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Brandon Thomas was bored out of his skull. It was Sunday afternoon, his mother was out grocery shopping, and he'd already beaten the seven different games he owned for his Playstation 3. Twice. Brandon always felt this maddening desire to do something, anything, before going back to the daily drudgery of school. He walked across the house to the basement door and knocked. He heard his father's irritated voice drift up the stairs. "What is it, Brandon?" "Dad, I'm bored." "So go do your homework." "I've done it." "Really?" Brandon groaned. "...okay, I haven't. Sue me." "I don't think legal action will be necessary, Brandon," his father called with an edge of sarcasm, "but I'm really busy right now on...uh...a big project. Either finish your homework or play with the dog." Brandon's shoulders slumped as he dragged himself into the kitchen. Dad had been working on this 'big project' for almost a year now. Something that had to do with his job at Quantum Mechanics Inc. Mom never complained about Dad's work habits, at least as far as Brandon knew, but he was getting fed up with being put on Dad's 'low priority' list. Brandon picked up the phone and dialed his mother's cell number. "Hello?" He heard his mother's voice on the other end. He could also make out the busy hubbub of a grocery store in the background. "Hi, Mom. Whatcha doin'?" "Brandon, I'm a little busy right now..." "Dad said the same thing." "Is something wrong? Are you all right?" Brandon played around with the phone cord. "I'm just bored, that's all." "I'll rent a movie for you on the way home." Brandon's face immediately brightened. "I wanna see HOBO WITH A SHOTGUN!" "No, Brandon. We've gone over this, several times. You're too young to watch films like that." "So when will I be old enough?" Brandon said impatiently. "When you're eighteen." "That's YEARS from now!" "Brandon, I've told you never to shout on the phone..." Brandon hated it when Mom lectured him like this. "Fine," he deliberately shouted into the phone. "Just rent MY LITTLE PONY or something. I don't care." He heard Mom make a pained sigh. "Brandon, if you had any idea what I have to go through as your mother..." Brandon slammed the phone on its cradle, then went to his bedroom to sulk. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- It wasn't long before Brandon heard his father moving about in the hallway. Stepping out, he saw Dad looking into a mirror, hurriedly fixing a tie around his neck. He spotted Brandon from the corner of his eye. "Hi there, sport," he said. "Look...something's come up. I've got to be at this conference in thirty minutes, and I don't have time to call a baby sitter. Do you think you can wait until your Mom gets back?" Brandon shrugged. "Sure." "Great. Stay out of trouble, and..." He turned around to lock the door leading into the basement. "Don't go downstairs." "Why?" Dad was already heading out of the house. "Because there's a lot of dangerous equipment down there I haven't put away, and I don't want you to get hurt, that's why." "Dad, what the heck are you working on?" Brandon's father stopped in the doorway and looked back at him with a little smile. "You'll find out soon. Please...do as you're told, Brandon. Just this once. I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll take you to the playoffs this weekend, how about that?" Before Brandon could fire another question at his father, he was out the door and walking towards the car. Brandon stared at the basement door for a long time. He reached for the doorknob and jiggled it a few times. Then he had another idea. Had his father remembered to block off the basement window this time? Brandon made sure to whip on his "good luck" baseball cap before heading out into the backyard. If there was dangerous stuff in the basement like Dad said, it couldn't hurt to be prepared. Brandon moved along the side of the house until he found the little aperture, hidden behind a thick rosemary bush. Brandon gently pushed down on the glass. Brandon's cap was obviously helping him out, because his father had forgotten to lock the window. Brandon peered inside, but it was too dark to make out anything except a few looming shapes deep within the basement. He glanced downwards, and his eyes were just able to discern a work table beneath the window. After taking a deep breath to prepare himself, Brandon squeezed his body through the frame. It was a tight fit, and for one frightening moment Brandon couldn't breathe, but then he popped the rest of his body through. His sneakers landed on the table with a loud thud, and the noise made Brandon wince. What if Mom was already home and she had heard him from upstairs? But there was no sound of any footsteps above Brandon. He was still alone in the house. Sighing with relief, his hands searched for the table lamp. When his fingers grasped what felt like a switch, he immediately snapped it on. The illumination from the desk lamp was weak and flickering, but Brandon still gasped at what he could now see. Situated at the center of the basement was something that resembled an old-fashioned telephone booth, albeit decked out with wires, cables, and other gadgetry that were strictly 21st century in design. Brandon slowly climbed down from the desk and approached the machine...whatever it was. There was a transparent door at the booth's side. Brandon opened it and glanced inside, but the booth was empty. Brandon made his way around the machine, taking in every detail with his widened eyes. After so much time reading comic books and playing video games taking place on far away worlds, here was Dad working on some fantastic contraption in the basement of their own house. Then Brandon spotted something that immediately grabbed his attention: A keyboard and computer monitor, embedded near the base of the booth. He rushed over and studied the keyboard. "I've got my own laptop," he muttered under his breath. "I can figure this out, I know I can." Brandon pushed down a button, hoping it was the one that powered up the computer. Once again, his good-luck cap was there to lend a hand. The monitor came online with a loud, reverberating hum, basking Brandon in a dull blue glow. Brandon leaned forward and squinted his eyes. "What the heck is this...?" On the monitor's desktop were different folders marked with titles that looked suspiciously like dates: 2007, 1995, 1985, 1954, so on and so forth. They were all arranged in descending order, beginning at last year and continuing downwards to the last file: 1889. Brandon used the touchpad to click on 1964 just for the hell of it. The screen opened up to reveal several dozen video files, all of which were categorized with dates that were even more specific: 1/7/64, 3/8/64, etc. Brandon clicked randomly on one of the files, just to see what they contained. He