A Collision In Time

In Sarajevo, everything has its own story and nothing happens by accident.

– Nedžad Begović, director

June 25, 1914, Sarajevo, Austro-Hungarian Empire

And they time-traveled.

Camouflaged by a low-energy visual distortion field, the Pachamamans materialized in a narrow alley adjacent to the Sarajevo train station. The sun had yet to rise above the hills to warm the shaded lanes between the buildings, and the darkness provided cover. They emerged undetected.

Dov took a deep breath of cool air. She surveyed the gear and her luggage, counting. “Everything arrived.” She rifled through her satchel, retrieved her holodevice, and powered it up. “Space-time location is perfect.”

“You now have the distinction of being one of only a few dozen to have time-traveled,” said Uriel. “And the only one to have done so from a spacecraft.”

“I am, indeed.” With the administrative questions answered, Dov digested the accomplishment of the time jump, but also the strangeness of where they were. She moved to the end of the lane and traced the outlines of the whitewashed stone with her finger. “So this is 1914 on Earth. What a strange feeling—though I’m not sure what I expected.” A thought made Dov hesitate. “But I feel completely normal. How can that be?”

Ariel replied, “You may experience mild physical differences. Earth’s gravity is 13 percent lower, and the atmosphere is correspondingly less concentrated.”

“I can’t detect that.”

“Past travelers sometimes experienced nausea, especially with substantial space-time shifts. You feel nothing?”

“Maybe a little queasy, but that could be lingering from the liftoff from Pachamama. I did take anti-nausea medication; maybe it’s still working.”

Dov studied the cobblestone alley in front of her and looked up to the unfamiliar morning sky, intensely dark blue with hints of orange in the clouds. She walked beyond the alley into an open park, closed her eyes, and absorbed the essence of the city. She inhaled deeply, smelled pungent horse droppings, the smokiness of burning wood and coal, the sweetness of frying bacon and onions, the stench of rotting garbage, and the chemical odor of tar and wood preservative. She heard the rhythm and whistles of an oncoming train, the distant chatter of vehicles, and the distant whinny of a horse.

Dov opened her eyes and walked to a bench to sit and digest the experience, and come to terms with the magic that these new surroundings brought.

She returned to the alley to help prepare. “Well, don’t you two look fancy. You’ve done your homework—your appearance is perfect for 1914.”

Ariel and Uriel wore three-piece Edwardian suits in gray wool, white shirts with pressed collars, suspenders, and beige flat caps. Their hair was jet black, their skin pale, and their faces were now angular and Slavic. They looked back at her with dark eyes.

Dov raised her arms in triumph. “This is so surreal. I can’t believe we pulled it off. I need to thank Brumion.” She beamed.

“Thus far the evidence is encouraging,” said Uriel, studying his handheld holodevice. “The layout and topology around us are quite accurate, even the street routes.”

Ariel agreed. “The models are as predicted so far.”

Dov focused her attention on the holodevice, silent in concentration. “Yeah, everything checks okay.” She put the HD into her purse and took notice of her dress ensemble. “Well Uriel, do I look like a Sarajevo citizen?” Dov smoothed the ruffles in her plaid gray and brown skirt and straightened her matching jacket.

“We featured you in a casual Paul Poiret-inspired Edwardian outfit,” Uriel said proudly. “You are tailored to be well-to-do, but not upper class. Like an accomplished, educated young woman. You will be treated with respect, but still be approachable to common people.”

“Excellent,” Dov said. “I must find a mirror soon—wait, of course: I’ll take a photo.” Dov stretched, photographed herself, and examined the 3D visual. “I do look rather good, don’t I?”

Uriel grinned. “As I said, an accomplished woman.” He turned to his counterpart, “Ariel, could you tell Dov a little bit about Sarajevo during this period? I think it’s important we’re all familiar with our surroundings.”

Ariel responded, “Today, Sarajevo is home to a mix of religious ethnic cultures including Muslim, Orthodox, and Catholic, as it has been for many centuries. However, there are simmering underlying tensions between the Ottomans, the Slavic, and Euro-Christian influences. So despite the appearance of harmony, there is dynamic conflict brewing. We must be careful not to insult anyone unintentionally. The populations tend to live in neighborhoods that align with their cultures, so that should facilitate our exploration—”

“Speaking of exploration, shall we be off?” Dov interrupted, having heard enough. “But first let’s hide our equipment until we have a hotel room.”

Uriel deployed a stealth holographic blanket around the equipment to create an illusion. Luggage and twenty-ninth century technology became uninspiring empty crates and broken wooden boxes. For security, he also devised a reverse force field to make it physically impossible for anyone to grab the boxes.

