The Sky Above, the Rivers Below, Ch 14: Return Journey

Imran Ahmed clutched the data-slate. His mother's voice - tearful, whispered instructions he'd replayed seventeen times - still echoed in his ears. Around him, Chronic's Inter-Temporal Transit Hub stretched upward, chrome and holographic light reflecting off surfaces polished to mirror-smoothness. A cathedral to timelines. To the business of rewinding human lives.

His father stood beside him. Omar's face - lines carved deep since Jamila's collapse - remained fixed on the departure boards. Stoic. Silent. The practical burdens, the emotional weight, all of it rested on Imran's shoulders now. Twenty-three years old and he was a messenger of sorrow, carrying grief to relatives he'd never met in a city that existed only in history files and his mother's pained memories.

Departure Bay Gamma-7. "Downstream Historical Stacks." The designation glowed overhead in sterile white light.

Chronic workers moved through the bay in grey uniforms, voices calm, impersonal. Imran recognized the other families - fellow unwilling travelers queued for the same absurd journey.

Sook-ja Kim fussed over her daughter's bundle, a traditionally wrapped Korean package Min-ji carried with quiet intensity. The mother's whispered warnings in Korean formed a soft counterpoint to the station's hum. Min-ji herself stood rigid, dark eyes scanning the Chronic station's architecture with what looked like clinical assessment. Not a reluctant traveler. A scholar examining a problematic specimen.

Further down, Margaret Shepard stood ramrod straight. That strained dignity - mask-like, brittle - as she spoke in low tones to her son. Thomas kept his gaze fixed on the floor, shoulders already carrying invisible weight.

A cargo drone glided overhead. Luxury goods, probably. Bound for some upstream pleasure-world.

Representatives of lost worlds, queuing like common travelers. Destinations centuries out of sync. Reasons steeped in sorrow.

Ammi should be here. Not me.

The thought burned. She should mourn her brother, reconnect with her family. How could he possibly do justice to her grief in a place he knew only from broken stories and clean data-files?

“All passengers for Chronic Millipede Craft ‘Antiquarian,’ service to Temporal Stacks D3000R3 1763 Virginia Protectorate, D3432R1 Joseon Dynasty Cycle 17, and D3504L1 Mughal Subah of Bombay Circa 1695, please proceed to boarding corridor Delta-Prime.”

The synthesized voice echoed through the vast hall.

The "Antiquarian" waited at the far end. Bullet-shaped hull shimmering with chameleon-like material that rippled, shifted, reflected the station's lights in patterns that hurt to track. As long as any pre-industrial ship. Moving with organic grace as docking clamps released.

Years building WorldWeaver had given Imran appreciation for complex systems. The engineering here - designed to withstand spacetime breaks, navigate temporal currents - was bold. Brilliant, even.

That appreciation came wrapped in fresh anxiety. Not the instant "jump" of migration pods. This was a vessel for a long journey through fourth-dimensional space. Something his mind could model in code but not grasp as lived reality.

They boarded into "Temporal Migrant Transit – Restricted." Narrow recliners. Small viewing screens. Air smelling of recycled oxygen and mild antiseptic - same scent as Chronic's consultation rooms. As he stowed his hand luggage (strict weight limits, citing "temporal displacement energy"), instructions began playing.

"Welcome aboard 'The Antiquarian.'" A cheerful avatar chirped. "For your safety and timeline integrity, please comply with all final De-Assimilation Protocols."

Uncomfortable procedures followed. A soft chime from his implanted Chronic chip. Disorienting sensation as certain "out-of-time knowledge pathways" dampened. Subtle neurological pruning to prevent him from, say, accidentally inventing the steam engine in seventeenth-century Bombay.

Then reminders about period-appropriate behavior. Rapid-fire "dos and absolutely-do-nots" delivered with kindergarten-teacher condescension.

Last came the costume change.

In a cramped cubicle, Imran shed comfortable, climate-controlled fabrics. Wrestled with unfamiliar layers Chronic deemed appropriate for a young merchant's son: fine muslin jama that felt flimsy and restrictive, tightly wound turban making his head ache, pointed leather slippers pinching his feet.

His reflection in the polished wall looked like a poorly costumed actor in an unrehearsed play.

Rewinding us. Making us fit back into boxes.

One thing to design historical avatars in WorldWeaver. Another to become one. The discomfort real. The destination not a simulation he could log out of.

