by Rachael K. Jones
A low whistle moans a dirge as I steer the patrol car through the Trans-Temporal Line station entrance. At 7am, it's already sticky-hot and humid. The corpse will reek, even though the accident was just called in.
The company's handler is a sober-faced woman in a blue blouse and heels. She's not alone. A young man in a striped polo shirt chats with her, fanning his face with a baseball cap. He's unsettlingly cheerful, considering the occasion.
"Detective Valentini?" The woman extends her hand. "I'm Rana White. I'm showing you around today."
"Nice to meet you. Call me Mel." I grip her hand. She's got the trained smile of a PR person used to handling outsiders. "And this is…?" I nod toward the young man.
"Francis Reid," he says, extending his hand. "Just Frank, please."
"He's the victim," Rana explains. "I hope you don't mind. It's TTL policy to inform any precursors when this kind of thing happens."
"You didn't mention him when you called in."
My irritation must be obvious, because Frank says, "Don't hold it against Rana. I insisted on coming. It's not everyday you get to investigate your own death."
"Technically, he has the right, as next-of-kin," says Rana, her professional smile wilting slightly at the corners of her eyes. She doesn't like it anymore than I do.
I flip open my black pocket notebook and get Frank's name, address, and phone number. "Frank stays out of the way until we're done with the initial investigation. His presence could complicate DNA collection."
Rana presses her lips together, considering it. "We'll find him a spot in the yard office."
I nod. "Perfect. Does that work for you, Frank?"
"Aye aye, Captain." He gives me a thumbs up and beams back, like he's off to Disneyland instead of a violent crime scene. His violent crime scene.
It would be unusual behavior anywhere but Paradox.
#
Rana leads us past a security booth and down a gravel road. This is my first visit inside the compound. TTL employs its own guards to police internal matters. The company generally stays out of trouble with the law.
Good fences make good neighbors. That's their slogan around town. You can trust TTL.
In Paradox, Georgia, most folks belong to the railroad in one shape or form, but that doesn't make TTL any less guarded toward outsiders. The company jealously protects the tech that allows their trains to bridge the timeline. They claim the extra security is for everyone's protection--that allowing outsiders to witness the train yard's business could damage the timeline, create paradoxes, or cause mental distress. It takes special certification to work in conditions of continuous temporal flux--certification provided solely by TTL. All others must stay beyond the floodlights and barbed wire fences, even local police.
But when there's a death, even TTL can't decline an outside investigation.
I hear the train yard before I see it, a symphony of clanging and banging, of metal squealing against metal. It smells like diesel and heat and gravel dust, and other things beneath--animal musk, fresh cut wood, burning coal. Someone operates a jackhammer. Someone pounds the ties. The hum of engines rattles my teeth. Then there's the belly-deep lowing of the trains themselves as they glide through the depot.
Another turn around a sound barrier, and we've reached the yard itself. Nothing prepares me for the scale of Paradox Station, a place where the tracks converge and separate like all the choices you ever wanted to make. Steam and steel blur together. Trains crisscross, overlapping themselves, passing through one another. A signalman calmly hops onto the tracks before an oncoming locomotor, then vanishes just before he's hit.
A new arrival immediately blocks my view, a tall red-painted engine towing a long chain of open-topped hopper cars, their contents flickering and changing: coal, grain, and gleaming gold.
"How many tracks do you have?" I ask Rana, projecting my voice over the din.
"About 120. Mostly in the hump yard, where we sort the freight," Rana replies. "We've got fourteen receiving and thirteen departure tracks, which handle around a hundred trains daily, give or take. We're not the biggest yard in the world, but we're growing."
The range of trains on display is truly stunning. Sleek, shiny bullet trains, rusty paint-chipped trains with growling engines, trains that belch clouds of black smoke. An old-fashioned steam locomotor straight out of Thomas the Tank Engine draws my attention, but Frank is gawking at a blunt-nosed engine as it passes us. All the blood has drained from his face.
"That was an Alcohaulic," he says tightly.
"Was the conductor drinking?" I ask, confused.
He shakes his head, his gaze trailing after the train. "An Alcohaulic. An Alco DH643 hydraulic locomotor. It was discontinued back in the 60's or 70's. Only three were ever made, and those were scrapped."
"Oh, God, he’s a foamer," Rana mutters under her breath. She steps a few feet away and speaks into her radio, voice confidential. She’s ignoring both of us. I feel a sudden kinship with Frank.
"What's she mean?" I ask.
