Grant drove, cursing Ember under his breath.
It was an auction, right? How long did auctions usually last? He
didn't know. It depended on how many things Dr. Caster had owned,
how many people showed up. Had Ember's people advertised it
beforehand? Hell, it could have been in the Classifieds of his
own paper and he wouldn't have known about it. He would have made
a vow to read the Gazette more often if he hadn't been afraid
that this course of action, too, would lead him to become more
like VonCannon. He didn't need to be the kind of person who kept
stacks of newspapers in his house and spent all his free time
combing through them for coincidences that maybe weren't.
It didn't help that he wasn't altogether sure how to get to the
place. Auctions were, according to popular knowledge, held in
auction houses, but this one was to take place in a courtroom and
with very little ceremony. He drove past the Gazette again,
wondering all the time if he was doing so because he was lost or
because it was his machine-induced fate to be lost.
Eventually, he located one of the city's lesser-used courthouses
and, an even more interminable time later, managed to park his
car. He rushed in.
``Can I help you?'' The voice came not from a receptionist - at
least, not the sort that the Gazette's temp agency would contract
out - but from a security guard who seemed unpleasantly surprised
to see someone.
``I'm here for the estate auction.'' Grant said.
``Name?''
``Grant Wynn, reporter for the Gazette.''
The guard rolled his eyes. ``Name of the deceased, not your name.''
``Doctor James Caster.''
Glad to be rid of the newcomer, the guard stated ``Courtroom 4A,
on the left.'' and got back behind the partition he'd come out of
when Grant had burst in.
Wynn didn't stick around, not with a welcome like that. He walked
purposely through the second set of doors and counted the rooms
until he found the one he was looking for. He opened the door,
quietly.
It looked pretty much like every courtroom he'd been in before.
Judge's bench, smaller benches for the witnesses and jurors, even
smaller areas for the observers. Every detail matched except the
most important one; the place was deserted.
``Damn!'' he swore. Was he late for a reason? Was he simply not
meant to get these machines? He swore again and tore his mind
away from its never-ending questions of his fate. He had more
important things to do. Turning, he started back down the
corridor the way he came, having reluctantly decided to brave
asking the guard a few more questions.
A smaller man exited one of the other courtrooms.
``Excuse me!'' Grant shouted, too loud from the sound of it. It
worked to get the man's attention, though.
``What do you need?'' the person hadn't really wanted to talk,
that much could be seen from his posture and the way he kept
looking down the hall to where the security station would be as
though to judge how long it would take him to run there.
``I'm looking for the Caster estate auction.''
``Oh, that.'' the man visibly relaxed. ``Nobody showed up - not
many do, city's not usually willing to have bigger announcements
printed. I just oversaw everything getting shipped off for
recycling.''
``Anything unusual?''
``Ha!'' Grant couldn't tell whether the man's joviality was
genuine or because of lingering nervousness. ``You mean like
something that's not there until you look away? Can't move it
with your eyes open? Yeah, we managed to pack it in for
recycling, too.''
Grant didn't really know what the strange man was describing, but
it certainly couldn't be a machine of normal manufacture, and
that meant it was patterned after one of VonCannon's crazy ideas.
``Do you know where they're taking it?''
``All over the place.'' the man's initial excitement had faded
and he was back to looking tired. ``The computers and the -
whatever the hell that thing was - they're going to a specialty
recycler the city's got a contract with.''
Grant closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. ``Let me take a wild
guess. Sandys Hardware Recycling?''
``Yeah, how did you-''
But Grant was already on his way.
A few weeks ago, he hadn't known the city. He knew how to get to
work, how to get back home from there, and how - if pressed - to
get to the grocery near his work. That was the extent of his
navigational ability. Since then, of course, he'd seen enough of
Rosetta to be able to get to her workplace from pretty much
anywhere. Unfortunately, he reflected, the same could be said
about VonCannon. Thankfully, it was to the former place he was
going.
