"No Place Like Home" Chapters 9

Chapter Nine

Sunday, November 12, 1995
3:00 P.M.

Hill Valley was fully restored when the train arrived in another new dimension. That it wasn't home was obvious the moment Doc looked out the window and saw a large field where, in their world, there were rundown apartments and commercial property. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, but a moment later he realized where they were and he grunted in both surprise and satisfaction.

"Hill Valley is back," he told Marty, sitting on the bench. "And we're above my house now."

The musician -- who had been leaning back, resting his head against the round window on the back wall of the cab -- opened his eyes at the announcement and leaned forward, suddenly hopeful. "Are we home, then? Can you tell?"

"We're not," Doc said, slowing the train down to almost a dead stop. "We appear to be above my old family mansion -- which is no longer burned down and razed."

Marty frowned, the expression pained. "Are we back in that other world? The one where I grew up outside of my time?"

Doc took another look out the window. "I don't know," he said. "I can't say for sure, but I wouldn't think so. It looks like there's an enormous pasture in back of the home, now, and a stable. Those weren't around in my time, and I don't think that they were in that particular world, either."

Curiosity drew Marty out of his seat and to the window. As he looked, Doc scanned the area surrounding his former home in search of a place to land. It was quite possible that the home was no longer owned by another version of himself, but he also knew that if it hadn't been destroyed by fire, he would have more likely than not kept it. It would've been much cheaper than buying an entirely new home -- and there was the fact that the home was the final connection he had with his parents.

"We'll land there," Doc finally decided, pointing out the lawn between the home and the garage. He took the time machine down slowly, wincing a bit at the sounds he knew could be audible if anyone was outside. One of these days, he was going to have to see if he could muffle the noise or entirely disguise it.... But the windows he could see facing out in their direction remained empty of any faces as the machine settled down on the grass. Lights burned inside, though, so someone was obviously at home. A car -- one of those new gas guzzling SUVs -- was parked on the curved driveway before the home.

"Are we just gonna step out of the train?" Marty asked as the machine gradually quieted down, ticking and groaning as it cooled from the transit.

"There certainly isn't another way to go about it," Doc said patiently, finding the musician's question strange at this hour. But, then, they hadn't landed this close to people passing by before, either -- except during that first visit to the Marty who was a teacher. And then the machine had been holographically disguised as an RV. The inventor decided to keep it invisible, now, since any other illusion would only draw attention to the sight.

Marty seemed reluctant to leave the machine. He hung back as Doc popped open the door, leaning against the far wall. "Can we go somewhere else?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Where?" Doc asked. "You know we can't get home, yet...."

"I know." There was a faint layer of bitterness to the words. "But maybe we could just skip over some of these worlds. Why do we have to get out and look around when we can tell from the air that it's not home, Doc?"

Doc closed his eyes and took a breath before answering, a pain born of stress and exhaustion beginning to clamp a hold around the crown of his head. Marty's suggestion had occurred to the inventor far earlier, before the musician had even first broached the subject, but he had resisted the idea. Doing something like that would be akin to panicking, and perhaps it would create worse damage to the machine in the long run. Better that they examine all their options in each world, unless to stay would pose a danger to their lives in some way. Doc couldn't quite escape the certainty that with their poor luck, the moment they skipped over someplace without investigating things thoroughly, they would have missed the answer and a way home.

"This could be it, Marty," he told the musician, opening his eyes and managing a faint, wan smile. "We've got to see."

Marty looked like he wanted to debate the matter, but he simply tightened his lips together and shrugged. When Doc left the train's cab, he followed, though not without a bit of reluctance. The scientist headed for the driveway and arrived at the front door, making it look as if he had simply been passing by via the sidewalk -- not the side yard. He knocked on the door, and, as he waited, he heard Marty ask, very softly, "What if this isn't your home here?"

"Then we'll ask to see a phone book," Doc murmured back as footsteps headed their way. When the door was opened a moment later, the inventor started to open his mouth to voice that particular question. He didn't recognize the face before him immediately -- because he had never worn a beard as this world's version of himself apparently did, nor had he ever worn glasses. His hair was a bit longer, too, hanging down to his shoulders. The beard, wire-rimmed glasses, and the hair all combined to made him look older, a little more grizzled -- or perhaps that was due to more stress or a life without rejuvenations in the future. And yet there was a gleam in the dark eyes that Doc hadn't seen in the last version of himself, the one who felt that he had been the source of destruction to Marty's life.

"Can I help you?" the local Emmett Brown asked, his face not showing the faintest traces of recognition. Doc had expected a variety of reactions from meeting versions of himself face-to-face, without any forewarning, but this was one he hadn't even thought about.

Marty, quietly hanging back a couple of steps, perhaps decided that bluntness was the best course of action. "Don't you recognize us?" he asked.

Emmett leaned forward and squinted, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "No, I can't say that I do," he admitted. "Should I?" Without allowing the visitors a chance to answer, he added, "Did you come about the puppies? There are still two that haven't been claimed, yet."

Puppies? "Ah, no, we didn't," the inventor said. "We came about... well, this may be a bit delicate. You are Emmett Brown, aren't you?"

"Of course," Emmett said. "I suppose I can invite you inside -- though please, excuse the mess. It's been one emergency after another all week, and I'm afraid I haven't been very good with housekeeping, especially with the maid out of town for the week."

Marty glanced at Doc with a raised eyebrow as they stepped across the threshold of the home. Unlike the mansion in that other reality, this one wasn't nearly as run down or cluttered. The inventor was surprised when he noticed a number of new furnishings within the home; in fact, most of the furniture he saw was new. He supposed that was only rational, since things did wear out over time. But the quality of what he did see was somewhat surprising; it wasn't cheap. And it had a distinctly old-fashioned, Western feeling to it; a Southwest theme of sorts, with a lot of cowboy and western paraphernalia about.

Equally surprising was that he didn't see any trace of any inventions around. In his own past history, he had tried to curtail most of his projects to the garage on the property, but things had inevitably been drawn into the home. This was true by 1955; this was more than true in by 1962, the year he had burned down the mansion in an experiment gone awry. Even now, with a family and a wife who tried hard to keep a neat house, things would find their way into the home.

But there was nothing Doc could see here that told him he was in the presence of a scientist or inventor. Absolutely nothing. Strange.

Doc spotted a dog -- a mutt, from what he could tell -- standing near the stairs. The dog regarded the strangers and whined deep in it's throat, taking a couple of steps back. Emmett looked at the animal in surprise. "What's wrong, Eastwood?" he asked.

"Eastwood?" Marty blurted, surprised. 'Is that your dog's name?" His mouth twitched into a faint, crooked smile.

"Yes," Emmett said, heading over to his pet. "After Clint Eastwood. What's wrong, boy?"

The local's full attention was on the dog, which was probably a good thing considering the smirk that crossed Marty's face. For his part, Doc was surprised. He'd habitually named all of his pets after famous scientists, never Hollywood actors. He frowned, puzzled and intrigued, as Eastwood backed away from his master. Though Emmett seemed to be completely oblivious to the identity of the visitors, the dog knew, and was not at all comfortable. He finally turned tail and hustled out of the wide hallway, up the stairs to the second floor.

"Well, that's odd," the local Emmett muttered, his hand stroking his furry chin. "Usually I have to hold him back from visitors...."

"It may not be so odd," Doc muttered, half to himself. When Emmett turned to look at him, his eyes narrowed in a silent question, he elaborated only a little. "It's a long story. Is there somewhere we might be able to talk?"

"Ah, I suppose so...." Emmett looked rather suspicious, but he didn't kick them out, instead leading them to the living room of the home, at the front of the mansion. It was furnished completely differently than Doc had last seen it, before the fire, with that same sort of Western style. Most of the furniture was constructed from wood and leather, though the couches were the new sorts made up of very soft, comfortable pillows for cushions. Doc almost regretted sitting down on that furniture. It was almost too comfortable, considering his body was now thinking it was early morning on November 13th....

Emmett took a seat in a leather armchair near the fireplace, turning it so that he could face the visitors on the couch. "What is it you wanted to discuss?" he asked.

Doc opened his mouth to begin, but found himself cut off by Marty, sitting on his left. "Are you a scientist here?" the musician asked.

Emmett smiled faintly. "Not quite," he said. "You aren't the first person to think that the doctor I am is scientific or medical. I think there is a certain science to veterinary medicine, though."

"Veterinary medicine?" Doc repeated, baffled. "You mean you're a vet?"

Emmett nodded slowly. "Semiretired, now, but yes. I spend most of my time breeding horses, currently. And who, may I ask, are you? You're not trying to sell me something, are you?"

The guess drew uncomfortably close to what Doc's first impression of Marty had been, when the teen had showed up on his doorstep in 1955. Doc glanced at the musician, who gave him a faint, tired smile, remembering the same thing the inventor was.

"No," Doc said softly, turning back to his counterpart. "We're not trying to sell you anything. You see... well." He paused, trying to think about how he should wade into this. For a moment he thought about standing and leaving right then, since it was almost a given that this version of him had never created a time machine. But there was the tantalizing possibility that this world might hold something else that could help them. Maybe a sophisticated computer diagnostics device, or software more sensitive to electrical fluctuations.... No, the inventor thought. They'd come this far. They might as well lay all the cards out on the table.

"Look at me," Doc finally said. "Who do you see?"

The vet turned his eyes on the visiting scientist, studying him a moment. "A man?" he said, the tone of his voice indicating it was more statement than guess.

"Well, yes... and no." Doc leaned forward, staring Emmett directly in the eyes. "I'm you. Well, another version of you from a parallel dimension. Are you familiar with the term?"

The dark eyes blinked once. "No," Emmett said, his voice taking on a bit of an edge. "I am not."

Doc recognized the disbelief in himself at once, being so familiar with certain reactions and expressions that crossed the temporal and dimensional barriers. "All right," he said. "Give me a few minutes to explain things to you...."

Emmett sat in a rather stony silence, his face grim and flat, as Doc once more ran through the entire story, from the beginning to the present. It took a bit longer to tell than the other times, since this world -- and this Emmett Brown -- was apparently quite different from the others Doc had thus far met face to face. He had to skip back to his long fascination with science and love of inventing, the events surrounding the conception of the flux capacitor, his friendship with Marty McFly, and the realization of his dream thirty years later with a time traveling DeLorean. Then he had to give a very condensed account of his being in the Nineteenth Century for eleven years, married with two kids, and constructing a second time machine to move them all out of the past.

It took close to an hour to get it all out. During the entire long, convoluted tale, Emmett sat quite still, his eyes locked in a stare that made Doc sweat a little. Finally, reaching what would do as an end with a dry throat, feeling almost completely spent from the energy it had taken to explain it all, the inventor leaned back in the couch and met the eyes of the vet, waiting for his reaction -- whatever it was.

"An interesting tale," Emmett finally said, when it was clear that the visitor was waiting for him to speak. "You should be a writer."

The tone was so cold that the scientist couldn't help but take a faint offense to it. "It's all true," he said softly. "Why would I make something like this up -- and visit you?"

"I don't know," Emmett said. "Perhaps in the hopes of cheating me out of some money?"

Doc leaned forward, irritated. "I don't want your money," he said. "It wouldn't be of any use to me. And how can you deny the proof sitting right here? You don't have a twin brother." He paused, reconsidering, then added, "Do you?"

"No," Emmett said flatly. "But I don't see how you can possibly sit here and say that we're the same person. I'll admit that there's something about you that looks a little... familiar, but your face is not mine."

Doc sighed to himself, realizing at once that the stubbornness that drove him hadn't changed at all in this counterpart. At least disbelief had gone quickly to belief in other worlds upon staring the undeniable truth in the face. "There are a few cosmetic differences," he admitted. "But if you cut your hair a little, shaved, and took off your glasses, I think you would find that we look remarkably similar."

Emmett's eyes narrowed once more, scrutinizing through the glasses. After a moment the hard edges to his face relaxed. Doc found himself breathing easier, thinking that he had finally gotten the breakthrough -- and then the vet said, his tone much softer, "You're delusional, but it's not surprising. It's clear you're suffering from extreme exhaustion. I may be a vet, but I'm not ignorant on human biology. I was a conventional med student for a couple of years before changing my course of study."

Doc felt offended, again, at the sympathy in his voice. He preferred the cold skepticism more. But there was truth behind the words, too. He was exhausted. A pity that it was so obvious, and more of a pity that it was putting his credibility on the line. "That has nothing to do with our situation; or, rather, it's not the cause of the story, though I'll admit that the recent events are the reason we haven't rested in a while. We simply need to get home, and I can see now that you won't be of any help to us." He stood, ready to leave and move on to the next world, whatever it held.

Emmett remained seated and looked up at him with mild reproach. "There's no need to storm out of here," he said. "I dare say that you need to rest, first. Driving anywhere will only lead to accidents. Besides," he added, "I don't think your friend -- Marty McFly, was it? -- is ready to go anywhere right now."

Doc glanced over at the musician, noticing only then that he had apparently reached the end of his stamina sometime during the course of the long story. Marty's face was half buried in one of the ultra soft couch pillows, his eyes closed and his body limp with sleep. The inventor had the wild urge to wake him and leave, regardless, if it meant he could escape the patronizing tone of Emmett.

"I suspect rest will help you," the vet said once more, calmly. "It's nothing to be ashamed about."

Doc grimaced, frustrated. "It's not exhaustion," he said. "If you would just come with me outside, I can prove that what I'm saying is the truth."

"By showing me your 'time machine'?" Emmett asked. At his counterpart's nod, the vet gave him a slight, patient smile, like one might offer an irrational child. "It's plain to see there's nothing out there." He indicated the windows on the north side of the home, which looked out towards the garage. The train, of course, couldn't be seen.

Doc regretted disguising the train, then. He would've liked to see his counterpart's reaction had he landed it on the front of the lawn, whistle blowing and with as much noise and thunder as possible. "It's under a holographic disguise," he said. "I don't believe in drawing more attention than necessary to something like a functional time machine... although this one isn't functioning very well right now. But if you'll come with me, I can assure you that you will not be disappointed."

Emmett pursed his lips together, clearly against the idea for reasons unbeknownst to the inventor. Doc felt a flash of irritation at his attitude. "What's happened to you?" he couldn't resist asking. "I would've expected any version of myself to be more open minded... especially when staring something in the face!"

Emmett immediately bristled. "Excuse me? You're talking about time travel. That exists only in the works of fiction, last I checked... and I never liked those stories."

The inventor had been trying to figure out how the local had evolved to this person sitting before him -- Veterinary medicine? Horse breeding? -- and the mention of Emmett's apparent reading preferences stopped him cold. "Didn't you ever read Jules Verne?" he asked.

Emmett's brow crinkled under the question. "Jules Verne? No. I never enjoyed fantasies like that. Louis L'Amore is a far better writer. Those are tales a man can relate to."

For a quick half second, Doc suddenly saw a multitude of reasons why this person before him was the most vastly changed of all he had so far met; but it was gone before he could fully grasp it. He was left with the nagging feeling of being close enough to touch the answer, but unable to see it. Exhaustion, he thought, annoyed. If I wasn't so damned tired....

"If you won't believe my words, then you'll have to believe your eyes," Doc said. "If we go outside and there is no train out there, I'll take your diagnosis of extreme exhaustion and let it go."

The vet stood at the offer, still clearly skeptical. "I suppose I can accept that," he said. "So long as you can."

Doc turned and headed for the front door, rolling his eyes once his back was to his counterpart. "Of course I can," he muttered under his breath.

It was getting dark outside, with sunset less than an hour off, now. Doc walked briskly towards the train, checking a couple of times to make sure that Emmett was following him. The vet moved slowly, either besieged by aches of age that did not plague the visiting, rejuvenated inventor, or else trying to demonstrate his reluctance and skepticism over the matter. The inventor couldn't resist a thin smile as he reached the side of the time machine, anticipating the enjoyment he was going to get at seeing Emmett eat his words.

"Watch," he said. He opened the door of the machine and went inside to access the HIS. Emmett's eyed widened minutely at seeing the door open out of thin air, revealing the inside of a cab that appeared to be hanging in midair. A moment later Doc flicked the proper switch and the illusion vanished with a flash of static.

"And if you don't believe your eyes, feel free to touch anything you need to for proof," the inventor added as he turned. "You can even enter the cab if you wa--"

The rest of his words faltered in his throat when he spotted Emmett, now crumpled on the grass. Doc scrambled down the steps, half expecting the worst, but he found a pulse without a problem. The vet had just gone down in a dead faint.

Some things, apparently, never changed.

* * *

The sound of a door slamming shut jerked Marty unintentionally back to awareness. He sat up with a start, dazed, blinking hard as he tried to figure out where he was. He didn't recognize the room instantly, but it came back to him after a minute. He and Doc were still bouncing through different dimensions. They'd found a version of the scientist who was a vet, and lived in the old Brown mansion. And at some point while Doc had tried to explain their complicated predicament to his counterpart, Marty had closed his aching eyes for a second and, from the look of things, fallen asleep.

Based on the way he felt, though -- completely unrefreshed and groggy -- it couldn't have been more than a nap. He frowned, his eyes searching out a clock. There was none around the room, but a look at his watch told him it was a little after 7:30 A.M. on November 13th. A little more than an hour had passed since they arrived in this world.

A sound from the hallway drew his attention. Marty got to his feet, yawning and stretching as he went, to check it out. He had gone no more than three steps towards the corridor before Doc came into view, bent under the weight of the local Emmett, hanging limply over one shoulder. The inventor blinked at the sight of the musician, clearly not expecting to see him.

"What's going on?" Marty asked. "Did something happen to your other self?"

"He fainted," Doc grunted as he continued down the hallway, heading for what appeared to be the study at the back of the house. "He wouldn't believe what I told him, so I took him out to the time machine to prove my words... and the shock was too much for him."

The musician shook his head as he trailed Doc into the study. "Typical," he muttered under his breath. "What are you gonna do with him? Wake him up now? Or were you planning on us just taking off now?"

Doc set his counterpart down on the couch and leaned back with a sigh. "The second, I think. It's fairly clear to me that this world isn't going to have the solution we need.... There's no need to stay longer."

Marty eyeballed the unconscious vet on the couch. "Do you think it's smart to go when he's out like that?"

"It might be better," Doc said. "It's clear to me that this version of myself is in some form of tremendous denial about... the possibilities of life, I suppose."

Marty yawned again, trying to cover it up. "Why?" he asked a moment later. "That seems sort of weird if you ask me. And why is he a vet?"

The inventor shrugged, turning to head back towards the front door. The musician followed. "We didn't get into that discussion. Although his tastes in literature seem to be different. He didn't seem to enjoy Jules Verne at al--"

Doc's words and steps stopped dead. Marty's reaction was a beat slower, since he was still muddled from his brief nap; he almost walked right into the scientist, putting on the breaks with less than six inches to spare. "What's wrong?" he asked, unable to see his friend's face.

"Nothing," Doc said, his tone slightly breathless with astonishment. "I think I just realized why this me is so different! He never read Jules Verne when he was eleven!"

"So?" Marty asked. He remembered Doc telling him once before that the book had been the key into turning him onto the wonder of science, but how could something like that create all the changes they'd seen here?

"So!" Doc turned around, his eyes wide, suddenly energetic. "Before I read his work, my interests were focused mostly on the childish idea of being a cowboy. This makes perfect sense, now! I could imagine that I might pursue a career in veterinary medicine, then.... A doctor to horses and other animals that were so important in the cowboy legends. It would explain why I got into horse breeding here, and why my taste in literature is the way it is, with westerns, and why the mansion never burned if I didn't do experiments.... It would explain so much!"

"Good," Marty said. "Then that means we can definitely leave now, right?"

The inventor didn't seem to hear him -- although he did turn back around and in the direction of the door again. "I just don't understand how I could be so narrow-minded as to not believe something when it was staring me right in the face...."

"Maybe he's too old to change, now," Marty said. "A lot of people get more anal when they're older, though I gotta admit I never thought you'd fall into that category. But look at how I was in some of these worlds."

"Yes." Doc left the house, still clearly preoccupied. He always seemed to walk as fast as his mind moved during these moments, and Marty had to hustle to catch up, using an energy he didn't really have. Fortunately, the train -- now visible -- wasn't too distant from the house.

"When are we gonna take a break?" Marty had to ask after they had boarded the time machine. "I'm starting to seriously drag...."

Doc shut the door with a clatter. "Soon," he said. "Once we find a place where we can safely lie low for a few hours, or when we find another me who can have a look at the machine... and actually understand what everything on it is supposed to do. There's got to be another out there who has that ability."

Marty snorted softly as he slumped down on the back bench. "There was -- in that very first place we visited. Man, if I'd known what was really going on then I never would've left...."

Doc winced as he activated the machine again. The train groaned aloud as it lifted into the air, perhaps as fatigued as the travelers were of their repetitive journey. "That's water under the bridge now," was his sensible reply. "We'll get a hit soon -- or make it home first. It's got to be inevitable."

Or impossible, Marty thought darkly.

They made the jump through time -- and dimensions -- without a problem. A roar upon entering the new place nearly startled Marty to an early grave. The sound was all around the machine, like the sound of waves breaking on a coastline. "What the hell is--"

"Rain!" Doc said, cutting the musician off. "It's raining again. And...." The inventor leaned forward, close to the glass, squinting his eyes. A smile spread across his face a moment later. "I can see my house. My real house!"