"It's derogatory. She means I'm a railfan," Frank explains, talking over Rana so I can't eavesdrop. All I catch is the word mulligan. "I like to watch trains, photograph them, that kind of thing. I'm in the Paradox Railfan Meetup. We're gathering down by the creek later this morning. You're welcome to join us."
No wonder he's so happy to collect his own cadaver. He wants a peek at forbidden trains. His eyes shine. I wonder if there’s anything I’d pay that price to experience.
Rana deposits Frank at the yard office, which looms high over the depot like a jealous lover. Windows circle its top floor like an air traffic control tower. Frank is reluctant to leave the yard and its wonders; he gawks over his shoulder until the door closes.
"This way to the Arrivals track," Rana tells me. "Stay close, please. It's dangerous out here even if you know what you're doing."
Now we're in the thick of the yard. Work crews in reflective yellow vests pace beside the cars, directing traffic as trains wink in and out of existence. There's some system involving tall flags at the junctures I can't quite work out. I appreciate why TTL works so hard to keep out non-employees. Freight cars roll down the rails unattended, banging against each other as they're sorted onto different tracks. I have no instinct for the timing. Rana makes me pause, and I gasp. There's myself, crossing the tracks ahead with Rana.
Our duplicates disappear.
A yard crew guy stares when he thinks I'm not looking. I give him my best Officer Friendly nod. He snaps his head away and speaks into his walkie-talkie, speed-walking the other direction. No one likes to see the cops, but we don’t usually get this level of avoidance. Or scrutiny.
The back of my neck prickles like I'm missing something obvious.
"Sorry about Frank's outburst," Rana tells me. "Historic trains often pass through on account of the temporal flux. It's why we need such good security. Otherwise people like Frank would always be trespassing and interfering with station operations. Or having accidents, as in the case today."
She sounds bitter, like she's tired of dealing with Frank's sort. Foamers.
An open-top freight car clatters by. It's full of old-fashioned rifles with wooden stocks. Rana expertly steers me away, pointing out a crew wielding a jackhammer on the ties.
"That's Garth Hanson," she says. "He was on duty when the incident happened. I'll flag him down if you want a statement. You won’t be able to access that area."
Anyone who doesn’t work at the railway provides services to those that do, but railway money fuels the town in more direct ways too. TTL bought the new gym at Paradox High, and last Christmas, they financed the whole downtown parade, offered families rides on their Polar Express, complete with free hot chocolate. They’re the top donors to every successful mayoral candidate. The governor too, according to rumors. If TTL's happy, the town's happy. But they won't tolerate prying into their business secrets. TTL tells us with every charity and public park not to upset the apple cart.
And it works. Chief Davies warned me this morning not to make any waves. "Sounds like another hobo death," he said at the station. "They happen everywhere the rails run, so it was bound to happen here too. Do your job, and get out quietly. I don't want their people showing up here next week, complaining."
Chief's probably right about that. Where there’s vehicles, there’s accidents. A new employee stands in the wrong spot, or some kid jumps the fence for a peek, not understanding the difference between a playset and a 60-ton iron engine. Deaths at TTL are rare, relative to most railyards. My presence will just be a formality.
Even still, the bit about complaints was pointed. Chief Davies called me a meddler after my last investigation into a city counselor who bought booze for his underage son’s house party got us an audit of our overtime records. He thinks I need to maintain better "community relationships."
Now, here at the yard, I dislike the sense that I'm being handled. That Rana's people have already decided what I'll see, and what I shouldn't.
"Here we are. Our security folks left the tarp," Rana tells me. "Nothing else has been touched." Unsettlingly, future versions of us rove around the crime scene. Taking notes. Taking pictures. I see myself gawking at a train on a parallel track until Rana smoothly blocks my view.
I force myself to ignore the parallel copies ghosting in and out of existence. "Was Frank photographing trains?"
Rana shakes her head. "He was illegally riding the inbound train, inside a boxcar. He jumped off as the train pulled into the station."
"Or fell off?"
Rana grimaces. "We suspect suicide. There's security footage. I'll show you later."
It's clear the death was grisly. Even the tarp can't disguise the long streak of dark gravel where the wheels dragged the body along the track.
Rana points out the gouge. "The train was already slowing down as it came into the station, but there's no safe speed for being hit by a train. He went under one of the freight cars. The conductor didn't even get a warning."
I pace off the length of the bloody streak. His skin would have been abraded by the rough gravel, and even if he’d severed a major artery when he was caught in the wheels, he’d have died slowly of blood loss rather than immediately. Not the method I'd pick if I were looking to end my life.
