Reinhardt

Istanbul, Türkiye – April 18, 2076

Reinhardt realized that he needed to go shopping.

It wasn’t that he felt out of place here, Istanbul in 2076 was still very much a ‘bridge’ city, both heavily influenced by Europe and Asia. It was that 1930s Istanbul, emerging from the Ottoman Empire, would be very different.

“Mr. Zeitler, this suit will have you blend in perfectly at your costume party.” The tailor said as he checked the pin placement. “But why spend so much on such old fashion styles for just one night?”

The small tailor shop evoked the Hollywood stereotype of a high-end establishment, dark wood-like paneling that Reinhardt could see was not real mahogany and questionably not even real wood. A rich blue carpet with gold styling appeared high-quality, with the mirrors, lights and display suits finishing out the look. But this was a backstreet, just outside the Grand Bazaar, and probably brought in more local clientele than tourist or business. Still, it was nice and most importantly, non-descript.

Reinhardt wasn’t sure if that mattered, but he would be snooping around Istanbul and though he thought Germany and Turkey had no secret police like the Stasi — the agency his family history recalled as betraying and killing his ancestors — he did not trust that notion enough to take unnecessary risks.

“Mein Herr, I am as you say a ‘big deal’ in Berlin.” Reinhardt said admiring the pin stripe suit in the mirror. It was a strange suit to be sure, drape cut with padded shoulders and pleated high wasted trousers, but he felt like this fit the part perfectly. “If I do not look as if I stepped out of 1932, it will be, how you say? A failure to impress?”

“I am but a humble tailor.” The man said bowing, tape measure coming away from his chest as he bent over. “I trust your instincts on high society.”

“Do I need a fez?” Reinhardt said as the tailor began removing the jacket for stitching.

“oh no, no, no, those were not allowed.” The tailor said as he carefully carried the suit coat to the tailor’s dummy. “They are also not available in Istanbul today, they have never been fully allowed again.”

“Strange. Why is that?” Reinhardt said as the tailor walked him to the front counter to fill out the order form.

The tailor shrugged. “I do not worry myself with that the Ottomans did or why later leaders did things in reaction to them. I only rent them for wedding pictures which is allowed.”

The tailor scribbled down the information and presented the final price.

“Mein Gott!” Reinhardt said staring at the number in front of him, ₺24,360. It took him a moment to remember that the exchange rate to Euros would make that less than $500. “Sorry, I nearly forgot the exchange rate.”

“I would gladly take that in Euros or dollars.” The tailor laughed, presenting the tap-to-pay terminal. Paper and metal mediums of exchange had mostly died out in the early 2070’s as the desire for them had finally fallen to such low numbers as to not justify their construction. Much like the pennies in the early 2000’s, these forms of payment just faded from use and were mourned only briefly before being mostly forgotten in day-to-day business. “But I shall settle for the exchange rate; just for you my friend.”

Once the payment was submitted, the tailor went to work stitching together the suit, promising it would be complete the next day. Reinhardt decided that he would continue the tour of the city and perhaps travel to the island where Trotsky lived while he was living here in exile.

The house where Trotsky lived was now, finally, a museum of sorts. The house had been bought several times after spending years in disrepair and ruin. While still in ruins, the current owners had left it in a state of arrested decay, converting the standing spaces where they could into exhibits for local artists. Colored lights filled the ruined spaces creating a sense of life the crumbled walls no longer had.

But more importantly he learned that he couldn’t use the place to sneak back to the past.

He needed to be in the place he wanted to travel to, but the device was unreliable about precise coordinates. So even if he hopped the fence, where he would end up could put him in danger. He needed to find someplace he could travel to safely, and then make his way back here.

That would be the challenge: in 1932, he could not get to this point so easily or unnoticed. Sure, regular ferries ran to the island, but the Soviets would be determined to eliminate the thorn Trotsky represented for Stalin.

His mission was to get in and accomplish what he needed before the Soviets arrived. History was coming, and he had to meet it head-on.

* * *

James

University of Chicago – September 17, 1984 CE

The temperature in the room fell fast and the declining oxygen levels had him feeling dizzy and the numbers on the Anti-Chronometer were not all that clear, but Celeste was counting on him.

He really hoped he plugged in the time right.

The sudden change from halon cooling and increasing hypoxia back to the room’s original temperature and the oxygen-rich, albeit sterile, air, was jarring.

Celeste seemed relieved and ok, so that’s all he needed to have him move. He led her out the way they came in and quickly avoided the guard. Now when they came back, he imagined that the confusing he saw before was actually confusing as to how these people came back and acted like they were never there. Oh well, chalk it up to a glitch in The Matrix friend.

As they walked away from the geophysics building, making sure not to loop back to avoid anyone recognizing them when their past selves walk by later. Or he didn’t pay attention to the time well enough and they would pass by their past selves and cause all sorts of problems. No, better to get out of Chicago this way and link back up with Grady at the movie theater.

Celeste was quiet, that kind of quiet she adopted when something weighed on her. He’d seen it in San Francisco after she realized that he had changed her destiny by making sure the events that lead to their meeting, would always happen. They’d been close to death before, but this brush seemed to affect her differently. Maybe it was the fire, or the invisible gas that she couldn’t sense, but knew would kill her—but no way to understand when. Maybe it was because this was the first time she was that close since her injury in Cahokia. Whatever it was, something made this worse for her.

“Hey, wanna talk?” He said as they crossed S. Ellis toward E 57th St. at the corner, making their way back to Grady at the Harper Theater. “That was kind of intense back there.”

She grabbed his hand and squeezed gently. “It’s alright. This job of ours doesn’t seem like it should be dangerous,” She took a deep sigh before continuing. “And yet we keep finding ourselves in danger; nearly every time we travel. I just worry about when our luck will run out.”

He thought about what she said. They had been rather unlucky so far it seemed; from Hollister’s obsession driven violence to time tourists thinking they were in Westworld to a scared guard with an obsidian shard studded club. But they also seemed to be blessed with some incredible luck, walking away from each event victorious.

Yet she hadn’t said ‘if’ their luck ran out. She said ‘when’. She knew something he didn’t—experienced something he didn’t. He had been there to save her, from their first meeting to today. But there would come a time when someone might need to save him, and who would be there if she wasn’t? He’d come close to it in England trying to recover the Epsilon Book, but he had been lucky enough to get himself out and was there to save her. She knew that ‘luck’ would run out.

He shuddered and rubbed his ear, pretending a stray itch had caused it. A habit of his—one she probably was never fooled by.

They continued walking up S. Ellis as they made their way to The Harper Theater. Chicago felt strangely timeless—1984 didn’t seem that far removed from the pictures and shows he knew from the 21st century. The city felt older without feeling rundown, a contradiction that somehow made sense as he walked. The sidewalks were cracked and patched, hand-painted signs hung in shop windows, but nothing about it felt blighted.

Nearly a half-hour later they looked both ways as they prepared to cross E 53rd at Harper. The conversation had picked up to other things as they made their way down E 53rd and the walk had become rather nice. The thing he loved most about their relationship was that, because her era lacked the distractions of his, small experiences like this felt natural.

All that was replaced with dread when the familiar wave of nausea hit just as the walk sign changed. He barely had time to register what changed before having to catch Celeste as she stumbled stepping off the curb as it hit.