Chapter Ten

Sunday, November 12, 1995
3:00 P.M.

Marty got to his feet so quickly that he stumbled and nearly crashed face-first to the hard metal floor. Doc's unsteady driving didn't help matters, considering that his attention was now completely focused on the view outside.

"Are you sure?" he asked as he scrambled to the window. "This isn't some joke, is it?"

"Well," Doc said, suddenly more sober, "I suppose it could very well be a false alarm. But the weather matches up with what it was when we left, and things are certainly restored to the same degree that they should be, down there."

Marty turned his own eyes to the sight. The white paint of the old farmhouse and barn stood out starkly against the dark, wintry landscape outside. He couldn't help smiling as they got closer... but that expression faded as he was able to see more details. His heart sank and the disappointment was so great that it took every bit of his will to keep from crumpling to the floor.

"It's not home," he half-moaned. "If it was, my truck would be parked in front of the house... and nothing's there."

Doc's disappointed sigh could be heard even over the roar of the rain on the train's metal exterior. "Damn. I thought... well, we still may be able to salvage some help from this world."

Marty didn't answer him. He stepped away from the window and went back to the bench, sitting down and putting his face in his hands. He felt dangerously close to tears for a few minutes, the disappointment physically painful. Having been up almost twenty-four hours straight, under increasing amounts of stress, probably wasn't helping his coping skills, either. He was hardly aware of Doc landing the train until the inventor spoke again.

"Did you want to come with me to the door?"

The musician raised his head slowly and turned his eyes to the window. Doc had landed them in the backyard of his home -- or the home of whatever counterpart lived there. "I guess," he said in a voice completely devoid of any enthusiasm.

In spite of the exhaustion, disappointment, and a generally grim mood, Marty was aware enough of things to notice that -- for some odd reason -- Doc left the train completely visible. "Why the hell'd you do that?" he had to ask as they headed for the home's back door. "Everyone's gonna see that...."

"I know," Doc said. Something in his tone told Marty he was simply past caring. It made the musician feel worse, not better, since it seemed to tell him that he wasn't the only one feeling desperate and frustrated at this point. Doc was paranoid to the point of fanatical about keeping the time machines out of sight and reach of potential thieves; yet here he was letting it rest in plain sight of anyone who would look out the window.

And, apparently, someone had. The back door opened and a figure stepped out before they had even crossed half of the lawn. Marty recognized it as Emily after a second -- looking identical to when he had last seen her, down to her blue jeans and purple sweater. She was frowning, her eyes a little confused; the musician guessed that was better than freaking out completely.

"Why'd you bring the train out, Daddy?" she asked innocently.

A smile spread across Doc's face at the sight of the girl -- or maybe at the question. It took Marty a moment to get it, but he realized that this must mean that a train existed in this world. Maybe they were finally somewhere where someone could help them. He smiled faintly himself at the prospect -- even as Emily turned her eyes to him and her frown deepened.

"Why are you here?" she asked, without a trace of the usual politeness that she usually gave him. She sounded kind of bored. "I thought you weren't comin' 'til later tonight." She paused as Marty and Doc reached the bottom of the porch steps. "Didja bring Marty with you?"

Marty thought the question was directed at Doc for a second, but the seven-year-old was staring right at him. "I'm Marty," he said, wondering if Emily was trying to be funny. "Maybe not the Marty here, but--"

"I know you're Marty," Emily said, rolling her eyes. "I mean M.J. -- you know, your son, Marty Jr."

"My -- what?!"

Marty's knees inexplicably went weak with Emily's comment. Doc knelt down to look the girl in the eye while the musician leaned against one of the posts supporting the roof above the porch. "Emily, where is your father?" he asked.

Emily raised her arm and pointed right in the center of his chest. "There," she said, clearly humoring him. "Is something wrong, Daddy?"

Doc glanced at Marty for a moment. The musician was trying to keep breathing and stay on his feet while frantically trying to figure out why he was a father here and now. "Emmy, can you fetch your mother for me? I'd like to see her a moment."

The girl's lips puckered uncertainly. "Mommy's cleaning the downstairs bathroom. Are you sure you wanna bug her? She always scolds me when I ask her somethin' then...."

"Yes. Tell her it's important."

Emily gave him a skeptical look, but turned around and went back in the house. Doc sighed as the door closed behind her and looked again at the musician. "I'm sorry, Marty. I guess there are some substantial changes here... but at least this counterpart of mine apparently has a locomotive."

"And I'm... I have a son?" Marty asked, numb, still clinging to the post for support. "Jesus, Doc! How?"

"Well, if you don't know those things by this age..." Doc began lightly. Marty shot him a look, too rattled to be remotely amused.

"I'm not ready to be a father yet, Doc, and I don't think Jennifer's ready to do the mom thing now, either."

"Maybe here, you both were sooner," the inventor said simply, serious now. "Or else maybe--"

The back door opened and Clara peered out. Her sleeves were rolled back and her clothes -- a ragged set of overalls and an old t-shirt -- made it clear that she was in the middle of household chores. Her cheeks were flushed from the scrubbing that she had been doing, and a few curls hung down from the scarf that she had tied about her hair, to keep it out of the way. "What's wrong, Emmett?" she asked, as if the sight of him was the most common on earth. "Emily said that you wanted to see me immediately."

Doc nodded once, though now that he was facing his wife -- or the wife of his counterpart -- he looked a lot less confident. Marty decided to cut to the chase, sick to death now of the story he had heard too many times to count. "Doc and I aren't who you think we are," he said. "We had a problem with the time machine and it's been sending us to all these weird alternate realities. So we're from a different kind of world than this one. Where's your Doc -- ah, Emmett?"

Clara blinked twice as she stared at Marty. "Emmett? He's... in the lab, I believe." Her eyes flickered to her non-husband as he started to turn in that direction. "What's going on?"

Doc stopped and turned back to his wife. By the look on his face, Marty could see he was going to give her a less condensed version of their circumstances. Maybe they could save some time at this.... "You tell her, Doc," he told his friend. "I'll get the other you and give him the scoop."

Since Doc didn't say anything to stop him, Marty took that as permission. He headed off across the lawn, still feeling shaky from Emily's "news." The walk through the rain soaked him even more, but he hardly noticed, too tired and uncomfortable already to care about a little more water. As he knocked on the door to the lab, he wondered dimly why this world's Emmett hadn't been drawn outside by the sounds of the train landing so close. And what was this scientist working on out here...?

He had to pound on the door for a few minutes before it was finally opened by Emmett. He looked mildly surprised to see a dripping Marty standing at the door. "Marty," he said. "What are you doing here so early? I wasn't expecting you for another couple of hours...."

The musician didn't wait for an invitation to come in, stepping inside to get out of the foul weather. "Look," he said, running a hand through his hair to slick it back, out of his eyes, "I'm not this Marty, I'm a different one. Doc and I need your help. You've got a train time machine here, right?"

Emmett's mouth gaped open for a moment. "I... ah... of course," he said. "What are you talking about--"

Marty sighed, frustrated, wishing that he had some sort of note he could just hand to the counterparts, now. "My Doc and I are stuck with some sort of busted time machine -- which, if you look out the window, you can see on your lawn -- and it's sending us to all of these weird parallel worlds. We wanna get back home, but Doc can't figure out what's going wrong. So he thought maybe someone with some kinda understanding of the train could help us out... and you might be the first guy we've found with those qualifications. So: Do you have one of those in your basement, too?"

Marty jerked a thumb in the direction of the window, and the time machine beyond. Doc took a couple of steps towards the window, nearly tripping over some sort of gutted computer in the journey. The musician heard him draw in a deep gasp of astonishment. "Great Scott! Then this means...."

"We're in some serious shit if you can't help us," Marty finished. It was impossible to be tactful when one felt so miserable. "You've got your own one of those... right?"

"Yes, I do, in the cellar." The answer was muttered without a look at the visiting Marty. Emmett seemed captivated by the sight outside. "I don't believe this...."

"The other Doc's in the house, if you wanna meet him," Marty said. "He can give you the entire story if you want."

Emmett tore his eyes away from the window and looked at Marty hard -- almost as if he was seeing him for the first time. The musician guessed that was basically the case. "I can see it now," the local said after a moment, almost to himself. "There are a few differences.... Terribly subtle, but visible."

Marty assumed he was talking about his local counterpart, the young father, apparently. "Since when did I have a kid?" he had to ask as Emmett headed for the door.

"Since 1987," Emmett answered as he grabbed an umbrella from the coat rack behind the door.

Marty was so thoroughly dumbfounded by the answer that he couldn't move for a minute, trying to figure out if he had actually heard the local scientist right.

1987? Jesus! I was only eighteen or nineteen, then!

He might've remained standing in the lab had Emmett not gestured for him to come along and then physically grabbed his arm when he didn't immediately react. Marty allowed himself to be dragged back into the rain and to the old farmhouse, his mind able to do only the most basic of math to figure that his son was... about the same age as Emily!

I have an eight-year-old son and I'm only twenty-seven. Oh my God....

Doc was sitting at the kitchen table, talking to Clara as she bustled around the kitchen, preparing to serve some coffee from the look of it. He stopped in mid-sentence as Emmett and Marty came in, giving his counterpart a nod and a smile. "Hello. I'm sorry for dropping in on you like this...."

Emmett closed the door and dropped his saturated umbrella in an untidy heap on the floor. His eyes were locked on the visitor in a state of clear fascination and wonder. "It's... quite all right," was his almost distant answer. "I must say, I never thought that I'd meet another me that wasn't a past or future variation."

Marty wondered if that meant he'd never lived through the nasty Doc B experience -- or had his own time machine pay a visit to a completely foreign dimension the year before. He sat down at the kitchen table next to Doc, too tired to stand any longer than he had to.

"Yes, well, this experience, for us wasn't what you might call intentional." Doc studied his counterpart as Emmett followed Marty's example and sat down at the table. "You've got a train of your own?"

Emmett nodded, glancing up for a moment as Clara brought a couple of mugs of coffee to the table. Both inventors took them, which was fine by Marty. He wasn't interested in putting anything else into his body then. He resisted the powerful urge to set his head down on the kitchen table, compromising instead by putting his elbows on the tabletop and propping his chin up in his hands.

"It looks almost identical to yours, if it isn't, from what I could ascertain with a glance."

Doc whistled out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging forward. "Thank God," he half muttered. "Then you might be able to help us?" It was more of a question than a statement.

Emmett glanced at his wife for a moment, who stood at his side, her forehead puckered with an odd mixture of curiosity and concern. "Perhaps," he said. "Marty gave me only the barest of details as to what's happened. What is the full matter of it?"

Oh, God, here we go, Marty thought with a wince. He couldn't fight back a yawn as Doc started to explain things -- again! -- from the very beginning. It had become tedious by the third time he had to hear it, never mind the sixth or seventh or whatever it was now, and it didn't help that as things kept progressing, the required so-called "backstory" was extended longer and longer. His eyelids drooped, as did his head, as Doc's voice went on, until the sound was nothing more than a low, slightly uneven murmur.

And then someone was patting his arm and calling his name in a soft voice. Clara. He dragged his eyes open -- only then realizing that his head was now flat on the table, cheek against the wood. Funny; he had no memory of doing that. The face of the local scientist's wife was kind.

"Perhaps you might be more comfortable sleeping in a bed," she said gently.

Marty raised his head and raked the back of his hand across his eyes, noticing that both Docs or Emmetts or whatever had gone. He had missed something important. "Where's Doc?" he mumbled.

"Both Emmetts went out to look at your train. Then your Emmett has promised to try and rest while mine has a chance to give the visiting time machine a solid once over. He is clearly as exhausted as you are -- but anyone would be after the journey you both have had." Clara paused a moment while the news sunk in to Marty's numbed brain. "You can stay in the children's study. There's a futon in there I can pull out. It's also a bit more private, being on the first floor; Clayton shouldn't disturb you when he wakes from his nap."

Marty let Clara show him to it, though he pretty much knew where it was. The local woman unfolded the futon and had it properly set up in just a few moments. He had only one thought as he lay on top of the daybed, under a heavy quilt that Clara had made several years back -- Oh, man, I can't believe I'm actually lying on a bed, now.... -- before he was asleep once more, almost before she had left the room.

And, about an hour later, he was awake again. Marty thought, at first, it was some kind of noise that had wakened him, like the door closing in the vet Emmett's home. He cracked his eyes open and took a quick glance around. The shades were pulled down over the window, the glow from the outside murky and shadowy from dusk and rain. The computer, set up at a desk nearby, was still off. The room was quiet, though if he listened hard enough he could detect faint voices and noises from other parts of the house. Nothing loud enough that it should've stirred him.

Seeing that all was well, Marty yawned and closed his eyes again, rolling onto his stomach to face the wall, waiting for the fatigue still dogging him to drag him back under. But, for some inexplicable reason, he remained awake, his brain the one part of him that apparently had any energy left at all. His mind drifted, against his will, to the strange realities that he'd seen so far, the memories echoing in a loop. There was the jackass Marty who was the rock star in the weird world, and that strange, almost surreal, performance on stage; the depressed Doc and the Marty who never got home from '55; that frightening world where they were simply made up characters in some series of movies; the place where Marty and Jennifer had had a divorce.... The images would replay with a vivid intensity every time he closed his eyes.

Marty finally sat up after half an hour of such torture, annoyed.

What's wrong with me? he wondered, irritated. I shouldn't have this much trouble trying to forget this stuff when I'm so tired I ache....

A second later the idea hit him, and made his blood run cold.

Oh God -- what if that incompatibility shit is happening already?

Insomnia was supposed to be one of the first signs, Marty now remembered. He hadn't noticed it that first time last year because of the fight that he and Jennifer had been going through, which had made it difficult for him to sleep well at night even before that trip to a new dimension. Maybe he was already deteriorating now. Maybe this was the first smidge of a sign. They'd only been in this reality for a couple of hours, but they'd been bouncing around before that for at least twenty or twenty-one hours. Maybe going from different parallel reality to different parallel reality didn't actually do anything to reset the system.

Marty's heart started skipping a little with the first bit of real panic. He squirmed out of the confines of the quilt, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing and covering the distance to the door in two long strides. He turned the knob and pulled the door open a few inches, then hesitated before leaving the room -- not out of a change in feeling so much as a shift in the light, as his eyes were too used to the dark and shadows in the study.

As he stood there, squinting at the floor and waiting for his eyes to stop tearing up from the brightness, Marty became aware of low-pitched voices from somewhere near by. Familiar ones.

"...You can't start on me tonight about that, Jen. Not here and not now. Bad enough you had to go off in the car the whole way over here...."

"I'm not trying to 'start' on you about anything," came Jennifer's voice, cool and crisp. Marty recognized the tone immediately as one his wife picked up when she was angry and trying hard not to show it. It seemed she was feeling just that way towards the Marty of this world. "I'm just trying to point out to you that if you can't think about me, maybe you can think of our son."

"Why? So he can see me be even more miserable than I am now? If you're so eager to have more money, why don't you try and take something better than what you're doing now? Finish this college degree that you keep talking about doing...."

"Well, maybe if I didn't have to spend my days answering phones and filing, and the rest of the time taking care of our child, I might be able to finish that dream...."

Marty winced at the voices, finally able to raise his eyes from the hardwood floor. Peering around the doorjamb, he saw what could only be his local counterpart standing at the end of the hallway, where it joined up with the foyer, with the local Jennifer -- who, for once, seemed to physically resemble the Jennifer the visiting Marty was married to. Both adults, in fact, looked pretty much as Marty might've expected, though they also looked more tired and stressed than the musician was used to seeing when he looked at his own wife, or in the mirror. (Although, frankly, the local Marty looked positively refreshed when compared to the visitor's current state.) Jennifer's hair was cut a little differently -- not a stylish, layered bob as she wore back home, but a longer and plainer look. The clothes they wore didn't seem as new to Marty's casual glance, either. In just one quick look, and based on the snippet of conversation he had accidentally overheard, he gathered that money was tight for the young family.

Well, yeah, having a kid almost right out of high school might do that...

Marty had made no sound, but perhaps the movement of his head as he peered into the hall betrayed him; Jennifer -- wearing a scowl -- glanced over, looked back to her husband, then jerked her entire head around in a classic double take mode. "Oh my God," she said.

The local Marty's reaction, surprisingly, was a bit calmer when he looked over. "Doc told me about that before we left the apartment, remember?" he said, as if the visitor was deaf to their words. "Something about people from another world dropping by...." The local Marty took a few tentative steps in the direction of the visitor, then stopped, as if thinking better of the approach. "Hi," he said.

The musician cleared his dry throat. "Hi," he responded in almost the same tone of voice. "I'm sorry I'm... interrupting you guys. I just needed to find my Doc about something...."

Local Marty nodded once. "He's probably out in the lab; I haven't met him yet, anyway."

"Thanks...." The visitor ducked his head and hurried past the couple, eager to get away from the strange vibes between the two of them, feelings that seemed to swing between anger and frustration. Just a minute of hearing their conversation had brought back a multitude of bad memories from the time he had argued with his own wife the year before. Thank God they had finally been able to move past the problem.... He never realized before how truly nasty they must've sounded to others.

Those memories, naturally, reminded him of the more immediate, pressing problem, and he hurried through the main hallway in hopes of finding his friend.

Clara was in the kitchen, having changed into something more suitable for the dinner that was set for the evening. At the sound of Marty's entrance, she looked up from feeding Clayton in his high chair, surprise all over her face. "Up already?" she asked. She looked at him with an almost motherly concern. "You still look exhausted, Marty. Did something wake you? I warned the children against bothering you...."

"No one bugged me," Marty promised her. "I just need to tell Doc -- my Doc -- something important. He didn't tell you guys about some of the problems with our situation, did he?"

Clara frowned as the baby smacked his palms down on the high chair tray, eager for the spoon of mashed up goo that his mother had been providing to him. "That you couldn't get home? He mentioned that...."

Marty didn't bother trying to ask about the physical problems. He didn't feel like getting into a long discussion about it; frankly, he didn't think they should waste the time. "Where is he?"

"I think he's still in the lab with Emmett. If you insist on going out there, take one of the umbrellas with you. It's still raining."

The musician accepted the advice; his clothes were still a little damp from being out in the shower earlier. "Thanks," he said.

Their time machine was still sitting outside on the back lawn, near the barn, and looked like it was closed up tight at the moment; the cab was dark, at any rate. The lab, however, was fully illuminated. Marty was a little surprised to find the door open when he tried it, but he didn't complain at all. He didn't see anyone at all on the main floor in first glance -- though, for the first time, he noticed the other time machine in the lab. It wasn't an Aerovette; it was a DeLorean. That trip in 1991, which had totaled the Eighties sports car, must not have taken place, or else had very different results. He paused a moment, glancing at the car with a surprisingly wistful feeling, then heard faint noise coming from above, in the loft study, and headed up the stairs. As he went up the last five steps, he recognized the sounds to be voices -- specifically, his voice and Doc's.

"One-point-twenty-one jiggowatts?! One-point-twenty-one jiggowatt's...."

"What... what the hell is a jiggowatt?"

The musician made himself continue up the stairs, into the room, in spite of the cold feeling soaked into his blood from the overly familiar voices and dialogue. His Doc was sitting almost on the edge of his seat, in an armchair, his eyes locked on the small TV screen set up in one corner of the large space. On the screen, Marty saw what seemed to be himself and the inventor in the latter's home in 1955, reliving the moment where the teen had showed his friend the fateful flyer with Jennifer's phone number on it. Emmett was nearby on the couch, an equally rapt look on his face as he watched the TV. The musician realized, immediately, that this was one of the videotapes from that "fictional" alternate reality, the one where they were just movie characters. It didn't make him feel any better that the actors on screen could've been their identical twins -- and that the filmmakers had completely nailed the sets to look just like the real thing.

"Doc, why are you watching this?" Marty asked, interrupting his actor on screen, who was lamenting the possible fate of being stuck in '55 for good.

Both of the inventors' heads snapped around at the sound of the real Marty's voice. An almost guilty look crossed his friend's face, like he had been caught red handed doing something that he wasn't supposed to do. "I thought you were sleeping," he said.

"And I thought you were gonna try the same thing," Marty said flatly. He tried not to look at the TV screen, and yet his eyes were powerfully drawn to it. "Can you pause that or shut it off? I need to tell you something important."

His tone made it clear that it was a serious matter. Emmett was the one who reached for the remote on the seat next to him and stopped the video. The room filled with a blue glow from the TV screen. "What is it?" the visiting scientist asked, giving the musician his full attention.

Marty wasn't sure how to begin, especially with Emmett sitting right there, watching them, so he just blurted it out. "I think we should go right now -- I'm starting to fall apart."

Emmett blinked at the words. "Fall apart?" he echoed. "What do you mean by that?"

Doc frowned at his friend's solemn statement, a trace of irritation flashing in his eyes. Marty got the idea that he thought he was overreacting. "How so?" he asked patiently, ignoring his counterpart's question. "Are you feeling ill?"

Marty shifted uncomfortably under the pairs of almost-identical brown eyes trained on him. "I can't sleep," he said. "I mean, I caught an hour or so, but I just woke up on my own and no matter what I tried, I couldn't go back to sleep. And I'm still dead tired, Doc." When the inventor looked skeptical, he couldn't resist adding, "Remember last year when we were in that other reality, your other self said that insomnia was one of those early warning signs?"