Rana helps me drag the tarp from the body. A good sport, heels and all.
Paradox doesn't get many violent deaths. I've seen gunshot victims, car wrecks, and a chainsaw accident once, but never anything like this.
From the waist below, the body is mostly intact, except for the blood soaking the black athletic pants. Above the waist, everything's so mangled it takes some work to pick out the features. His left arm has been ripped off entirely, or else mangled so badly it's been twisted out of sight. His head has been caved in. Bits of white bone jut from the pink pulp. He's not recognizable.
"When was the train arriving from?" I ask Rana.
"I'm not authorized to talk about that," she says apologetically. "Corporate secret.'
That’s not how this works, but I don’t have the leverage to argue. I wish I had Frank's eye for trains. I write down the codes on the boxcars so I can ask him later. The nearest boxcar, the one splattered with the most blood, smells musky. I think I hear clucking inside, but I can't be sure over the din.
Using a sterile probe, I tease open the right pocket of the athletic pants. There's a wallet, some keys, and a handful of interesting change. But the real prize is a little black notebook similar to my own, which I hook with the probe. It's a bit bloody, but intact. If this was suicide, perhaps there'll be a note. I drop it into an evidence bag.
"How long until we can get this cleaned up?" Rana says lightly, but there's a note of anxiety underneath. "So far we haven’t heard from anywhen where the line is open, but I’m hoping that’s just because of the active nexus event, which is to say… your presence."
"The coroner and forensics team are on the way," I tell Rana. "We'll know more then. Now, about that witness…?"
"Garth Hanson," she says. "He'll be at the yard office now, or at least the him that took his break after the incident report. The him right now is working, as you saw."
#
Back at the yard office, I interview Garth about the death.
"We had an S100 inbound. Freight train," Garth says, nervously twirling the empty paper cup in his fingers. "It was pulling up to the station when Mulligan jumped out."
"Mulligan?" I raise an eyebrow at Rana, waiting for clarification.
Her smile slips from her lips entirely. She throws Garth a dirty look. "It's just slang for a train hopper," she says quickly, her eyes averted. An obvious lie, but why?
"You saw this happen?" I ask Garth.
"I caught a flicker from the corner of my eye. The train hopper fell from the boxcar and rolled down the gravel bank. Then he charged back up to the tracks and threw himself between the wheels." Garth unrolls the paper cup's rim so the wax flakes out. He doesn’t look up.
"And after that…?"
"The train tore his arm right off, then the wheel pulled him in. He screamed. Then he wasn't screaming," Garth tells me. "I radioed the conductor to apply the brakes. That process takes about ten, fifteen seconds. It was a long time," he finishes softly.
I get a few more details from him--their attempts to triage the victim, and the yard's layout. Then Rana sets up a laptop and shows me the security footage, which corroborates Garth's version of events. The camera's high angle covers several tracks from above. The train pulls in, Frank takes his tumble into the yard, then he throws himself into the wheels.
I don't recognize the elder Frank from the grainy, indistinct footage. He's decades older than the one I've already met--the precursor, as Rana calls him. Probably mid- to late-60's.
The footage keeps running on Rana's laptop. Thanks to the high angle, another train is visible pulling onto the track parallel to the crime scene. Its cars are lined with little curtained windows.
Rana closes the laptop with a snap.
"I'll need a copy of this footage," I tell Rana.
She nods. "Naturally. Anything else I can help you with?"
"Can I speak to the conductor?"
"He works night shift in his primary timeline, so he's probably asleep. He can drop by your station later today."
"That works," I say. "Now, about Frank…"
Rana grimaces. "He has the right to request to see his body, and he has… exercised that request. Enthusiastically."
#
Once the autopsy team gives the all-clear, Rana walks Frank and me out to the railyard again to view the corpse. His head swivels left and right, taking in the yard's sights, but the grin drops off his face when he sees the mangled corpse. Frank identifies himself by a tattoo of a rail spike on the right ankle.
"Why would I ever do this?" he muses, looking green around the gills. A parallel Frank vomits into the gravel ditch. "I've never even thought about train hopping. It's the fastest way to get banned from a station altogether."
"Then don't think about it," Rana says flatly. "Stay away from TTL. Hell, stay away from trains."
Frank starts back like she's slapped him. His eyebrows crowd together, low and dark. He's pissed off. "Sheesh, lady! I'm not stupid."
"I've been wondering," I interrupt. "Can Frank avoid this death? Or will it happen, no matter what he does going forward?"
