Time's Chariot

‘My master Sir Isaac Newton sent me,’ the Correspondent said, pushing his way forward and holding out his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure.’

‘Isaac Newton?’ Leibnitz said with polite interest. ‘I’ve heard of him.’

And will continue to hear more, the Correspondent thought, since neither man yet knew that the other had worked out the principles of calculus on his own, and a bitter dispute and accusations of plagiarism were looming in the years to come.

‘My master is very interested in your thoughts on monads,’ the Correspondent said, ‘and he has sent me with a request that might seem odd.’ He held up the sphere, and heard Herbert behind him draw in a breath.

‘Indeed?’ As was obviously expected, Leibnitz took the sphere and rotated it in his fingers. ‘It’s an interesting ornament.’

‘Would you mind, sir, touching it to your temple?’

Leibnitz’s eyebrows rose, but he obligingly pushed back the fringe of his wig. ‘Like this?’ he said, suiting action to words. ‘Good lord,’ he added, as the sphere abruptly changed colour.

‘It’s a substance my master has devised in his alchemical studies,’ the Correspondent said. ‘He believes the human brain is full of currents of energy, similar to the monads you have written about, and that this material reacts to them. Ultimately he hopes to be able to record human thoughts in devices just like this. He wonders if you would be interested in sharing in his researches?’

Leibnitz burst out laughing, followed a moment later by his friends, taking their cue from his reaction.

‘Tell your master that I’m flattered by the invitation.’ He studied the sphere a moment longer, then passed it back. ‘It’s a pretty toy, but given that two or three of these could fit inside the human head, it hardly seems likely that the contents of a human head could fit into one of these. Good day, sir.’

He bowed slightly and the Correspondent returned the gesture, letting a look of polite regret flit over his face. Then the Correspondent turned back to Herbert, proud smile on his face.

‘Yours, I think,’ he said, passing the now red sphere back to its owner.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Herbert muttered.

And all that was left was the walk back to Schmargendorf. The Correspondent was aware of a feeling he rarely had and he spent some time analyzing it. Yes, he was in a supremely good mood. Supremely good, yet tinged with regret.

A shrieking, laughing crowd of children burst out of a gate as they walked along the dusty track, squabbling or playing or both but generally making a loud noise and having a good time. He gazed benevolently at them. Children, the future of the human race; long dead by whatever age Herbert came from, but here so full of potential, life, future. He cared about them. He wanted them to have only the best.

All these people. He looked around him. Passers by. Men and women; on foot, in carts, on horseback. He cared for them all, bygoners though they might be. Each one unique, each one with their own story to tell; historically of no consequence but each one of infinite value.

He would miss them.

There was that question again: when did you start caring? The first thing he had done when he arrived at Isfahan was save the life of his then young, now also long-dead friend Ali, but even that hadn’t been motivated by care. He had only got involved because Ali’s attackers had turned their attention on him, and after that he had kept Ali’s friendship for exactly as long as was needed.

If he assumed that his condition upon arriving in Isfahan, prior to any contact with Herbert and subsequent reordering of his mind, was the Home Time’s intended factory setting, then he had changed a great deal. All for the better.

‘How will they react when I come back from my mission three hundred years too soon?’ he said. Recall Day wasn’t officially for another three centuries.

‘It won’t be three hundred years, just twenty-seven.’ Herbert really was worn out and was getting more and more irritable with every step.

‘Even so,’ the Correspondent said. He had meant it as a joke.

‘They’ll get used to it.’

‘How will you explain it?’

Herbert sighed. ‘I’ll smuggle you in, somehow. Your details will be on file; it shouldn’t be hard to reintegrate you.’

‘This way,’ the Correspondent said, gesturing towards a familiar alleyway.

‘Thank God.’

Perhaps Herbert was getting used to this time; he didn’t make any expressions of disgust as they picked their way back to the shambles at the end of the passage.

‘Good timing,’ Herbert said. ‘A couple more minutes.’

The Correspondent studied him. ‘You always know these things, but I don’t see you carrying any kind of watch.’

Herbert plucked at his coat. ‘You’re not the only one with hidden technology on you. Believe me, this isn’t wool. One minute.’

They stood and waited. The Correspondent’s heart pounded and his mouth was dry. Almost there… He picked the tag out of his pocket and held it up. ‘You’re sure I don’t have to do anything?’

‘Of course not. Thirty seconds.’

A pause.

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

The Correspondent grasped the tag tightly, like a believer with a crucifix.

‘Ten seconds,’ Herbert said. ‘There’s something you should know.’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t volunteer as a correspondent.’ Herbert looked him in the eyes and smiled that mirthless smile. ‘No one does. You’re a criminal, a reject, a psychotic failure, and there’s no way you’d be welcome back.’ And he vanished.

The Correspondent stared at the spot where he had been. He took slow, shuffling steps forward so that he stood in Herbert’s footprints. He stared at the ground beneath him.

‘No,’ he breathed. He stared at the tag in his hand, willing it to carry him back to the Home Time. Its glow faded before his eyes and it crumbled into dust.

He drew in a breath.

‘No!’ He hurled the handful of grit at the wall and swung a kick at a nearby crate, shattering it. ‘No!’ He seized a length of wood from the fragments and swung it at the other nearby boxes. Smash! ‘You bastard!’ he howled. Smash! ‘I’ll… I’ll…’

Herbert’s face seemed to swim in the scraps of wood and he brought his makeshift club down on them again and again. ‘I’ll… I’ll…’ he sobbed.

He didn’t know what he would do, and he had never cried in seven centuries, but his breath heaved and adrenaline poured through his body. Laying waste to the alleyway was the only safe way he could disperse that strength, that emotion.

‘Oi!’ The shout brought him round. The butcher who owned the place had come out of his shop’s back door. His apron was bloodstained and he held a large cleaver in his hand. Nervous customers peered over his shoulder. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ The man took a step forward, cleaver raised. ‘Get out of here!’

The Correspondent glared at him, picturing and in his mind enacting a good twenty ways to get past that cleaver, with the butcher never knowing what had hit him.

But no. Self control. Discipline. Something correspondents had in abundance. With a deliberate effort the Correspondent willed his boiling, seething rage away and it was as if ice, hard and cold as iron, flowed into his veins to replace it.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ll pay for the damage.’ He took a bag of coins from his pocket and tossed it over. ‘Will that cover it?’

It certainly should have; the coins were gold, saved up and amassed for centuries. The butcher’s eyes