With maps memorized, the travelers headed onto the main streets and enjoyed being carefree tourists. Early dawn had evolved into midmorning. Shop doors opened, and the streets filled with people beginning their day. Horses, automobiles, and bicycles competed for space in the narrow streets, magically avoiding one another as though an invisible hand directed traffic through the chaos. The crowded avenues were edged with colorful blankets laid out by hawkers displaying pots and pans, candlesticks, incense holders, and pottery mixing bowls. Their calls lauding the quality of their wares competed with the traffic noise.

The unfamiliar odors continued to surprise Dov. Despite the pleasant smell of spices, coffee, and cooking that wafted from the shops and cafés, the pungent reek of sweat, human and animal waste, and garbage lingered in the air.

The three tourists had no trouble blending in, and Dov felt safe and confident moving about the streets. She rapidly learned the layout of the city center despite the illogical twists and turns of the streets. She wanted to explore and began to feel crowded by Ariel and Uriel, as if they were chaperones. Dov pulled them aside. “I’d like to be on my own for a bit. I’m missing the forest, and I think I need some time to process. Also, I am curious about the trees here.” Dov retrieved her device. “The mapping function is doing its job and it’s tracking you both. Let’s meet here in one hour, then go for tea or coffee, or whatever the local drink is.”

“You be safe,” Uriel said, “but please do enjoy yourself. Try not to worry.”

“That’s the point, Uriel.” Dov waved goodbye and headed out to explore.

The direction Dov Sabastien sought was out, then up. She followed her map out of the busy center and followed a road toward the hills that surrounded the city. She climbed, discovering Earth’s lighter gravity gave her more energy than she had at home. After thirty minutes she stopped and rested at a natural viewpoint. The city lay below her, a sea of whitewashed buildings with red roofs interspersed with ornate cathedrals and mosques with towering minarets. The city and surrounding vegetation contrasted against the brilliant blue sky. She noticed a train, smoke billowing from its front chimney stack, pull into the Sarajevo station to be surrounded by a crowd. Wondering who was so important to attract such attention, she continued to climb, determined to reach the summit.

At the peak, Dov rested on a boulder and enjoyed the sweeping vistas. Perhaps it was the view or the unusual scents and sounds in this new time and place, but waves of emotions flowed through her. Joy at the enormity of the experience, now swiftly replaced by a wave of anxiety—what if she was not the right person to be doing this? What if she was, in reality, underqualified, her naivety posing as bravery? The sense of wonderment brought by the fact that she was experiencing history rather than just reading or watching it contrasted with a looming sense of imposter syndrome. A lump formed in her throat and tears welled up in her eyes. She let it all go and sobbed.

A jab on her shoulder distracted her. Dov twisted around to see an elderly woman standing beside her, a concerned expression on her face.

“Are you hurting, my child?” the woman asked in Serbian. “Would you like to talk?”

Dov’s translator initiated. “I am so sorry,” she said in Serbian. “No, I am really fine. Thank you.”

“Are you crying about a man?”

“Oh, not at all.” Dov appreciated the woman’s kindness but wanted to be left alone.

“Are you sure, dear? You would not be the first woman being ill-treated by men.”

“No, really, I am new here in Sarajevo, and I feel overwhelmed. The tears are mixed emotions.”

“Ah, I see. Welcome to Sarajevo, my dear. I hope that you find peace and happiness. I will leave you now. Goodbye and best wishes.”

Dov smiled as the old woman proceeded down the road. She stood and hiked back to meet Ariel and Uriel.

When Dov rendezvoused with her companions, Ariel directed them into a small café. They sat at a square table, far from the other diners so they would not be overheard. A waiter approached them.

“Three espressos,” Ariel said in Bosnian, “and sirnica, please.” He reached into his satchel for the coins he had prepared. He fumbled with the coins and handed over a handful. “I am sorry—my eyes,” he said, pointing to them.

The waiter laughed, counted the change, and rushed off to the kitchen.

When the coffee and pie arrived, Dov picked up the sirnica, but hesitated and placed it back on the plate. “How am I supposed to eat this? Do we use the knife and fork, or do I pick it up? I don’t want to seem out of place.”

“Watch how the others eat,” Ariel suggested.

A group of young people sat nearby. A young man added generous quantities of sugar to his small coffee. At another table, three well-dressed women delicately enjoyed their pie with knives and forks. Dov copied their form, satisfied she would not stand out. She found the coffee bittersweet and bold, yet it complemented the cheese pie and tasted satisfying. They ate in silence for a few moments, absorbing the new surroundings and sounds along with the tastes.

Dov broke the silence. “How will we find Misko?” She leaned in. “We don’t know what he looks like, where he lives or works, or anything.”

“And no online databases to query,” added Ariel.

“Let’s begin with what we know,” Dov said. “What do your databases tell us about Sarajevo in the last week of June, 1914?”

Uriel shook his head. “Really not much at all, I am afraid. There is a reception at city hall for the visiting Archduke Ferdinand, who dedicates a school to be named after his wife. Nothing else of interest.”