"He'll be fine," Rana assures us. "An intrusion from one possible future isn't destiny--it's just possibility, like the doubles you've seen today. That's why we inform precursors about accidents or deaths. We want to prevent this kind of thing from happening. But Frank needs to stay far, far away from TTL, just in case."
"I hate to say it, but I agree with Rana," I tell Frank. "No one should die like this."
If it were me, I'd be on an airplane to Los Angeles tomorrow. Chief Davies thinks I'm troublesome, but really I'm just a coward with a gun and body armor. I meddle because I need to know what danger is coming for me. I want to see it first.
But Frank doesn't look like he's ready to run.
"I'm late for the meetup," Frank growls.
All the evidence supports the story of a dramatic suicide, but I’m worried about what TTL is hiding behind all these carefully maintained fences. I’ve been steered since I got here, and I’m being steered right out the door again. But I have more questions for Frank. Questions I don't want Rana to overhear. I wait until she escorts us back to the parking lot before I broach another question in what I hope is a casual voice.
"Mind if I tag along to your meetup?" I ask. "I'd love to see what railfans do."
#
The Paradox Railfans gather at Yarrow Creek, on an abandoned lot where the railway passes over a scenic trestle. A dozen adults and a few children have set up a line of camcorders and lawn chairs. Someone's sharing around cold drinks from a cooler. A wireless speaker blasts the Rolling Stones.
Frank introduces me around without getting specific. I do my best to look interested in trains for their own sake. I meet Maria and her husband Stefano, the organizers of the group. I accept a coke and a lawn chair as Frank sets up his tripod.
"Is there something particular you're watching for?" I ask him.
Frank opens a logbook and writes today's date. "There's no published schedule, which keeps things unpredictable. Railfanning involves a lot of waiting, especially in Paradox. You never know what'll come by. They let us watch as long as we stay in our lane. I don't want to land on TTL's shitlist. I love seeing rare trains."
He's in his element now. He shows me his logbook and explains about the different kinds of engines and freight cars. "We've gotten interested lately in TTL's freight," he adds. "What would you buy if you could import and export across the timeline?"
"Antiques?" I surmise, recalling the old-fashioned rifles.
"No way." Frank checks his camera lens. "We think they're playing the market. Finding out what's scarce at different points in time, and moving goods around accordingly. It's what I'd do."
"Notice anything interesting at the yard today?"
"Wonders and miracles," Frank says. "Some of those locomotors haven't existed in decades. Some don't exist at all."
"Similar to what you film out here?"
Frank bobs his head from side to side. "Some of it was the usual level of cool, like the Alcohaulic. Some of it was odd. Did you notice the passenger trains? Sleeper cars, vintage ones, with the curtains drawn tight? That's odd for a freight station. They don't usually mix passengers and freight at the same station. Too dangerous."
I remember the security footage. That passenger train pulling in right after Frank's death. How Rana shut the laptop to keep me from seeing more. I'll have to review the recording again later.
It doesn't take much imagination to guess who would pay for passenger service through time itself. Historians, investors, politicians. Hell, I'd pay anything for a trip five years back to when my mother was still alive.
"There were other oddballs," Frank continues. "I think some of those locomotors were military engines. Very rare nowadays outside of a museum. Unless you live in Russia."
"I saw some antique guns," I tell him. I show him the numbers I jotted down, the one from the car that killed Frank. "Does this ring any bells?"
Frank turns the notebook page in his hands. "I don't recognize this one. I could ask the other railfans, see what we can dig up. It might've been manufactured abroad."
As I finish my drink, all the railfans snap to attention, sensing an approaching train well before I do. A long, low whistle blows, and the train bursts through the trees. The locomotor's upper half is blue with a silver base, and its jaunty nose protrudes like a dog's. It looks like it's smiling. There's a gasp and cheer from the crowd.
"That's a D&H Sharknose," Frank tells me.
While we're watch the train pass, a pickup truck painted with the TTL logo pulls up to the observation site. A TTL security guard, blond and rectangular, climbs out, gun tucked into its holster. "I'm looking for Frank Reid."
Frank waves. "That would be me."
"This is for you," says the security guard, handing Frank a letter. "I'm afraid I've got to escort you from the premises."
Frank skims the contents of the letter and turns to me in shock. "I've been banned for life! Why?"
"For trespassing," says the guard.
"This is bullshit. I've never trespassed in my life!"
"But you did. You will," the guard says apologetically. "I really am sorry, but it's for your own safety."
Frank turns to me in wordless appeal, but what can I do? "I'll ask Rana about it," I promise him. She's not likely to listen to me, but it's better than nothing.
