THIRTY-FOUR
I’m tethered to a cart for the march toward Leatown. The pace is rapid and I struggle not to fall and be dragged. After a few hours we exit the forest and eventually march past the barn and mansion, but there’s no one to be seen except the goons milling around the mansion portico. We continue on through the center of the town and then through the tall gate of the army camp which has been opened for us. I’m thrown into a cell lit only by sunlight leaking through wooden slats. Furnishings comprise of a pile of straw in the corner. I’m untied and I rub the blood back into my wrists as I hear the clunk of the door lock.
What could Asmus’s plan possibly be? Only sheer vandalism makes sense. Shaking it up. Exerting power just because you have it. In trying to understand the temporal logistics of what Asmus has done, my reasoning forms circles that eventually spiral into a singularity of logic. There’s no sense, no predictability, no rationality to it.
After what seems like several hours, a tray is slid through a slot at the bottom of the cell door. It’s water, dry bread and an apple, and I devour it all. Another hour passes and then the door bursts open. A guard steps in, stands to attention, and what looks like a British officer passes him without acknowledgment. He’s wearing a white wig, has a look that parodies self-importance, and is not concealing his contempt for the things his job calls for.
“Name?”
“Joad Bevan.”
“Why were you with the rebel army?”
“They captured me.” I would have thought that being bound to a tree was a clue, but he looked like he wasn’t about to fall for that.
“Where are you from?”
“Leatown,” I say.
“Who can vouch for you?” he asks. I wasn’t expecting this question. I didn’t know what question I was expecting, but whatever it was, I knew it’d be my downfall. I hesitate. Am I really going to say this? What option do I have?
“Kasper Asmus,” I say. This seems to give my interrogator pause. He scrutinizes me.
“Kasper Asmus,” he echoes. I take it that this name carries weight. He seems fazed, so I run with it.
“Yes, I work for Kasper Asmus. Please tell him you’ve found me. I think he’ll be grateful.” I think no such thing. The bastard will probably disown me or worse. The officer says nothing, turns, and exits the cell followed by the guard. There’s the heavy clunk of the lock and I rest back on the straw to wait, gnawing on a bare apple core.
He looks twenty five years old at most and is well turned out. The shirt is clean, the boots shine and his white, lace cravat is neatly-tied. I stand, which alerts the guard who takes a step forward. The young toff waves the guard away.
“United States president in 2020?” he says. I answer him correctly. “Only record in the 1990s to stay at number one in the country music charts for ten weeks?” He looks at me expectantly, then laughs. “Kiddin’ ya.” I manage a grin. He pats my arm. “Ya red pat?” I don’t understand him. “C’mon old man. You don’t speak mid-21st verno?”
I shake my head. “That where you’re from?” I ask. Without replying he beckons me to follow him.
We exit the brig as guards look on deferentially. He has me sit next to him in the box seat of a wagon, and with a flick if the reins we’re on our way. I look at him side-on and I’m in no doubt that he was, or maybe still is, TMA. I know because TMA arrogance radiates from him. Maybe it’s his posture, or maybe his obvious comfort in ignoring me, but I have an immediate sense of him. It makes me remember my surprise at the collegial atmosphere of TMA-1996 compared to the egregious smartassedness of TMA-2021. Extrapolating that trend, mid twenty-first century TMA must be staffed by egos of planetary scale. It makes sense. On the other hand, this guy could just be a self-made prick. Whichever way, he’s not answering questions.
It’s a bumpy ride and I need to hold tight onto the box seat. You don’t get a sense of the unevenness of the road until you travel it on wooden wheels with every shock, every jog shooting directly up through your ass. I try to figure out the timelines. Asmus was a toad of a man even at the peak of his appearance, so it’s tough to figure his age. No younger than his 50s. So that’d put him around 2050 if he’d kept to his timeline. That’s consistent with this arrogant little shit using mid-21st vernacular if he brought him back with him. But Bess started out a decade older than Asmus and there’s no way that the Bess in the house up the hill is sixty something. Sure, older than the Bess that had vanished on me, but not by that much. So that means Asmus picked her up while time hopping. How uproariously funny it must have seemed in his barking madness to grab the once and would-be wife of the one guy who got away. What a nice setup for my comeuppance.
I want to see Gallie. She’s been the only point of quiet for me in a tornado of lunacy. I need to see Gallie. Maybe we’re en route to the TMA barn. But maybe not. No point asking this schmuck. I look him over and I’m pretty sure I could take him. But then what? The worst kind of prison is one without boundaries.
THIRTY-FIVE
We pull up at the service entrance to the house where we’re met by two guards. They’re carrying semi-automatic assault weapons. It seems the charade–the denial–is over. I