Doc nodded once. "But we haven't been stopped long enough for any of those effects to accumulate, Marty--"

"But maybe all bets are off if we're going from one different reality to another! Maybe it only works when you're traveling through time in the same reality."

Doc frowned, thoughtful. Marty wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad sign. "We should go, Doc," he said again.

The scientist paused a moment, then said, "No." Before the words could really sink in to Marty, he hastened to explain. "If that's the case, then leaving won't do a bit of good."

"Yeah it will -- we'll get home sooner. And it doesn't look like you're doing much right now to fix the problem if you have time to watch those tapes." He cast a quick glance at the blank TV screen.

There was another quick expression of irritation that flickered across Doc's face at the musician's words. "We've barely arrived, Marty. Emmett had plans in place today before we dropped in, so it's enough that he's able to make the time to help us at all. If you are having the beginning of the... effect, and it's not helped by our jumps, then there's really nothing we can do about it. Yes, finding a solution to getting home would be about the only thing we can do, but... I don't think you should be panicking about this just yet."

"No?" Marty asked. Doc's cool and collected calmness was bothering him more than if the scientist had decided to completely freak out. "What am I supposed to do, then, while my body turns against me?"

Doc sighed, the sound one of exhaustion. Marty guessed he hadn't yet tried sleeping himself, not if he was engaged with those videotapes. "You're probably suffering from nothing more deadly than overstimulation," he said. "It's been an unusual day, and I can imagine that it's not very easy to relax. Try doing something that normally helps you sleep." While Marty rolled his eyes at the trite advice, the inventor added, "You certainly didn't seem to be having any problems in that department earlier."

The musician's face flushed a little at the reminder of those two rather accidental instances. "Well, those were practically the only times I got to sit down, and I've heard the story of how we got here way too much.... Anyway, right now, being at home would probably be the only thing to work."

The inventor shrugged. "That can't happen at the moment. Try watching TV, or reading something."

The suggestions didn't sit well with the fidgety musician, but before he could voice another complaint, Emmett finally spoke up. "What are the symptoms of this problem? You didn't really elaborate in the house...."

Doc sighed. "The situation is caused by a discrepancy between subatomic frequencies. Each reality seems to have it's own sort of pattern, and when one spends a prolonged period of time in a foreign world, they will start to notice a breakdown in their physical and mental health caused by disruptions of the body's electrochemical balance, beginning with neurological symptoms. As Marty pointed out, one of the very earliest symptoms can be insomnia -- difficulty falling or staying asleep. Chills can be part of it, feeling jittery.... Untreated, one will progress to petite mal seizures after approximately thirty hours, which can vary depending on the individual and their health. The seizures will grow worse and more frequent as time moves on if the condition isn't treated, and eventually would result in death. We never personally experienced anything beyond the very first of the seizures when we stayed in an alternate reality for a few weeks last year, but we bypassed those problems with brief time jumps."

"Is that the only way to treat it?" Emmett asked, obviously intrigued.

"It's the only thing that my counterpart in that other world had discovered, and it seemed to work all right. My Clara was in the early stages of her pregnancy with Clayton at the time, and neither her health nor the baby's was affected." Doc paused a moment, then looked up suddenly at Marty. "Sedatives," he said. "That's another approach. Exhaustion can speed up the body's sensitivity to the environment, but I remember that my counterpart said something once about how being drugged with sedatives can help slow it down."

Marty frowned, this pretty much being news to him. "Why didn't we use them then?"

"It wasn't necessary; there was a better way to escape the symptoms that didn't require impairing the mental ability or being out of commission for hours. Anyway, there was no way I would allow Clara to take anything, not in her delicate condition...."

"So sedatives can slow it down?" Emmett asked, standing. "Sleeping pills and that sort of thing?"

"Yes, I believe so. I don't know if alcohol would be the best course of action...."

"Since you hit the deck after one sip, it might be for you," Marty muttered, though the idea of getting loaded enough to pass out wasn't particularly a favorite of his. The few times he'd made that mistake, he always woke up with the worst hangover and some hideous story from the poor people who had to deal with him the night before.

"We can avoid that," Emmett said. "No need to make either of you feel miserable tomorrow. I think we have something that can work. Why don't you both come with me?"

"Me, too?" Doc said, sounding surprised. "Why me? I'm not having any trouble sleeping."

"Yeah, you are, Doc," Marty said as he followed the local down the stairs. "You haven't sat still long enough to even try. If you don't watch it, you're gonna get laid out with one of those attacks -- and what if it happens when you're steering the train, or trying to fix whatever it is that went wrong? And remember what happened last year, when you were driving me around town and had a seizure?"

The inventor didn't voice a response to that, which was answer enough for Marty.

Clara was still in the kitchen when they returned to the house, with not only the baby but Emily and a boy of about her same age that Marty didn't think anything of -- for about a minute. Emily glanced up as the three of them came in -- and her eyes widened a little at the sight of an apparent duplication of her father. "Daddy!" she said. "Why're there two of you?"

The musician wondered if she'd been briefed about the weird situation, as his counterpart had. The boy next to her -- a thin, wiry kid with wavy red-brown hair and intense blue eyes -- frowned as he noticed them.

"Weren't you just in the living room, Dad?" he asked, the question directed to Marty. The musician didn't get it for a moment, then remembered the son that his counterpart and Jennifer had already had. A Marty Junior, apparently. But this kid... he didn't look at all like the son he had met in the future! Not with hair that color and texture. And his face looked more like an odd cross of his and Jennifer's, not so much a reflection of McFly genes.

"Oh my God," he murmured as he stared at the kid. "No way...."

Emmett was eager to spirit them out of the kitchen. "Are the sedatives the doctor gave you last year still in our bathroom?" he asked Clara, who was laying out a tray of bite size snacks, fresh from the oven.

"Ah.... I think so," she said, gently swatting Emily's hand as the girl reached out to snatch a still-hot treat from the baking sheet. "But I never did use any of those pills... why do you ask?"

"Our guests are in need of some strong sleeping pills," the local inventor said. "I'll explain later." They escaped from the kitchen before Emily or the Marty Junior could have their questions answered. As they rounded the stairs next to the foyer, though, the front door opened with a gust of damp, wet air and that world's Verne Brown stepped in, bundled in a rain slicker and with a sour expression on his face.

"Oh my God, it's so crappy out," he moaned, shutting the door. "I passed two accidents on the way home from the mall and -- holy shit, Dad!"

The blond -- who looked more or less like the one Marty knew back home -- only noticed their unusual party when he had fully stepped inside and swept back the hood of his parka. His eyes bounced between his father, standing two steps up on the stairs, Doc, standing at the bottom, and Marty, standing next to the newel post. The musician could only wonder what the eighteen-year-old would've made of the situation had his counterpart had been standing right behind him. He could faintly hear the murmur of the local Marty's voice and Jennifer's from behind the closed French doors that led to the formal living room at the front of the house. Probably still arguing, unless for some odd reason they had come over to go off alone and have a private moment.

Verne, meanwhile, was staring at the pair on the stairs with a mixture of wonder and suspicion. "What happened, Dad?" he asked. "Did you have some kind of cloning accident out in the lab?"

"No, something a bit more complicated than that," Emmett said. "I'll explain it all later. You'd better go in the kitchen. The kids are circling your mother for snacks, and I think it'd be helpful to her if you could take Clayton upstairs and clean him up from dinner."

Verne remained standing just one step into the house, his eyes following the unusual trio as they went up the stairs. Marty glanced at him one more time, over his shoulder, and noticed the Doc-like squinted gaze he was giving them all. Once again, he had to wonder if this whole parallel counterpart business was new to this family.

When Emmett left them out in the hall while he checked the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom, Marty had a bit of a chance to ask. "What did I miss in the kitchen earlier? What's the deal with this world? Is it the same as ours, except for me being a father so soon?"

Doc sighed wearily and leaned against the wall, which was filled with a lot of the same photographs that Marty recognized from his friend's own upstairs hallway. "Well, to begin with, my counterpart -- for better or worse -- never lived through an experience like Doc B, and never had his time machine malfunction and send him to an alternate reality like we experienced last year. So his experience with dimensional counterparts is essentially nil."

"And the DeLorean is still around," Marty said.

The inventor nodded once. "Yes, it seems to be. That trip to the future in 1991 never took place -- though the reasons for that seem to be obvious. I only took you to 2030 because of your illness, so you wouldn't have it through your wedding. The Marty McFly here, however, married Jennifer Parker in 1987. In June, if I remember the words of Emmett."

"June," Marty murmured. "So I -- he -- was eighteen? Or nineteen?"

"Probably nineteen, since your birthday is so close to the beginning of the month. I guess Jennifer discovered she was pregnant that spring and Marty proposed almost immediately. They got married only three months later, as soon as it was possible to make the arrangements. Their son's eighth birthday was yesterday and I understand that tonight's dinner is partially to celebrate that."

The musician winced, imagining what that one change must've done to his life and Jennifer's. That would've been near the end of their freshman year in college. "How could they be that stupid?" he asked, keeping his voice low on the chance that the couple in question was within earshot below.

Doc shrugged. "Different worlds beget different choices," he said. "From the way Emmett spoke about it, I got the impression that the situation was accidental -- perhaps because a birth control method had failed, not due to outright negligence. Jennifer left school after her freshman year and has never really returned -- she works as a secretary in the courthouse downtown. Marty also left college so he could get a job to support his very young family. He's a manager of the music store at the mall, here. Apparently Marty Junior -- or M.J., as everyone calls him, now -- was almost raised in my counterpart's family with Emily; Clara would watch him while Jennifer and Marty worked. Which made for a rather amusing change." Doc smiled faintly. "Guess who Emily now wants to marry?"

Emily had had a crush on Marty from about the time she was a toddler, much to the musician's embarrassment. Now that she was a little older, she wasn't as vocal about it as she had been just a couple of years ago, but.... Suddenly, Marty realized why she had acted differently towards him here. Weird, he thought. That must be how she'd act if she just thought of me as a friend of her family's -- not some guy she wanted to marry. Doc's question wasn't too hard to puzzle out, though.

"My counterpart's son?"

The answer was confirmed with another nod and a rather bemused smile. "It's even more amusing that they will end up together, here," he added in a low voice. "At least according to the checks that Emmett's done in the future."

Marty made a face, trying to digest the far out idea. "Weird," he said. "That'd make us almost like blood relatives, then."

"Essentially."

"So is your counterpart's life pretty much the same as yours, then?"

Before Doc could answer, Emmett met up with them, a small prescription vial in one hand. "Found it," he reported. "A couple of capsules and I think both of you will sleep quite soundly tonight."

The local took them to the bathroom down the hall, shared by Emily and Verne, and provided them each with a paper cup of water to swallow the pills. Doc seemed rather reluctant to participate, but even he knew it was for his own good. Once the deed was done, for better or worse, Emmett took Doc downstairs to find him a place to crash while Marty lingered behind for a few minutes, first to simply slap some water on his tired face, and then to stare at himself in the mirror. He had seen so many slight variations of it in the last day that a part of him didn't buy that the one he was looking at now was his own.

Marty might've stood there all night -- or at least until the sedative kicked in -- if someone hadn't knocked on the door. He reached over and opened it, since there was really no reason for him to be in the bathroom any longer. The local Verne stood outside in the hallway. He jumped back when the door opened, clearly not expecting it.

"Dad sent me up here to see if you were okay," he said. "Are you?"

"I'm fine," Marty said, stepping into the hall. "Did he find a place to have Doc stay?"

Verne nodded. "Jules' room downstairs. He's definitely not using it right now. He's gonna be super pissed when he hears about you guys visiting and how he missed out!" The teenager sounded faintly gleeful at the idea, causing Marty to smile crookedly. The relationship between the two oldest Brown kids didn't seem to have deviated much from the one the musician was familiar with back home. "It doesn't sound like the other Dad is all that happy about getting rest, but our Dad promised him he'd get a closer look at his machine later tonight."

"Good -- hopefully he can help us get home." Marty passed the teenager and headed down the stairs. Verne trailed him eagerly.

"So how'd you guys show up here? Dad said you just sort of dropped in, that something went wrong with your time machine. Something about parallel realities. Are those places that are like here, but not?"

"Um... I guess," Marty said, wishing those questions were directed to Doc, instead. "You guys haven't seen anything like that before?"

"Nope -- until now. Dad doesn't let us to much time traveling. He goes out a couple times a month, I think. Jules thinks he goes into the future to make investments, so he and Mom don't have to work and we don't have to go on welfare, but I think that's kinda devious. I mean, he's told us before about the whole gambling thing when you -- I mean, the Marty we know -- bought the sports almanac to try and save your future. So why would he do some of the same stuff?"

Marty paused at the bottom of the stairs to look at the blond. Doc had gone and done just that for almost a decade... until that counterpart from the alternate world last year had chewed him out hard about it and rankled his conscience enough so that he decided to try to earn money the honest way. Tired as he was, it didn't take Marty much time at all to see why this version of Doc wasn't in that same place.

He never met that other Doc and saw that world, he realized. He never got to see a version of himself be a huge success with something he made, like fusion power. And he never got chewed out or forced to face the guilt from peeking at trends in the future to profit off 'em.

Verne clearly believed in his father's integrity and ability to somehow make an honest living, and somehow this Emmett was able to hide the rather unpretty fact of "borrowing" knowledge from the future from his kids -- though it sounded like Jules was catching on, and Clara probably knew on some level. She had in their world, after all.

Marty definitely didn't want to burst Verne's bubble; in fact, something nagged at him when he thought about what might happen if he told the teen. A quick shiver passed through his blood, and he was left with the vaguely troubling and frustrating feeling that he had almost realized something that was important. But it was gone, and the more he tried to think about it, the harder he found it, in fact, to think. The drugs were starting to kick in; it had been about fifteen minutes since he had ingested them, after all, and on a stomach only partially full from dinner in that place two realities back.

"I dunno, Verne," he muttered in response to the teen's rather rhetorical question. "I really shouldn't be on my feet right now, though, 'cause your dad--"

His words were cut off by the rather noisy arrival of this world's Marty. The local stepped out of the living room and shut the doors behind him with a clearly angry rattle. There was a dark scowl of both irritation and frustration on his face, but the expression faded when he looked up and saw the visitor and Verne standing near the foot of the stairs, a few feet away. "Jennifer," he said simply. "She's being completely unreasonable."

Verne rolled his eyes, something in his attitude telling Marty that this was something he had grown used to a long time ago. "What else is new?" he asked, the faint sarcasm in the statement apparently going unnoticed by the local Marty, who took the question at face value.

"She thinks I need to take this job that her uncle's offered me -- a management position in his office. Oh my God, what does she want, my suicide on her hands? I hate management, and the only reason I'm in it at the music store is for the pay. I want to be a musician, not some guy working in a cubical just to make money for some company. Bad enough that I don't enjoy my job already, but...." The local's voice -- filled with a bitterness that frankly stunned the visiting Marty -- trailed off when he saw that Verne wasn't the only audience to his tirade. "I guess you don't need to be told this stuff," he told the visitor. "You're probably living it, too."

"No," Marty said before he could stop himself. "I'm not. I...." He had to pause, yawning hugely. A faint lightness filled his head, even as his body felt like it was increasing in weight by the moment. Definitely, the pills were kicking in, and hard. "I really should go..."

He got only one step forward before this world's Marty stopped him, grabbing his arm. "What do you mean?" he asked, his eyes searching the visitor's face with a curious urgency. "Doc didn't tell me too much over the phone. Just that some versions of us or something from a different timeline showed up. You look like me... pretty much. But...." His eyes dropped to Marty's arm and the sleeve of his blue sweater. "Your clothes aren't cheap knockoffs or secondhand, are they?"

"No," Marty said, seeing no reason to lie, not when his counterpart could easily check the label sewn in the collar.

"Then what do you do? Do you manage the music store at the mall, too?"

The visitor didn't want to say, knowing with a deep certainty that his counterpart would simply be jealous and frustrated with the answer. Beyond that, he had a more pressing concern -- lying down before he fell down. He was starting to feel seriously dizzy and way too relaxed for someone still on their feet. He realized, for the first time with a sort of vague and detached concern, that Emmett hadn't simply given the visitors over-the-counter sleeping pills. These were prescription strength suckers that would probably put him out for the next twelve hours -- and perhaps regardless if he was lying in a dark room on a bed.

"No," he settled on, "it's something else. I really should go lie down, now--"

The local Marty didn't seem to hear him, or notice the glaze that was beginning to settle over his counterpart's eyes. "What?" he persisted. "I'm just curious, and it can't hurt anything, right?"

It was clear that the local wasn't about to let the visiting Marty go until he got some sort of answer. The musician had to lean against the newel post at the base of the stairs, needing some external support from something, now. "Jen and I don't have any kids, yet," he said, hoping that might be explanation enough for the local. "She--" he yawned again, the room tilting for a second at a weird angle "--she's an anchor for one of the news stations."

Local Marty blinked in surprise at this turn. "She's a newscaster? Jennifer? How'd that happen?"

"She went to college and got a... a degree in broadcast journalism." The visitor was starting to have some serious problems blinking; he didn't want to open his eyes again every time he closed them. Standing was starting to become more of a problem, too; if he wasn't so sure that sitting down would mean he wouldn't be getting up again, any time soon, he would've sunk down to one of the steps. The local seemed oblivious to the problems, but Verne -- standing nearby -- wasn't so blind.

"Are you okay?" he asked anxiously.

"I just need to lie down," Marty muttered. Before I fall down. "G'night you guys...." He let go of the post at the base of the stairs and took a couple of wobbly steps in the direction of the hallway, and the kids' study that had been dictated for his use. He had to stop and lean against the wall when he reached the hallway, feeling too heavy and lightheaded to continue on without some kind of break. The musician let his cheek fall against the smooth plaster and allowed his eyes to close for what he intended was just a second --

And that was the last thing he knew for a while.

Chapter Eleven

Monday, November 13, 1995
7:55 A.M.

As much as Doc hated to admit it, his recent counterparts and Marty had both been more than right. He had needed sleep -- badly. It wasn't so much staying up a full day that had done him in -- it was the emotional and physical stress of the whole situation. Those same stresses had made it virtually impossible for him to relax, but the medication had worked.

When he woke up, the clock on Jules' desk told him it was nearly eight, and he had been out some fourteen hours. He felt a little groggy from the medication, but otherwise much much better. He could think clearly again, finally, for the first time in what felt like days.

Once awake, Doc wasted little time in getting out of bed, not wanting to waste any more time. Someone had visited his room at some point in the night, leaving a change of clothes -- clearly borrowed from his counterpart's closet -- along with a note inviting him to have a shower and wash up. The inventor went to do just that. A shower made him feel even better, and by the time he left the bathroom he was feeling mighty optimistic about the future and their chances of getting home successfully.

Clara was already making the bed in Jules' room when Doc came out. The scientist stopped in the doorway. "You don't have to do that," he said. "I'm quite capable of handling that chore myself."

His counterpart's wife turned at the sound of his voice and smiled warmly. "Oh, don't be silly," she said. "You're our guest while you're here and it's no trouble. Did you sleep well? You look as if you're feeling much better."

"I did and I am. And thanks for the change of clothes -- that was very thoughtful."

"Oh, you're welcome. I can launder yours today, and have them ready for you to have when you leave. Marty just dropped off some things this morning for your friend, when he awakens." Clara waved a hand to a bag that was resting on the trunk at the foot of Jules' bed. "He was still sleeping, last I checked. I think Emmett might've given him too much last night."

"Too much of what? The sedatives? He gave us the same amount...."

Clara nodded, smoothing out the quilt that covered Jules' bed. "Yes, but Marty is a bit... smaller than you are," she said. "He gave us a little scare last night. Did you hear the commotion?"

Doc shook his head. "No, I can't say that I did. I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, as clich� as that might sound. What happened?"

"Well, from what I understand, your Marty didn't make it to bed straightaway. Verne and our Marty were speaking with him at the bottom of the stairs when the drug caught up with him. He gave both of them a turn when he collapsed in the hallway, especially since they couldn't wake him. Emmett heard him hit the floor -- actually, we all did; he knocked a few pictures from the wall and it made enough racket to wake the... well, it didn't wake you, so perhaps it wasn't quite that loud."

Doc felt himself pale with this report. "Was he all right?"

Clara nodded. "Emmett looked him over and it was obvious to him that Marty was simply so exhausted, the sedatives quite literally knocked him off his feet when they reached his system. Emmett had thought he was already in bed at that point, not still up and about."

The inventor nodded once, the explanation sounding perfectly logical to him. He probably would have done the same thing had he been on his feet when the drugs had given him their all. "But he is all right?" he asked again, just to be sure.

"Oh yes. Verne and Emmett carried him to the children's study down the hall and put him to bed. You can take him the clothes if you want to see for yourself."

Doc decided to do just that. As he headed for the room at the end of the hall with the bag, he couldn't help being a little amazed that the home was laid out in the same way his own was -- considering that the kids' study, as well as Clayton's room and Clara's sewing room upstairs, were all additions to the house, made in the months before Clayton's birth. It once more hammered home the idea that some things in life were inevitable or consistent -- even across dimensions.

The inventor cracked open the study door a few inches and peered inside before stepping in. The room was dim, with the blinds closed over the windows. The furniture that Doc could see -- like most of the other things he had seen around the house -- was virtually identical to the same things that were in his own home. These included a shelf of academic books and computer software, a desk with a computer, and a futon that could act as a couch most of the time, but also accommodate any overnight house guests if and when the need arose.