The security guard is making impatient noises, so I help Frank pack up and walk him to his car.
"Something's fishy, and I don't like it," Frank says to me, choking on his rage. "I don't think they're telling us everything, and I don't think I killed myself. Why target me like this? It feels personal."
"It's too soon for answers," I tell him blandly, but my neck tingles again. I climb into my patrol car to run the bags of evidence back to the station for analysis.
As I drive away, I realize what's been bothering me. If what Rana said was true--if no one touched Frank's body or checked his pockets--how did they know who he was? His body was mangled. He'd boarded a train from another timeline without a ticket, and the only witness didn't see him until after he'd jumped.
So how did they contact him so quickly this morning?
#
Back at the station, I check for messages. The body's off to the coroner for autopsy, and tissue samples have been sent for drug and toxicology screenings. Chief Davies wants to see me, but he's currently in a closed-door meeting.
I take the evidence bags to my workstation for cataloguing while I wait, using latex gloves. The coins from Frank's pockets would've made my Dad happy. There's an Indian head cent from 1903, and a steel penny from 1943, when World War II's demand for copper caused a production change. There's two coins from the year 2035. One is in German. Perhaps the train that killed Frank came from the future, or perhaps he picked these up on another trip. Who knows how many timelines he crossed while train hopping?
I get a call from the receptionist. "Chief's meeting is over. He wants you in his office in five."
Not much time to examine the rest.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I flip open the small black notepad from Frank's pocket. My heart stutters in my chest. My neck tingles. On the first page, Frank's name, phone number, and address are written in my hand.
It's not a similar notebook. It's identical.
Frank Reid died with my notebook in his pocket.
The chief's waiting for me now. But if I send this off to evidence without even a look, I know I'll regret it, because the minute someone sees this, I'm off the case. Perhaps even confined to custody while they sort out the implications. People who anger the train company get dealt with quickly; am I next?
I page through the notebook. The first few pages match my investigation up until this point: notes on Frank's body, Garth's statement, and a short inventory of Frank's pockets. Then there's another page in my handwriting. It says Harper Road, 1pm, with an address jotted below. I know the spot--a forested strip of wilderness where we busted a meth ring last year. I copy the information into my own notebook, the one from this timeline.
My neck prickles. Now the two pages match. I didn’t have any reason to do that until I got this notebook. If it came from the future like those quarters, I’m creating a paradox, a closed loop with no cause. TTL public safety warnings emphasize the incredible danger of any such actions, however seemingly inconsequential. It’s why only the crazy railfans want to go near the place when they don’t have to.
Chief Davies bellows down the hallway. "Mel, I'm waiting in here!"
"One minute!" I shout back. I quickly flip through the remaining pages. The rest is in a different hand: tiny print in neat columns. It looks like code. Too much to copy out. I snap a few pictures with my cell phone.
I should leave the notebook in the tray with the rest of the evidence. A good cop would report the whole thing, recuse themselves immediately, and never think about it again.
I guess I’m not as good a cop as I thought.
I slip Frank’s notebook into my pocket. If I find out it’s nothing after all, just a coincidence, then I'll return it later. Claim I took it by mistake. It looks just like my own notebook, after all.
#
Chief Davies waves me to a wooden armchair before his desk.
Great. He only makes people sit there when he promotes you or chews you out, and I doubt it's the former.
"I just got off the phone with the TTL folks," he begins. "Their security folks saw you down by Yarrow Creek, drinking beers with those train nuts."
"It was a coke," I tell him. "I was interviewing the victim. Figured it was best to talk in a setting where he felt comfortable."
Chief Davies taps a stack of files together on his desk. The top one shows the TTL logo: a clock face ringed in tracks. "The victim's dead, Mel."
He smirks at his own joke, the asshole.
"I meant his precursor."
"I hope you emphasized to him how colossally stupid it would be to trespass, now or in the future."
Chief Davies intimidates me, but Frank doesn't deserve that scorn. I fold my arms. "Did you see the photos? He was there with me when I took them. I think he understands the risks involved plenty well."
The Chief drops the Bad Cop act and graces me with a smile. Cowing his underlings always makes him happy. "Great. Since you're wrapping things up, I'll let TTL know they're cleared to resume use of that track." He swivels his chair back to his laptop.
My cue to leave.
Carrying a gun doesn't make you brave. It just gives you false confidence. I once read about the evacuation of Dunkirk during World War II, how all these ordinary people took their fishing boats and pleasure yachts and sailed into a war zone to rescue the Allied soldiers while Nazis bombarded them. How do you become the kind of person who does such a thing? And here I am, crumpling before a small tyrant like Davies.
