Rachel went silent for a moment. Her expression changed. She closed her eyes, then opened them. Her eyes seemed to glisten, as if she was trying not to cry.
This is not fair, Artie protested, in silent. She’s still sick. Her defenses are down. You just got her real name, you just told her your own name. Everything you’re doing reminds her of home.
“Life isn’t fair,” Martin replied, in silent.
Damn it, boy! You’re offering her hope. And we don’t have any hope to offer!
Rachel touched her head, gently, with her fingers.
“My artie was modeled after my mother. They hurt her when they found her. They made me listen while they did it.”
Bastards.
“Then they changed her base code and kept the key. I can’t talk to her, she can’t talk to me. It’s like we’re in separate black boxes. They promised they’d bring her back, give me the key, if I did what they wanted.” She looked up at Martin. “They keep their word, in a way. When I go uptime to Qart-hadast, they wake her up, let me talk to her again. Let her work on me, to keep me young.”
But they never give you the key, do they? She repairs you, then they turn her off and tell you you’re going back downtime and unless you do what you’re told, you’ll never see her again, Artie said. He sounded cold, distant, calm.
Furious.
“So she’s not here, now, to keep you alive,” Martin said. “When you’re back here, you’re on your own.”
“Yes.”
“Artie?” Martin asked in silent.
I can break any encryption, Artie replied confidently, in silent. Might take a while but, yes, I’ll see what I can do.
“How long is a while?” Martin asked, in silent.
A while, Artie repeated, testily, in silent. And the more you distract me, the longer it takes.
“How long have they been doing this to you?” Martin asked Rachel.
“I leaked over to this timeline about a hundred biological years ago. It was a rough ride. I thought I was going to go… away. But I came through. To here and now. The Kehin detected me, grabbed me, brought me forward to Carthage. They call it by its Phoenician name, Qart-hadast. The name that Rome trampled in the dust.”
“Why did they keep you alive?”
Rachel sat up and saw her things, laid out neatly beside her. She watched Martin warily, then reached over and touched her knife.
“You know quantum mechanics?”
Martin smiled.
“As well as anyone. God and dice and all that.”
Rachel smiled. She picked up her knife.
“A long time from now, a little over eleven thousand years that way,” Rachel vaguely pointed forward with the knife, “a physicist named Aharonov is going to do a double slit experiment, to determine whether a photon is a wave or a particle.”
“That’s been done before,” Martin said, puzzled. “It’s both, depending on which slit a person observes.”
“Aharonov is going to use a special twist,” Rachel said. “Delayed choice. And he’s going to show that a choice made in the future can impact the past.”
If the future can affect the past, then one philosophical argument is settled, Artie said, thoughtfully, in open. There is predestination. Everyone has a given fate. There is no such thing as free will.
Rachel nodded. She held out the knife.
“The detector is in the handle. It only works if I run it. It apparently has to match up with someone from its home timeline. That’s me,” she said. “The Carthaginians have been unable to replicate it, so they keep me alive. If I use it on their time travelers I can detect when their future and their present are starting to get out of synch. I warn them and they leave.”
“And if they don’t leave?” Martin asked.
“They get more and more uncertain and then… they’re gone.”
I’ve got the reference in our library, Artie said. He sounded puzzled. Aharonov’s claims caused a little stir in our timeline. Then our theorists fussed over it, extended quantum theory, found it was a misinterpretation, equipment error, the usual.
“That’s your timeline,” Rachel said. “Not here.”
“Try it on me,” Martin said. Rachel shrugged. She pointed the knife at Martin. She expression went absent for a moment, then she was back. She frowned. She pointed the knife away, then pointed it at herself, then back at Martin.
“It must be broken,” she said, puzzled. “It works with me. A little fuzzy, not as good as usual, but it doesn’t work with you. I’m not getting anything.”
I don’t know whether to be happy or upset, Artie said in silent.
“Shut up.”
We still don’t have a future.
A week went by. Rachel tried to argue her way out of the hut. Artie held firm.
Photo-sensitivity is a side affect of tetracycline. And I’ve been giving you a big dose, he warned. I don’t want you stumbling around outside, blinded by the sun. So sit your ass down in here and do something useful!
Rachel made a face. She glanced, unenthusiastically, at the bowl of cold wheat gruel and the other bowl of chewed-up starter mash next to it.
“I am sick of—!”
Besides, Artie interrupted smoothly, I want to make sure you and everything you own is thoroughly de-loused and de-flead. I’m sorry, but the last thing we can handle is an epidemic in the camp. Too many people coming and going. Martin does what he has to do, when there is an epidemic, but he gets upset. Disposing of the children’s bodies bothers him the most. Brings back memories I can’t erase.
Rachel shut her mouth. She thought for a moment, then slowly nodded. She reached for the gruel.
“I still need clothes,” Rachel said firmly. She glanced at Martin, working on the other side of the hut. “I can’t stay in here naked or only wrapped in a blanket. And most of Martin’s clothes will definitely not fit.”
Use Ianna’s old things, Artie suggested.
“They’re too short on me!”
Modesty, Artie said, exasperated, is one of the stupidest bio concepts in a long, long line of stupid ideas. If Martin had wanted to—
“Artie.”
What?
“Shut up,” Martin said. He turned to Rachel. “I can get you new clothes. I’m not good at making them, but I’ll trade with Asherah. Might take a couple of days.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said. She hesitated, looked down at her blanket, then over at Ianna’s clothes, neatly folded and stacked in the back of the hut.
“I suppose, in the meantime, if I have to,” she said grudgingly. She looked shyly at Martin. “She won’t mind? You won’t mind?”
“It will be fine,” Martin assured her. He stood, pulled aside the night drape and the outside curtain. “I’ll just step outside while you try them on.”
Bio’s!
And on the eighth day—
“Let her go,” Martin ordered, exasperated. Rachel paced back and forth inside the hut like a caged animal. A caged animal in very short clothing. Martin shifted uncomfortably.
Fine, Artie said grudgingly. Everything we could find is piled up next to the canopy.
Rachel escaped gratefully. Outside she blinked at the sunlight, even under the shade from the canopy, until her eyes adjusted. Then she spotted her things.