Currently, it was set up to accommodate Marty, sprawled on his stomach across most of the bed, half covered by one of Clara's quilts, and still under the influence of either the sedative or simple exhaustion. At any rate, he didn't so much as bat an eyelash at the soft sound of the hinges, his breathing remaining slow and deep. Doc lingered long enough to set the bag on the computer chair and ease his worries about Marty's health -- by all external appearances, he simply seemed to be sleeping soundly -- before quietly leaving. He was eager to track down his counterpart and see what, if any, progress had been made on the train's diagnosis.

Clara had moved to the kitchen and was already setting a plate down on the table for him when he came in, intending to just pass through to the backyard. "You can spare a moment to eat," she said, stopping him. "My Emmett's already out there looking over your time machine, so you shouldn't feel a need for haste."

"That would be just about impossible," Doc admitted. "We can't linger here too long, especially if this incompatibility condition can't be avoided or postponed when jumping between different worlds." He looked up at the local as he sat down before the food, frowning faintly. "Did Emmett tell you about why he decided to drug us last night?"

Clara nodded. "He explained everything to me -- as well as Marty, Jennifer, and Verne. The smaller children were a bit more baffled by seeing what they thought were twins of their fathers, but I suspect that the true explanations might be beyond their understanding, so we simply tried to answer their questions as basically as we could. Fortunately, today is a school day, so Emily shouldn't be around underfoot. Verne is old enough to be of some help, I think, and he has volunteered to be here this afternoon if you need him. He has a day off from the store."

Doc remembered the three week stay in the other world more than a year ago, how repairing the damaged train was such a tremendous undertaking that everyone older than ten had pitched in. A faint smile turned his lips as he picked up a fork. "Thanks," he said, extremely grateful. "I just hope after all this that we find something.... That's the problem right now -- not getting back home so much as it is just narrowing down what the problem is. I think we've moved beyond the obvious -- or it's simply so obvious that neither Marty or I have seen it."

"Then a fresh set of eyes may be just the thing you need," Clara said cheerfully.

Doc hoped so. He ate as quickly as he could, without being rude, and got outside about fifteen minutes later. Outside, the rain had stopped but the sky remained overcast and the temperature was cold, no higher than the upper thirties. The train was still out and visible, next to the barn, and the inventor headed for that first, noticing that the door was ajar. Inside, he saw that Emmett was crouched on the floor, peering up to examine the underside of some wires near the front of the cab with a powerful flashlight. He was so thoroughly engrossed with the task that he didn't look up or show the slightest reaction to Doc's presence until the newcomer cleared his throat softly.

"You're up," Emmett said after a moment, most of his attention still focused on the wires before him. "Did you sleep?"

"Quite well," Doc said. "I feel a hundred percent better. I didn't realize how tired I was until I woke up this morning."

A hint of a smile tugged at one corner of the local's mouth. "We seem to have that in common, too," he said.

Doc sat down on the edge of the floor, his legs hanging out of the cab, down the stairs, to better converse with his counterpart. "I don't suppose you found anything yet?" he asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

Emmett switched the flashlight off and scooted back out until he could sit fully upright again. "Nope," he said. "I noticed a few differences, however. A lot of the wiring and circuitry seems to be newer than mine."

"Yes," Doc said, not surprised. "I replaced them recently; that was essentially the reason for taking the train out in the first place today -- ah, yesterday I suppose it would be, now. Like I told you earlier, my second time machine isn't a DeLorean anymore; instead, I've got a car that hasn't even been created yet that Marty and I converted to a time machine after we were stuck in the future. So since that machine was fully cutting edge and a bit ahead of the times, I decided to bring the train up to about the same point."

Emmett nodded once. A small frown puckered his brow. "I'm assuming that you've considered that these new circuits might be the cause of the problem?"

The visiting inventor nodded once. "Of course," he said, unoffended by the question. The problem, after all, could be painfully obvious, perhaps to the point of not even being considered. "But I'm afraid that taking it apart unless I have some proof would be dangerous. I ran many many checks on the computer--" He gestured to the laptop, sitting closed on the bench. "--but everything was in the green. It's a sophisticated, sensitive program that I created especially for time circuit diagnostic checks."

Emmett glanced over at the computer with some interest. "Really? I haven't gotten that far yet...."

"I only did fairly recently, and by using a computer that's a couple of years ahead of the times. The plans for the program spun out of that month in the future when we were converting the Aerovette into a time machine. Emily -- well, the Emily of that future -- was the one who recommended it, since I wanted to make sure we had a way of testing some of the circuits and connections out before installing them into the car."

"Can I see it?" Emmett asked.

Doc was only too happy to show the local, hoping that maybe Emmett's unfamiliar eyes would catch something that the visitor had overlooked. He was in the middle of demonstrating one of the checks when Marty finally joined them, fresh from a shower and in the clothes apparently borrowed from his counterpart. Rest had obviously done him as much good as it had Doc; the haunted and slightly panicked look in his eyes was gone, for now.

"Find anything?" were the first words out of his mouth.

"We're working on it," Doc said, glancing away from the computer screen for a moment. "Did you finally get enough sleep?"

Marty nodded, though with a faint, troubled frown. "It's almost more like I passed out," he said. "I can't actually remember going to bed...."

"That's because you didn't," Emmett said without looking up from the computer screen. "You pretty much did pass out, in the hallway outside of the room. It really rattled Verne and my Marty. They didn't know that you had ingested sedatives and that the reaction was actually to be expected, considering your already-present exhaustion. Verne and I moved you to bed and you stayed out the whole time."

The musician winced a little. "I guess that explains the bruises I found.... Sorry about that. I tried to get to bed, but I kept getting delayed."

"It's all right.... What does this mean?"

The question was directed to Doc. The visiting inventor leaned in for a look at the screen, his eyes going to where his counterpart's finger was aimed. "That's a normal reading," he said. "See here how everything's green? An unstable reading is coded in yellow, and one that's completely wrong is red."

Marty leaned into the cab a little as Emmett took another look at the screen. "Anything I can do to move things along?" he asked.

Doc shrugged, completely honest. "Maybe when we know what we're up against," he said. "Did you see anything else you had questions about?" he added to Emmett.

The local shook his head after a moment. "No," he said. "It's almost a pity that I don't have this sort of thing, too. It would be interesting to see if my program got the same results as yours."

"We could tap into your train and check," Doc said. Almost as soon as he spoke, though, he dismissed the idea. "No, that wouldn't work if your software and circuits are different.... It would automatically detect errors, unless I calibrated it differently...."

"And I don't have a way we could tap into the machine that easily," Emmett said, picking up the slender cord that ran from the laptop to the hardware. "I'd have to open up the casing and hardwire something in...."

Doc shook his head. "Don't bother," he said. "Let's check the train again, and see if the problem is something external. Do you have a ladder around?"

* * *

By late afternoon, it was clear that whatever the problem was with the train, it wasn't within the capabilities of this world's Emmett to solve. A thorough examination of the machine's exterior -- including the windows set in the roof of the cab -- yielded no signs of damage. Likewise, the wiring inside and outside the cab looked to be perfectly whole and undamaged. Doc's confusion quickly gave way to frustration, never mind the long night's sleep he'd had. After opening the hard casing over the circuits and wires, conducting a painstaking inventory with Marty's help, and finding everything looking whole and undamaged, he simply couldn't take it anymore.

"Damn!" he hissed, venting his frustration by tossing a screwdriver out the door, to the ground. There was a faint cry a moment later and Doc leaned out of the open door. The tool lay on the grass near the local Verne, who was crouched near one of the train's wheels, checking over the hydraulic system with his father. He gave the visiting inventor a faintly wounded look.

"Your aim is off," Verne said dryly. "Another inch to the left and you would've hit the mark."

Doc smiled weakly. "Sorry," he apologized sincerely. "I didn't intend to cause any damage.... I just can't understand what's wrong with this infernal machine!"

Marty gave a sign and looked away from the exposed coils. "Maybe it's some weird spontaneous malfunction," he said, falling back out of his crouch to sit down on the floor. "A ghost in the machine, or whatever it's called."

"Or it could just be a loose wire," Verne deadpanned from outside, having overheard the musician's words. His father looked away from the wheels to give him a sharp look as Doc sighed.

"If that's the case, then the odds of locating it are about the same as finding a needle in a haystack," he muttered pessimistically.

Emmett stood from the damp grass, where he had been kneeling. "I'm very sorry we can't be of more help," he said, quite apologetic. "I wish we'd had at least one experience like you seem to have had, with alternate realities...."

"No, you don't," Marty said bluntly. "Believe me. It's not half as fun when you're the one who's the outsider." He looked at Doc with a grimace. "Does this mean we're through here? That it's time to go? We've been here almost twenty-five hours, now...."

And no episodes, Doc thought. He couldn't speak for Marty, of course, but he didn't feel anything suspicious. Of course, before the night's sleep, he really wasn't aware of anything beyond the exhaustion. They had been out of their dimension for almost two solid days, though, and if their systems weren't being reset by traveling between worlds, then one of them should have had something happen by now. "We could stay longer if we used one of the local time machines to make a quick jump," he said, looking to his counterpart. "But would there be a reason to stay?"

"I don't know," Emmett said. "I can't think of much else we can do -- can you?"

Doc glanced over at Marty, who was staring at him for the answer. The visiting inventor shook his head after a long moment of consideration. "No, I really can't," he admitted reluctantly. "I think we've done everything we can do here, and since we haven't found anything inherently wrong...."

The musician exhaled loudly, looking angry. "Of course," Doc heard him mutter under his breath. He got to his feet and looked out of one of the windows, at the treeline behind the barn, clearly simmering. Whether or not he was angry at their general predicament, or the inventor's diagnosis of their situation, wasn't clear. Doc had a feeling it was probably the former; he, after all, was already feeling pretty much the same about that.

Emmett nodded his agreement, though not without a touch of reluctance. "It's probably the wisest move," he said. "You might wish to postpone your departure until after dinner, though. Might as well leave with a full stomach, since you don't know what you'll face next."

Doc looked at the exposed wires and circuits in the cab. "It might take us about that long to clean everything up and prepare for departure," he said. He started to replace the hard casing around the sensitive electronics, Marty joining in after a moment.

"Do you think it's possible at all that maybe things would work, now?" the musician asked. "Like maybe the problem was something like the casing wasn't all the way over the circuits?"

Doc's mouth twisted to one side as he considered the possibility. "Doubtful," he said. "But I suppose it's not impossible."

"I figured." Marty couldn't keep from scowling as he braced one of the panels with one hand and slipped the proper screw in the hole with the other. "We're never gonna get out of this mess."

What little optimism Marty might've gained from a night's rest was clearly long gone by now. "We've got to give it time," Doc said softly.

"Time!" The musician snorted softly. "That's the one thing we don't have a lot of, remember? We could be stuck forever until -- dammit! I hate these screws!"

A second after the exclamation came the metallic sound as said part clattered to the floor of the train. The musician reached out to find it with one hand while he held the casing with the other.

"We'll find home again," the inventor said, as much for himself as Marty. "We'll find someone who has everything we need if we keep trying."

"And what do we need? Someone to tell us what the hell is wrong with this stupid train? Or someone to fix it? Or both? Or what if we can only find one and not the other?"

Doc gave his panel a quick bang with the palm of his hand, settling it back into place. "As I've said before, discovering the problem will be half the solution," he said. "We need to find someone with experience in alternate dimensions, and possibly more sophisticated diagnostic technology."

"So what does that mean? Do you think the problem's electronic?"

The scientist massaged his forehead with the heel of one hand. "I don't know," he said honestly. "It shouldn't be, not if the computer isn't detecting it, but I can't rule it out. We've all but determined that whatever it is that's befallen the machine isn't due to what happened to provoke this sort of traveling the other times. No history has been altered. The flux capacitor is whole. We haven't been struck by lightning, and no doors or windows are ajar. Unless we're completely blind to it, it's something new that we haven't come across before."

"Well, that's just peachy," was Marty's rather bitter response.

* * *

Dinner with the local Browns wasn't too different from the family dinners that Doc was used to having in his own time. The largest difference was Emily's perpetual staring, particularly at the visiting inventor. Doc couldn't blame the girl; considering this family wasn't used to alternate realities or counterparts, he was rather surprised Emily was the only one swallowing the whole idea with any trouble. He had to wonder what this world's Jules would have made of the matter, but the boy was away at school, earning a PhD in physics at UCLA. Med school, apparently, was not a goal of this world's Jules, though Doc suspected the reasons for this were due more to that trip to the future in 1991 never taking place. It was a pity that he couldn't see the local Jules himself and ask about it, but it really wouldn't make much of a difference.

After the meal concluded, the visitors changed out of their borrowed clothes and into the freshly washed ones that they had arrived in. Clara gave them a bag of snack food, on the chance that they might be stuck in limbo for a while again. Doc appreciated the gesture but, by the look on Marty's face, the inventor could tell that his friend didn't share quite the same sentiment.

"It's like they know we're screwed," he said once they were in the cab, preparing for take off. "They're basically telling us how sure they are that we'll ever make it back."

"Marty...." Doc began, allowing his tone to communicate his belief on that matter, as the bulk of his attention was focused on bringing the train back up to full power.

"If they thought we'd get home anytime soon, why would they give us anything for our so-called trip?" was Marty's dark question.

"You're reading far too much into this. It's simply a kind, hospitable gesture. And, anyway, just because I bring along an emergency medical kit when we go on these trips doesn't mean I think we'll run into some life-threatening problem on every outing. It's the same sort of thing."

"Whatever." It was clear that Marty wasn't buying it. He stalked around the cab a couple of times, restless, while Doc finished his work up front. The scientist hesitated as he looked at the destination time, wondering if he wanted to change it from November 12, 1995 at 3 P.M., then let it be. If, by some miracle, they made it home next, he didn't want to frighten his family and Marty's by having them arrive a full day after their departure. November 12th was starting to haunt him, though. It was almost like that film that had come out a couple of years back, Groundhog Day, where the main character had to relive the same day over and over and over until--

"Are we staying or going?" Marty asked, cranky, when Doc made no move to leave. The sound of his voice broke the inventor's reverie and he glanced at the musician over his shoulder, a little irritated by his attitude.

"Going," he said shortly. "You'd better sit down or hold onto something. This could be a bumpy ride."

Marty rolled his eyes. "It can't get much bumpier than it has already."

Chapter Twelve

Sunday, November 12, 1995
3:16 P.M.

"Where the hell is Jefferson Street? I don't think I've ever heard of it...."

"I'm not familiar with it, myself. Let me see what the page says.... Oh! That would explain it.... It's in Elmdale, not Hill Valley."

Marty squinted at Doc, then looked back down at the phonebook squished between them. "Elmdale," he muttered aloud. "You live in Elmdale, here?"

Doc checked the heading at the top of the page again and nodded once. "Apparently so," he said. "And on 1521 southwest Jefferson Street. Interesting."

Marty ran his thumb down the side of the book's pages, frowning as he noticed something. "No," he said. "What's interesting is that Elmdale's section looks like it's bigger than Hill Valley, now. Check it out -- there are way more pages for them than us!"

As Doc took the book from his hands to have a closer look, the musician stepped out of the cramped, stuffy phone booth. Outside, he took a deep breath of the crisp, damp air, staring out at the sheets of rain coming down, his hands shoved in his pockets. Once again, they weren't back home. Doc's place on Elmdale Lane was once more an empty, abandoned building. It seemed to be a testament to the scientist's increasing frustration or desperation that he had opted to take the train directly to the closed gas station and the public telephone, rather than landing it somewhere else and having them hike out to it. Marty certainly wasn't complaining; his clothes were completely dry for the first time in what felt like days.

He wandered a few steps away from the phone where Doc was engaged with the book, staying under the covered area that protected the gas pumps and customers from the elements. Marty's mood since getting up that morning had been far from pleasant. Maybe it was the dreams he'd had the night before -- nightmares, really. That had been worse than the insomnia, in his opinion. And maybe he had slept solidly the night before, but maybe the same drugs that knocked him out had made it impossible for him to escape from the freaky dreams.

Marty couldn't really remember much about them, now, except the last one. He'd been strapped in the DeLorean again, returning from 1885 by being pushed by that train. The diesel had been gunning straight for him, he'd tried to get out.... and couldn't! The doors wouldn't open; the seatbelt wouldn't unbuckle. Everything that could possibly be wrong and go wrong did. Just when he was about to be run over, he had woken up, his heart thudding so loud in his ears that, for a few confused, bleary seconds, he'd thought it was the approach of a real train.

The day had sort of gone downhill from there. Things were bad enough without the memory of that dream dogging him, as well as the memory of Doc's confession that he had planned, on purpose, to have the diesel engine smash the first DeLorean. The more he thought about the dream, the more he thought about Doc's past action, and the more hurt, confused -- and even angry -- he became. The stress and uncertainty was only serving to make him more wound up.

And so he walked around a little outside the gas station, taking deep breaths of the late fall air, and trying to clear his mind enough so that the only thing he was aware of was the sound of the raindrops. It worked only marginally well.

Doc came out of the phone booth after a few minutes, clutching a couple of sheets torn from the book in one hand. "I've tracked down addresses for both of us," he announced. "Apparently we both live in Elmdale; it seems that that was the town that grew, not Hill Valley. Probably some small difference in the past that snowballed, like changing the county seat."

Marty headed over to his friend's side, curious in spite of everything. "Where do I live?" he asked. "Anywhere you recognize?"

Doc shook his head. "No -- but as I mentioned before, it's in Elmdale, too."

The musician took the phonebook pages from the inventor's hand and looked at the address of his local self. "2115 northwest Farmington Avenue," he muttered under his breath. "I dunno where that is, either. Did you find a map?"

Doc nodded as he headed back to the train, temporarily disguised as a big rig truck. "I got one from the back of the book," he said. "Do you suppose we should stop by my house, first?"

"Hell, yeah. I doubt any version of me would be able to help us out. We'd just be wasting our time -- and any curiosity I've got about what came of me in all of these worlds is long, long gone."

Doc turned to look at him as he was about to step back into the train. "Are you all right?" he asked, out of the blue. "You seem a little upset...."

"I'm fine," Marty said, though he was unable to keep the edge from his voice. "I just wanna get back home before I'm completely out of synch with the times."

The inventor swallowed that without further question. Since it was about half of the truth, Marty didn't feel bad for not telling him the real deal. It was neither the time nor the place for any sort of confrontation about a matter that Doc likely felt was settled. Anyway, maybe later, whenever he got to sleep again without any bad dreams, he'd feel better....

It took a bit of circling around in the air before Doc got a vague idea as to the location of his current counterpart's home. Marty hung back from the windows at first, then contributed to the search when several minutes passed with no luck. "Do you know what any of those streets are?" he asked.

"The four-lane highway below us is the main drag that runs right through the center of Hill Valley and Elmdale," Doc said. "Jefferson Street is located right off of it, past fifth avenue, if the map is accurate. And fifth avenue is supposed to be right next to a city park...."

The park was spotted a moment later. It wasn't much to look at, in Marty's opinion -- a set of swings, a slide, and a sandbox that looked like it was full of mud on a day like this. But it oriented their position, and a few minutes later Doc was hovering above Jefferson Street, frowning.

"I would wager that's my house," he said, tapping a finger against the glass as he indicated the ancient-looking, dilapidated three story Victorian mansion set back from the road. A couple of cheapie strip malls and fast foot places surrounded it, making the private home look even older and more out of place.

"It's almost like your old place on JFK," Marty commented. "Except this one isn't just a garage and it looks a lot older."

"I suppose so. Interesting." He didn't immediately start a descent, though, and after a minute Marty felt justified to ask.

"What's the hold up? Do you think that the address isn't right?"

"No," Doc said. "I've just got to wonder if anyone's even home. I don't see any lights on in the building...."

"They could have curtains or blinds on the windows.... And, anyway, it's the middle of the day! Maybe the other you has more money worries with electricity.... We won't know unless we check it out, right?"

The inventor grunted vaguely, though he did finally reach for the controls and begin a careful descent to the narrow, potholed driveway that ran alongside the home, to a separate garage at the back. Based on how old and run down it looked, Marty guessed that the garage had actually been used for storing carriages, back in the day; the home had to be at least a hundred years old. His own home with Jennifer had been built in 1889, and he had gotten pretty good at recognizing architecture from around that time, since Jennifer had wanted to maintain it as accurately as possible. The style of this place was similar to his own home -- except the latter was in far better repair and restoration.

Once the machine was on the ground, Doc switched it's invisible image to that of the RV that he had used in one of the first alternate worlds. "Why are you letting it be seen?" Marty wondered as they prepared to make a run from the cab to the porch of the old home.

"Better to have it be seen as something, so no one drives right into it," was Doc's logical response. "We are on a driveway, after all." He paused a moment, looking out through the open door at the rain. "Let's go surprise myself, now."

The two visitors ran the brief distance between the train and the covered porch. Marty was a half step behind Doc, as the scientist's stride was longer than his. Because he had his head down, both to keep the rain from blowing into his eyes and to see where his feet were going, he almost collided right into Doc on the porch. Catching himself just in time, the musician snapped his head up to see what it was that had caused his friend to stop so dead sudden.

The inventor's eyes were locked on a piece of bright fluorescent paper that was nailed to the front of the door. "No Trespassing" it read, with a lot of smaller, legalese print below it. After a moment of quiet study, Doc reached out and tried the knob. It didn't budge.