I clear my throat. "Sir?"
Chief Davies goes still. He shows his teeth. It's more warning than smile. "Mel, we've talked about this. I don't want you antagonizing TTL, not when we've got security footage that establishes all the facts we need. The company's desperate to get their schedule back on track. They're already irritated about you buddying up with a known security risk. They want us to get out of their way. If you make this mess my problem, we'll have a different problem. You follow?"
It's been less than a day, and he wants to shut this thing down. Why the sense of urgency?
I see a bundle of receipts hanging out of a folder on the shelf behind Davies. The recent fundraiser gala, courtesy of TTL. It got our station two new patrol cars and a boost to the retirement fund. It occurs to me that someone, or a group of someones, who understand the specific risks of creating paradoxes or altering timelines could do a lot more than moving around a few antiques. The company basically controls the town with gifts and suggestions; what else could they shape with a few subtle nudges at the right times and places? What could you accomplish if you could always be at the right time and place?
And then there's the matter of my paradoxical notebook. What will Davies think of that?
Nothing good, that's what. He'll put me on leave, or take me into custody as a person of interest. And TTL will get their track opened up again, shipping from here to eternity.
My neck prickles. I've got another lead. That address on Harper Road.
"Everything's good," I tell the Chief. "I've got to interview the train conductor, is all. Otherwise we're good to wrap things up."
He turns his attention back to his laptop. "Great. That's what I wanted to hear."
#
I'll need to hustle to make it to the Harper Road address by one. I've been up since dark thirty, and I'm running on coffee and a warm can of coke, but there's no time to worry about lunch, not when the window's closing on this investigation. But first I've got phone calls to make.
I try Frank's cell, but it goes to voicemail. He must still be in a snit about his lifetime ban. I text him a photo of those charts in the notebook. This ring any bells?
Then I try Rana. She picks up on the second ring.
"Detective Valentini. How can I help?" She sounds warmer than before. Chief Davies must've already called TTL with an update.
"It's about Frank's lifetime ban," I tell her. "He's pretty upset about it. Was that really necessary? The guy just saw his own mangled body. He's having a bad day, you know?"
"Unfortunately, it's company policy to ensure the smooth operation of all rails," says Rana. It sounds like a script.
"Sure, but he hasn't done anything yet," I press her. "You said this stuff isn't destiny. There's no way he's trespassing after viewing that body. Let the guy photograph some trains, yeah?"
Rana's sigh crackles over the line. "There are plenty of other stations he can try for rare trains. Gainesville, Atlanta, Athens...take your pick. But he's done in Paradox. Forever."
#
I book it to Harper Road and arrive at the trail head fifteen minutes early. Gun in hand and finger on the safety, I glide through the woods to learn what my future self wanted me to see.
The trail abuts one of TTL's security fences, a weedy and overgrown section. Two adults in shabby camo jackets--a woman and a man--kneel by the fence in the overgrowth, working a pair of boltcutters.
"Police," I announce, startling them. I recognize them from the railfan meetup, but they look different somehow. Tired.
No, older.
"Mel?" says the woman I recognize as Maria. Then her eyes widen. "Shit, she's a precursor!" She looks like she's about to bolt.
"This is trespassing," I bark.
"You don't understand," says the man--Stefano, Maria's husband. "We've only got a small window of time!"
"No one leaves," I snarl. "Not until I get some answers. I dig out Frank's bloody notebook, still in its evidence bag. "You see this before?"
Maria's face blanches. "How did you get Frank's book?"
"It was on his body when he died this morning."
"That happens today?" Maria crumples to her knees.
"Shit. They'll be here soon," Stefano groans. "Look, if you've got that notebook, you're in danger too, Mel."
"You'd better start explaining things. Fast." Everyone seems to know more than me. I'm sick of this runaround.
Stefano nods, mouth tight. "Look, TTL has done this before. You get into their business, you see something you're not supposed to, and they'll find a way to contain you."
"You were all at that railfan meetup this morning. Is that your cover story? Were you always train hoppers?"
Maria shakes her head emphatically. "We started as railfans, same as Frank. That line they let us watch--they know it's being observed, so they don't send anything too sensitive over it. But our group knows our shit, so we noticed some patterns. TTL isn't moving ordinary freight. Not antiques, either. It's dangerous stuff."
