Both Jasons had sour looks on their faces as they left the bank.
"Well, that didn't work out like we planned, did it, Cousin?"
"I didn't know about the shale oil, son. But I'll give you a hundred dollars in gold. You can bring in oil-drilling experts and see what they say. It's getting late, and I bet you have a meeting with Annetta Falkensturm."
"You are correct, Cousin," young Jason said. "I bet you are going to have a meat pie for dinner tonight."
"You could be right. Meet me tomorrow at Tuttle's at noon. Be dressed in your good clothes. I'll need some help carrying some things I'm going to buy. That won't be a problem, will it?"
"Not at all, Cousin. I'm a landowner now, even if it's dead property. I am squiring the best-looking gal in the state, and it's all because of you. I'll be there. Enjoy your night."
"Oh, I will."
The young Jason tried to pat the older one on the back, but the adult avoided the touch.
The older Jason's thoughts turned toward the Widow Jenkins. Minutes later, he knocked on her door and was warmly welcomed inside.
Morning came too fast, and the ever ready widow was as fast at cooking as she was with other things. Jason left her with a smile, a tickle, and a promise to return after lunch.
He rode Thunder to Tuttles. He remembered just what he wanted to buy. The younger version of himself got there a few minutes later.
"Look at that, Cousin."
The older Jason has set a large wooden box with six shotguns and a box and a half of shells on the counter.
"What do you want all of those shotguns for, Cousin? You gonna fight a war?"
"Never you mind, just take the other side of this box. We're going to the stagecoach stop. Your brother Ben is going to be on that stage coming in at twelve thirty."
"Really, how do you know that? I wasn't expecting to see him for another month."
"I know things."
They carried the heavy box to the stage office on the other side of the street from the bank. Jason noted the six horses tied to the rail in front of the bank. He hoped the sheriff and deputy were coming this way, as he had asked them to do so over a late lunch the day before.
"Son, help me move some of these dry goods barrels to the edge of the sidewalk."
"I can do that, Cousin, but I don't think Getchil's is going to like that."
"Trust me."
They moved the barrels, and the older Jason set up the six shotguns against them. The younger Jason looked on in wonder.
"The stage is coming! The stage is coming!" boys shouted from somewhere down the street.
The next several minutes were a blur.
Brother Ben got off the stage and was surprised to see a cleaned-up younger brother. He gave him a big hug.
The stage driver started unloading suitcases from the top of the stage.
Shots rang out from the other side of the street as the bank robbers came out onto the street, firing. The first bullet took the stagecoach driver in the head. He dropped the heavy suitcase on young Jason, and the boy went down like a sack of potatoes.
It was just as the older Jason had remembered things. But it would turn out different this time around.
The older Jason started cutting lose with doublebarreled blasts. He was only a passable shot, but he didn't have to be an expert. The buckshot ripped the bank robbers' arms and legs from their bodies.
"Stay down, Ben," shouted the older Jason. "Protect the boy. I've got them covered and the sheriff's coming."
He continued to quickly pepper the other side of the street, going from gun to gun. Three bank robbers bled out on the street as the sheriff and his man ran up to add their gunfire to his. Jason quickly reloaded all the shotguns and began firing again.
There was only one robber left now, and he shot back at the sheriff. The older Jason rushed into the street to get a better angle, and his shotgun stitched the side of the robber. The robber turned and fired as he went down. One of the bullets took Jason in the knee.
In terrible pain, Jason fell on the Timeshares device in his back pocket, hitting the panic button and vanishing from the street and back into time where he belonged.
He woke up in a hospital bed. Drugs dripped into his arm, and he didn't feel any pain. There was a loud beeping noise near his head.
A pretty red-haired nurse rushed into his room and pressed a button to stop the beeping. "I've sent for the doctor. Don't you worry about a thing. You're going to be fine now that you are back where you belong. Your brother has paid for the very best care for you."
Jason was unable to say a thing. He felt so fuzzy.