"Is this the right address?" Marty asked, looking around for a posted house number.

"I think so," Doc said. "But I suppose it's possible that this could be the wrong house." He let go of the knob and walked over to one of the windows, trying to peer in. Curtains were hugging the glass tightly, making it impossible to see anything inside.

"We should double check, then," Marty said, casting a distasteful eye to the dampness beyond the porch.

"Go ahead," Doc said, preoccupied with the concealed windows. "I think I spotted a mailbox at the end of the drive as we came down."

Marty made a face at the task but, wanting to get somewhere ASAP so they could move on to whatever was next, he gave in and ran out into the downpour. He paused long enough on the sidewalk to examine the rusting mailbox, then returned to the dry porch with his report.

"This should be the place," he said breathlessly. "1521's on the box, and so is 'E.L. Brown.'"

"Interesting, then," Doc said, his recent overuse of that particular word getting inexplicably on Marty's nerves. He turned abruptly away from the house. "Let's see what your other self has to say about this. If my counterpart moved recently enough that the change wasn't in the phonebook, he would probably know how to get in touch with him."

The musician wasn't overjoyed with the idea, not in the mood to see yet another miserable, bitter, or unsuccessful version of himself up close and personal. "If you really think we need to," he muttered. The inventor didn't seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm, already trotting back to the concealed train.

Marty had hoped that maybe his counterpart's house might be too hard to find from the air. Unfortunately, Doc seemed to be getting a feel for the arial navigation; it took only about ten minutes before he located Farmington Avenue and settled before a modest one story home, probably built in the 1970's. A red Camero z-28 was parked in the driveway, so someone was obviously home. The "McFly" on the mailbox left no doubt as to the identity of the owners. After reestablishing the RV image, Doc left the train, and Marty saw no reason or logic in remaining behind.

"Maybe it'd be better if he saw you first," he suggested softly as they went briskly up the walk to the front door, dodging raindrops. "You can ease into the news that you're not the Doc he knows."

"That sounds fine," the scientist agreed. "Why don't you stand next to the wall; he shouldn't see you there."

Marty did just that, leaning against the siding next to the doorknob. Unless his other self ducked outside, he'd remain out of sight. Doc knocked firmly, and a minute or two later a set of footsteps made its way to answer the door.

Because of the way Marty was standing, he didn't see quite what happened. All he knew was betrayed by the sounds: the door opened, there was a moment of silence where Doc said, "Hello, Marty," then came a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a thud that shook the ground. The musician's head was peering around the doorjamb before he could stop himself, and his eyes darted down to see the local version of himself lying on the floor of his home, out cold from what was probably a hell of a faint.

"Great," he muttered under his breath. He looked over at Doc, who was staring down at Local Marty with an odd, crooked frown. "I thought I was outta sight.... Maybe we should just cut our losses now and move on."

The inventor looked up at him after a moment. "I'd like some answers, first," he said, stepping inside the house uninvited. Marty hung back a moment, then followed. "Why don't you go into the bathroom and see if you can find smelling salts or ammonia?"

The musician opened his mouth to suggest to Doc that maybe he might be better off looking for those things himself, then closed it when he realized that if his other self happened to wake up before then, he might really freak out if he saw his very own face hovering above his own. "What if I run into someone?" he asked.

Doc glanced at him as he knelt down to take unconscious Marty's pulse. "There was no name paired with yours in the phone book," he said, "and he's not wearing a wedding band." The inventor held up the limp left hand of his counterpart to illustrate this point. "And I think if you were living with any roommates, they might have come running by now."

Marty blinked in surprise at the revelation. He hadn't even noticed that particular detail when he'd looked at his phone book page. "Oh," he said softly. He headed off on the appointed errand, then, making his way to the hallway that presumably led to the bedrooms and the bathrooms. In spite of the weirdness of the situation, Marty couldn't resist poking his head in the rooms as he went down the hall, suddenly curious about his other self's seeming bachelor life.

The first room he came to, a small bedroom, was filled with a lot of odds and ends -- boxes, what looked like some broken furniture, spare bedding, etc. The second was set up like an office, with a desk, computer, and a couple of pieces of music equipment. It was in a style Marty recognized well as his own so-called method of organization; messy on the surface, but with an actual rhyme and reason underneath.

The master bedroom, though, was what confirmed his counterpart's single status. As he went inside it, heading for the master bathroom, Marty couldn't help noticing the total absence of anything remotely feminine in the room. No jewelry. No articles of women's clothes. No color coordinated pillows or throws. The walls had some guitar and music ads tastefully framed and mounted, and the bed was hastily made at best. The room wouldn't look quite like this if he had Jennifer in his life -- or some other woman, perhaps.

Inside the slightly messy master bathroom, Marty searched through the medicine cabinet and the other cabinets without much luck. Tylenol, Tums, Pepto Bismol, mouthwash, toothpaste, razors, a few mysterious bottles of prescription drugs that were woefully expired and out of date.... But no smelling salts. Typical; he wasn't sure if he had any back at his own house.

Marty left the bathroom and headed towards the kitchen that he suspected was at the other end of the house; the layout of this place was fairly typical of most single-level homes that he had been in, including his parents' place at Lyon Estates. His path took him past Doc again, who was still kneeling next to the rightful owner of the dwelling.

"Any luck?" both men asked each other, simultaneously. They started to talk over one another, then both paused. Marty tried again.

"I can't find any smelling salts, but there might be some ammonia in the kitchen. Is he okay?" He indicated the still form on the floor.

"I think so," Doc said, though there was something on his face that made Marty wonder if he was being fibbed to. "I haven't had any luck in reviving him, though.... He didn't even react when I checked under his eyelids. You're quite stubborn when you're unconscious, no matter what dimension we're in."

The musician smiled humorlessly. "Work hard, crash hard," he quipped, then went on with his mission to the kitchen. The place needed a bit of housekeeping -- there were crumbs on the counter and dirty dishes stacked in the sink -- but Marty was so far impressed with his other self's housekeeping skills. He'd never had the chance to live alone; he'd moved out of his parents' house the same week he was married. He usually did a good job of cleaning up after himself before marriage by being nagged, and after out of a courtesy for Jennifer.

I wonder what happened so we didn't get married? he thought, rather wistfully, as he knelt down before the cabinets under the kitchen sink. It was habitually where he kept cleaning supplies, and his other self apparently had the same tendency; he was greeted with a small selection of cleaning chemicals and soaps. Marty looked through them quickly, finally spotting a small bottle of ammonia near the back. It was covered in a sticky layer of dust and looked like it hadn't ever been opened. He snagged it, stood up, and headed out of the kitchen.

Marty cut through the dining room on his way back to the foyer. He noticed a couple of newspapers piled neatly on a small desk near a window as he passed through the room, the one on top folded to a page in the middle, and curiosity caused him to pause a moment to check out the headlines. Maybe there'd be some clue there as to what this world was like. His eyes darted over the main headline on the page without any thought -- and he then froze. The bottle of ammonia slipped from his hands and crashed to the carpet, making a heavy thump but not breaking out of the plastic container.

"Marty?" Doc's voice rang out a second later. "Are you all right?"

Marty opened his mouth to answer, but his voice wouldn't quite come. His eyes were glued to the headline in both disbelief and horror. "Local scientist, Emmett Brown, found dead at age 70," it read. Under the headline was a small black and white photo of Doc, about twenty years out of date, probably taken when he worked for the university. Marty's gaze sought out the date at the top of the paper. Sunday, October 1, 1995.

"Jesus," the musician whispered, the word more like a prayer than a curse. He picked up the newspaper and, after a moment of hesitation, continued to the front door and the waiting Doc. The scientist was half on his feet, obviously worried. His expression softened only a little at the sight of Marty coming back.

"Did you drop something?" he asked.

"What?" Only then did he realize he hadn't picked up the ammonia again. "Uh, yeah.... Doc, I think I know why your house was locked up. Look at this."

Marty handed his friend the newspaper a little reluctantly, hoping that the Doc wasn't going to react with a fainting spell of his own. The inventor took it, saw the headline, and grimaced. But he didn't start screaming or shaking. He simply sighed once, deeply.

"I'm not entirely surprised," he muttered. "I wondered how long it would be before we found a world where I had died...."

Marty stepped over for a closer look at the paper, having avoided reading anything beyond the headline. "It says you're 70," he said. "Not 75."

It took Doc a minute to respond; his eyes were scanning the copy. "Indeed," he said eventually. "I was apparently born on June 20, 1925 in this world. A strange discrepancy, considering I look the same, if this photograph is any indication." He lapsed into silence again.

"Does it say how you died?" Marty asked, the morbid question out before he could stop it.

"According to this, it's under investigation, with an autopsy being performed," Doc said, lowering the article. "But I died at home, apparently. I...." His voice trailed off as his eyes touched on the local Marty. "We should leave."

The announcement was made so abruptly that the musician didn't understand it at first. "You mean leave the house? Now? Just like that? I thought you wanted to grill my other self about things...."

The look Doc gave him was tinged with sympathy. "Marty, how would you feel if you answered a knock at the door and saw what appeared to be your dead friend standing there?" he asked.

The musician understood in a flash after that. He winced, knowing then why his other self had screamed and fainted. "Right," he murmured. "That'd be... bad."

Doc knelt down and took hold of the local Marty under the arms. "Get his feet and help me move him to the couch," he said. "Hopefully when he wakes up, he'll think he just fell asleep and dreamed this whole incident."

The moving of his unconscious counterpart went fine, but while Marty was turning on the TV, and Doc was draping a blanket over the local Marty -- small touches to convince him when he woke that he had just dozed off for an unanticipated nap -- the twenty-seven-year-old abruptly opened his eyes. Doc's face was bent down right over his; there was nowhere to hide.

Local Marty blinked once, gasped, and drew back. Then he seemed to change his mind and sat up, clamping down one hand on the inventor's arm. The grip had to have been tight; the visiting Marty saw his friend wince a little.

"Doc!" the local cried. "Doc! Oh my God, you're real! You're not a ghost! You're not dead!"

Marty wondered how the inventor was going to handle this one. His own presence hadn't yet been detected and he stood still near the TV, remaining quiet. Doc gave the local a slight smile that bore a closer resemblance to a grimace.

"I'm not that Doc, Marty," he said gently. "I'm a version of Emmett Brown from another, different dimension. A different world, if you will."

The local Marty either didn't get it, or didn't want to believe it. "No, you're Doc," he insisted, still tightly clutching the inventor's arm, as if the visitor was a lifeline. "And you're alive! There's no other way, unless...." His brow crinkled. "Are you some past version of him? From before? You look younger than he did when I... the last time I saw him."

"From before what?" Doc asked, sitting down on the edge of the couch, finally.

"Before you destroyed the time machine," Local Marty answered. The visiting Marty flinched, the words giving him an instant flashback to both his nightmare and the reality of Doc's method of DeLorean destruction more than ten years back. "I didn't think it got used that much, but maybe you didn't tell me everything."

The visiting Marty could tell that Doc wanted a few more details on that matter, but it was not quite the time, yet, for questions. Not with Local Marty still in clear denial about who he was speaking with. "I'm not," the scientist said. "I'm not a past version of this world's Emmett dropping in for a visit. Look at me, Marty, and look hard. Do you sincerely believe that I am who you think I am?"

Local Marty stared Doc dead in the eyes for a moment, then allowed his gaze to drift over his whole face, and the clothes he wore. His mouth twitched after a moment of scrutiny and he suddenly looked down at his lap. "I found him," he said quietly, completely out of the blue. "I found him, you know."

The musician blanched at this particular detail, suddenly much more empathetic to his counterpart's behavior. "Oh God," he murmured, his mind running off on the hideousness of that idea before he could stop himself. Doc glanced over at him for a moment, but Local Marty seemed temporarily oblivious to his immediate surroundings, his eyes closed in an expression of almost physical pain.

"I hadn't heard from him for a few days, and I got worried, especially since he wasn't answering the phone. I mean, he was getting up there, age-wise, and since Einstein died a couple of years ago, he's been kind of lonely. So I went over there and let myself in and he was in the kitchen. The doctor said that it was a massive stroke and that he was dead before he knew what hit 'im. Probably died on Tuesday morning -- it looked like he was making breakfast when... it happened -- and I found him Saturday morning. It... it wasn't pretty. There was this smell in the house when I went in and I knew right away that something bad had--"

"Stop," the visiting Marty had to say, calling attention to himself for the first time since their arrival. The mental images that the words of his counterpart were painting in his head turned his stomach and his soul. He didn't like to think of Doc's death in even abstract ways; this was making it seem far too real.

Local Marty's eyes flew open in surprise at the sound of his own voice. He turned his head towards his counterpart and they widened minutely. "Shit..." he breathed, immediately awed -- and a believer at the circumstances. "Is that... that's me?"

"Your counterpart from my dimension, yes," Doc said. "We came to you because we thought you might be able to help us with our problem, but I can see now that really won't happen." When the local looked at him in surprised, he elaborated hesitantly. "We were hoping to speak with my counterpart, but that won't be possible, now, will it?"

"No... no it won't," the local murmured, immediately glum. "What did you need help with?"

Doc looked at his Marty, and the musician could see he was really reluctant to stay and talk. He shrugged at the look, not comfortable here, but knowing that his other self would likely treasure this day for the rest of his life. On some level he probably felt that this was his best friend, mysteriously resurrected from the grave. Spending a few minutes wouldn't hurt anything, probably....

At that thought, Marty suddenly frowned, feeling a touch of deja vu. He felt like he had thought something like this before, had forgotten, and now he had just touched on it again. As he wracked his brain, trying to trace his thoughts back, Doc started to explain their situation to the local. He took care to tell things very simplistically, probably figuring that Local Marty -- especially this version -- wasn't overly familiar with the idea of alternate or parallel dimensions. He seemed to have a rapt audience; the local interrupted only a few times to ask some questions. When he had concluded, the local let out a wistful sigh.

"I wish I could help you," he said. "Or go with you. There's really nothing for me here...."

"You can't do that," Doc said flatly. Seeing the stung expression that passed over Local Marty's face, he hastened to add, "You wouldn't survive. Persons outside of their home dimensions experience a breakdown on their cellular and biological levels over time. They aren't compatible with the subatomic harmonies; each dimension appears to have it's own unique frequency and pattern of sorts. If Marty and I stayed here for about two days, we would start to have seizures, which would increase in strength and frequency until we died from them. This is why it's imperative that we find our way back home again."

The local audibly gulped at this news. "Heavy," he said. "Is there any way around that?"

"There are things we can to do to postpone the effects. For some reason, it appears the act of temporal transition can 'reset' one's system. But I don't know of any cure for this condition, except for returning back to the world where one originated from. Besides," Doc went on, "if you came with us, it would cause a lot of grief for us -- and you -- to have you in our world. People would wonder about Marty having a so-called long lost twin. You would miss your family and friends; things like that can vary widely from place to place."

Local Marty frowned. "It wouldn't be a huge sacrifice on my part," he said. "Not with Doc dead, now. And my family's always kind of creeped me out since that big change ten years ago, when I changed things in '55. After I drove back from the nuclear blast in Nevada--"

"Again with the nuclear blast?" visiting Marty couldn't help remarking, amazed. "That's so weird...."

"Not entirely," Doc said. "It's a perfectly logical source of power for the time machine if a lightning bolt hadn't been in the offering. That's what we used," he added to the local. "But we also had our homes in Hill Valley, not Elmdale."

"Hill Valley? Wow. That's a one or two gas station town you only might stop in on the way to the interstate."

Remembering what his counterpart said a moment before, Marty couldn't resist asking the question that had bothered him since they had arrived at the home. "Don't you have a girlfriend you don't want to leave behind?"

The local looked at him with surprise -- either by the boldness of the question or how completely out of the blue it was. "No," he said. "Not right now."

"So you and Jennifer Parker never dated?" Marty asked, pressing for more information.

"Marty," Doc said, that warning note in his voice. The musician ignored it, for now.

"No," the local said, frowning. "I dated a Suzy Parker in high school, but we broke up a few months after graduation. She went away to college and I stayed here." He shrugged, unconcerned. "I just haven't met the right person, I guess.... When Doc took me to the future about ten years ago, I had kids that he told me I needed to help him out with, but he didn't let me see anything about how old they were or who their mom was. I know they're in elementary school by 2015, and that's about it."

Marty blinked at these changes but kept his mouth shut, partially from the inventor's firm look of warning but mostly because it was something that really didn't matter, right now.

"Can I see the time machine?" Local Marty asked hopefully. "I know it's a long shot, but maybe there's something I could help you with...."

The musician expected a flat no to this, so he was stunned by Doc's, "All right," that came instead. "I suppose it can't hurt much," the inventor added.

A few minutes later, then, they were back outside with the local Marty. Doc went into the machine and dropped the illusion for just a moment, allowing Local Marty a quick gawk, then took him inside the cab for a very quick tour. Things seemed to be going well, until Doc finally announced their intent to leave. Local Marty, who was clearly stalling by asking as many questions as he could, nodded and headed for the stairs -- then suddenly stopped and stood next to the time circuits.

"Let me go with you," he said, the plea clear in his voice.

The musician looked up in surprise at the request, his eyes flying to Doc. The scientist appeared completely unruffled, as if he had been expecting this very question.

"I can't," he said. "It's far too detrimental to your health.... I know you're going through a tough time now, Marty, but it should pass. I wouldn't want to see my Marty moping about after my death; life goes on, and you must, too."

"Then let me go back," the local said, reaching out to grip one of the pipes at the front of the cab. "Take me back so I can make sure Doc doesn't die. There's gotta be a way."

Visiting Marty lowered his eyes to the train's floor, finding the expression of desperation and grief on his other self's face too upsetting to see any longer. Doc's voice was pitched to one of utmost calm.

"I can't," he said. "This time machine isn't working properly now -- that's why Marty and I can't go home. We can't travel backwards or forwards in any dimension; we would simply appear in a new one at a the input year."

"So?" There was a new note to the local's voice, a challenging one. Marty looked up again. There was a firm set to his counterpart's jaw that he recognized clearly from his own face when his mind was made up. This is gonna get sticky, he suddenly realized.

Doc apparently thought so, too. He turned around and headed for the back of the cab, for no immediate apparent reason. Marty glanced at him as he knelt down to access what looked like a small, silver suitcase strapped under the seats at the back, then looked back up to his counterpart.

"You've gotta do something," Local Marty pleaded. "Please, Doc. Don't leave me behind like this. Why'd you even show up if you're not gonna help me out?"

"It wasn't done on purpose," Doc said, rummaging around in what was no doubt the silver suitcase. "If I knew about the fate of my other self, than I wouldn't have dared to look you up and put you through this."

Local Marty frowned, then turned suddenly and started to mess with the keyboard that would input their next destination. The musician took a step forward, immediately alarmed, but Doc's reaction was impressively quicker. He popped up to his feet, turned around, and covered the distance from the back to the front of the cab in just two long, quick strides.

Before Marty -- either of them, really -- could track what was happening, Doc took the visitor's arm, turned him around, and held something small up before his face. There was an erratic flash of light, then Local Marty's eyes rolled back and he started to sag to the ground. The inventor caught him with one arm, enough to save the guy from a hard, painful landing on either the metal floor or the boiler system and delicate gizmos at the front, then lowered him to the floor. The entire thing happened in less than thirty seconds.

"What'd you do?" Marty asked, shocked enough to be completely confused.

"Sleep inducer," Doc said, holding up the compact device in one hand while staring down at the local. "It came with a new first-aid kit I picked up a few months ago in the future, when I was getting parts for the time circuit update. This should keep him out for at least three hours."

Marty stepped forward and leaned over for a look at his counterpart. "What do you plan to do, now?"

"Put him in bed and hope to God that he thinks this whole thing was a dream. Maybe he will; the entire concept is rather fantastic, and if we leave no evidence to suggest otherwise.... At any rate, this time he should remain out long enough for us to take our leave." Doc frowned as he knelt down to check the local's pulse. "I'm glad I thought of this. Cracking him on the skull would've been too risky."

"Would you actually do that?" Marty asked, surprised in spite of everything.

Doc sighed, the sound weary. "Not willingly," he said. "But he had an agenda of some kind, and damned if I'm gonna let him risk our lives and the machine by playing around with it out of some anger or frustration. Maybe we should be more careful with who we allow into the cab, now. Even if someone looks like us, it doesn't mean that they will behave like us."

Marty's mind immediately flashed to Doc's disturbed counterpart from an alternate world, a mess nearly a decade back, and nodded emphatically in agreement. "Definitely. Do you want me to help you haul him into the house?"

"It'd be better than me doing it by myself."

Once more, the visitors went out into the rain, this time carrying the deeply sleeping Marty between them. They took him as far as the couch, rather than the bed, since the musician pointed out it'd be far more likely if he opted to take a nap there in the middle of the day than in bed in his room. As the couch was much closer to the front door than the master bedroom, Doc offered no argument to this logic. They left the TV on and the lights off to complete the proper illusion.

Marty felt relief the moment he and the inventor had left the home. It was as if the building itself was giving off depressing vibes from the memories of his local counterpart. Still, he couldn't stop himself from glancing over his shoulder one more time as they climbed back into the train.

"He seemed pretty strung out," he said, of his counterpart. "Not that I blame him.... Do you think he'll buy this was all a dream?"