He'd picked her up outside a number of times, he reflected, but
he'd never been invited inside. He found himself wondering, as he
parked his car and stepped out, if the trucks the man at the
courthouse had sent off had arrived yet. He'd find out in a
minute. He stepped inside the building.
It was as far from VonCannon's layout as could be imagined. For
one, the roof was a lot closer. He imagined there was probably
another floor atop this one, else they were wasting a great deal
of space. Secondly, he was in a hallway. Doors lined it. It was
well and evenly lit. It looked, so far as he could tell, like an
office building.
There was no receptionist and, so far as he could tell, nobody at
all. He walked down the doors until he found one labeled ``
Rosetta Sandys'' and knocked.
``Come in.'' came a puzzled voice he nonetheless recognized as
Rose's. He opened the door.
``Strangest thing!''
``I can poke it like it's not there, but it sure hurts in a
second!''
``How did you even move this?''
The reason the place had seemed deserted was because everyone had
apparently crowded into Rose's office. She sat at the back of the
room on one of her shelves and watched over her employees
amusedly. Her face lit up when she saw Grant.
``Hey!'' she greeted him. ``If you're here on a social call, you
might want to switch over to business mode for a second. I've got
one hell of a story for you!'' she stood up from her seat,
addressing her workforce. ``Okay, back to work! We'll figure out
what the heck we're doing with this damn thing in a while, okay?''
The entire workforce looked let down but obediently trudged out.
One of them glanced at Grant and said ``Lucky bastard.'' He
wasn't sure exactly what that comment was directed at.
With the other employees out of the way, Grant could see what
they'd been staring at. Or rather, he couldn't see it, because it
wasn't there.
He turned to ask Rosetta what was going on, then frowned before
he could word it. It was there. Or, rather, it had been there.
Blocky but functional, heavy looking certainly. It had been right
on that desk.
Of course, it wasn't there right now. He blinked. It still wasn't
there, but once again he knew it had been.
He asked the question. ``What the hell?''
``I know!'' Rose said, her eyes wide and her mouth smiling. ``My
contract with the city says I've got to recycle this but I
wouldn't even know where to begin!''
Grant kept looking at where it ought to be and then looking away,
each time remembering that it'd been there. ``I knew it'd be
strange, but I didn't know it'd be this strange.''
``This is exactly the sort of thing,'' Rosetta said, frowning, ``
that VonCannon would want a crack at.'' she didn't seem happy
with this idea. Grant hesitated. Now would not be a good time to
reveal that this was the exact reason he'd been sent.
Instead, he followed up. ``Why not give it to him? Let him figure
out what to do with it. He's the mad scientist, after all.''
She laughed, but didn't take her eyes of the machine - rather,
where the machine should have been. ``That's right, you talked to
him for that interview. I see you got the same impression I did.''
``He did want to look at what you got in. And this particular
bit's important to him.''
Her eyes narrowed. ``You've talked to him a lot more than that
one time, didn't you?''
Grant had no choice. ``Yes. He's working on... well, it's hard to
say, really. And it doesn't make much of any sense. You'll think
I'm crazy.''
``No,'' she said, ``I'll think he's crazy. I'll just think you're
gullible.'' Something in her tone warned him against arguing.
``Okay.'' he began. ``The doctor's built some really strange
stuff. There's something he claims is a time machine.'' he
watched her closely.
``Go on.'' her expression was neutral.
``Anyway, he thinks that a machine he's going to build is using
that machine to cause... things to happen.''
``Unlikely things?'' she said, her voice rapidly becoming
angrier. ``Like two people meeting because of a power outage?
Hmm?'' she stalked toward him. ``Or, how about a young woman's
father dying from radiation poisoning, huh? Same company.
Interesting coincidence, isn't it?''
Grant didn't know what to say.
``Do you know,'' her tone practically screamed at him, ``what
happened to my mother?''
``No.'' he said, quietly.
``She left. When dad started getting sick, when he couldn't
support us anymore, did she stick around? No. She left us. One
day there's just this note on the table, begging for our
forgiveness, saying she couldn't handle it all, and she's gone.