A tall man in surgery scrubs walked into the room with a datapad in his hand. He scanned Jason's body and was all smiles.
"I was a bit worried about the bio-replacement of the knee. I'm certain now that you will have one hundred percent freedom of movement. It's a good thing we could get you in the regeneration lab so quickly. Your brother saw to that. You are going to be fine and up and moving in a few days. I'm going to let your wife and brother in to see you."
Jason smiled at the thought of his newfound wife and brother. He had succeeded in the past. Everything would be great now.
A much older looking brother Ben and a fat woman came into the room.
"Jason, brother, you promised me when I paid for that vacation ticket that you wouldn't get into trouble. What happened back there?"
Jason struggled to remember.
No!
The fat woman seemed to find something funny and laughed like a pig.
Annetta. His younger self had married her, and he suddenly recalled a lifetime of that horrid laugh.
He also remembered a life with Annetta. It hadn't been a good life.
Jason gasped as the replaced memories surged forward. His brother Ben had bought the land contract for a thousand dollars ten years after its first purchase as a kindness to Jason and Annetta.
Ben got richer and richer, and Jason failed time after time in money making schemes. He had eventually invested a great deal in the Refresh Company, but once again Ben's money bailed him out, and Ben was three-quarters owner of the corporation.
Jason turned his head away from the pair. He knew he'd made the mistake of his life, and there wouldn't be a second chance to set things back in order.
Time Sharing Jody Lynn Nye
Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as "spoiling cats." She lives northwest of Chicago with two of the above and her husband, author and packager, Bill Fawcett. She has published more than thirty-five books, including six contemporary fantasies; four science fiction novels; four novels in collaboration with Anne McCaffrey, including The Ship Who Won The Ship Who Won; edited a humorous anthology about mothers, Don't Forget Your Spacesuit, Dear! Don't Forget Your Spacesuit, Dear!; and written more than a hundred short stories. Her latest books are A Forthcoming Wizard A Forthcoming Wizard, and Myth-Fortunes Myth-Fortunes, cowritten with Robert Asprin.
Milan, 1494
Lorraine couldn't decide which was worse, the terrible vinegar taste or the stew of odors that assailed her nose as she struggled to get into the heavy robelike dress and velvet cloak. They had been too hot to wear in the departure lounge of the Timeshares Travel Agency,in between the giant crackling spheres that owed their heritage to Tesla coils, whatever the name the corporation called them to make them more palatable to the unschooled yet moneyed class they wanted to attract. Well, she was no ordinary customer!
Mother was here, in Milan. It had taken some very specific information, threats, and bribes to get the correct information from Rolf Jacobsen, the president of Timeshares. She had based her hunch upon notes her mother had left on a pad of paper in the study of her empty apartment in San Francisco. It was not until she had insisted she would go to the police that Jacobsen allowed that perhaps, yes, he did know Genevieve Corvana and her whenabouts, as well as her whereabouts. Lorraine was proud to know that she was right. She could not, however, place the odd look on Jacobsen's face when she told him the rest of what she wanted. But she was here now, Marguerite wasn't, and nothing was more important!
She straightened her ornate lace and jeweled veil. Her thick brown hair was scraped back into a silk net beneath. Somehow, the exposure of her face and neck made her feel vulnerable, all the more since preparation for the trip had involved removal of her eyebrows and eyelashes. Randa Cuddy, Jacobsen's head of Esthetics, had assured her that the depilation was temporary but necessary in light of the fashions of the day. She straightened her back and marched toward the door. Suddenly a hand grabbed her by the hair and pulled backward.
"Oh, no, you don't! I got here first!"
Horrified, Lorraine wrenched herself free. The light that streaked through the gaps in the boards of the lean-to was enough to see the glaring eyes in a face that was so much like hers, with its firm, square chin, decided mouth, and wide hazel eyes, but broader across the cheekbones, the image of stubbornness. How? "Marguerite!"