Dov nodded. “Okay, well, something to keep in the back of our minds. Any other suggestions for how we approach this puzzle? What is it about Sarajevo that might trigger the anomaly?”

“Remember,” Ariel said, “as I explained before you left on your walk, Sarajevo is known for cultural and ethnic tension that simmers under the façade. Perhaps Misko is involved in hidden activities?”

“Okay, but that fact doesn’t narrow the search for Misko, does it?”

“Well,” said Uriel, “the 1910s are rich in literature where investigators solve mysteries, which in many ways parallels our dilemma.”

Ariel finished the thought. “So we should imitate their methods?”

“Yes, exactly.” Uriel sipped his coffee. His taste buds had been programmed to perceive and diagnose flavors based on a typical Pachamama cultural archetype. He frowned. “Very strong,” he said, looking at the coffee. “To continue, I accessed the volumes from a prolific writer of mystery novels from this time era. The author was called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. His investigator was an accomplished, intelligent man named Sherlock Holmes and his companion, Dr. Watson.”

Ariel redirected his attention and accessed his data stores to review the works of Doyle.

Uriel carried on, “I will imitate the methods of Holmes, and Ariel, you can do the same for Dr. Watson. If this investigative technique worked in one context, it may be helpful in this case as well.”

Dov moved closer. “Tell me how they investigate.”

Uriel continued. “Holmes used deductive reasoning, observation, and wit. He had an extraordinary memory, though his actions were a little eccentric. This is where Dr. Watson became useful. He kept Holmes in check. I suppose his eccentricity and intelligence are connected.”

“Carry on,” said Dov.

“Yes, please do continue,” Ariel said with a hint of impatience.

Uriel switched his demeanor and spoke in a London accent that Dov assumed mimicked Sherlock Holmes. “So far we know from our archival records that Misko’s name appears in the census in the Tuzla region of Bosnia, and his name is linked to a local school board. It’s reasonable to assume he might have a friendship with comrades also from Tuzla here in Sarajevo. So we begin there.”

“Begin where?” Ariel interrupted with amused annoyance.

“We search for shops or cafés frequented by men from Tuzla, of course.”

Dov smiled and said in Bosnian, “Dr. Watson, Sherlock, we have an investigation and not much time. Let us begin immediately, and with great haste.”

Four hours later the three had accomplished little. Despite shifting dialects and using a wide variety of different techniques to approach the citizens of Sarajevo, they had not discovered where men from Tuzla congregated. People shunned and ignored them. Once each hour, Dov searched for a private alley or doorway to retrieve her holodevice and review the charts to make sure the time-wave data had not altered. Thus far the data displayed nothing different—good news. This news would have been better, however, had they made some progress in tracking Misko Jovanović.

“It’s because you are men, and your style projects authority,” said Dov, seated on a bench next to the Kaiser Bridge that overlooked the brown, slow-flowing Miljacka River. She frowned. “This river is disgusting. Look at the garbage. A reminder to not take Pachamama for granted.”

“Even today, modern Earth still reclaims land from thousands of years of mismanagement and pollution,” Uriel said. He returned to the topic of finding Misko. “I agree with Dov; we may be intimidating. In addition, we are dressed as modern Europeans. People will be mistaking us as representatives of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, even with our polished Bosnian accents.” He chuckled at his joke as Ariel and Dov continued to look into the river.

“Where to from here?” asked Ariel. “What would Sherlock Holmes recommend? Our play-acting did not reveal anything of use.”

Uriel removed his cap. “No, not yet. The methods are rational; it’s the implementation that we must get better at.”

Ariel added, “If we don’t find Misko soon, I recommend we deploy our nano-drones and cameras. I would argue that broad image data collection and analysis must be our priority.”

“Agree,” said Uriel, “but we will need to unpack first at the hotel. Let’s continue. I am sure we can make adjustments and improve.”

“I have an idea,” Dov said, ignoring the banter. “I can charm, plus my innocence as a woman may prompt those who we ask to open up.” Dov considered. “I will be a long-lost cousin of Misko, looking to surprise him after years of not seeing him, and I heard he was in Sarajevo from his uncle.”

“We are not sure he has an uncle,” said Ariel.

“No matter,” replied Dov. “I assume most people won’t know either, and we can’t end up any worse off than we are now, which is nowhere.”

“Yes, that’s a reasonable deduction, Dov,” said Uriel in a refined London accent, his eyes closed in concentration. He flipped his jacket to straighten it. “Let’s be off, shall we? There is no time to waste.”

They circled back to the city hall on Frans Josef Street, and considered whom to approach and how. Dov saw two young mustached men in white shirts sitting on a bench, engaged in an animated conversation. Without hesitation she solicited them. She deliberately lowered her head as she neared them, to appear shy. She smoothed her skirt, then met their gaze and said in Bosnian, “Hello kind sirs, perhaps you can help me?”