Off to some other life.'' she paused, took a deep breath, and
exploded in anger. ``Mason fucking Power ruined my life! It tore
apart my family, but did I complain? No, I went and I helped keep
my father alive, and I looked after the family because I had to.
Because it was an accident, and accidents happen.''
She swung her fist at the open air over her desk. A second later,
they remembered hearing a 'clang' and Rose was cradling her
injured hand. ``Now you're telling me,'' she said, having cooled
down somewhat but determined to finish what she'd been saying, ``
that your crazy paranoid little friend thinks there was a reason?''
This was an actual question. ``Yes. Just not a good one.'' he
offered, lamely.
She laughed a bitter laugh. ``That's about right. Take the
machine to him, then.''
``But what about-''
``Do not ask that question right now.'' she said, and he could
tell she meant it. ``You might not like what I have to say.''
with that, she left the room.
What about us?
She was angry, and rightly so. He'd been angry enough that his
life had been sidetracked, of course, but not nearly to the
extent that hers was. Now she'd left him alone. There was nothing
to it, he suspected, but to try to salvage what he could. He
recognized one of the computer towers in the room as belonging to
Caster - largely because of the tag that had been affixed to it.
He picked it up.
There was nobody in the hallway, once more, though at least this
time he could hear people talking behind the doors. He carried
the computer to his car and dropped it off in the trunk. That, he
reflected, was the easy part.
The Machine was another question altogether. He poked at where it
would have been and felt nothing, though a moment later he
recalled poking it somewhat too hard. His knuckle hurt. For a few
moments Grant found himself wondering what would happen if he
were to swing something hard - a book, say - through the air that
the machine would later have existed in. He decided that he
didn't want to find out; he was likely to break a wrist that way.
Instead, he put his mind to the task of moving the thing.
Carefully, he put his hands where he remembered the sides of the
thing to be. There had been outcroppings, he recalled, that could
serve as handholds if he was very careful indeed. He slowly moved
his hands upward.
Eventually, he remembered picking it up. Though the nerves in his
hands told him there was nothing but air, his memory was telling
him that the machine was very heavy indeed. It might not be
immobile, but it was difficult to move, and all the more
difficult because if he moved too quickly, he'd remember dropping
it about a second later. At least the lag between present and
past gave him time to get his foot out of the way.
It took him much longer than he'd care to admit, but he managed
to get the thing back to his car. He put it in the backseat with
the absurd idea that it'd be more easy to keep an eye on it
there. That thought led to others; he'd had to be very careful in
carrying it, how careful was he going to have to drive? If he
drove too quickly, would the damn machine phase through the back
of the car?
He recalled Ember saying they'd had trouble moving it, but had he
meant to the vehicle, or en route?
He decided. He'd keep an eye on it, insofar as that was possible,
and drive very slowly. If he failed to have memories of the
priceless device tumbling over the highway, he could gradually
speed up. Besides, none of the movers had been versed in dealing
with VonCannon's craziness. It didn't make him any more prepared,
but it stood to reason that they wouldn't have watched their
speed. He wasn't even remotely sure that they hadn't, but the
rationalization made sense. He drove.
It wasn't rush hour, but the city was only without traffic in the
very early morning hours, and even then the traffic was merely
lighter. He got more than a few honks and angry gestures as he
slowly accelerated from the recycling plant. He glanced into the
rear-view mirror, which he'd realigned to display the contents of
his back seat, and panicked when he didn't see anything there,
only to be relieved a moment later when he remembered its
presence. Damned thing.
He was the only person on the road driving the posted speed
limit.
Eventually, after several tortuous moments where he racked his
mind trying to remember if the Machine had indeed been in the
back seat a minute ago, he arrived at VonCannon's warehouse.
Again, he slowly extracted the semi-mobile Machine from his car
and carried it to the warehouse.
Once inside, he dropped it on the nearest table he could find.