wasn't ready for the sight of some garish dance club, with people dressed in tacky clothes and gonzo hairstyles that made them look like total weirdos. Brandon wanted to laugh at them, but he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle slightly, as if he knew he was watching something unprecedented and unnatural. The image was fixed, as if the footage had been taken from a security camera somewhere in the ceiling. Whatever he was looking at, it wasn't some kind of staged nostalgic event. It was completely authentic. That's when the truth struck Brandon right between the eyes like a bullet. A time machine? His Dad had invented a time machine?! How cool was that?! Immediately the potential of what he could do, where he could go, opened wide open in Brandon's mind. He could go back in time and stop the World Trade Center attack from ever happening! He could warn President Kennedy! He could go on a ride on the seven seas with wild pirates, or go back even further and see the dinosaurs! If he took a camera with him, the photos he took of them would be worth well over - Then Brandon remembered something. He clicked back to the main desktop and looked at the last folder: 1889. Obviously, that was as far as Dad had chosen to go back, or could go back. A little disappointed that he would probably never get a chance to see live dinosaurs, but still excited at the prospects his Dad's invention offered him, Brandon clicked on the 1889 file and opened one of the videos inside. He saw what looked like a vast park, with the outline of Big Ben on the distant horizon. Men and women dressed in elaborate, dainty outfits - some of whom carried canes or parasols at their sides - strolled through shadows cast by the willow trees that towered over them. It was a bright, shining day, with nary a cloud in the sky. "Wow," Brandon exclaimed flatly. "This looks really boring." Then another idea occurred to him. He clicked out of the video and browsed the desktop again. His eyes alighted upon an icon marked INITIATE SEQUENCE. The icon itself was a cartoon avatar version of Albert Einstein. Brandon dragged the video from the 1889 folder and dropped it onto the Einstein icon. Almost immediately, the machine came alive with a plethora of whirrs, thuds and clicks that startled Brandon. The entire console lit up like a Christmas tree. He saw a bright blue light glow from the inside of the booth, and Brandon suddenly realized he had switched on his father's time machine. "Time transfer sequence initiated," he heard a dry, digitized voice mumble from the computer. "Please enter main booth before countdown has ended. 20...19...18...17..." "Oh shit!" Brandon cried. His Mom had constantly reminded him to never swear, but this seemed like an appropriate moment to do so. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!!" "...14...13...12...11..." Brandon desperately looked at the stairs leading up to the house, then back at the booth. Dad was going to kill him! "...10...9...8..." Brandon couldn't think. Panic had set in. Before he knew what he was doing, Brandon had rushed inside the booth, slamming the door behind him. "...5...4...3...2..." Brandon slapped his hands over his eyes and braced himself. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- "Oi! Get out of the bloody road!" Brandon pulled his hands away, just in time to see a carriage and a pair of horses bearing down on him. His heart jumped straight into his throat. He ran to his right, while the driver - a burly man dressed in a thick black coat - pulled the horses to the left. The two missed each other by a few inches. Brandon's body smacked the sidewalk, forcing all the air out of his lungs. He yelped in pain as he felt the skin of his knee graze along the ground. "Watch where you're going next time, you dumb little bugger!" The driver snarled over his shoulder as he disappeared down the cobbled street. Brandon slowly climbed to his feet, brushing the dirt away from his shorts. He looked around, and felt goosebumps emerge on his skin. There wasn't a single car in sight. There were only carriages, horses and carriages, taking people dressed in different clothes that varied according to their social status to and fro. Brandon glanced upwards. No skyscrapers, just huge houses that loomed over him like hungry ogres. Houses that were supposed to be ancient, yet looked as if they were built yesterday. This was too much for him. He had to sit down and think. Brandon collapsed on a patch of grass nearby and looked over his knee. It was a nasty scrape, and there was blood showing. A heavy-set man with a thick, white walrus moustache walked casually past Brandon. "Uh...excuse me..." Brandon called out. The man turned to Brandon. He looked over Brandon's clothes with a somewhat bemused expression. "Yes?" The man asked. "Can I help you, boy?" Brandon swallowed the spit in his mouth before answering. "What's...what's the year?" "The year?" The man chortled. "Are you of sound mind, little lad?" "Sound mind?" Brandon was confused. The man crossed his arms and bent over, lecturing Brandon as if he were an errant schoolboy. "It's the Year of the Lord Eighteen Hundred and Eighty Nine, little lad. Are you lost? Where are your parents?" "Eighteen Hundred and..." Brandon's eyes grew as big as saucers. "Holy shit, it worked. It really worked!" The man was flabbergasted at Brandon's foul language. "Watch your tongue, lad!" He knelt down to get a better look at Brandon. "You're American, judging from your appalling accent. But what on earth are you wearing? I confess I've never seen any child dressed in those kind of...fabrics. Is this some newfangled school dress code I haven't heard about?" "It worked!" Brandon hopped up and down with excitement. "Dad's a genius! I'm in 1889! I..." Immediately all the joy vanished from his face. "How do I get back?" The man frowned. "Get back where, lad? What are you babbling about?" "How do I get back?!" Brandon grasped the sides of his head. Panic was beginning to set in again. "Oh shit, how do I get back?!" The man's face turned red. "What did I tell you about watching your tongue? Now, just calm down. I'm sure we can find someone who can - " But Brandon had already turned and fled into the park. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- After spending an hour running around in circles, Brandon collapsed at the foot of the tree and quietly sobbed. The full impact of what had happened to him was finally crashing down on him. A ten-year-old boy, lost in time, with no idea how to get back to his home and family. He already missed them, especially his mother. Chances were that he'd end up in some hellish workhouse, or starve on the street, or... He faintly heard the soft swishing of a woman's dress across the grass. "Whatever's the matter, little boy? Why are you crying?" Brandon looked up, and saw a vision of aristocratic beauty approaching him. A large grey gown, accentuated with a white shawl and a matching bonnet, with other delicate Victorian accessories. She was a mature lady, possibly forty-five or forty-six; the same age as Brandon's own mother. Brandon looked away from her. "I've...I've made a big mistake. A really big mistake. And now I'm stuck." "Stuck?" The woman stood over Brandon. "You mean, in this park? If you were separated from your parents, I 'm perfectly happy to take you home myself..." "No," Brandon shook his head. "My parents haven't even been born yet." The woman was silent for a minute or two. Then she knelt down beside Brandon. He felt the silken fabric of her dress run along his skin. For some reason, the sensation made him feel...calm. Peaceful. "I haven't the slightest idea what could be wrong," the woman said. "But I'm certain we can set everything straight." Brandon shrugged. "My, that's a terrible scratch you have there," she said, noticing Brandon's knee. She gently ran her gloved fingers over the wound, and Brandon already began to feel some of the pain subside, as if she had some kind of magic touch. "Were you in an accident?" "Y-yeah," Brandon muttered, feeling entranced. "I...uh...I tripped." "Shame I don't have any antiseptic with me," the woman sighed. "Ah well. Perhaps it's time we should introduce ourselves." She warmly offered a hand for Brandon to shake. "My name is Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn Keeler." Brandon took her hand. "Blandon." Gwendolyn tilted her head slightly. "I beg your pardon?" Brandon corrected himself. "Sorry, Brandon! My name's Brandon." Blandon? Where the heck had that come from? Gwendolyn got back on her feet. "Well then, Brandon, you won't find your parents if you sit under this heaven-forsaken tree all day. Let's find them together." She gently pulled Brandon up. "Agreed?" Brandon nodded. He felt a little safer around this lady. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- The pair of them searched the park together, even while Brandon knew the search was pointless. But weirdly enough, he couldn't bring himself to care. All he wanted was to be with this beautiful, elegant woman. She talked and talked and talked all the time about things Brandon couldn't begin to understand, but he felt himself soaking up her words like a sponge, as if he couldn't hear enough of the way this woman spoke, or how she moved, or how she dressed. "Your mother must be a reprehensibly irresponsible girl, to leave you stranded in the park like this," Gwendolyn said with snobbish disdain. "My mother never let me out of her sight for a moment. I'm holding your father in account as well, mind you. I know a lady's greatest obligation in life is to care for her children, but sometimes I honestly wonder if boys inherit their volatile ways from their fathers..." Brandon kept nodding, but never said a word. The sun was slowly beginning to set on the horizon, and after a while Gwendolyn looked as if she was ready to throw in the towel. "Well, it's obvious your parents have completely abandoned you," Gwendolyn said. "Perhaps I should leave you in the hands of a policeman. They might have a better time looking for - " "No," Brandon said, his voice sounding cold. "I mean...no, that's okay. I remember the way back to where I live. It's...it's not far away..." Gwendolyn looked at Brandon with concern. "Are you certain about that? I could always take you there myself. I have a carriage waiting for me." "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure." Brandon gave Gwendolyn's hand a squeeze. "Thanks." Gwendolyn smiled and knelt down. She gave Brandon a little peck on the cheek. "Be a good boy," she said. Then she stood and walked towards the exit from the garden, her grey dress trailing behind her. Brandon touched the part of his cheek where Gwendolyn had kissed him. It was still a little wet. He felt strange, light-headed. He wandered off over a hill and disappeared from the park. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- Unbeknownst to Brandon, or anyone else in 1889 London for that matter, events had already been set in motion...events that Gwendolyn herself had also unknowingly helped to direct, simply by being close to Brandon for several hours. Not far from the park where Brandon had encountered Gwendolyn, a vast three-story house that hadn't previously existed materialized out of thin air, along with its own set of occupants who were also summoned from oblivion. But even more disconcerting was the fact that no one on the street seemed alarmed that a three-story residence had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Everyone went about their business as usual, as if the house had always been there. And the house was calling to Brandon, calling his name, calling for him to come closer. Brandon moved in the direction of the house, unaware he was being guided by the vague, shapeless forces of time and space. Brandon's presence in 1889 was a freak of nature, something the universe was already preparing to set right... ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- "It's my turn to be Sir George!" "Is not!" "Is too!" "We do this in turns. I was the dragon last time. Now I'm St. George, and it's my turn to slay you!" "Is not!" Jonathan Henry Harpgood bellowed angrily from a window. "The both of you will stop this nonsense, otherwise it's a sound spanking and early bedtime!" The two brothers, Herbert and Alistair, ages 8 and 10, immediately lowered their voices as they resumed their play in the Harpgood estate's garden. "Now look what you did. You made Father angry." "Did not." "Did too." Inside the house, Jonathan nestled back down on his favorite chair, his teeth clasping back down on his sturdy wooden pipe. He took a few meditative puffs before returning to the novel he was reading. Jonathan was a tall, strapping fellow; resourceful, willful, and wrathful when the occasion called for it. Carlyle appeared in a doorway nearby. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Harpgood." Carlyle was the oldest servant of the Harpgood estate, and Jonathan always valued his opinion...even when it was unwanted. Jonathan sighed. "Yes, Carlyle. What is it?" "It's been three hours and Lady Eleanor still hasn't returned. Shall I warm her dinner again?" Jonathan massaged his forehead. "No, Carlyle. There's no point now. You can toss it out." Carlyle bowed. "Very good, sir." He quietly closed the doors, leaving Jonathan alone in his study. Jonathan stared into the fireplace. Despite his best efforts to control himself, he was becoming increasingly agitated. Where the blazes was that woman? That's the last time he would ever allow her to participate in those infernal tea parties with her inane gossipy friends. These social functions of hers were starting to get on his nerves, no matter how much Eleanor tried to convince him they were necessary. Necessary, his foot! She just couldn't go a single day without hearing about the latest spring fashions or similar poppycock! Back outside, Herbert and Alistair had finally settled on their respective roles: Alistair was St. George, and Herbert was the dragon. Alistair brandished a makeshift stone as his sword, while Herbert made the required growls and snarls. "You shall terrorize the villagers no more, beast!" Alistair declared in as mighty a voice he could manage. "Yes I will!" Herbert hissed back at Alistair. The boys ran across the lawn towards the surrounding foliage, where they stopped in their tracks. Emerging from the shrubbery was another boy who appeared about as old as Alistair. He wore strange clothes the brothers had never seen before, clothes that were now grubby and stained from a long journey through the undergrowth. The boy looked at Alistair and Herbert, blinking his eyes. He looked lost and frightened. "Alistair?" He said slowly. "Herbert?" The brothers glanced at each other, then back at Brandon. "Who are you? How do you know our names?" Alistair demanded. Brandon rubbed his head. "I...I don't know." Herbert, being the younger of the brothers, was fascinated. "You mean you don't know who you are, or you don't know how you knew our names?" "My...name..." Brandon closed his eyes, trying to focus. "My name is...Blandor." "Blandor?" Alistair wasn't the slightest bit amused. "What kind of name is Blandor?" "No," Brandon tried to remember. "No, that's wrong. I'm...I'm Blendor." Alistair smirked at Herbert. "He's off his rocker!" A lone tear fell from one of Brandon's eyes. "Something's happening," he moaned. "Something's happening to me, and I'm scared! I'm forgetting everything!" Brandon's fear was making Herbert uneasy. "Want to play St. George and the Dragon with us?" He offered innocently. "We don't play games with strangers!" Alistair barked at Herbert. "Don't be stupid!" Instead of coming up with a sharp retort, Herbert kicked Alistair in the shin. "Ow!" Alistair yelped. "You little dummy, I'll get you for that!" While Alistair and Herbert fought, Brandon's eyes abruptly shifted from blue to hazel. He cried out in a voice that wasn't his own: "Herbert! Alistair! Stop it at once, or I shall lose my temper!" The boys reacted as if a meteor had landed on them. They stared at Brandon with gaping mouths. "What...what did you say?" Alistair stammered. Brandon placed his hands on his hips and assumed an authoritative posture. "I think you heard me perfectly well the first time, Alistair." Before the astonished eyes of the brothers, Brandon began to change. Ripping and stretching sounds emanated from his clothes as he started to grow several inches in height. Herbert grabbed Alistair's arm in fright. "What's happening to him?!" The wet patch left on Brandon's cheek by Gwendolyn glistened brightly against the waning sunlight. The cuffs of his t-shirt were wrapped tightly around the middle of his forearms and were gradually receding toward the elbows. His hips began to flare, stretching his shorts to their limit. His socks literally burst apart at the seams and fell in loose ribbons around his sneakers, which quickly followed suit, exploding in a shower of rubber and string, revealing a pair of dainty feet with finely clipped toenails. "Him?" Brandon enquired. "Herbert, are you referring to your brother? I'm not in the mood for games at this ungodly hour." The bottom of Brandon's t-shirt was now tightly wrapped around his abdomen. His belly button was fully exposed. Two bumps began to strain against the cloth of Brandon's shirt. Feeling a little constricted, Brandon swayed his shoulders a little, causing his beloved San Francisco Giants t-shirt to be torn asunder into two halves which drifted down to the ground. The bounteous breasts of a teenage girl bounced into plain view. Brandon's metamorphosis continued as his body cycled through gender switching and age progression in the same instant. As he grew taller, beginning to tower over Alistair and Herbert like a stern mother, his rapidly swelling hips and bottom inflicted the death knell on his shorts and underwear. A V-shaped tear ran downwards at the front of his pants, exposing a modest vagina and peach-fuzz mound of pubic hair which quickly matured into the thick bush of an adult woman. The remains of Brandon's shorts slid down his legs and pooled around his feet. The color of Brandon's new pubes was initially a lighter shade of blonde, but they quickly skewed to a dark shade of brown, and this pigment shift then leapt straight to Brandon's head, which was already growing a lustrous brown mane. "What on earth are you two doing?" Brandon asked, seemingly offended by the gawking expressions of Alistair and Herbert. "Haven't I taught you that staring is impolite?" Brandon's breasts began to sag and lose some of their voluptuousness as age and daily milk feeding caught up with them. The zeal of a stubborn young woman dissolved from Brandon's face, replaced with the haughty, condescending pride of an aristocrat as a few wrinkles formed under his eyes and around his mouth. Several strands of white hair brought about by the stressful demands of motherhood appeared around Brandon's ears, clashing sharply against the brown. With an irritated curse, Brandon reached up and pulled off his lucky baseball cap, allowing his hair to cascade down around his bare shoulders. He casually dropped the hat as if it were a piece of trash. With a final sharp crack of the spine, Brandon assumed a more womanly posture. The boys stared at the naked woman that now stood in front of them. It took Alistair almost a minute to recognize the face that now glared with strict Victorian discipline at him. "...Mother?" He whispered. "Why do you say that as if I'm a ghost?" Brandon, now completely reincarnated as Lady Eleanor, asked pointedly. "I come home expecting the two of you to be tucked in bed, and instead I find you running wild in the garden like a pair of Africans!" Hearing the sound of Eleanor's voice, Jonathan glanced casually out the window. The pipe fell out of his mouth when he saw his wife standing in front of their children stark naked. "Eleanor!" He roared. "What in the name of...?!" He threw aside the book and raced for the front door. But by the time he was outside, he saw to his astonishment that Eleanor was now fully dressed in her usual blue crinoline gown, gloves, and flowery bonnet. Eleanor turned on Jonathan. "What on God's green earth are you doing, Jonathan? Screaming like a madman, running out here and scaring the children!" Jonathan stared at his wife, trying to puzzle everything out. "But...but I saw..." Eleanor folded her arms and waited. "What? What did you see?" Jonathan, still wide-eyed, looked down at Alistair and Herbert. "Didn't