One of the men grinned and nodded.

“I have just arrived in Sarajevo, and am looking for my cousin from Tuzla. You may know his family name. Jovanović?”

The grinning man replied. “Of course. The Jovanovićs are here all the time. You could probably find at least one in every café on the street, considering none of them can cook.” He laughed. “Usually after work. Do you know Petar?”

“He owes me money,” the other man said.

Dov wavered. “No. I left to study in Prague many years ago. I am only looking for Misko.”

The second man responded. “I often see him here during evenings, but I’m sorry, he is not a close friend; I only know his face.”

The companion of the grinning man added, “If you see Petar Jovanović, tell him that Amar Aljavić wants his money.”

Dov blushed. “Of course, Amar, I will warn him.”

She hurried away to rejoin Ariel and Uriel, who walked out of sight of the men. “Success,” said Dov to her AIs. “They are familiar with the Jovanović family and we’re in the right spot. They visit this neighborhood often, usually to eat after work in the evening. They joked the Jovanovićs can’t cook and so eat at cafés regularly. We should be careful, though; they don’t sound like the most reputable family.”

“Impressive, my dear,” said Uriel, again in the London accent. “You’ll be an accomplished investigator with that sort of inquiry. Now, let’s find a hotel and unpack. We will compare notes, and come back tonight around dinner. We are hot on the trail, my friends.”

“Sherlock Holmes seems to be going to his AI head,” whispered Ariel to Dov.

“I like it, though.” Dov smiled.

They checked into a quaint third-story hotel room next to the cathedral and prepaid the rent with a generous tip to ensure that they would be undisturbed. The first order of business was to check that the time-wave disturbance had remained unchanged, and this was the case. The second job, once they’d unpacked, was to analyze the data to find Misko.

“We must blanket the neighborhood in nanocams,” suggested Ariel. “Let the algorithms find him.”

“And then wait here in the hotel?” scoffed Uriel. “That’s not what Detective Holmes would do.”

“It’s more efficient,” argued Ariel.

“We should walk to Frans Josef Street and continue,” said Dov. “Besides, I enjoy old-fashioned detectivery. It’s authentic.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Uriel in his London accent.

“Fine,” said Ariel, “but I will deploy cams when we fail.”

It was raining when they departed the hotel. With umbrellas unfolded they walked hurriedly to the recommended cafés and elected to visit each one in order of distance. By the time they stopped at the sixth café, it was dark, and Dov was chilled and hungry. The novelty of the journey had waned, and her thoughts shifted from finding Misko to enjoying a hot dinner.

The sixth café, called Bistro Serbia, welcomed visitors with an intoxicating fragrance of caramelized onion cooked in butter. The bistro charmed with its round tables and red and white tablecloths. It reminded her of recordings from old Paris that she’d enjoyed watching as a girl. They ordered the special of the day, and a bottle of their house red wine as an accompaniment.

Plates heaped with food arrived. “My good man,” said Uriel to the waiter, the hint of an English accent creeping in to his Bosnian, “perhaps you can help my friend here?”

The waiter turned to Dov and tipped his cap. He waited for her to speak.

“Why yes.” Dov finished the last of the wine in her glass. “I am looking for my cousin, whom I haven’t seen since I was young. His name is Misko Jovanović. Maybe he eats here?”

“Misko?” The waiter placed the bread on the table. “Yes, of course. He was just here this evening.”

“When did he leave?” Ariel asked.

“Perhaps an hour ago. He left with another man, a rather strange companion.”

Dov tried to contain her near panic. “How did Misko look? It’s been so long I would miss him if he passed right by me.”

“Ah.” The waiter laughed. “He resembles me, though I think I’m better looking.” He grinned. “He is roughly my height and has a similar hair color and mustache to mine, but…” The waiter hesitated. “I am much better at sketching than using words. How about I draw him? I will be right back.”

Several minutes later, the man returned to the table with a charcoal drawing of Misko. He handed it to Dov, who examined it. “You are an accomplished artist, my friend. Thank you, sir.”

“A favor, my good man. What of his companion?” asked Uriel, looking hopeful.

“Hand me the piece of paper,” the waiter requested.

Dov returned the sketch to the waiter. He turned it over and with little effort drafted the portrait of a handsome man with piercing eyes, a firm jaw, and slick hair. “He is tall as well, and quite good looking. I should return to my work, so please enjoy your food.” He started to leave.

“One more question,” Uriel said. “Does Misko come here often?”

“Of course, almost every evening.” The waiter looked at Dov. “What is your name?”

Dov caught herself unprepared. She wasn’t sure how to respond. She thought quickly. “Karima. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“I am Boris. Nice to meet you too.”