``Where is-'' VonCannon began to ask.
They both remembered hearing the dull 'thunk' the machine had
made on impact with the table.
``Ah, I see.'' The professor leaned over the presently empty
table. ``This is fascinating.''
``I also got his personal computer.'' Grant said, remembering how
tired carrying the machine had made him.
``Good, go fetch it.'' VonCannon replied, never taking his eyes
off the blank spot he'd later remember the Machine being in.
The reporter mumbled under his breath, but obeyed nonetheless.
After carrying something that had no weight in the present but
plenty capability to wear you out in the past, it was
comparatively nice to pick up something with actual heft. He
carried it in and set it on the table next to where he'd put down
the more complex device. VonCannon hadn't stopped staring.
``It didn't look like anything I've seen here,'' Grant spoke up
quietly but managed to startle the scientist anyway. He added
sheepishly, ``but it seemed like the kind of thing you'd do.''
``It is. The device you will have been looking at is the Immobile
Machine, unless I'm very much mistaken.''
``I could move it easy enough.'' Grant reconsidered. ``Well, not
exactly easily, but-''
``It's broken. It was only immobile for perhaps a second, and
even then only in time.'' the scientist said without emotion. He
kept peering around at where the sides probably were.
``I did drop it a few times.'' the reporter admitted. Somehow he
didn't think this would matter.
``Doesn't matter.'' VonCannon obliged. ``I don't think you broke
this. No, I strongly suspect that this was built flawed.'' He
appeared to think for a moment. ``How much did it cost you to
procure this?''
``Nothing.'' Grant said, frowning and thinking back on how much
it probably had cost him. ``Rosetta gave it to me.''
``Rosetta Sandys, hm?'' the elderly scientist looked up from his
observations. ``I sign an agreement with her to procure items she
cannot use, and suddenly this drops into her lap?'' he smiled
wickedly. ``Coincidence is once again our benefactor.''
``I wish it wasn't.'' the reporter admitted. ``I can't win a $2
scratch-off lottery ticket without wondering if it's luck or that
damn Machine you haven't even built yet.''
``I'm working on it.'' was the response. ``I remind you that this
is the reason you're helping me, after all, not that I'm
unappreciative. Still, keep a close eye on this Sandys woman. I
suspect that she is somehow instrumental to all this.''
Grant was nearly at his wit's end. Every time he visited this
damn warehouse things got worse. He didn't need Malachai rubbing
his face in his failures to boot.``Are we done here?''
VonCannon didn't answer, instead hefting Caster's computer and
carrying it back to his own workstation. Grant got the hell out
while he could.
He drove.
It was getting late now, and everyone else who had a job that
could stand them at the office was presently leaving. Traffic
speeds dipped to their usual grinding slowness, but for once, he
didn't mind. He had to think.
Was it over? Only VonCannon could tell him, and Grant had never
known anyone to play his cards closer to his chest than the
ex-professor. Still, did he have any choice but to trust the old
man? He'd gone this far to back up the man's crazy theories. He
could only hope that something was found to put his mind at ease.
Another part of his mind was worried about something else
entirely and once he'd gotten done with worrying if he'd ever
have something good happen to him again without wondering if it
was coincidence or Coincidence, he focused his attention on it.
Specifically, the fact that Rosetta seemed to blame him for all
this.
If his darker suspicions on the nature of the Coincidence Machine
were correct, even his own actions weren't technically his fault.
He was but one of many puppets being manipulated by the future,
after all. Still, he doubted that excuse was going to carry him
very far. Dammit, he wasn't to blame! It wasn't as though he
liked running VonCannon's insane errands, after all. If he had a
choice, he'd forgo this crazy Coincidence nonsense and just run
off with Rosetta.
Of course, if it weren't for the crazy Coincidence nonsense, he
would never have seen her again.
Would that have been better for her? He wondered. She most
certainly would be happier - family whole, career unblemished
with a move back to a second-rate city. The only thing she'd miss
out on was him, and he had to admit, he wasn't all that
important.
