabin Malenfant served them drinks — beer and soda and water — and they stood in the California desert.

Voices drifted over the baked ground, amplified and distorted, as a slow countdown proceeded.

Malenfant kept checking his watch. It was a fat, clunky Rolex. No implants or active tattoos for Reid Malenfant, no sir. For a man with his eye on the future, Emma thought, he often seemed wedded to the past.

The firing started.

Emma saw a spark of light, an almost invisible flame at the base of the stand, billowing white smoke. And then the noise came, a nonlinear crackle tearing at the air. The ground shook, as if she were witnessing some massive natural phenomenon, a waterfall or an earthquake, perhaps. But this was nothing natural.

Malenfant had once taken her to see a shuttle launch. She’d had tears in her eyes then, from sheer exhilaration at the man-made power of the thing. And there were tears now, she found to her reluctant surprise, even at the sight of this pathetic, cut-down half ship, trapped in its steel cage and bolted to the Earth.

“Cornelius is right. Isn’t he, Malenfant?” she said. “You’ve been lying to me for months. Years, maybe.”

Malenfant touched her arm. “It’s a long story.”

“I know. I’ve lived it. Damn you,” she whispered. “There’s a lot of unfinished business here, Malenfant.”

“We’ll handle it,” Malenfant said. “We can handle this guy Cornelius and his band of airheads. We can handle anybody. This is just the beginning.”

Cornelius Taine watched, eyes opaque.

Bill Tybee:

My name is Bill Tybee.

Is this thing working? Oh, shit. Start again.

Hi. My name is Bill Tybee, and this is my diary.

Well, kind of. It’s really a letter for you, June. It’s a shame they won’t let us talk directly, but I hope this makes up for your not being home for your birthday, a little ways anyhow. You know Tom and little Billie are missing you. I’ll send you another at Christmas if you aren’t here, and I’ll keep a copy at home so we can all watch it together.

Come see the house.

Here’s the living room. Sorry, I folded up the cam. There. Can you see now? You notice I got the video wall replaced, finally. Although I hate to think what the down payments are going to do to our bank balance. Maybe we could have got by with the old one, just the hundred channels, what do you think? Oh, I got the solar-cell roof replaced too. That storm was a bitch.

Here’s Billie’s bedroom. I’m whispering because she’s asleep. She loves the hologram mobile you sent her. Everybody says how smart she is. Same as her brother. I mean it. Even the doctors agree about Billie; they’re both off the, what did they say, the percentile charts, way off. You managed to give birth to two geniuses here, June. I know they don’t get it from their father!

I’ll kiss her for you. There you go, sweet pea. One from me too.

Here we are in the bathroom. Now, June, I know it’s not much as part of the guided tour. But I just want to show you this stuff because you’re not to worry about it. Here’s my med-alert ribbon, this cute silver thing. See? I have to wear it every time I leave the house, and I ought to wear it indoors too. And here are the pills I have to take every day, in this bubble packet. The specialist says they’re not just drugs but also little miniature machines, tumor-busters that go prowling around my bloodstream looking for the defective cells before breaking themselves up and flushing them out of, well, I won’t show you out of where. Here I am taking my pill for today. See? Gone. Nothing to worry about.

The Big C just ain’t what it used to be. Something you have to live with, to manage, like diabetes, right?

Come on. Let’s go see if Tom will let us into his room. He loves those star pictures you sent him. He’s been pinning them up on his wall…

Emma Stoney:

Emma was still furious when she drove into work, the morning after her trip to the plant.

Even this early on an August morning, the Vegas streets were thronged. People in gaudy artificial fabrics strolled past the giant casinos: the venerable Caesar’s Palace and the Luxor and the Sands, the newTwenCen Park with its cartoon reconstructions of ‘30s gangster-land Chicago and ‘60s Space Age Florida and ‘80s yuppie-era Wall Street. The endless lights and laser displays made a storm of color and motion that was dazzling even against the morning sunlight, like glimpses into another, brighter universe. But the landscape of casinos and malls didn’t stay static; there were a number of vacant or redeveloping lots, like missing teeth in a smiling jaw.

And whatever the facade, the scene within was always the same: square miles of lush, ugly carpet, rows of gaming machines fed by joyless punters, blackjack tables kept open twenty-four hours a day by the virtual dealers.

Still, the people seemed to be changing, slowly. Not so fat, for one thing; no doubt the fatbuster pills were to thank for that. And she was sure there were fewer children, fewer young families than there used to be. Demography in action: the graying of America, the concentration of buying power in the hands of the elderly.

Not that it was so easy to tell how old people were any more. There were fewer visible signs of age: faces were smoothed to seamlessness by routine cosmetic surgery, hair was restored to the vigor and color of a five-year-old’s.

Emma herself was approaching forty now, ten years or so younger than Malenfant. Strands of her hair were already white and broken. She wore them with a defiant pride.

Malenfant had moved his corporation here, out of New York, five years ago. A good place for business, he said. God bless Nevada. Distract the marks with gambling toys and virtual titties while you pick their pockets. But Emma hated Vegas’ tacky joy-lessness. It had taken a lot of soul-searching for her to follow Malenfant.

Especially after the divorce.

So we aren ‘t married any more, he’d said. That doesn ‘t mean I have to fire you, does it? Of course she had given in, come with

him. Why, though?

He wasn’t her responsibility, as the e-therapists continually emphasized. He wasn’t even open with her. This latest business with the shuttle engines — if true — was yet another piece of evidence for that. And he had, after all, broken up their marriage and pushed her away.

Yet, in his own complex, confused way, he still cared about her. She knew that. And so she had a motive for working with him. Maybe if she was still in his life, he might give more thought to his grandiose plans than otherwise.

Maybe he would keep from strip-mining the planet, in order to spare her feelings. Or maybe not.

Her e-therapists warned that this was a wound that would never close, as long as she stayed with Malenfant, worked with him. But then, maybe it was a wound that wasn’t meant to close. Not yet,, anyhow. Not when she still didn’t even understand why.

When Emma walked into Malenfant’s office, she found him sitting with his feet on his desk, crushed beer cans strewn over the surface. He was talking to a man she didn’t know: an upright military type of about seventy, dressed in a sports shirt and slacks straight out of Cheers circa 1987, with a bare frosting of white hair on a scalp burned nutmeg brown. The stranger got up on Emma’s entrance, but she ignored him.