you...didn't you see her...?" But the surgeon's hands of the time-stream were already working on the minds of the boys, erasing and replacing their memories of the strange boy who had emerged from the shrubbery. "See her, Father?" Alistair frowned. "Of course we see her. What do you mean?" Realizing any further enquiry would only get him ridiculed, Jonathan tried to cover his tracks. "It...it must have been the light playing tricks on my eyes." He then confronted Eleanor with a defiant tone of voice. "But I wasn't drinking gin, so you needn't have to hen-peck me, woman!" Eleanor shook her head resignedly as she slipped off her gloves. "It's been a long tiring day, and I need some rest." Herbert grasped his mother's dress and bounced excitedly. "Will you read us another Grimm fairy tale, Mummy?" Eleanor smiled and ran the back of her hand across Herbert's cheek. "Of course. But you have to be in bed before I can do that." Alistair and Herbert ran back to the house as fast as their little legs could carry them. But Jonathan was still perturbed. "A long tiring day, hmmm?" He said to Eleanor as they walked towards the main doors. "And what exactly did this tiring day consist of? Charades? Embroidery?" Eleanor sighed. She had been through this routine many times before with Jonathan. "If you really must know," she said with an aloof air, "I paid a visit to the opera." "And came home almost three hours late!" Jonathan retorted. "Kindly never go off on one of these impulsive ventures without my permission again." Eleanor was tired and not ready to argue with her husband for the third time in a month. "Yes, Jonathan." Unnoticed by the couple as they entered the house, the last shreds of Brandon's clothes slowly dissolved into the dirt. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- Larry Thomas arrived home from the conference in a sour mood. The debates had gone on longer than expected, and he was antsy about leaving Brandon alone in the house for any great length of time. That kid was smart and resourceful, but he could also get himself into a whole world of trouble if left to his own devices. On top of that, Larry had left the Eloi-1 unprotected. He definitely remembered locking the door to the basement, but he wasn't sure about the window... Larry walked into the house, and was immediately met by Wendy. She looked concerned. "Larry, do you know where Brandon is? I got home thirty minutes ago and haven't seen heads or tails of him." Larry hung up his coat on the hangar. "I had a meeting to get to in a rush and left Brandon alone." "You did what?!" "I thought you'd be home in a couple of minutes..." Wendy brushed the hair out of her face. "Great. That's just great." Larry sensed his wife giving off vibes of dull panic. "Wendy, what's the matter? Do you think he ran off somewhere?" "I don't know." Wendy walked into the kitchen, followed by Larry. "We...we sort of had an argument on the phone. He might have gotten upset, and..." She trailed off. Larry put a hand on her shoulder. "Look, I'm sure he's fine. We'll keep looking around the house and make a few calls to the neighbors. If he doesn't turn up by 7, we'll get in touch with the police." Wendy sat down at the kitchen table. "Sounds like a plan." Larry could see she was trying to hold back tears. "Wendy, whatever Brandon's done, it's not your fault." She didn't reply. Her silence worried Larry. Then a horrible thought occurred to him. "Wendy, I've got to go into the basement for a minute. I'll be right back." "Why do you - ?" Larry heard Wendy start to call out, but he was already rushing down the stairs before she could finish the sentence. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- Larry was at the computer monitor tapping questions out on the keyboard, his face a mask of fear and anxiety. > WAS THERE A TRANSFER TODAY? He stopped and waited for the computer's A.I. to answer. >> YES. Larry wiped the sweat from his brow. Damn it. > WHAT TIME? >> 4:47 PM EST > WHO WAS THE SUBJECT? >> PLEASE WAIT... >> DNA SCANS CONFIRM SUBJECT AS BRANDON J. THOMAS. Larry buried his face in his hands. All right now, he told himself. Just stay calm. Panicking won't help Brandon. > WHICH PERIOD WAS BRANDON J. THOMAS TRANSFERRED TO? >> 5/14/89, 2:31 PM GMT > DID BRANDON J. THOMAS TAKE THE MORLOCK HARNESS? >> NO. Larry left the computer and paced around the basement. Damn it, damn it, damn it. If Brandon wasn't equipped with the harness, the time- stream would quickly integrate him into that era. He returned to the keyboard and typed another question. > HAS BRANDON J. THOMAS BEEN ASSIMILATED INTO 1889 PERIOD? >> PLEASE WAIT... >> YES. Larry collapsed into the chair and stared at the floor. Well, that was it. He was gone, eaten by time. No. I won't accept that. Maybe there's a chance, a slim one... > IS BRANDON J. THOMAS'S TIME-SIGNATURE STILL TRACEABLE? >> YES. Hope began to fill Larry's chest again. It didn't matter if an era in history completely absorbed someone from the future; they were still a time-traveller, and their body would remain "marked" by the transfer for at least another seventy-two hours before fading entirely. > SEARCH FOR BRANDON J. THOMAS. It took a long time for the computer to sniff out its target. Even if the computer knew where and when it had transferred Brandon, he would have moved elsewhere since then, making the hunt more difficult. Larry began nodding off. >> FOUND. He bolted upright in the chair and typed a fresh command. > DISPLAY BRANDON J. THOMAS'S LOCATION. The screen snapped to an image of a crowded city corner. There was a large group of people gathered in front of a wooden balcony, most of them women. A few children tried to slip between the adults to catch a glimpse of the speaker on the balcony: A prim, proper noblewoman, decked out with her own wide-brimmed hat and parasol. The monitor wasn't able to pick up audio, but Larry could tell the woman was talking passionately and energetically about some topic. Looking higher, Larry found the answer. A large banner with the words WOMEN'S SUFFRAGE emblazoned on its front was positioned directly above the balcony, and he could make out some of the crowd carrying signs that read FEMALE ENFRANCHISEMENT and HUSBAND AND WIFE VOTERS. He spotted five other aristocratic ladies seated at the back behind the speaker, presumably waiting their turn to give a speech. Larry was becoming frustrated. The computer had said it had located Brandon, but he could be any one of the kids hanging around in the crowd. > PINPOINT BRANDON J. THOMAS WITHIN IMAGE. >> PLEASE WAIT... The computer ran a rapid scan of every person in the screen, each individual glowing red for a fraction of a second before moving on to the next. To Larry's confusion, it passed right over all the children within the picture. Then the computer fixed on one of the women sitting at the back. Larry