Except apparently he was. Things kept arranging themselves around
what he wanted, after all.
His cellphone rang. Given that traffic was as near to stopped as
it was likely to become, he risked a look at the caller ID.
Rosetta.
He swore. God damn that Machine! Could it read his thoughts?! It
seemed as though he could feel his free will draining away.
The phone continued to ring. For a moment, he considered not
answering it. Let it ring! Fuck the Machine!
Unless, the thought sneaked its way into his mind, It knows that
you're frustrated. It doesn't want you to answer.
He couldn't win. He picked up the phone slowly and answered it
with a resigned ``Hello.''
``Grant.'' It was Rose's voice. All the anger of earlier in the
day was gone, replaced with a quiet but firm voice. He wasn't
sure if this was an improvement.
For a moment, he couldn't think of anything to say. Thoughts
whirled in his mind. Does the Machine know every word I'm going
to speak? Can I do anything It doesn't expect? Would I, if it
would lose me Rose?
Luckily, Rosetta picked up the slack. ``Listen, I'm sorry about
this afternoon. I'd really like you to come by.''
He barely heard her through his own internal debate. Was he
supposed to visit her? Was it instead his destiny to turn her
down? He decided quickly, if for no other reason to silence his
own thoughts. ``I'm on my way.''
``Thank you.'' and then the call had ended.
At exactly that moment, traffic began to move once more. Grant
swore. Railroads weren't even this punctual.
He arrived at Sandys Recycling to find it devoid of most of the
cars it'd possessed earlier in the day. In the fading light, it
seemed more like VonCannon's warehouse than ever. What would he
find inside? Would there be a calm Rosetta, willing to
compromise, or would it be a hardened woman, wanting to break
everything off? Despite how he felt for her, he didn't know her
that well. He'd had to kept reminding himself - the woman he
thought he knew had left for college a decade ago. She'd changed.
He had to remember that.
He left the car, examined the entrance he'd passed through mere
hours ago, took a deep breath, and walked in.
Something struck him bodily and for a moment he thought Rosetta
was trying to push him back out the door. Why bother inviting
him, then?
``Thank you so much for coming.'' she whispered in his ear, and
it was only then he realized she was hugging him. ``There's
something I need to show you.'' she disentangled herself from him
for the most part, holding on to just his hand. ``Come with me.''
She led him back down the hallway. He expected her to stop at her
office, but she continued on. ``Where are we going?'' he finally
asked.
``My office.'' she said, not looking back.
He glanced behind him at the door he knew to be hers. ``But we
just passed-''
``Shh!'' she said, having led them to the end of the hallway. A
door proclaimed that entry was forbidden without hearing
protection. There were a number of other symbols he didn't
recognize the specific meaning of, but a drawing of a man in a
gas mask couldn't bode well.
She opened the door into darkness. There was no sound from the
other side, and Grant found himself hoping that the other signs
were just as inaccurate as the hearing protection warning had
been.
Rosetta fumbled for a moment, and the lights came on.
Machines were everywhere. Something that looked like a turbine
was on one end of the expansive warehouse, though he could only
guess at its purpose. Bins with computer parts were set up at one
end of what seemed like an assembly line, though no doubt it
served the exact opposite purpose. Suits that looked like Hazmat
gear hung on the walls nearest them.
``What's all this for?'' he said, indicating the suits.
She barely looked back at him. ``I told you. Computers get sent
to us because there's a lot of valuable heavy metals inside them.
Gold, silver, platinum. You do not want to get any of it on you -
heavy metal poisoning's a bitch.'' She was leading them across
the factory floor now through passages she obviously knew quite
well, though Grant couldn't see their destination until they'd
got quite a bit closer.
There was another door at this end, leading to an enclosure
that'd obviously been built after the majority of equipment had
already been put in place. She unlocked this and stepped inside,
pulling him after.
Rosetta had flipped the light switch, and a bare incandescent
bulb in the ceiling had come to life. She was sitting on a cot to
one side.