"How did you get through?" her sister demanded. "I gave Jacobsen a huge bribe not to let you."
"You miserable waste of skin!" Lorraine snarled, feeling her blood pressure rise. She felt behind her and straightened out the net, which was hanging askew. "I am here to see Mother, and you can't stop me."
She shouldered Marguerite aside and headed toward the vertical sliver of daylight that must indicate a door.
"I was here first! You're not getting ahead of me!"
Marguerite pushed back, raking her clawlike nails over the back of Lorraine's hand. When they burst out into the bright Milanese sunshine, Lorraine could see that it was bleeding.
"Oh, how I hate you!" Lorraine shrieked, wrapping the ornamental frill of lace around her hand.
Suddenly, she became aware that many pairs of eyes were upon them. Men in simple linen shirts over hose and filthy shoes pushing wheelbarrows. Men in gorgeous padded doublets with exaggerated codpieces sticking out just below the hem. Women whose undergowns were tied at the throat as hers, but with the drawstring so loose that their breasts were almost completely on display over pieced bodices that were for support much more than for show. Women in carts and carriages wearing veils or holding up fans on sticks or seated under sunshades to protect themselves from the blazing light, possibly with a tiny live monkey curled around their necks or with a bird on a perch attached to the frame of their conveyance. She and Marguerite were providing free midday entertainment to their fellow passersby.
Lorraine drew herself up. "I am going to see Mother. Whether you do or not is of no concern to me."
Jacobsen had promised a guide. She looked around the crowded street. She didn't expect someone to be standing there holding up a sign, but who was it? Jacobsen assured her he would be easy to spot.
Suddenly, a very dark-skinned African boy in a glorious cloth-of-gold turban, an embroidered tunic, and bare feet skipped out of a storefront and came to bow to them.
"Signorina Corvana?" His diction was crisp but flavored with an exotic accent.
"Yes?" she and Marguerite chorused.
"My name is Iskander. I am here to take you to Signora Genevieve." He grinned at them, showing perfectly even, white teeth. "This way." He turned and began to thread his way along the crowded stone street.
"He looks as if he had orthodontia," Marguerite murmured.
"Three years' worth," the boy agreed amiably. When they blinked in surprise, he grinned again. "I am a graduate student at Stanford. My real name is Arthur Struthers. This is my summer job, tour guide in Renaissance Milan, in the service of my lord the duke Ludovico il Moro. Beautiful, isn't it?"
It was. Lorraine's first glimpse of another time and space should have been thrilling beyond words. How wrong it seemed that she had her entire mind upon the woman striding at her side, who had beaten her into the world by a mere thirteen months, and who had stolen all the attention from their mother ever since. She tried to pull her soul out of the quagmire of resentment and enjoy her surroundings. The stench was impossible to ignore, but so were the colors, made even more brilliant by the sun. Flowers bloomed in impossible hues. The people around them were as vivid, arrayed like so many exotic butterflies in silks, brocades, and linen. She, who had lived most of her life among the muted palette of northern California and spent much of her time bent over a microscope, found it exotic and wonderful. The clothing Jacobsen's employees had furnished her repelled dirt and insects, so minor discomforts were kept at bay. Thousands of humans, many more than she was comfortable rubbing elbows with, crowded the street, shouting to friends, hawking their goods, pushing barrows toward some distant market, all adding to the rainbow palette. The bowl of the sky, an expanse of purest turquoise, was decorated with a few fluffy white clouds. The city was like a master's painting crossed with a Where's Waldo poster. Why was Genevieve here? Why didn't she want to go somewhere more comfortable, where the streets didn't stink?
"Graduate student?" Marguerite asked. "One of Mother's graduate students?"
The young man nodded. "Yes. I am on independent study now that she has retired. Officially. But she is still my faculty adviser." The blinding grin took them off guard again. "Here we are."