Thomas Shepard emerged from another cubicle, equally miserable in stiff colonial gentleman's attire. Min-ji, in her simple dark Joseon chima jeogori, looked less costumed - older, plainer versions of usual clothes - but her face held stoic endurance.

Final boarding checks completed. The Millipede Craft's engines thrummed stronger.

Professional curiosity fought personal dread. The ship's temporal drive. The rift it would create. Physics of passage.

Defense mechanism. Making terrifying emotional reality into intellectual problem.

He was hurtling backward through time. Away from everything known. Toward a past holding only grief, duty, overwhelming unknown.

With barely noticeable pressure shift and deep thrum vibrating his bones, "The Antiquarian" detached.

Through reinforced windows, the advanced city's structures shrank. Disturbing speed reducing them to distant glittering stars against the station dome's false sky.

Then the craft moved with silent grace, exiting into... nothing. Or rather, swirling non-linear distortion his mind struggled to parse. Visual representation of space between times. The ship navigated toward a marked rift point - shimmering wrongness in reality's fabric.

Brief, intense power surge. Momentary sensation of being stretched and squeezed simultaneously.

The view shifted into something indescribable. Flowing, kaleidoscopic river of colors and patterns. Fourth-dimensional space.

Thirty-seven standard hours downstream. Time-travel eternity in confined, recycled atmosphere. Five of them - Imran, Sook-ja and Min-ji Kim, Margaret and Thomas Shepard - small, isolated group stuck in bizarre in-between reality. Chronic flight crew rarely seen, efficient, distant. Periodic announcements about "temporal turbulence" (ship squeezed through invisible sieve) or automated reminders about "maintaining timeline-appropriate thought patterns."

Absurd order.

Awkward coexistence settled. Silence thick, broken by engine hum, occasional sigh, rustle of out-of-time clothing.

Slowly, small interactions bridged gaps.

During particularly jarring turbulence, Sook-ja Kim - face pale, hands steady - offered Imran a small rice cake wrapped in dried seaweed. "For strength, Imran-ssi." Motherly instinct stronger than worry.

He accepted with grateful nod. Simple, unfamiliar taste surprisingly comforting.

Later, when automated voice gave particularly condescending reminder about "dangers of anachronistic linguistic contamination," Imran caught Margaret Shepard's eye across the narrow aisle. She gave him a look of deep, weary understanding. Shared acknowledgment of Chronic's petty tyrannies.

One prisoner recognizing another in a very strange, very advanced jail.

Min-ji Kim observed everything with characteristic quiet intensity. Rarely spoke. Eyes missing nothing - subtle social ranks among Chronic crew, design flaws in "historically accurate" footwear, slightly-too-loud AI reassurances.

Once, during a lull, Thomas Shepard tentatively sketched on a small Chronic-approved data-slate, forehead wrinkled in concentration.

Min-ji leaned over slightly. "Is that... a bird from your home timeline?"

Thomas startled, looked up, nodded shyly. Showed her a surprisingly delicate cardinal.

Brief, stilted conversation about birds, remembered landscapes. Tiny island of shared humanity in vast alien ocean.

Imran found himself drawn into conversation with Thomas about music. Thomas had been trying to mentally compose, find melodies capturing their voyage's strangeness. Imran, thinking of algorithms generating WorldWeaver soundscapes, offered technical suggestions.

Language of music proved neutral ground.

He exchanged words with Min-ji about ethics of Chronic's temporal control. Conversation she started with pointed question about "resource allocation." Her intellect sharp. Questions challenging. He didn't agree with all her conclusions but felt grudging respect for her unwavering principles.

"Has anyone ever told you how intense you are, Min-ji?" he asked. "You remind me of my grandmother."

"Was she also an ethical anachronist?" Hint of wry humor.

"She was a lot of things. Mostly a very stubborn old woman. Stubborn but kind."

"An ethical anachronist and a stubborn, kind old lady." Min-ji gave him a quick, unexpectedly sweet smile. "That's a compliment, Imran."

"It is." Fleeting spark of genuine happiness. "She would have liked you."

They passed hours this way - quietly sharing concerns, hopes, stories, sometimes food. Fragile, unlikely little society thrown together by Chronic in a vessel crossing spacetime.

Not quite so alone anymore.

Eventually, he, Min-ji, and Thomas started "What Would You Invent If We Could Change History." All three appreciated advanced technology's possibilities. Min-ji proposed a device detecting harmful microorganisms. Thomas, smiling shyly, suggested a machine generating fresh water.