Doc didn't answer until he had closed the door between them and the wet outside world. "For his sake, I hope so."

Chapter Thirteen

Sunday, November 12, 1995
3:11 P.M.

On their next try, the world seemed to be back to normal -- but the illusion was shattered the moment they landed the train in the back of the Brown property and went up to the house once more. Whatever optimism Doc had when he woke that morning was already long used up, so the surprise didn't strike him to the core. Marty, too, hardly blinked an eye when the back door was opened by an oddly young Jules. Doc wondered what it was that had made his oldest son appear to only be about thirteen -- not closing in on twenty as he was back home.

"Why'd you knock, Dad?" the teen asked, frowning. "Forget your key?"

The scientist hoped that was simply one of his son's sarcastic statements, so prevalent during his teen years. If it meant other things, like he and Clara being separated.... That was another possibility he supposed could be out there somewhere, in some form, but he really hoped he wouldn't have to see it. Of course, he'd felt the same about his death and look what happened, there. "Where's your mother?" he asked, hoping that might give him the answer.

"She took Verne to the mall 'cause he needed some new shoes for soccer -- remember? And then she was gonna hit the store to get food for the dinner tonight." The dark eyes shifted to Marty, standing a couple of steps behind the inventor. "What are you doing here now? I thought you and Jennifer weren't coming 'til five or six?"

While Marty offered some mumbled, vague answer, Doc took a moment to really study his son. His manner of speaking was much more casual than his Jules' was when he was that age. Likewise, this Jules' appearance seemed to be more ragged -- his hair was a little longer, he was wearing baggy jeans and a loose, untucked T-shirt with the phrase, "Whatever...." scrawled across it and.... Doc leaned forward and squinted a little, unable to believe his eyes. Was that actually an earring in his son's left ear?!

Jules seemed to get bored awfully quick at exchanging small talk. Once Marty had finished speaking, he nodded once, then drifted away from the door. "Mom said not to touch the pie on the counter," he said, then left the kitchen.

"Where is the other you supposed to be now?" Marty asked as they went inside. Doc wasn't entirely comfortable doing that, but it was pretty nasty outside, and he really didn't want to sit out in the train for an indefinite amount of time. The moment he set foot in the kitchen,he knew it wasn't home. The place had a different feel to it, but he couldn't immediately put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the subtle changes in decoration; the wallpaper was more contemporary, not so much Victorian as 1980s. Or the furniture, which was an entirely different style than the stuff in Doc's home.

"I don't know," Doc answered as he looked around, curious. "In the lab, I suppose.... That seems to be a rather consistent fact when this place actually is my home." He headed over to the refrigerator which, back at his home, was covered with artwork from their kids, exceptional school papers, comics that Verne thought were fitting for their family's humor, and the occasional photograph. Much of that stuff was on this world's fridge -- but Doc noticed an immediate absence of anything related to Emily or Clayton. What looked to be school pictures of Verne and Jules were on the fridge -- and, like Jules, Verne appeared far younger, around ten or eleven -- but there wasn't anything of the younger Browns.

They probably don't exist here, for some reason, he thought, frowning faintly.

"Why are they so young?" Marty asked, from right behind Doc's left shoulder, where he had snuck up.

"Dimensional discrepancies," Doc said. "I have no idea beyond that. Perhaps Clara and I waited longer to have kids, or moved back to the future at a later date."

"Probably.... Jules sure seems different! And, wow, look at what Verne did!"

Marty pointed to something that Doc had overlooked, an assignment with a large "100%" marked on it in red ink. That was only slightly unusual -- Verne was quite smart, but he could also be fairly lazy with schoolwork unless he was able to relate it to one of his many interests -- so Doc wasn't too stunned... until he noticed what the subject was. Calculus. So far as he knew, his middle son had never taken a calculus class... let alone before high school.

"Great Scott!" he couldn't help remarking. "It would appear that here, Verne is the one with greater academic goals!"

Marty nodded once, letting out a low whistle as he studied the paper in more depth. "No kidding. I couldn't even do that stuff now!"

The inventor stared at it a moment more, then turned away from the kitchen's "gallery." "Would you mind terribly going outside to the lab and seeing if the other me is there?" he asked. "I don't want to risk shocking another local into a dead faint."

Marty shrugged. "All right. What do you want me to do? Pretend I'm the me from here and just bring him back into the house? Or break the news to him about things gently?"

"Whatever you think would be best, I suppose. I'll wait here...."

With the rain still coming down outside, Marty took a moment to borrow a rain parka from the coat rack -- one that belonged to Doc's counterpart, based on the size -- before he set out on his mission. Once he was gone, the scientist spent a couple of minutes pacing about the kitchen before curiosity got the better of him and he was drawn to the rooms beyond.

There were actually two ways that one could exit the kitchen -- through the door that led straight to the hallway, or the one that led directly into the dining room. Doc chose the latter, his selection made mostly because he thought that Jules probably wouldn't be in that particular room of the house. The dining room, he saw at once, was changed as much as the kitchen. The styles, again, were more contemporary, and the room boasted a different kind of wallpaper. Oddly enough, the furniture was arranged in precisely the same manner as it was in his own home, and the artwork on the walls was only a slight deviation in subject manner than the stuff on his own walls.

Doc wandered from the dining room and into the living room that was adjacent to it. Here, his attention from the decoration was drawn away by the handful of family photographs displayed on the wall and on some of the end tables. There wasn't one snapshot of Emily or Clayton, which merely served to hammer their absences home. Doc saw a few school photographs from different years -- the earliest ones seemed to put Jules about age 7 or 8, not almost ten as he had been when they had moved to the future -- and some family portraits that were all very twentieth century in nature. (The local Emmett likely shared his counterpart's reluctance to publicly display photographic evidence of their time spent in the nineteenth century.)

There was a color photograph of Doc and Clara in their nicest attire with Marty and Jennifer on what was clearly the latter couple's wedding day. The inventor noted that this world's Jennifer appeared identical to his friend's wife. And while Clara looked the same, too, there was something about her in the picture that Doc couldn't quite put his finger on. Whatever it was, she looked... different. Maybe it was her dress; the cut was more contemporary, not as modest as the frocks she usually favored. Her hair, too, looked like it was a bit shorter, just brushing the top of her shoulders rather than falling a few inches below it. (And that was a huge change from the length she had held it at for the first couple of years they had lived in the future, when habit and an attachment to the old customs had prompted her to keep it down to her waist.)

A door opened and closed from the back of her house. A moment later Doc heard Marty call out for him. "Doc? Where are you?"

The scientist turned away from the array of photographs and hurried back to the kitchen, feeling faintly like he was trespassing. He charged into the kitchen so fast that he nearly ran over Marty, who was about a half step from the door and obviously on his way to check things out. The musician jumped back with a soft cry, startled.

"I had to use the restroom," Doc said, lying for a reason he couldn't quite explain. His eyes flickered to the figure who stood near the back door, staring openly at him. "Marty told you about our situation?" he asked his other self.

"Just a bit," Emmett said, his eyes tracing the visitor's form from head to toe. "Great Scott! This, as Marty might say, is rather heavy. I think I need a drink...."

He headed for a cabinet that was placed high above the fridge. Doc thought he was just saying that for expression's sake... until the local opened up the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of what appeared to be brandy. His mouth fell open a little, the expression echoed by Marty.

"Are you sure that's the best idea?" Doc couldn't help asking. "I don't think you'll be able to do much if you're passed out for the next eight hours...."

Emmett gave him a funny look as he set the bottle on the counter. "I can assure you that I have no intention of getting drunk," he said, sounding faintly offended. "It takes much more than a glass of this to do that job."

"It does?" Marty asked, surprised. "Man, the you I know takes one taste and boom! Out like a light."

The local scientist blinked at this news, clearly taken aback. "Really?"

Doc nodded reluctantly. "It's something of an allergy, I suspect," he said. "Or a very overt sensitivity to alcohol in any form."

"Then I suppose I won't offer you any of this," Emmett said. He looked to Marty. "Did you want a glass?"

"Sure," Marty said, surprising Doc a little. So far as he knew, his friend wasn't partial to brandy. Then again, with all that they had seen in the last day or so.... Marty met Doc's surprised gaze and shrugged.

Emmett poured a couple of glasses and carried them to the kitchen table. "Now," he said, once they were seated, "what is this story?"

Doc spilled everything, though he left a great deal out, having tired a long time ago of going over every minute detail. Emmett waited until the visitor had finished before asking a couple of questions to clarify a few things. When his curiosity was fully satisfied, he sat back, playing with the now-empty glass before him.

"Interesting," he mused. "Quite a tale."

Something in his tone alarmed Doc immediately, reminding him of the version of himself who was the ultra logical vet. "You don't think we're putting you on, do you? I can assure you that that is not the case!"

Emmett shook his head quickly. "Oh, no, I believe this. It's too fantastic for someone to make up -- and I can't see another me taking delight in doing just that. Where's your time machine?"

Doc had kept it under the invisible illusion since their departure from the previous world, the memory of that other determined Marty still too vivid in his head. "Out back, under a holographic illusion," he said. "Have you had any previous experience with alternate realities?"

"Yes -- when Marty and I visited the future, we saw a rather hideous example of one run by Biff Tannen."

"Hell Valley," Marty muttered from beside Doc. He had finished his drink long before Emmett, but the only affect that the rapidly-consumed alcohol seemed to have on him was that he seemed more sleepy and relaxed. He smiled faintly at Emmett's surprised expression, leaning back in the chair. "We were there, too."

"Your family seems different from mine, though," Doc said. "When did you and Clara marry?"

"Saturday, June 9, 1888," Emmett responded.

"1888?!" Marty and Doc both asked immediately.

"1888?" Doc said again, just to be sure. With Emmett's rather confused nod, he tried to explain their reaction. "My wife, Clara, and I married in December 1885. Why did you wait so long?"

"I hardly call waiting two months long," Emmett said. He leaned forward, suddenly fully engaged. "Am I to understand from your implied conversation that your DeLorean was struck by lightning in 1955 and sent back in time, too?"

"Yes -- to January 1, 1885." At the funny look that crossed the local's face, Doc had to ask what he already sensed. "Did you land on another date?"

"November 12, 1887," Emmett said. "I wrote my Marty a letter the following April about my whereabouts, once I realized I couldn't repair the time machine with the contemporary technology, and sent it to him via Western Union. He got it and decided to come back and get me because I was going to be shot by Black Biff Tannen on April 13th."

"Black Biff?" Marty asked. "Not Buford or Mad Dog Tannen?"

Emmett scratched his chin. "Well, his name was Buford, but everyone called him Black Biff. Had to do with his general appearance, I think. I haven't heard about Mad Dog, though."

"That was Tannen's nickname in our dimension," Doc explained succinctly. "Did you meet Clara when you saved her from a runaway buckboard wagon?"

"No -- she was cornered on a cliff by Tannen. He'd robbed her stagecoach and took her with him." Emmett smiled at the memory, clearly amused. "She was putting up a good fight. She'd come out to Hill Valley to teach after being widowed in Silver City and--"

"Widowed?" Marty asked for the both of them.

"My Clara was never widowed, and she had come from New Jersey," the visiting inventor explained, a touch shocked by these unexpected twists."

Emmett blinked. "Fascinating. Well, if Marty and I hadn't happened by, she would've gone over that edge. That was how that cliff had been named, apparently. Is that how it happened with you?"

"Ah... no, not really. My Clara would have gone over the edge of a ravine from a runaway buckboard. It was also named for her demise until I saved her; now it's known as Eastwood Ravine."

Emmett frowned. "Never heard of it," he said.

"So when were your kids born?" Marty asked. "They're way younger than Doc's...."

Emmett looked at his counterpart a moment before he responded. "Jules was born in March 1889, and Verne came along in February of 1891," he said. "With Clara's help, I was able to complete a time machine built into a steam train -- which I suspect is pretty close to what you did, if not the same -- and returned to my time in late 1896. But we didn't come back to 1985; we decided to arrive back in 1990."

"Why 1990?" Doc asked, some of this sounding faintly familiar. Another counterpart of his had selected the same year as their future destination.

"Less explanation was required for the presence of two kids and a wife," Emmett said. "I'd wanted to make it completely even and come back in 1993, but Marty hit the roof when I told him that. I visited him a few times a year in the in-between time," he added quickly. "That nagging and begging wore me down after a while, and I figured what the hell.... It was my gift to him for graduating college on time, I suppose."

Marty sighed at this news. "I'm really glad he didn't do that," he said, indicating Doc. "I only had a couple months to live through where he wasn't around."

"I sometimes regret that," Doc muttered, thinking of the paperwork and the sneaking around he'd had to do to get all the right legal documents in place so that the real origins of his wife and two eldest children would be concealed. The look Marty gave him at the comment caught him off guard -- it was almost a glare -- but the scientist was allowed no time to figure that out.

"You moved back to 1985, then?" Emmett asked. "How did that go over?" He sounded rather curious.

"It worked out," Doc said. "The first year was definitely no picnic for myself or my family; the gossips had a field day."

"What did you tell them?"

"That I had married Clara in 1975 while on a trip to New York, she was part of a very conservative Amish community, and that she didn't want to leave her parents until they passed away. This was why she, Jules, and Verne didn't show up until late 1985."

"And people believed that?" Emmett asked, surprised.

"Compared to some of the tales that were told about me around town, this one was rather tame," Doc said wryly. "The boys and Clara got a lot of grief, at first, but once people got to know them they backed off for the most part. Still, I think if I had thought it through a little better, I might have opted to return later enough so that the boys' ages were better synched. Jules was almost ten when we came back." He paused a moment, then added abruptly, "We've got two more kids than you do."

Emmett had been rising from the table; with this announcement he sat back down, eyes wide. "Really?" he said.

The visiting inventor nodded once. "Our daughter Emily was born in December 1987, and another son, Clayton, was born earlier this year, in February. They were both a bit of a surprise -- but so were the older boys."

"How odd," Emmett said. The distant sound of the front door opening and closing prevented him from saying anything else. He popped up to his feet, looking faintly panicked. "That's Clara and Verne," he said.

"Did you want us to go hide somewhere?" Marty asked.

"I--" was all Emmett got out before the swinging door that led from the hallway opened, and Clara came in, a grocery bag tucked under each arm.

"Emmett, if you're not too busy, would you mind helping me o--oh!" Clara stopped short upon seeing the duplication of her husband, and the grocery bags slid from her arms and to the floor. Behind her came an irritated cry.

"Mom! You're blockin' the doorway!"

Verne's voice from the sound of it, sounding so different to Doc's ears, so very young and prepubescent. Clara didn't move, though, her mouth open in a small O of surprise. Emmett went to her side and picked up one of the bags from the floor, giving her shoulder a gentle nudge so that she moved enough to allow their youngest son into the kitchen.

"There's a very good explanation for what you're seeing," the local said to his wife softly. "I didn't intend to surprise you like this."

Clara's mouth finally closed as Verne trotted into the kitchen, his arms hugging one grocery bag to his chest. He was scowling, likely irritated that his mother had blocked his way. The expression fell away, though, as he got a look at the visitors -- particularly the twin Docs. He froze, clearly uncertain about the situation.

The visiting inventor raked his eyes quickly over his non-wife and son. Both appeared facially the same, but Clara's hair was much shorter -- cut to her jawline -- and the jeans and blouse she wore wasn't quite what his Clara would choose from the closet. Verne -- who, in Doc's time, favored denim and T-shirts -- was wearing neat khakis and a untucked collar shirt. The style was much more conservative; it was almost as if he and Jules had swapped tastes.

Doc stood, smiled pleasantly at the boy and his mother, then addressed his counterpart. "Marty and I are going to go out to the train and have another look at it," he said. "You can join us -- I'll make sure you can see it. I had no desire to interrupt the plans I know you've got for this evening."

The visitors took their leave before Verne or Clara could recover from their shock. Marty sighed as they stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind them.

"Should we just leave now?" he asked.

"No, not quite yet," Doc said. "He could help us. He's got a time machine like mine, and at least one experience with an alternate reality."

"Is that it, though? If that's the only one he's got, we still might be pretty screwed."

They found out the answer to that question when Emmett finally joined them in the cab, about half an hour later. Doc had been idly looking over the readouts on the laptop, feeling like he was repeatedly crashing into an ever-present and resistant brick wall. He looked up at the sound of the footsteps on the stairs.

"How did they take the news?" the scientist asked his counterpart.

Emmett smiled faintly. "They're rather baffled," he admitted. "It's to be expected, I suppose. Nothing quite like this has ever happened to us before." He noticed the computer opened on the floor before Doc. "What are you doing?"

"Trying another absolutely pointless diagnostic check on the functioning of the time circuits of the machine," Doc said, his frustration over the lack of change creeping into his voice.

"No errors are showing up?"

Marty raised his eyes up to the local from where he sat on the floor, against the wall. "Doc's run that thing about a million times and it keeps telling us that everything's A-OK -- which is complete and total bullshit."

Emmett crouched down at Doc's side for a closer look at the laptop. "Are you sure that the computer's software is working properly? That it hasn't been corrupted or damaged in some way?"

"It hasn't failed before this," Doc said. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check that out, though." He quit the diagnostic's program and found the antivirus and disk first-aid program, waiting a moment for it to load.

"How many alternate realities have you seen?" Marty asked the local. "Was the one from the sports almanac the only one?"

"No," Emmett said, glancing over at the musician. "I saw a future that won't come to pass after my Marty didn't get in a car accident. Though I suppose that's not what you meant."

"No," Marty agreed. "Not really.... Have you ever seen a place where you didn't do a damned thing to make it the way it was?"

Emmett was quiet a long moment as he considered Marty's question. "No," he finally admitted. "I can't think of an instance quite like that. I don't use the machine too often, though. To be perfectly honest, I'm rather surprised you're here," he added, looking at the musician. "My Marty hasn't set foot in a time machine since I sent him back home from 1888. He's got a bit of a phobia about it, I think, but since one typically doesn't travel through time in life, I haven't seen the point in curing him of it."

Doc was only faintly surprised by this twist. His own Marty would experience qualms from time to time about climbing into time machines, especially after particularly hairy episodes... but usually the inventor's logic and the musician's own desires of the moment at getting something particular out of a trip -- be it a break from the stress of the real world, or witnessing some event -- would take him back into a time machine. On the other hand, he could see that if he had been absent for about five years, his friend could have built up that first time machine experience into a be-all end-all event from hell. Like getting back on the horse almost as soon as being thrown and all that. His Marty had only had a week to recover before Doc had dragged him on another trip through time.

"What's he doing now?" Marty asked cautiously. "Did he drop out of high school to have kids, then divorce Suzy-Jennifer?"

The look Emmett gave him at the question was one of such genuine perplexment that Doc couldn't resist smiling. "No," Emmett said after a moment. "He's doing what he's always wanted to, more or less. The Pinheads have enough bookings so that he was able to quit supplemental jobs about three years ago. They've even opened up for a few bigger name bands in the last couple of years."

Marty's jaw dropped. "Really?" he said, sounding both awed and afraid. "We broke up not long after high school. They actually made it?"

"They still are," Emmett said. "They've got quite a culty following, and their first album was quite popular on college radio. Their second one should be released in a couple more weeks. Marty's been out of town a lot preparing for it and a regional tour, but he should be coming over in a couple of hours with Jennifer for dinner." The local inventor frowned faintly. "I don't know quite how he'll take the news of your appearance, but I suppose I'd better call and warn him soon. I don't think he'd appreciate walking in to see himself."

"No," Doc agreed. "We'd rather not give him the shock of his life." He glanced at the computer screen as he started the virus program, frowning a little when he saw he'd have a five minute wait as the thing did a search and diagnosis. "In fact, we really don't want to linger here at all more than necessary. No offense to you, but we're quite eager to get home. If you can help us, though, then we'll of course need to stay longer."

The local didn't seem offended at all by the rather curt set of demands. "From what you've told me, I don't blame you," he said. "How long have you been at this? A day?"

Doc checked his watch for that answer, which he had purposely not reset since they had left home. It showed the time to be 2:12 P.M. on Tuesday, November 14, 1995. "We've been at this approximately forty-six hours and forty-seven minutes," he said. "Exempting about fourteen of those hours, where we were catching up on sleep."

Marty groaned softly at the announcement while Emmett frowned, concerned. "That'd make anyone a bit impatient and irritable," he said. "What was it you were hoping to get from me? I'll certainly help if I can...."

"We need a diagnosis, first off," Doc said. "I didn't detail it too much earlier, but Marty and I -- and a few other of my more competent counterparts -- have gone over and through this machine in every way remotely possible -- and we haven't found a damned thing wrong. Every door is shut properly, the windows are all whole and undamaged, the flux capacitor appears to be unharmed, the circuits appear to be in good shape and nothing is showing up on the diagnostics programs. We spent about nine solid hours investigating everything in the previous dimension with another version of myself, and none of us could see any problem."

Emmett didn't say anything immediately after the visitor concluded his brief tirade. His brows drew together as his eyes roamed the front of the cab and the layout of the system. "There're no theories you have?"

"Beyond the idea that there is something seriously going to hell in the time machine? No."

Emmett was quiet again for a moment, then excused himself to go into his lab. Doc looked at the computer, saw that it was still doing a painstaking check of the hard drive, then looked up at Marty, who was staring at the still-open door where Emmett had departed with a slanted frown etched in his face. "He's not gonna be able to help us," the musician said after a moment. "Not if he's never seen a random alternate reality."