"Maria's right," Stefano confirms. "Their real business is war. They find timelines on the brink of conflict, nudge things in the wrong direction, then auction weapons from other timelines to the highest payer. They’ve put machine guns into timelines where horses were state of the art, planes in worlds where no one ever dreamed of flying. They bring huge numbers of people through, always from more primitive times to later ones, and they don’t come back. The amount of blood on their hands… it’s literally infinite."
"Shit." If they're telling the truth, this goes much deeper than Frank. It goes beyond anything our station could handle. "Why didn't you file a police report?"
"We tried that first, but TTL did what they always do," says Maria. "They showed Yusuf his own body dead on the rails. And that's on the mild end. TTL can generate as much blackmail on you as they'd like. They just find a timeline where you do crimes, or stage it on their cameras. How can you argue against something you haven't done yet?"
"That's an awfully big claim," I tell them.
"You're police, right?" Maria says. "Check your own records on TTL. They disappear people all the time. Hell, they can make it so you never even existed."
Like what they're doing with Frank. And the notebook--am I on their shitlist? Has Davies warned them about me? Maybe they went through Frank's pockets.
Which would mean they know about this appointment.
"I followed a note here," I tell them, holstering the gun. "I think I'm supposed to talk to you."
"You've caught us, but not at a crime, or not at what should be one. We’re gathering evidence," Stefano says, waving the boltcutters and a camcorder. "The rail lines are stopped today--due to Frank's death, I suppose--so there'll be lots of freight jammed up in the station, and the employees will be distracted. A true nexus event. There's stuff stuck in the yard they don't want anyone to see. It's the perfect time to film their operations."
"We're bringing down TTL," Maria adds. "It's why we took up train hopping. There's hundreds of us now. TTL hates us, because once you find an entry point onto the timelines, it's hard to eliminate us entirely. We just hop to a different station, a different date, and get right back on it. They think they should get to decide history like it's a freight schedule and they're switching the tracks, but we disagree. They're steering us toward disaster. We're going to apply the brakes."
I rub my neck. It's a lot to take in. "You called me a precursor. Do I always come here? Is this fate?"
"Who knows?" Maria tells me. "You always get to choose what you do. In some timelines, you come here. In others, maybe not. But here we are."
Twigs break deep in the woods. Someone's coming. Several someones.
"TTL security," Stefano whispers. Another window is closing. I'm running out of time. "One more thing. I saw the video. Frank threw himself under a train. He wasn’t killed by TTL. He did it to himself."
"Cause and effect is complicated for hoppers," Stefano says. "What happened before his death? And what happened after? Those factors will expose the truth."
"Does the name Mulligan mean anything to you?"
Stefano smirks. "That's TTL's codename for Frank."
The boltcutter snips the fence open. Maria slithers through the slit, the ragged wires gouging her arms and back.
And just in time. Two TTL security guards burst through the trees, guns drawn. Suddenly the clearing is full of duplicates as Stefano and Maria charge in several directions at once, drawing off the security guards.
I take advantage of the distraction and flee back to my cruiser.
Those bastards followed me here after all.
#
I drive to a Walmart parking lot with an excellent line of sight and pull out my laptop. I login to the station network for our internal records on TTL.
There are more deaths than I knew about, all similar to Frank's. Trespassing cases. Train hopping gone wrong. My neck tingles. I remember the receipts hanging out of Davies' folder.
I pull up another set of records: fundraiser records. There's a direct correlation. Every time one of these train hoppers dies, the police chief gets a big donation from TTL. They've been paying us off to sweep these cases under the rug.
Even worse, the entries go back farther than Chief Davies' tenure, as far back as our electronic records. How long has TTL had the police under their thumb?
My phone buzzes. It's a text from Frank about the photo I sent.
That's a rail schedule or logbook. Is that my handwriting? Where did you find it?
I text him back. Where are you? We need to talk.
At home.
Stay there. Lock the doors. Don't answer for anyone but me.
You're scaring me, Frank says.
Good. He should be scared. I'm scared too.
I speed to his house, a pleasant ranch-style building nestled among the cottonwoods, and Frank lets me in.
"Something's rotten," I tell him. "I want to know about these schedules."
He flips through the bloody book taken from his own body, his hands shaking. "I always log the trains I spot or ride. This logbook is weird, though. The dates span two centuries."
"That makes sense, if your future self was riding TTL's lines."
"No, that's the thing," Frank tells me. "None of these routes run through Paradox. They're stations scattered across the country, and that's just the ones I recognize. Mostly passenger trains." His finger stops on one blood-smeared entry. "Huh--that's interesting."
My neck tingles so hard I slap the skin to numb it. "What is it?"