``You like it?'' she asked, her expression smiling but only
faintly. She was nervous, but there was a reason she was showing
him this.
He looked around; it was nearly bare. The cot was small but
obviously effective. There was a desk cluttered with paperwork, a
lamp of its own, and a rotary phone.
``Remember the very first time you called me?'' she asked,
smiling at him. ``I was sitting right there. You didn't know it,
but I'd let you into my little sanctum here even then.'' She
closed her eyes and leaned back on the cot. ``You probably would
say I'm brave, dealing with the situation I have, but I'm not.
This is where I go when I can't take it anymore. When I need a
night to myself, alone. Sometimes I catch up on work, sometimes I
just lie here.'' she turned to her side and looked up at him. ``
Besides the people who built it, you're the only other person
I've let in here.''
``Thank you.'' he said, sincerely. He didn't know what else to
say.
She sat up again, and walked over to the table. She picked up a
paper and handed it to him. ``Before I make up with you,'' she
said evenly, ``I need you to read this. So you know what I'm
saying about your friend isn't out of spite.''
He glanced at her quizzically but turned his attention to the
paper.
ORDER OF INSTITUTIONALIZATION
to be carried out on behalf of
DOCTOR MALACHAI VONCANNON
until such time as he is deemed to no longer be a danger to
himself or others.
He glanced back at her at this point. She nodded. ``Keep reading.''
He did. The papers went on - apparently they'd originated several
decades ago from a court case where it was alleged that VonCannon
had been stalking several unrelated people who he'd claimed had
been involved in some sort of conspiracy against him. It was
light on details, but the victims seemed to think that they were
in danger, and the courts had agreed. VonCannon had been admitted
to a mental hospital and started on a regimen of anti-paranoia
drugs. The order had several addendums, each indicating that the
drugs had worked well, and the final one authorizing his release
under the condition that he remain medicated.
``Where did you get this?'' Grant knew a thing or two about
documents and the procuring thereof, and medical records were
supposedly kept in the greatest of privacy.
She shrugged. ``It's standard operating procedure to back up the
hard drives of any machine that comes through here, in case the
client wants the data - and they often do. That document came
from the personal computer of Doctor James Caster - a name I
believe you're familiar with.''
``Yeah.'' he answered. That didn't make him feel much better
about how she'd gotten it. And it opened up an entire other group
of questions about VonCannon. First among them: Was he still on
his medication?[(0x0E40) In order
for Doctor VonCannon to recognize the patterns
that made up Machine Activity, it was necessary to adjust his
medication. For some time now, his pharmacy had been
inadvertently dosing him incorrectly.]
``His computer's missing, by the way?'' she said this without the
anger she'd displayed earlier in the day. She was looking at him
with the sort of mock suspicion he'd come to be familiar with. ``
But you wouldn't know anything about it, right?''
``It may,'' Grant answered slowly to make sure it was all right
to be flippant, ``have been delivered to a certain mad scientist
we are both familiar with.''
She laughed quietly. ``Let him have it.'' she came forward and
put her arms around him again in an embrace. ``I'm very glad I
found that paper.'' she said. ``To think, I was angry at you
because of information we got from a madman!'' her second laugh
was unconvincing, but she seemed genuinely relieved.
And what about him? Did he still believe? There'd been an awful
lot of coincidences, but there was still the possibility that's
exactly what they were. Things do simply fall into place
sometimes, he thought. If the doctor was off his medication, he'd
be jumping at shadows that weren't there.
The virus was real, though. It was a sobering thought, but it
could be explained away. Patrick's theory about a long-term stock
market scheme seemed suddenly more plausible by comparison. He
let himself relax into her arms.
``Now,'' she said, ``About that making up I mentioned earlier.''
The kiss lasted quite a while. She eventually broke it off,
smiling.
``There's an important feature of this little office,'' she said,
backing toward the door. She turned a knob. ``It locks.''
``Oh!''
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