"We don't know that at all, Marty," Doc said, determined not to admit defeat quite yet. "He may offer a perspective that we haven't yet considered."

Marty snorted. "Fat chance. No one else has been able to do that. No one's got all the things we need 'em to have to help us out."

"Well, if the solution isn't here, it's somewhere," the inventor said.

"Where? Doc, you've said it yourself -- there are billions and trillions of different worlds out there. We could be at this for years. And that's if we're lucky and we can outrun the incompatibility thing, and if the machine doesn't completely break down." Marty sighed and buried his face in his hands.

The things the musician mentioned had been hovering at the edges of Doc's own thoughts ever since he realized the magnitude of their problem, but hearing them spoken by his friend made his gut give a most unpleasant lurch. "There's not much we can do, Marty," he said, his voice thankfully not betraying any of his inner emotions. "I know this is getting repetitive -- for you and me -- but until we know what precisely is going wrong, I don't think we can fix it. And at this point I have some serious doubts about a case of spontaneous restoration."

Marty's only answer was to raise his head and frown. Emmett returned to the cab before the musician could speak. He held a CD case in one hand, and for a moment Doc wondered if he had gone off to fetch the local Marty's album. "This is something I created when I was modernizing my train's system," he said. "It's a program that keeps track of up to five different temporal jumps and is able to compare them to see if there are any discrepancies in operation. I don't know if you have something similar already, but...."

"No, we don't," Doc said. He accepted the CD-ROM gratefully. "Thanks."

The laptop chose that moment to chirp, finishing its hard drive check. Doc looked at the screen, displaying the prognosis, and frowned. Everything was normal and undamaged. He sighed, closed down the program, then took the new CD out of its case and popped it into the drive of the computer. Emmett sat down nest to him and walked him through the installation steps, then went over how to use the program. Doc didn't find the operation terribly hard to pick up; perhaps because another him and written the program. The process and layout seemed wholly logical to him.

By the time everything was set up, it was dark out. Emmett stood from the floor with a grimace, glancing out the window towards the house. "I'm going to have to go in soon to help Clara with tonight's meal," he said. "Should I tell her to add a couple of plates?"

"We ate a few hours ago," Marty said. He looked impatient, probably due to the mundane tasks that both inventors had been engrossed in together, leaving him completely out of the loop. Not that computer programs had ever been something that interested the musician. "If you can't do much else for us, then we should probably just go -- right, Doc?"

The scientist frowned at his rudeness but didn't deny the logic of the idea. "Probably," he said. "And we wouldn't want to impose on your plans, especially since this world's Marty and Jennifer might swallow our existence with a bit more trouble."

Emmett didn't bother to argue about that. "Quite so," he said. "Would you like to see my time machine before you go? It's a bit different than yours in terms of the interior layout.... It probably can't help you, much, but maybe it can't hurt, either."

Doc took him up on the offer and Marty trailed after them. The lab, Doc saw immediately when they entered it, was laid out entirely differently than his own. The loft wasn't developed at all, and there was no sign of any second time machine.

"No DeLorean, or equivalent?" he asked.

Emmett shook his head. "Nope. I didn't see the point, and why should I spend all that money making something that would simply make it easier for my kids to get away with illegal time travel?"

It was an excellent point, but there had been something in Doc that felt it only proper to make another time machine like the first. If nothing more than as a tribute to the original DeLorean. And when the second DeLorean had been destroyed, it had become a matter of necessity to construct another auto time machine to simply get home.

The locomotive in this dimension was in the cellar, much as it normally was stored at home. Outside, it didn't look terribly different from the visiting one, but inside....

"Great Scott! You completely remodeled the cab!"

While Doc had done his best to retain the quaint nineteenth century charm in his time machine's cab, not bothering to change the keyboard, or readouts, or a number of the old physical dials -- though there were many more changes that had gone on behind the scenes, so to speak -- this version of himself had gutted all of it out and replaced it with sleek flat screens that also, apparently, were sensitive to touch; there were no keyboards or pads to be seen. The change made the cab look like something out of a science fiction show, and also freed up a lot more room at the front. Emmett had even installed a padded seat with restraints at the front, before some of the larger panels.

Marty smiled a little as the visiting inventor gawked at it all. "It looks pretty cool," he said. "Super modern. Why'd you put all this work into doing something like this if you didn't want to build a new time machine?"

"Some of the components from the future worked a great deal better and faster than the things I created in the 1890s," Emmett explained. "And one thing simply lead to another. This latest revision came about last year; I wanted a better security system in place and the old layout wasn't working out with the plans."

"What sort of system?" Doc asked. "I managed to squeeze something in without ripping out everything."

Emmett shrugged vaguely. "Print recognition software, voice recognition software, a GPS for trips to the future, an alarm, a way to open the door with a remote.... I wanted to make sure that another Tannen -- or worse -- would never get away with a machine again."

"Did your kids ever try to make off with it?" Marty asked. "They got away a few times with Doc's...."

"Before I took much more extensive security measures," Doc said hastily to his counterpart, lest the local think he was incredibly lax.

"No, neither of the boys have ever gotten away with the train," Emmett said. "Even Clara finds the operation a bit difficult and complicated, and she's caught on quite well with many devices of the future." He looked away from the blank flat panels, to Doc. "Did your kids actually take your train out for joy rides?"

"No," Doc admitted. "It was always the smaller machine. It looks like you've put a lot more work into this one than I have."

"Perhaps," Emmett agreed. "But I think our priorities have been a bit different. And we've definitely had different lives in the last few years."

Doc didn't argue with him about that. He took one last hard look around the train's cab, then turned away with a sigh. "I suppose we should go now," he said. "Thank you for the computer program. I hope that helps us."

"Me too," Emmett said sincerely. "You'll have to travel at least five times before things may show up -- and keep the computer wired in and on while you take the jumps."

"Of course."

In the cab, preparing to leave and with Emmett on his way to the house, Marty immediately brought that point up. "So can we just take five quick jumps?" he asked. "So you can check things out with that program?"

"In good time," Doc said. "We don't want to skip over a place that might be able to help us. Would you mind sitting on the floor and holding the computer up here? I don't think I can do it myself and I really don't want the laptop to break in the turbulence."

Clearly unhappy with the inventor's decision, the musician nevertheless complied with the request. Doc got them back up in the air and through time -- or dimension, rather -- without incident. When he looked below, though, he didn't see any trace of life in his home below. Once more, they were elsewhere, and the scientist could only hope that in this place he wasn't dead and buried.

Chapter Fourteen

Sunday, November 12, 1995
3:10 P.M.

Rain was falling in the latest dimension, but the downpour wasn't as strong as it had been in other dimensions. Here, the precipitation had a mistier, clingy quality to it that stuck to one's skin and soaked into the clothes. The moment he stepped outside, once Doc had landed the train at the faithfully visited gas station, Marty wanted to turn around and go back into the relative dryness and familiarity of the cab, but Doc stopped him.

"For cryin' out loud, Doc, can't we just skip this place?" he asked, unable to keep the whine from his voice. "It's miserable out."

"And it wasn't miserable in some of the other locations?" Doc asked, not backing down. "Sorry, Marty. I suppose we could pick up some umbrellas or parkas while we're out here, though."

Marty resisted the maddening urge to bang his forehead against the side of the train. "This is shitty!" was his passionate opinion. "I'm so sick of this!"

Doc let out a weary sigh, grabbing his friend's arm and pulling him towards the phone booth. "As am I," he muttered. "The sooner we find what we need, the sooner we can leave."

"And the sooner we can visit a new level of hell," Marty added under his breath bitterly.

This level of hell, at first glance, looked an awful lot like home -- aside from Doc's house on Elmdale being abandoned, of course. When they reached the phone booth to look through the book, Doc made a rather surprised sound as he found his name. "Interesting," he said. "I'm back to living in the garage on JFK Drive."

"What about me?" Marty asked, leaning against the side of the gas station wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

The scientist flipped a few pages, ran his finger down the list of "Mc" names, then frowned. "I don't see you listed," he said.

The musician sighed. "Great," he muttered. "Maybe this is the reality where I erased myself from existence!"

"No," Doc said. "Your parents are listed together. I suppose it's not out of question that you might never have been born, though."

The idea didn't upset Marty as much as he would've thought. "Good -- then I don't get to see myself in a world that sucks," he said. "Let's hurry up and check out your other self if you're gonna insist on sticking around."

Doc needed no further prodding. Ten minutes later they had settled down in the parking lot of the Burger King, once more disguised as an RV. The inventor had him go ahead first to knock on the door while he waited out of sight, his argument logical: "It would be better to ease him into the news -- and this would allow us to know whether or not he ever knew you."

"Maybe -- but what if it's my turn to be dead, here?" Marty asked, suddenly paranoid.

"Well, then, we'll have our answer. And I'm all but positive I would have some smelling salts around for reviving if I happened to faint."

All of this echoed through Marty's head as he knocked on the door and waited for the owner to answer it. It took a minute. There was the sound of a lot of locks being disengaged and a moment later the door was pulled open.

The musician got the faintest glimpse of the local Emmett's face before, inexplicably, the door was slammed shut again. Hard.

Marty swallowed, more worried than he had been a moment ago. Christ, what if I really am dead here? he thought, uneasy. "Ah... Doc?" he called through the door, tentatively. "Are you okay?"

There was no answer from within. Marty glanced at his friend, watching him through half narrowed eyes and clearly confused. He tried knocking on the door again. "Yo, Doc, it's me, Marty -- Marty McFly. You know me now, right? I have something I need to talk to you abo--"

The door was suddenly thrown open again and Emmett appeared in the doorway -- aiming what looked like a gun at Marty's chest. The same one he'd waved to the terrorists a long time ago. The musician froze, too surprised to react.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Emmett snapped. "I hoped you were dead. Isn't it obvious that I have nothing more to say to you, Marty? Now get off my property before I do something you'll regret!"

Marty backed up a couple of steps, raising his hands, eyes wide. "Shit, Doc," he breathed, both to the local and to the so-far-unnoticed visitor. "I'm goin'...."

"Wait," the visiting Doc spoke up, stepping into view. Emmett blinked a half dozen times at the sight, the weapon in his hand suddenly wavering. "What the hell are you doing? What justifies aiming a weapon at Marty?"

Emmett goggled at his counterpart, clearly blown away by his appearance. "Great Scott," he murmured, his hand lowering the gun until the muzzle was aimed to the floor. "What is... who are... what's going on?"

"A grand mess," Doc said with a sigh. "I'll explain it all -- but he's with me," he added, jerking a thumb back to indicate Marty, still hanging back. "He's not the Marty that you have obviously mistaken him for."

Emmett managed to tear his eyes away from his double to look at the visiting musician. At the sight, a scowl once more twisted his face. "Why are you hanging out with him? Or is your judgment of character more flawed than mine?"

Marty blinked, slightly wounded by the hatred so obvious in Emmett's tone. Doc looked surprised with the venom in his counterpart's words, but he remained unmoved by the insult directed to him. "As I said a moment before -- this Marty is not the one you apparently know. May we come in for a few moments? There's something important we'd like to speak with you about."

Emmett's eyes darted over to regard the musician once more. "Him, too? Don't you realize how foolish that is?"

"No," Doc said flatly. "I don't -- and yes, Marty needs to come in, too. He's as involved in this matter as I am -- and you wouldn't want him to get soaked out there in the damp, would you?"

"Maybe it's better if I don't answer that...." Emmett muttered. He grudgingly stepped aside to allow his other self and Marty to come in, but the glare that he directed to the latter made the musician's blood run cold. What the hell had happened to make Emmett so furious with the local Marty?

The garage lab looked like a more cluttered version of the place that Marty well knew, from the years Doc had lived there -- almost like a natural progression if he had never moved. The only change that Marty could really see in his first glance was that there seemed to be more inventions and the like around -- and that the windows all seemed to have bars over them. Weird.

Emmett himself seemed to look more or less like Doc -- he had clearly been rejuved at least once -- but there seemed to be more stress on his face than the visiting scientist had on his... even now, with the interdimensional hell. The local focused another blood chilling look on Marty as Doc stopped several feet into the lab and turned to face his counterpart.

"You're probably wondering who the hell we are," he began.

"The question has crossed my mind," Emmett said dryly, fingering the gun, the action making Marty more than a little uncomfortable. It reminded him far too much of Doc B. He was afraid to say anything, though, certain that any request on his part would be denied out of an obvious anger and spite.

Doc went into his explanation of who they were and where they had come from. Marty noticed that the story was getting more condensed, now; apparently the inventor was tiring of telling it just as much as the musician was of hearing it. When he finished, Emmett looked slightly calmer, but still couldn't entirely hide his distaste as he looked once more at the visiting Marty.

"So you're both from another reality?" he asked. "A place where your history is different from mine?"

Doc half shrugged. "That's one way to look at it, I suppose."

Emmett squinted, thoughtful. "He must be different, then," he said, waving the gun rather carelessly in Marty's direction. "Unless you're too naive to see it."

"See what?" Marty had to ask. "What the hell is so wrong with me that you're aiming a gun in my face? And can you just put it down? I'm unarmed, for Godsakes!"

The local inventor frowned, though he did once more lower the weapon. He looked to Doc, waiting for the answer to his question.

"What is it that upsets you so much about Marty?" Doc asked, confused. "Weren't you friends with him at any point in your life?"

Emmett chuckled bitterly. "Once -- one of the most foolish mistakes I think I ever made. He's certainly no friend of mine now, unless you call someone who tried to kill you a friend."

The visitors stared at the local in surprise. Marty wondered if the local was really sane -- and, if he was, how serious this statement was. "Okay, I really gotta know about this," Marty said slowly. "Why would I ever want to kill you?"

Emmett sighed, finally setting the gun down on a table nearby. "I suppose it started when I took Marty and Jennifer to the future in my time machine," he said. "Ten years ago. Marty heard some apparently unsavory things about what became of him and, unbeknownst to me at the time, purchased a sports almanac with the intent of using knowledge from the future to gain a profit."

"Yes," Doc said, nodding once. "My Marty did exactly the same thing, and wasn't entirely apologetic when I caught him."

"Well..." Marty muttered, embarrassed now by the more rash actions of his younger self. Especially since that stupid move had brought about hell on earth for a while. "I was seventeen; it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"How soon did you catch him?" Emmett asked.

"Why, before we even left 2015, perhaps a few minutes after he purchased the book...." Doc blinked once, his eyes suddenly widening in understanding. "Didn't you catch him so soon? Did he bring the book back with him?"

"Yep. But I didn't know anything was amiss until after the car accident, when he apparently had some older friends place bets for him on sporting events. He seemed to have an incredible amount of good fortune, and I knew that wasn't the way things happened in his past. But since I had destroyed the time machine by that point, I couldn't check it out."

"Did you ask Marty about this?" Doc asked.

"Of course. And he blew me off. He hadn't been coming over all that much since we got back from the future, but I thought at first that was due to the car accident. He was in the hospital a couple of days, with a broken hand, a concussion, and some other injuries. I visited him there, of course, the moment I heard the news, and he seemed... distant to me. He wouldn't look me in the eye.

"After a few months, though, weeks would go by before I would hear from him, and my attempts at tracking him down in the meantime were unsuccessful. Every time I called his house, his parents or siblings told me he wasn't in. It became obvious to me that Marty was avoiding me. And once I heard about his 'luck' with sporting event betting, I knew something definitely was up."

"How did you find out what he did?" Doc asked. "I'm assuming he didn't admit it to you... did he?"

Emmett shook his head. "Of course not. I first spoke with Jennifer about it. She professed absolutely no knowledge, and I believed her. I don't think Marty would've admitted what he was doing to her, not at the risk of possibly offending her morals and ethics. She was also convinced that the entire matter with time travel was a fantastic dream. No, I confirmed my suspicions by breaking into his apartment when Marty was away. I found the book hidden between his mattress and the box spring. Unfortunately, I was so engaged with the search that I didn't hear him return; Marty walked into the room as I was leafing through the book and caught me, as they say, red-handed."

The visiting musician let out a low whistle. "Wow, I think I would've flipped out if I was him."

Emmett glanced at him coldly. "That was about his reaction, once he got over the shock. He yelled at me about violating his personal space and breaking the law; I had my own words with him about abusing time travel for financial gain. He finally ordered me out of the place and said he never wanted to see me again, and that if I knew what was good for me, I'd forget what I'd found."

"Did you take the book and destroy it?" Doc asked.

The local shook his head. "I wasn't given the opportunity. As I said a moment ago, Marty startled me when he walked in. He grabbed the book from my hands almost immediately, and I couldn't very well attack a nineteen-year-old kid to get it back. Especially someone who was supposed to be my friend. Although now I would have handled things a little bit differently...."

"What was he doing with the money?" Marty asked. "When Biff got his hands on that almanac, he made the world his own little twisted hell. But I can't see how I'd do something like that...."

"Money can corrupt in other ways," Emmett said. "Especially when in the hands of immature youth. You bought a lot of flashy things -- sports cars, entertainment electronics, musical equipment, fancy clothes and the like. Once you turned twenty-one, of course, you really went crazy. You and Jennifer married and moved to a large, custom made home on the fringes of town. You also financed your own album -- although your bandmates had long ago tired of your egocentric, selfish ways and fled."

Marty winced a little, for the first time imagining the darker repercussions to his life that might've come from having the almanac in his hands. "So why did I try to kill you?" he asked. "I still don't get it."

Emmett rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. "A few years ago, some tough sorts began to nose around town and ask about you," he said. "No doubt drawn by your impeccable 'luck' with knowing the outcome of major sporting events. You were not subtle with your methods of gambling and in fact seemed to flaunt your knowledge. Eventually these men showed up on my doorstep, as someone had mentioned that you and I had been friends at one point. Plus, I think my reputation intrigued them, or at least made them a little suspicious.

"Anyway, they asked me a lot of questions about you. I said little, and I admitted nothing. Had I told them the truth -- that I had made a time machine back in '85 and taken you to the future where you had purchased a book on thirty years of sports statistics -- they probably would've locked me up. Especially since the DeLorean had long ago been dismantled, meaning I had absolutely no proof to back my claims up. Except the book you had, and I didn't have a clue where it was by then.

"After they left -- a couple of nights later, in fact -- I got a phone call from you telling me to butt out and mind my own business or I would regret it. We once more had a rather bitter exchange of words before you finally hung up on me. That same night, someone broke into my lab, using the key that I had long ago hidden outside for you. I'd unfortunately forgotten all about it. I was still awake then, working on a project in the lab area. Einstein heard the prowler come in and immediately started barking. I started to turn around, but I was struck from behind in the head with something hard and heavy. I wasn't knocked out, but I was stunned. I managed to turn around and saw the figure for the first time -- someone wearing all black, including a ski mask. He had a gun in his hand, had it aimed at me, and I knew his intent immediately."

Emmett paused a moment, looking over to Doc. "I would have died that night -- if Einstein hadn't latched onto the killer's leg. He provided enough of a distraction for me to reach for a cup of coffee that I had just poured. I threw it into the man's eyes and he screamed, scalded, and dropped the gun -- but not before he used it on Einie." Emmett's voice grew hard at these words. "I picked up the weapon and aimed it at him, but before I could get to the phone to call the police, he ran from the lab."

Marty managed to find his voice after a moment. "How do you... how do you know it was me?"

"It wasn't you," Emmett said bluntly. "It was someone you hired to kill me... but instead he simply killed my dog."

"How do you know Marty was behind it?" Doc asked.

The local turned his chilly gaze over to his counterpart. "I may not be particularly well-liked in town, but no one has actively tried to physically harm me in all my years in Hill Valley, until this mess with Marty started. Well, aside from the terrorists, but that's another matter entirely...."

"Perhaps it's one of these men who seem to be watching Marty," Doc suggested.

"No," Emmett said. "Marty called me the day after this happened and told me that he hoped I knew what my priorities were, now, and that it would be better to simply forget about him and pretend I never knew him. He had no idea how much I wanted that, myself. There haven't been any other attempts on my life, so far, but I've taken a number of precautions to guard against that. I've installed a very sensitive security system, I have several guns and gun permits, including one for a concealed weapon which I do wear, every day, and I'm probably going to get a new dog, soon -- one that specializes in attacking on command."

"Aren't these precautions a bit... excessive?" Doc asked.

Emmett snorted softly. "No. I can't even walk outside, now, without feeling like there's a sniper's rifle trained on my back. Even the terrorists didn't make me that paranoid. Marty McFly has taken away my sense of security, any of the joy I gained in creating a time machine, and poor Einstein. He's a selfish, hotheaded kid who deserves a home in the deepest hell."

Marty couldn't help flinching at the words. "Where is he now?" he asked tentatively. "We didn't see his name in the phone book...?"

Now Emmett smiled. The expression was eerie; it contained not a trace of warmth. "Of course not. I don't believe he's had a listing in the phone book for a few years. But there are a number of people who would like to know where he is now... including poor Jennifer. He disappeared about a year ago, on his way to a concert in Vegas. The police have turned up no trace of him. I hope he got what was coming to him by the people who were tracking him."

Thoughts of Jimmy Hoffa suddenly danced through Marty's head and he shuddered, knowing exactly what Emmett was implying. "Jeez," he murmured softly. "Why would people wanna kill me?"

Emmett cocked one eyebrow as he looked at the musician. "You're asking the wrong person that question," he said.