"I'd try inventing better transport systems," Imran mused. "Not just faster ships like this. Truly safe, efficient ways of moving large groups. People, goods, resources. Something to help end wars. Imagine a world without wars or famines or disease. That would be worth traveling through time for."

"What if it changed war's nature? Or got misused?" Min-ji asked.

"Maybe. But it could stop unnecessary suffering. Prevent the wars that destroyed our world timelines."

"That would be nice," Thomas murmured, faraway look in his eyes.

"Yes."

Strange fellowship. Mrs. Kim with her quiet strength and constant worry for her daughter, who seemed determined to take on Chronic with wits and anger. Mrs. Shepard marching to execution, carrying history's weight that wasn't entirely her own. Thomas - gentle soul caught in too-harsh story.

Collection of unwilling time travelers. Sharing recycled air and bad synth-coffee on a ship casually breaking physics laws. All to revisit lives mostly outgrown or never truly known.

WorldWeaver plot he'd reject as too improbable. Too full of convenient coincidences.

Yet here they were. Fragile, temporary community forged in shared hardship.

***

After an eternity adrift in kaleidoscopic currents, new announcement chimed.

"Preparing for arrival at Temporal Stack Designate: D14980R5, Colonial Virginia, 1763. Shepard family, please proceed to Disembarkation Airlock Alpha for final de-assimilation protocols and lander assignment."

Noticeable tension filled their section. Margaret Shepard's drawn face tightened further. Thomas flinched as if struck. Sook-ja Kim murmured quiet prayer in Korean, eyes filled with sympathy.

Imran watched Margaret and Thomas rise. Movements stiff in period attire. A Chronic official appeared, escorted them toward smaller internal airlock.

Brief, awkward goodbyes. Margaret paused before Sook-ja. Their hands met in quick, heartfelt squeeze. "May your daughter's wedding be joyful, Sook-ja-ji." Voice low.

She turned to Imran. Offered curt but not unkind nod. "And may your... duties... be fulfilled swiftly, Mr. Ahmed."

Thomas managed small, nervous wave before disappearing with his mother into the airlock.

Imran felt strange pang of dread for them.

Virginia, 1763. World of powdered wigs and brutal plantations. Society on revolution's edge but stuck in casual cruelties. He tried imagining himself stepping into such a past.

Shiver ran down his spine.

His own destination - 1690s Bombay - suddenly felt slightly less terrifying. At least it was his family's past, however alien.

Process repeated hours later as "The Antiquarian" approached coordinates for late Joseon Korea. Sook-ja and Min-ji summoned. Sook-ja a bundle of nerves. Hands fluttering as she checked Min-ji's attire one last time.

Min-ji looked almost... energized. Dark eyes gleaming with apprehension and fierce scholarly curiosity.

She paused before Imran. "Good luck with your family matters, Imran-ssi." Tone more direct than sympathetic. "Try not getting lost in the past too much. Some of us still have work to do in the present, when we get back."

Classic Min-ji. Challenge. Reminder. Even in this moment of shared vulnerability.

Then they were gone, leaving Imran utterly alone in "Temporal Migrant Transit – Restricted."

The ship's vastness, hum of reality-bending engines, suddenly felt oppressive. He was last passenger. Final delivery.

Weight of his mother's expectations. Grief for an uncle never known. Sheer daunting alienness of 1690s Bombay he was about to be deposited into.

It pressed down with almost physical force.

He pulled out the small data-slate Jamila had given him. Screen glowed softly in dim cabin light. Her voice, when he activated the first recording, came weak but filled with desperate love. Instructions a jumble of names, places, old family stories he struggled to keep straight.

His only real map. Only real link to her guidance in the bewildering landscape ahead.

"Final approach to Temporal Stack Designate: D15254R5, Mughal Subah of Bombay, Circa 1695. Passenger Ahmed, prepare for localized temporal displacement."

Synthesized voice startling him.

He was being transferred not to a lander but directly, via localized field. The "Antiquarian's" familiar hum began fading. Replaced by new, increasingly disorienting sensations - high-pitched whine, intense pressure, kaleidoscope of colors even with eyes squeezed shut.

He clutched Jamila's data-slate to his chest like a talisman.

The return journey was over.

The real journey - terrifying, lonely confrontation with a past never truly known - was about to begin.

He sent a silent, desperate prayer. Not to any god he consciously believed in. To the faint, flickering hope that he would be strong enough.

For his mother's sake.

For whatever lay ahead.

***