"Just a weird coincidence," says Frank. "This one leaves tomorrow morning from Gainesville."
Passenger trains. When did that come up? I excuse myself to the cruiser, where I open my laptop and find Frank's case file. Rana's security video has been uploaded. I watch it again in all its gruesome horror. It's the only train visible on the tracks at first, but there's that second train that pulls up near the end of the footage, to the left of Frank's train, sheltered by boxcars from the carnage.
A passenger train. Curtains in the windows. And there--a flicker of movement. A door opens, and someone steals through the shadows while the yard crew is distracted by the mangled body. I know that face.
A third Frank.
I'm reeling from the sheer moxy of this maneuver. A man uses his own death as a distraction to switch lines in plain sight. But what could possibly be worth such a sacrifice?
Once you find an entry point, it's hard to eliminate us entirely.
That list of lines in the notebook isn't Frank's future train-spotting record. It's the entry points. You infiltrate TTL by riding through it on specific routes at specific times. Routes anyone can access, if you only knew the schedule.
Maybe Frank cracked that schedule wide for all to come. I think about an old movie I saw, a silly one from when time travel was just imaginary. Dueling time machines, both bringing reinforcements, both slipping wrenches into each other’s plans. If TTL has been shaping history throughout all time, why aren’t they ruling the world? Why play nice at all? Because maybe someone is stopping them. Maybe a lot of people are. Maybe this schedule means more than I could possibly have imagined.
The history of the entire world? Maybe that would be worth dying for.
My radio crackles to life. Chief Davies wants me down at the station. Someone's discovered the missing evidence. I bet TTL has called in, too. They have to know this is an important nexus point, even if they can’t pinpoint exactly when hoppers started infesting all their trains.
The future branches out like all those lines bound for destinations I can't possibly imagine. What would make those gentle, train-loving railfans throw away their jobs, their family, their safety for a dangerous life riding the timestream, staying one step ahead of a company that wants them dead?
And what's my role in all of this?
I need to get Frank out, and now.
#
It takes some persuading to make Frank leave. Frank is not yet the kind of guy who would die to create a breach in TTL security. Maybe this Frank will never be. But he understands the urgency of leaving Paradox to placate TTL.
"You can come back down the road," I tell him, but we both know it's an empty promise. TTL will never stop watching for Frank, knowing what he could do to them.
I'm convinced he's the key.
I offer to drive him to Gainesville to catch his train the next morning, where Frank has booked a ticket with Amtrak. Unlike TTL's station, there's no barbed wire at Gainesville. Only a pleasant little brick building beside the passenger tracks.
What Frank doesn't know is that I turned in my badge last night. Actually, I chucked it through a window. Chief Davies would have forced me out anyway, thanks to my tampering with evidence.
The train glides into the station. Its locomotor is painted in red, white, and blue.
"Nice. A GE Genesis," Frank says, patting his pockets. He frowns. "Damn it. I forgot my logbook."
I pass him my black flip notebook. "Have mine." He stares at me for a long moment before he takes it.
He draws some columns and records the train in his tiny notation. I help him with his luggage.
Maybe you can never see your own place in the greater picture. It's easier to see it for others, because you're not inside their heads. You don't hear the voices of doubt. You don't hear the debates. The options they considered, but didn't take.
As the train pulls away, my neck tingles and my whole heart feels a tug down the track. On the train, someone pulls back a curtain. A woman looks down at me.
Like the other rail hoppers, she's older now. Older in a way that reminds me of my mother before she died. People always call me my father's daughter, but I'm glad to know I'll look more like Mama, given a few decades. Mama didn't bow her head for any man. She was an iron rod, straight and true, and she never compromised her principles.
I lift my hand, reaching for the train, for my elder self and the secrets she keeps. In all the branching timelines and the leagues of passing tracks, how do I ever get to be so brave?
I want to find that out.
She smiles down at me like she has the answers to all my questions. Then, with a long, low keen, the train passes around a bend, and she's gone.
END
© Copyright 2025 Rachael K. Jones
About the Author
Rachael K. Jones grew up in various cities across Europe and North America, picked up (and mostly forgot) six languages, and acquired several degrees in the arts and sciences. Now she writes speculative fiction in Portland, Oregon. Rachael is a Eugie Award winner, and a finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, Bram Stoker, and World Fantasy Award. Her fiction has appeared in dozens of venues worldwide, including Lightspeed, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Strange Horizons, and Amazon Prime’s hit series Secret Level. Follow her on Bluesky @RachaelKJones.bsky.social, or find her at RachaelKJones.com.