"Gambling is illegal in most of the U.S. for a reason," Doc told the musician. "Anyone who would get involved with betting on sports, and display an impeccable and lucrative stroke of luck would find himself attracting the wrong kind of attention from a number of shady individuals and organizations. To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised that Biff never found himself killed before 1985 from his reckless gambling. He must've paid off a number of people to keep himself alive; perhaps you did not. It's quite difficult to say without knowing all of the facts."

Marty sighed, miserable now with the latest facts on his other self. Once more, it sounded like he was a complete asshole. Doc turned back to Emmett.

"It'd probably be better for everyone if we left now, then. If you destroyed the time machine ten years ago, then I doubt there's much you can really do to help us out. And if Marty is missing in this world and presumed dead, then it might be better if no one saw my Marty."

Emmett nodded. "A wise decision," he said. "It sounds as if you're in a very interesting situation, though. That's quite an opportunity to see the different ways that life can evolve -- especially your own life."

Marty snorted. "And it's places like this that make me realize what a jerk I can be. I'm sorry for everything I did to you here, Doc. I'd be pissed at me, too, if I were you."

Emmett shrugged, saying nothing. He clearly carried around a lot of animosity towards anyone who even looked like the musician.

Several minutes later, the visitors were back in the train. Marty sighed as he sat down on the bench. "Just when I think things can't get any worse, some reality manages to top it," he muttered.

Doc echoed the sigh as he brought the train into the air once more. "Well, maybe the next one won't be so bad."

Chapter Fifteen

Sunday, November 12, 1995
3:32 P.M.

The first thing that surprised Doc was that his address was still on JFK Drive in the next reality. For a few moments he had to wonder if they had accidentally duplicated the last reality, and were simply revisiting it. Indeed, the garage looked pretty much as it had in the last place.

Marty shared his trepidation. "You really wanna just go up and knock on the door again?" he asked from where the two of them stood, in the holographically disguised cab, parked a dozen feet away from the old building.

"Well, there's not really a better way to go about it, and I think this sort of matter should be conducted in person, not over a telephone."

"I guess." Marty stared at the building a beat more than Doc. "I just hope you're not gonna level another gun in my face."

Doc had the same hope. They headed for the garage and, drawing closer, the inventor saw a few changes from the last dimension. The windows had no bars over them, and the chain link fence that surrounded the property was unlocked, allowing anyone easy access. Marty balked at being the one to rap on the door, though, and Doc grudgingly took up the task, ignoring his own nerves.

There was the faint sound of scuffling from inside following the knock, as if someone was setting something down or aside. A minute passed before Doc heard the sounds of bolts being thrown open -- and then an unfamiliar man was standing before them. He was tall -- a couple of inches taller than Doc -- with dark eyes and hair of a similar color and style. His face, though, was thoroughly changed from the inventor's own, and yet it looked vaguely familiar. As if he had seen it before, somewhere else.

"Can I help you?" the stranger asked. His voice, too, sounded oddly familiar, but Doc's mind couldn't even begin to guess where he had heard it before. Maybe his imagination was just snapping after everything he had seen in the last couple of days.

Marty, oddly, was the one to speak up. "We were trying to find an Emmett Brown," he said. "The phone book said he lived here...."

The man looked at the musician without a trace of recognition on his face. "I'm Dr. Emmett Brown," he said.

Marty's mouth fell open and Doc felt perilously lightheaded. "Great Scott," he murmured, wondering what it was that was going on here. "Are you sure?"

The white head of the slightly taller man bobbed once in a nod. "Of course. You wouldn't expect a man to forget his own name, now, would you?"

Doc tore his eyes away from the unfamiliar-but-familiar face and looked at Marty. His friend's face was pale and he met the inventor's gaze with his blue eyes wide with wonder and confusion. "I-I-I suppose not," the scientist said, unable to keep his voice entirely steady. "I just... I thought you'd look a bit different."

The eyes of this world's apparent Emmett narrowed. "How would you I expect I look?" he asked, rather coldly. "Like the town lunatic they say I am?"

The visiting inventor swallowed hard, his mouth dry. "Ah..." was all he managed to get out.

Marty recovered from the shock far quicker, perhaps because this wasn't an unfamiliar version of himself he was looking at. "Did you happen to know where we could find Marty McFly?" he asked, quite innocently. They hadn't tried to find his name in the phone book they had consulted; Doc wasn't the only one getting impatient for an end to their continuous problems.

Emmett frowned, clearly suspicious. "Why?"

"We're old friends of his -- from out of town," Marty said.

"You should be able to find him in the white pages, then," Emmett said. He clearly didn't trust the visitors; he was probably picking up all sorts of strange vibes from them. It didn't help matters that Doc was desperately trying to wrap his brain around the strange concept that the person before him was supposed to be him, but looked so drastically different. Seeing variations to Jennifer had been one thing; it was another matter entirely when it was your own identity and face.

The visiting inventor took a deep breath, wondering if he wanted to bother with telling this stranger their neverending problem, or move on. A voice from nearby interrupted him before he could begin. "I heard my name," the person called from back in the lab. "What's going on?"

Doc didn't recognize it -- or the face and form that suddenly materialized from behind the local scientist. The young man looked to be in his late twenties, about Marty's age, and just an inch shorter than Doc. He had blue eyes, hair more red than brown, and was dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt. He looked like no one the inventor had met before -- and, yet, there was an echo of familiarity about the face, as if he had seen it someplace before.... He figured it out after a moment.

"You look like that actor," he said aloud, thinking. "What was his name.... Stoltz. Eric Stoltz."

The young man blinked. "Oh.... Well, I'm not." He glanced at the local Emmett, then to the foreign one, frowning and squinting. "Did I hear one of you ask about Marty McFly?"

Doc had a sudden sense of what was coming. If Marty did, he didn't show it. "Yeah, I did," the musician said. "Do you know where he might be?"

The young man smiled. "You're looking at him."

Marty didn't actually faint, but Doc reacted as if he might; his face turned such a pale marble color that the event seemed imminent. The scientist reached out and grabbed his friend's arm tightly, lest he begin to sag to the ground. The musician did no such thing and, though his breathing got a little gaspy and his skin turned that unhealthy ashen shade, he remained on his feet. Perhaps he, like Doc, had seen enough by now to not find the idea completely and totally without any merit.

"You're... Marty?" the visiting one asked, his eyes wide.

The stranger nodded once. "Yeah.... Who are you guys? How do you know Doc?"

The inventor made the decision then and there not to say a word about their predicament. "We had a question for him," he said, vaguely, taking a step back. "I think it's been answered, though."

Marty seemed frozen to the spot; Doc had to push him before his feet moved. The locals stared at the visitors without a word as the former fled the property for the sanctity of the train's cab.

"What the hell, Doc?" Marty asked once they were back in the time machine. "Why'd we look like that? We looked completely different!"

"Perhaps a different set of genetics was involved," Doc said, taking a moment to lean against the wall in order to steady himself. "We didn't see what either of our parents looked like, here.... Or maybe it was the timing of conception."

Marty wrapped his arms around his chest, as if he was cold. "You looked a lot like that one guy, that actor.... John Lithgow."

Now that the musician mentioned it, Doc realized that was the strange familiarity he noticed in the face. "I suppose there was a resemblance," he muttered. "And you looked like Eric Stoltz -- do you know who he is?"

Marty nodded once. "This is weird, Doc," he said.

"I certainly won't argue you out of that opinion," the scientist said. "I think we'd do better leaving now. I don't know if I can feel a hundred percent comfortable trusting another me who looks like a stranger."

The musician offered no protest to the idea. In short order they were coasting in the air above a new reality. The house on Elmdale Lane was once more abandoned -- it looked like it had caught fire some years before, here -- and the visitors were forced to consult another phone book for addresses. Once more, Doc just bothered to look up his own. He noticed something faintly odd with the listing; it was under Dr. E.L. Brown, not Emmett Brown. A small discrepancy that likely meant nothing.

The address that accompanied the name was a new one to Doc, and it meant climbing back into the train and looking for the street that way. Marty sat on the floor with the computer snug on his lap while Doc piloted the train. He finally located the street -- Burns Road -- and the building that shared the home's number was a rather elegant, well-maintained Victorian townhouse. He settled the time machine down on the curb beside the home, then flicked the proper switches to give it the external appearance of a semi.

"Let's go," Doc said.

Marty sighed as he set the computer aside and got back to his feet. "Are we gonna stop in the next reality so you can check out the stuff on the computer?" he asked.

"Pause, yes. Stop for longer than necessary, no." Doc looked at him as they went up the neatly maintained brick walkway. "I thought you were the one who was eager to get in and out of these places as quickly as possible?"

"I am," Marty said. "I just wanna make sure that you follow through on that, in case something shows up."

"I won't forget," Doc promised.

They reached the front door of the home, and Doc rang the doorbell. A moment passed, and then a young woman answered the door. It caught the inventor a bit off guard; she looked to be in her mid-twenties, slender and petite, with long brown hair and blue eyes. She studied the visitors on the porch without a trace of recognition.

"Yeah?" she asked.

Doc had to wonder if this was his counterpart's wife or daughter. Either could be possible, but he really hoped it might be the latter, even if that meant he hadn't married Clara. He'd never thought men who married girls that young were very secure with themselves. "Is this the home of Dr. Brown?" he asked hesitantly.

The girl nodded once. "Yeah. Are you guys the movers? I didn't hear the truck pull in...."

Doc's eyes flickered past the girl's shoulders, noticing the boxes stacked in the entryway and beyond for the first time. Before he could think of an answer, Marty did, and spoke.

"We're the pre-movers," he said. "They sent us over here to get things ready, right Doc?"

It took the inventor a moment to nod. "Sure," he said.

The young woman's attention seemed drawn to Marty, now that he had spoken. A rather flirtatious smile slid across her face. "You can come in, then," she said, stepping aside. "I'm Marti, by the way," she added, her eyes on the musician. He smiled back.

"Really? Me too," he said, sounding surprised. "I haven't met a lot of other people with that name now -- especially girls."

"Well, it's short for Martha. But how old fashioned is that?" Marti rolled her eyes and frowned, annoyed. "Martha McFly. I mean, could my parents be any more stodgy and.... Are you all right?"

The question was directed to Marty, who had suddenly clung to Doc's arm -- hard; the inventor winced at the grip -- and gone whiter than the plaster on the walls. "No!" he whispered, his voice coming out in a gasp. "No, no, no!"

Doc looked at the young woman in sudden understanding. This was Marty's counterpart, in this world -- but he was a she! "Fascinating," he murmured, staring at her. Marti didn't look quite like the musician -- she was built more delicately, and her height was an inch or two less than Marty's. The eye color and the hair color and texture was identical, though, as was the nose, the mouth, and the shape of the eyes. Her attire was casual, almost a feminine form of Marty's own tastes -- jeans and a fitted red sweater.

Marti frowned as she looked at her counterpart, though there was no possible way she could begin to understand the musician's reaction at the moment. "Are you okay?"

"Mmmhmm," Marty managed, his complexion waxy, his eyes avoiding hers.

The young woman didn't quite buy it, but she didn't press the issue. "I'll get Dr. Brown for you guys," she said. "Wait here."

Marti hurried down the hall, vanishing around a corner a moment later. Doc immediately turned to his friend, who had let him go and was now bent over and bracing his hands against his knees, breathing in small little gulps. "Calm down, Marty," he said softly. "This isn't entirely unexpected; in fact, I'm surprised something like this hasn't happened sooner. Gender is usually determined by the introduction of certain hormones at certain times during a pregnancy, and if that changed in anyway--"

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Marty moaned, still bent over. "Jesus! I... She's cute, Doc! I actually thought she was cute when I first saw her, and she's supposed to be me here!" He groaned softly, looking up at the scientist through miserable eyes. "That's, like, worse than incest!"

Doc smiled faintly. "I don't think so. You didn't know. And it might be perfectly logical and natural to feel an attraction to someone that looks familiar. Perhaps you noticed this on a subconscious level. It's nothing to be ashamed about. And it honestly doesn't surprise me that there is a reality like this somewhere."

The musician snorted softly, turning his gaze back down. "It's creepy," he said. "I wanna go, right now! We've got a chance...."

"Not until I meet my counterpart. He could help us. I don't think there's any reason to panic about this, either. It's a perfectly normal deviation...."

Marti returned a couple of minutes later. By that time Marty had recovered enough to stand upright on his own, though his color still looked rather peaked. He averted his eyes the moment the young woman came into sight, staring down at the floor instead. Marti didn't seem to notice, her attention temporarily focused on an older woman, clearly well into her seventies, following behind her. Doc gave that absolutely no thought until the pair stopped a few feet away, and Marti said, "This is Dr. Brown."

Now the inventor was the one who felt his surroundings tilt and spin, completely stunned by this announcement. He staggered a step, catching himself against the wall. Immediately the two women were at his side, but Doc couldn't resist recoiling the second his female counterpart touched his arm.

"Marti, perhaps you'd better call a doctor," she said to the young woman, her dark eyes concerned.

"No," Doc said, shaking his head, trying to keep his surroundings from dimming and pulsing. There was a loud roaring noise in his head, the rush of blood probably dropping from his cheeks. "I'm fine. Just give me a moment, please."

"Nonsense," Dr. Brown said immediately. "Marti, go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. You are to have a seat on the couch until your face loses that horrible color." Those last words were addressed directly to the inventor.

Doc was too stunned to protest. He and Marty allowed themselves to be herded into a living room and onto a couch that had been covered by a sheet, likely in preparation of the move. The musician's counterpart had gone to the kitchen, no doubt to follow through Dr. Brown's orders. The older woman sat across from the scientist, on the edge of a concealed coffee table, staring at him with very obvious worry. Doc didn't want to look at her, at first, but a nagging curiosity finally drew his eyes over to study her intently.

She was tall, for a woman, he had noticed right away -- probably five foot ten or eleven -- and was quite thin. Her face was etched with a number of wrinkles from the years, and she had rather high, aristocratic cheekbones, but her eyes looked quite familiar, as Doc had seen virtually the same ones in his own face. Her high forehead and the shape of her mouth was similar, too, but the nose was completely different; it looked much more like the nose of his mother than the one he had inherited from his father. Her hair had gone pure snow white, like Doc's, and it was clearly long; she wore it in a thick bun at the nape of her neck. Her style of dressing was casual but funky -- big hoop earrings, loose grey pants, and a geometric-print blouse that the scientist found himself admiring.

It was almost like seeing a sister that had never existed.

Sister, Doc realized, trying to think of it that way. I'll simply pretend that she's a sister I never had.

It seemed to work. The clamp that had tightened around his throat and made it difficult to breathe loosened at once with that idea. He immediately made a move to stand, but Dr. Brown was on her feet and pushing him back down to the sofa in a moment.

"Don't even think about it," she said, her voice on the husky side. "I am not having you expire on my property from being too eager to prove yourself recovered."

"I'm fine, really," Doc said, still grossly uncomfortable. "You don't need to do anything."

Marti came into the room before Dr. Brown could say anything in response to that. "The kettle's on, Emma," she said to the local, answering Doc's unasked question of the woman's first name. "I can't find the tea, though. Did you pack it somewhere?"

"I think there should be some in the pantry, still," Emma Brown said. "Check a bag on the lower shelf -- there's a lot of non-perishable snacks in there, too."

Marti nodded once. She paused before leaving, her eyes flickering to Marty, sitting on the edge of the couch with a rather stunned look still hanging onto his face. "Are you feeling better?" she asked him, clearly concerned.

It took the musician a moment to react, his thoughts clearly a million miles away. "Huh? Uh, yeah, I guess...."

"Good," Marti said, smiling prettily. "I'll bring you a mug of tea, too." She left the room after another sweet smile. Marty looked faintly ill at her departure.

Emma didn't notice, her attention fully on Doc. "Is there someone I could call for you?" she asked. "I don't think you should be spending the rest of your day working and moving heavy things."

"No," Doc said immediately. "I'm perfectly capable of leaving, now...."

Emma shook her head hard, the earrings swinging gently. "No," she said. "If you're concerned about angering your supervisors, I can give them a call and let them know that I was the one to force you to take a break. You definitely look as if you need it."

Marty broke in with a completely off the wall question, then. "How do you and... uh... Marti know each other?"

Emma blinked a couple of times, turning her eyes to the musician as if noticing him for the first time. "Her family hired me as a tutor when she was failing her high school biology class," the woman said. "I don't have any children of my own; Marti's like the granddaughter I never had."

"And you're not married?" Marty asked, his eyes dropping to her bony, unadorned hands.

"No," Emma said, the response rather clipped.

"What was it that you did... do?" Doc asked, intrigued by the mention of teaching. Emma turned back to face him as she answered the question.

"I was a professor at the university for more than thirty years," she said. "Science and biology. I retired in the early Eighties and tutored when it was needed. I've decided to enjoy the last years of my life, though, so that's why I decided to rent out the house for something much smaller, and travel. Marti is renting it from me -- she plans to record an album here, she tells me. She's a wonderful singer," she added quickly to the visitors, almost as an afterthought.

"You never studied physics?" the inventor asked.

"Not so much," Emma said. "It never held much of an interest for me." She stared hard at him, her gaze sharp in spite of her unrejuved age. "Were you a student of physics?"

"I suppose so -- I taught in that department myself at a college." He avoided mentioning the specifics; no doubt Emma would've known him if he told her he, too, had been at Hill Valley University.

The older woman's mouth quirked up in a smile. "Really?" she asked. "Well, what was it that brought you to working for a moving company, then?"

Doc cleared his throat delicately. "Ah, actually, I don't -- we don't. That was the source of a bit of misunderstanding from your friend. We were actually a bit lost and looking for directions."

Emma's smile faded a smidge. "Oh."

Marti burst into the room, then, a steaming mug in each hand. "Here," she said to the visitors, sitting down next to Marty and passing them the drinks. "They're super hot, so you might want to let it cool for a sec."

"Thank you," Doc said politely. Marty seemed temporarily speechless, the bulk of his attention focused on the close proximity of the young woman, who was staring him dead in the eyes with a happy smile.

"Are you new to Hill Valley?" she asked. "I don't think I've seen you around."

"We're... passing through," Marty managed. He set the drink in his hand down on the table and flashed Doc a look that was quite clear. He wanted to leave. Now.

The scientist took a quick sip of the tea, ignoring the tears that came to his eyes from the painfully hot temperature of the liquid. "I appreciate your hospitality," he told Emma after he had swallowed the scalding hot tea, "but we've really got to be moving on, now."

The woman scientist opened her mouth to protest, but Doc was on her feet before she could speak or physically stop him. Marty bounced up so fast he nearly knocked his female counterpart off the couch. Marti stood almost immediately and followed them as they went for the front door.

"If you need any help or whatever when you're here, you can give me a call," she said to Marty, almost overeagerly. "I'm in the phone book."

The musician smiled thinly as he reached for the doorknob. "I'll keep that in mind," he muttered.

Doc paused a moment to thank the rather baffled locals before following his friend's example and hurrying away from the house, towards the disguised time machine.

"Yeeach!" Marty burst out when they had reached the sidewalk, and were out of earshot from the home's occupants. "I can't believe it, Doc -- I think I was hitting on myself! Talk about illegal...."

The scientist didn't quite disagree with that statement -- Marti's behavior was vaguely reminiscent of Lorraine Baines of 1955, when she was infatuated with "Calvin Klein" -- but he didn't think it was worth losing any sleep over. "She didn't know who you were," he said. "I doubt she would've done that if she did."

Marty looked like he wanted to puke. "It's disgusting!" was his immediate and passionate opinion. "I kept having that one Aerosmith song going through my head -- 'Dude Looks Like a Lady' -- the whole time we were in there." He hummed a few bars of said song as Doc opened the door of the train and went inside. "I'm so disturbed, now. I think I'd rather see you or me dead."

The inventor rolled his eyes at the complaints. "It's not an unnatural situation," he said again. "For every reaction, there is an equal and opposite reaction -- so it stands to reason that there are dimensions out there where we were both born as the opposite gender. It's not very unusual."

"Like hell!" Marty frowned at him as he joined his friend in the cab. "Don't give me any of that bullshit; I saw the look on your face when you met 'Emma' -- you almost passed out!"

"I was a bit... caught off guard," Doc said, managing to suppress a shiver at the memory. "If you hadn't been so eager to leave, perhaps we could've found out more about them, here. It's interesting, in a way."

"I'm not stopping you if you wanna do that," Marty said, a faint gleam in his eye as he regarded the inventor. "I'll wait in here if you wanna go back up there and chat yourself up some more."

The idea gave Doc a good case of the willies. No matter how logical this reality might've been, on a probability scale, it was still making him react in a most unscientific and illogical manner. "No need to waste our time here any longer, when it's clear no one can help us," he said to Marty, his attention deliberately focused on starting the time machine again and switching the illusion to invisible as he uttered the words.

Marty snorted as he dropped to the floor and picked up the computer, in order to protect it again from the turbulence of the jump. "Thought so," he said.

Something in the younger man's tone irritated the scientist. Doc frowned, opened his mouth to snap out a rather terse reply of his own, then regained control of himself and closed his mouth before a whisper of breath could escape. Marty was just as stressed out and wound up as he was; they had been in this terrible mess for about fifty straight hours, now. It said something that Doc didn't even expect their next destination to be the last, or even the next to last. There was simply nothing else to do but plod forward, and hope that the answer to their problem would eventually make itself known.

And hopefully with no more gender-twisted realities!

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