stared at her in disbelief. No. No, it couldn't be. The time- stream wasn't capable of pulling off a transformation this radical... But the facts had been thrown right into Larry's face. His son had been altered into a middle-aged baroness, or countess. A Victorian aristocrat. Larry pushed himself away from the monitor. Terrific. Now what? If he traveled back and tried to confront Brandon, he might become frightened or hysterical. Why should he believe some crazy guy claiming to be from the 21st century, anyway? Larry glanced over at the Morlock harness, hung inside a steel closet nearby. He had constructed the harness to be used as a stabilization device against the time-stream, but of course Brandon hadn't known that. Larry had named the machine itself the "Eloi-1", a cheeky reference to H.G. Wells's novel about time travel. He'd done the same with the harness. If properly adjusted, it could be easily hidden beneath street clothes, or any kind of clothes for that matter. Larry looked at the monitor again, at the proud and imperious woman waiting her turn to address the masses. The hell with it. This was his son. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- It was a bright, joyous Saturday afternoon. Eleanor was sitting down on the floor with Herbert in his bedroom, helping her child put together a jigsaw puzzle. "No, Herbert. This piece goes right...here. You see?" She smiled and stroked the back of his head. Herbert frowned, studying the picture that was beginning to emerge. Then his expression brightened. "It's a rainbow!" "That's right," Eleanor said, pleased with Herbert. "But the puzzle still isn't finished. The rainbow won't come alive until you're done, Herbert." There was a knock at the twin doors. "Yes?" Eleanor called out. Carlyle pocked his bald head into the room. "Sorry for intruding, your Ladyship, but there's a gentleman at the front gate who wishes to see you." "Really?" Eleanor put another jigsaw piece into Herbert's hand. "Did he say who he was?" "He identified himself as Laurence Thomas. He is also American." Eleanor was perplexed. "American? I don't know any Americans, let alone a Laurence Thomas." "He did seem rather insistent about seeing you, your Ladyship..." Eleanor turned from Herbert to look at Carlyle. "Did he appear...respectable?" "He didn't seem to be a scoundrel, if that is what your Ladyship is asking." Eleanor sighed as she stood up. "Well, it's most irregular, but I suppose it's about time I had a new guest. Show him into the parlor, Carlyle." Carlyle made a little bow and closed the door. Eleanor looked down at Herbert with a tender smile. "You're going to have to finish the puzzle yourself, Herbert. I have to meet someone downstairs." Herbert sulked. "But Mummy, you promised you would help me..." "I'll be back soon, Herbert." She lowered herself and gave Herbert a kiss on the cheek. "Just be a good little boy while I'm gone." Herbert fiddled petulantly with a puzzle fragment. "Yes, Mummy." Eleanor left Herbert's bedroom and walked down the master staircase at her own leisurely pace. Entering the parlor, she saw a man standing in front of the window, looking out into the garden. He was dressed in a very peculiar attire; a casual dining jacket, complete with bowtie and black slacks. It struck Eleanor as the kind of outfit some lower class rogue would throw on to pass off as a member of high society. The man turned around and saw Eleanor. The look on his face startled her; it was if his heart had been torn out. Eleanor coughed. "You...wished to see me?" "Jesus," the man said under his breath. Eleanor was displeased. "There's no call to take the Lord's name in vain, sir." The man nodded his head quickly. "Yes. Yes, you're right. Sorry. Uh..." He motioned towards one of the sofas. "May I?" "Of course." He sat down, while Eleanor settled into her own position on a couch opposite from him. The man seemed to have trouble speaking. "My name...my name's Larry Thomas." Eleanor folded her hands on her lap, her face stern. "Yes, Carlyle told me." "There's something I have to speak to you about..." Larry took a deep breath. "It...concerns someone very close to me." "Someone close to you?" Eleanor's eyes narrowed slightly. Larry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Damn. How the hell am I going to..." "Watch your language, sir. There are children in this house." At this, Larry began to laugh. It was if something inside him had finally broke. Long, vast guffaws, right from the belly. "Good grief," he managed to say. "And your mom always kept threatening to wash out your mouth with soap..." Eleanor was flummoxed. "I beg your pardon?" It took a moment for Larry's giggles to subside. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." He patted his chest and exhaled. "You have no idea how surreal this situation is to me." "Perhaps you can explain why it's so surreal." Despite her misgivings, Eleanor felt strangely fascinated by this man. Larry's eyes moved slowly over Eleanor's face. "Okay, let's start again. What do you know about time travel?" "Time travel...?" The phrase was alien to her. "You don't read much science fiction, do you?" "Science fiction?" Eleanor chuckled. "I don't bother with rubbish like that." "Well, wait a few more years. A guy is going to write a very popular book in the genre. A lot of popular books, in fact." Eleanor was growing impatient. "Mr. Thomas, why exactly did you want to see me?" It took almost a full minute for Larry to say another word. "It's just...I made a horrible mistake, you see, and someone I love very much is paying for that mistake." Something in Larry's voice touched Eleanor, made her feel some of his apprehension and sadness. She reached out and put a hand over one of Larry's. "Who is this person?" She asked with concern. "Can I do anything to help?" Larry pulled his hand away. "Maybe, maybe not. It depends on you." "Me?" This man was doing a good job of completely mystifying her. "How so?" Larry tried to think of a good reply. "It's a problem of identity," he said finally. "Identity and memory. Not to mention how much you've already become a part of this world." "Mr. Thomas, I will have Carlyle escort you from the premises if you continue to speak in riddles." "Great. So instead of me sending you to your room, you send me out of the house." Eleanor felt her temper begin to slip. "Mr. Thomas..." "All right, all right." Larry glanced around the parlor. "The truth is we're both at a disadvantage because of forces outside our control." "Then why don't you tell me everything?" Larry made a bitter little chuckle. "I can't. I already know exactly how you'll react if I did. And when I say exactly, I mean I can anticipate your response word-for-word." "I might surprise you." Larry stared deep into Eleanor's hazel eyes. He knew this wasn't going to end well, but he couldn't stop