Museum Piece

By Abigail Falanga

“This thing’s a museum piece.” Russ unlocked the door. “Literally. The only reason it’s not on display is that we don’t like to advertise.”

Will managed a half-smile as he entered the storage locker. Light flooded gray walls and concrete, making the object within incongruous: a domed cage of wrought copper and treated glass with exposed mechanical parts, roughly smart-car-sized, but with industrial elegance. “But you were able to fix it?”

“What do you take me for?”

“The first working time machine.” Will didn’t try to hide his awe. “Built by Prof. Samuel Cuthbertson shortly after his death in 1901. Then irreparably damaged.”

“Wouldn’t say irreparably,” Russ corrected. “I had to reinvent some components, but it’s back in mint condition. For at least one more trip.”

“Which is exactly why you’re coming.” Will swung the door open on a sophisticated interior. “If we run into problems, I’ll need someone to fix them.”

“What?” Russ held up his hands. “No way! I’m not trained for field work.”

“No one is. Take this from a veteran agent—nothing can prepare you for being out there. Besides, I know you’ve always wanted to be.”

“Wait a minute. I thought this was an assignment. Why don’t you take a field mechanic? For that matter, why not an official vehicle? What’s going on?”

“Maybe it’s not official.” Will grinned at the ridiculous risk he was taking and ducked into the cage. “Come on. It’s your chance to see the past!”

“Worth risking a career over?”

“It’s reassuring you didn’t say life, Rusty.”

“I have confidence in my own work.” He scowled, then shook his head and stepped inside. “And don’t call me Rusty.”

Will fastened the door, selected one of the four seats, and adjusted the array of dials and levers from memory. “Cuthbertson’s machine is more convenient than modern vehicles, because he designed it to slip into any time fissure within range without physically changing location. That limited him to an area dense with temporal anomalies. But with modern modifications…”

He synced his tablet with the regulator Russ had installed, then flipped a final switch. The cage sparked and shuddered, shrieked, spun. Russ landed in a chair and hung on for dear life. Will double-checked the readings as they went wild, then watched flashes of light pulse across the glass roof and walls, crackling with unregulated electricity.

Then it hummed to a sudden stop.

Russ gulped, “Are we all in one piece?”

Arcing current had ripped the engine casings apart.

“No.” Will secured the tablet in his satchel and headed out the door. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

“Is time travel always like that?”

“Sometimes,” Will smirked, “it’s bumpy.”

Outside was forest, the thin air of high elevation, and traffic noise not too distant. Imprecise, but the fissure had landed him on the mountain at least.

“Hold on. I’ll need valves…” Russ followed him out of the cage. “Whoa! When are we?”

“1973,” Will lied. “Springtime. Close to dusk.” He handed him a map of the area. “There’s a service station that way. I hope you speak German.”

“What if I want to explore? It’s not much fun to go some-when new and not check it out.”

“Don’t wander too far.”

“Uh-huh.” Russ shouted after him: “Have fun on your secret mission!”

Will ignored him and set a brisk pace down the road, toward roofs now visible in the valley. His clothes were nondescript enough to pass a cursory glance in 1989, but he was glad not to meet anyone before night fell.

He knew the town with the intimacy of nightmares, though he had never been here. He didn’t need to ask for directions, but walked straight to the chateau of the high-ranking general. A party was in full swing. Light and music streamed from the windows. He slipped in with the last guests and made his way through the shadows into the large courtyard. Then he waited.

Minutes slipped by, torture even to a time traveler.

A group of chatting partiers passed. He held his breath. Then—

The woman in a green silk Ralph Lauren evening gown, gliding toward the steps.

No! Too early! If she went in, it would all happen again, and he couldn’t prevent it.

A man stumbled onto the portico in front of her, singing drunkenly. The door opened and he tangled with the three who came out. Confusion, apologies, insults. They dispersed.

Will’s knees weakened, sending him against an ornamental column. The woman’s gaze swung to him.

“Will!” She drew near. “What are you doing here?”

“Zuzia!” Relief flooded him at pronouncing her name. “The schematics. They’re not in that room. They’re upstairs…”

“But…” She looked confused, and as beautiful as ever. “How… would you know that?”

“It’s all in the report, that’s how.”

The suddenly-not-remotely-drunken man emerged from a shadow. Russ. He looked at Will. “Sorry. Once I figured out what year it really was, I remembered about your wife and what happened. So I caught a ride here. This isn’t a sanctioned mission at all, is it?”

“What happened?” Zuzia demanded, coming close and placing a hand on Will’s sleeve.

“In that room, you—” Will gulped. “—were killed. They did nothing to save you. You were their best agent, and they called it a necessary loss! I had to do something.”

She blinked as realization hit. “That means… Will, you can’t play with history like this!”

“Yes, I can.” He tried to smile at her. “It means that we can’t meet again, that’s all. Not for a while. Time has a way of working itself out. We will find one another. I swear I’ll find a way.”

Her lips met his in a slow kiss.

She slipped away, back into the house, whispering through tears, “Then see you again, Will… someday.”

Will watched her go, drew a breath, then finally said, “Thanks.”

“You should be thankful,” Russ muttered. “If we don’t get fired, I’ll be on HVAC maintenance for a decade.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico creating magic in many ways – with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table. Besides sharing mad little stories on Havok, she is busily trying to launch approximately five hundred novels into the world. Some of them are even finished!

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