The door of the wide, white stucco-covered house had no portico to protect one from the elements, but opened into a small but gracious hall with polished wood floors and frescoed walls. The cherubim that beckoned to visitors weren't as simpering and overornamented as many putti that Lorraine had seen in contemporary paintings. She tried to identify the style, but the name escaped her.
Iskander bowed and strode into the burgeoning crowd, leaving them on the stoop. A plump female servant in white apron and tightly-wound headcloth led them down the narrow hallway toward the rear of the house. She opened a door and stood aside. A wave of noise from within all but knocked the two women backward. The sounds of a woodwind and a stringed instrument warred with voices.
The room was filled with people. Men and a few women in smocks sat at easels, trays of color at their elbows. A few men, ranging in age from late twenties to perhaps fifty, linen coifs covering their sweating heads, painted faces of near-photographic quality onto wooden panels on which only a few dark lines suggested the landscaping and buildings that would soon surround them. Those details were being added to other panels by younger artists in their early teens to early twenties. Others, mostly youngsters, some very small, ground the colors in mortars held between their outspread legs as they sat on the floor. The delicacy of their task did not cut down at all on holding conversations with their fellows. A large sheet of paper had been tacked to one wall so that Lorraine could see that all the pieces in the room were intended to be part of a single installation, possibly an altar-piece. In the corner, a pair of musicians in rolled hats and hose strummed and tootled, unperturbed by the seeming chaos around them. More noise filtered in from outside, through enormous windows flanked by wide-flung wooden shutters. Around the walls stood sturdy machinery of iron and bronze. Lorraine could identify the small forge and anvils, but she could not have guessed at the purpose of the standing metal plate with holes of ever decreasing size drilled in it or the odd frame that resembled a loom without a shuttle.
One of the older women, wearing a linen veil on her graying brown hair and an enveloping ecru pinafore over a gown made of good ochre-colored brocade, brush raised, glanced up at the opening of the door. Her cheeks widened in a grin. She put down her brush and rushed to embrace them.
"You found me!" she cried. "So the clues weren't too difficult?"
"Mother!" Lorraine exclaimed. "Wait, you left those notes on purpose?"
Genevieve Corana smiled. "Of course I did. I wanted to see you."
"You did?" She pointed at Marguerite. "Then she needs to go back home. Right now. I have no intention of letting her ruin . . ."
"Me ruin? What makes you think I want to be here with you, you wet blanket! I left home on the twenty-fifth of July." ruin? What makes you think I want to be here with you, you wet blanket! I left home on the twenty-fifth of July."
"Well, I left on the twentieth!"
"How did we get here at the same time?" Marguerite demanded. "When I get my hands on that Jacobsen . . ."
"Silence!" Genevieve roared. There was no mistaking a genuine teacher voice, or the cold glare that went with it. Lorraine and Marguerite quieted like guilty pupils. The rest of the room fell silent as well. "We will speak in my private study. There will be no more uproar. Have respect! Do you understand?"
Subdued, the sisters followed their mother through a wooden doorway. A playful frieze around the frame depicted demons dancing as though the portal led to hell.
Genevieve shut the door and leaned over to fling open the shuttered window in the dim room.
"You will not upset the atelier again," she hissed. "There are too many ears listening. You can cause untold trouble. Didn't Rolf's assistants give you the entire safety briefing?"
Reduced to children again, the sisters surveyed the hems of their elegant dresses.
"Yes."
"And you signed the waiver saying that you understood? And what the legal penalties are for disobeying them?"
"Yes."
"But Mother!" Marguerite wailed. "You disappeared without telling us where you were going."
Genevieve waved away the protest. "I messaged you both. I told you I was retiring. I said I was going somewhere I enjoyed, and I wanted you to be happy for me. I planned to let you know more in time. I had to establish myself first. It's taken a few years, but things are going well. You arrived here at the same time because I wanted to see both both of you. I am glad you are here, darlings. We're going to have such a nice time." of you. I am glad you are here, darlings. We're going to have such a nice time."
"A few years?" Lorraine asked. "But you've only been gone since June."