himself anyway. "All right. You're not a countess. You're not even a woman for that matter. Your real name is Brandon Thomas. You're a ten-year-old American boy from the future who traveled back into the nineteenth century without the necessary protective gear to prevent you from being absorbed into that period, and was then transformed into a British noblewoman with no recollection of her previous existence." Eleanor blinked once or twice. "Anything else?" "Yeah. You're also my son." Eleanor threw back her head and laughed a rich, lustrous laugh. "My God," she was able to say after finally catching her breath. "My God. What a positively brilliant lunatic you are." Larry nodded with a sad little smile. "Yup, that's what I am. A lunatic." Eleanor wiped the mirthful tears from her eyes. "Heaven forgive me for asking, but why did I become...as you put it...a British noblewoman?" "I don't know," Larry said, angry with himself that he didn't have an answer. "Maybe you had sustained physical contact with a specific kind of individual. That might have influenced your temporal metamorphosis." "Another noblewoman, perhaps?" Eleanor asked amusedly. Larry made a vague gesture with his hands. "It's possible." Eleanor waved her fan in front of her face, trying to regain her composure. "And I suppose you have evidence to support these...uproarious claims of yours?" "I do, actually. But I don't know if that would make a bad situation worse. If I showed you the Morlock Harness, or if I tried to take you back with me, I could cause the entire universe to implode. As much as I love you, Brandon, I don't want the complete annihilation of the cosmos on my conscience." "You really are quite lucky that I have an affable temperament, Mr. Thomas. Otherwise I'd have you committed to the nearest insane asylum." "I'm grateful for your infinite patience, my lady." Larry leaned forward in his chair. "So now let me ask you something. What do you think would be the single most terrifying thing that could ever happen to you?" Eleanor seemed to mull the question over. "Well, I suppose..." "Could it be to not only physically transform into a completely different person, but mentally as well? To lose all of your memories, to lose your entire identity, to become a total stranger? Because that's what my son probably experienced before he became you, Lady Eleanor. Total, helpless terror." Now she had fallen deathly silent. All the color drained from her face, and her voice was bereft of emotion. "What exactly do you want of me, Mr. Thomas?" Larry cast his eyes down at the Persian rug at his feet, trying to think of the best possible answer. After a while he looked up again. "I want you to try to remember who you were. If not everything, just a piece. One little piece, just to give me a scrap of comfort knowing that my son hasn't been completely erased from existence." Eleanor closed her eyes. Her lower lip was quivering. "I've heard enough. Please leave." "Please, just try. Remember your mother, your friends at school, all the video games you used to play, the horror movies you'd sneak out of the house to watch at the theater..." "Leave!" It was almost a scream. Larry slowly stood from the chair and started towards the exit. He heard Eleanor call out. "Mr. Thomas." He turned around and saw Eleanor approaching him, a strange look in her eyes. She took him by the hands. "I know who I am, and nothing you can say will convince me I was ever anyone else, but...but just for the sake of indulging your madness..." She averted Larry's gaze. "I'm sorry." Larry frowned. "Sorry?" "I'm sorry for...doing what I did...whatever that was. For not listening to you, for being a disobedient little boy, for..." She clasped his hands harder. "I'm sorry for forgetting you. For forgetting everything. So very sorry." Larry nodded. "That's something, at least." "Do come back...whenever you feel like it." "Maybe I will. Goodbye." Larry walked away from Eleanor without once looking back. Eleanor slowly returned to her chair and sat down, staring out the window for a long time. Herbert strolled into the living room, bouncing his toy ball on the rug. "Mummy, who was that strange man?" Eleanor replied without looking away from the garden outside. "No one, dear. No one at all." "What's wrong, Mummy? You look sad." "I'm all right, Herbert. I've...I've just been given much to think about." ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- After a long visit to the local police station, Wendy came home to find her husband sitting inside Brandon's bedroom, playing absent-mindedly with a toy dinosaur. "Larry?" She said, the look on his face making her nervous. "Larry, what's wrong?" Larry gazed down at the toy in his hands. "I gave Brandon this guy for his birthday. I thought a T-Rex would be his favorite kind of dinosaur. Imagine how surprised I was when he said he really wanted a stegosaur." Wendy sat down on the bed beside him. "Larry, what is it? Has somebody found Brandon?" "I found him," he said simply. Wendy gripped Larry's arm. "Oh, Jesus. Thank God. Where is he?" "He's not here, Wendy." Wendy was getting agitated. "What the hell are you talking about? Larry, is our son safe or not?" Larry stuck his finger inside the T-Rex's mouth. "He's just about as safe as he can be." "Larry, don't. Don't string me along like this, or I swear I'll kill you. Where is Brandon?" Larry put the T-Rex to one side. "Wendy, what I'm about to tell you might blow your mind. Or it might drive you away from me. God knows I deserve to be abandoned. Brandon's alive, but he's...changed." "Changed?" The word and the vagueness behind it terrified Wendy. "Larry, what's happened? Is he hurt?" "No," Larry said, staring at the wall. "No, he's not hurt." "Then what - " "Wendy, I've kept secrets from you that I shouldn't have, and I've already been punished because of it. If you want to punish me too, you have every right. But just do me this one favor, and listen to everything I say for the next five minutes. You have a decision to make. I tried to make it myself, but I'm too tired and broken inside. Either you choose to believe our son is gone and move on, or you can choose to see him again. What happens after that is up to you, and him..." ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- As far as a list for London's most prestigious restaurants went, The Peacock's Tail was near the top. Inside was a luxurious dining hall where guests could eat or dance at their heart's content, while diamond chandeliers glittered high above like angels looking down from Heaven. A quartet on a stage played George Handel's Arrival of the Queen of Sheba at a suitably relaxed pace, allowing the dancers time to keep up with the music. Jonathan and Eleanor were sitting in one of the booths to the far side of the hall. Jonathan's plate was clean, while Eleanor hadn't touched hers. "I have to confess, they do serve some spectacular vintage here," Jonathan said enthusiastically, sipping from his wine glass. Eleanor remained silent. "I have splendid news," Jonathan said with a smile. "The firm has agreed to raise my salary by twenty percent. Twenty percent, Eleanor! It took a whole fortnight of negotiating, but I finally got through to that old buzzard Cranston." "That's lovely." Eleanor was looking at her reflection in the knife. Her lukewarm response irritated Jonathan. "For the love of God and Country, Eleanor, what's the matter? You haven't touched your meal since it was put right in front of you." She slowly pushed the plate aside. "I just don't have much of an appetite tonight." "Tonight? You haven't had an appetite for three days. Quite honestly, you've been acting like a corpse. Don't think I haven't noticed." Eleanor slowly raised her eyes. "What do you think is the most terrifying thing that could happen to you, Jonathan?" He studied his wife closely. "And what, pray tell, brought about that non sequitur?" "Could it be to change into a completely different person? Not just in body, but in soul? To forget who you were, to forget everyone you ever loved and who loved you back? What do you think that would be like?" Jonathan cast a suspicious glance down at the wine. "I should have known. This stuff is far too potent for a woman of your constitution." A tear slid down Eleanor's cheek, unseen by Jonathan. "I feel like a murderer." Jonathan was taken aback. "A murderer? And who exactly do you think you've murdered, my dear?" Eleanor's head sank, trying to hide her face from Jonathan. "A little boy." Before Jonathan could reply to that remark, a waiter approached Eleanor, carrying a silver tray. He lowered it in front of Eleanor. On the tray was a plain white envelope. "A message for your Ladyship." Frowning, Eleanor took the envelope from the tray. As the waiter walked away, she tore it open and pulled out the letter inside. "What is it?" Jonathan asked. He watched a startling change come over Eleanor as she read the letter. All the pallid grayness in her face melted away, replaced by an ecstatic joy. "I...I have to go," she said haltingly, getting up from the table. "Go?" Jonathan was bewildered. "Eleanor, you can't simply - " She cupped Jonathan's face in her hands. "Please, my darling! This is something I have to do!" She raced away from the table, almost tripping over her blue gown. Jonathan glared at Eleanor as she exited the restaurant, then cast a bitter grimace down at her full plate. The waiter returned to the table. "Will there be anything else, sir?" "Just my dignity," he muttered. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- ------- Eleanor hailed the first hansom that passed on the street, and hitched up her dress as she climbed in the back. "Where to, miss?" The driver asked from his perch. "The Merry Hound," she said, panting for breath. "21 Frederick Road. No, wait...yes, 21 Frederick Road! As fast as you can!" Half an hour later, the hansom pulled up in front of a quaint hotel in one of London's quieter districts. She paid the driver his fare and hurried into the main lobby. There was a young, red-haired clerk at the front desk. "Excuse me," Eleanor said to the boy. "I...I believe someone is expecting me in Room 37." The clerk, slightly overwhelmed to be in the presence of such a radiant woman, glanced at a small sheet of paper in his hand. "Ah...yes," he confirmed with a nod. "A Mr. and Mrs. Thomas. Would you like me to accompany you upstairs...?" The clerk looked up and came face- to-face with thin air. Eleanor only stopped when she was directly in front of the door leading into Room 37. She took a moment to compose herself; to tidy up her gown, re-arrange her bonnet, wipe the tears from her face. And then, pausing for a single heartbeat, she knocked. The door opened, revealing Larry. Upon seeing Eleanor, he appeared surprised and relieved at the same time. "Hi." Eleanor made a little curtsy. "Good evening." She nervously fidgeted with her gloves. "Is...is she here...?" "She's just in the bathroom," Larry said, showing Eleanor inside. "You'll have to forgive her, she's still trying to figure out nineteenth century plumbing." Eleanor looked around the room. It wasn't the sort of fancy accommodation she and Jonathan were used to having, but she couldn't have cared less. "In case you're wondering, she's safe, and so am I. I went out of my way to build a second Morlock harness." Eleanor put a hand on her quivering throat. "If only...if only I had taken the same precaution," she said weakly. Larry walked over to Eleanor and patted her on the shoulder. "Nah. It's not that bad. You've got it made here, sport." Eleanor was befuddled. "Sport?" There was the sound of a door creaking open. Eleanor turned, and saw Wendy standing in the bathroom. For an uncomfortable stretch of time, the women's eyes pierced into each other's souls. Then Wendy made a hesitant step towards Eleanor. "...Brandon?" Eleanor made a shy little smile. "So it would seem." Larry looked back and forth between them, and repressed the urge to shout a profanity on the spot. Both women appeared to be the same age - maybe Eleanor was a couple of years older, give or take - and yet one of them had once been the son of the other. Time travel really was a nightmare. Wendy's eyes traversed all over Eleanor, from her fine ornate hat to her posh, aristocratic clothes. "You...you look beautiful." Eleanor chuckled. "Why thank you, Mrs. Thomas." The words made Wendy wince. "Mrs. Thomas...?" Eleanor coughed daintily. "Well, I could address you as 'Mother', but considering the current circumstances, it may seem a little...awkward." Wendy shook her head. "No. No, Mrs. Thomas is fine. Just fine." She started to sway on her feet. Larry moved towards his wife, but Eleanor reached her first. "I'm sorry," Wendy muttered. "It's...it's just a hell of a lot to take in." "That's quite all right," Eleanor said gently. "Take all the time you need." Larry realized there was something intimate happening between these two, and a little privacy was probably in order. "I'd better leave you ladies alone," he said, but they didn't even hear him. They were already in their own world. He quietly left the room. Eleanor helped Wendy over to the bed, where they both sat down. They didn't speak for a long time. No words were wanted or needed. "So," Wendy finally said. "You've got your own children now?" Eleanor nodded. "Yes. Two lovely young boys." Wendy closed her eyes. "Unbelievable. I guess this technically makes me a grandmother." Eleanor seemed on the cusp of replying, then decided against it. Wendy looked at Eleanor and did her best to smile. "Well, where do you want to go from here?" Eleanor placed a hand on Wendy's. "Tell me about your son. I want to know everything about him." THE END