"Liverpool can be a lonely place on a Saturday night..."

Actually, it was a Wednesday afternoon, Wednesday, November 1, 1961, to be precise. As I walked down Lime Street, I tried to figure out exactly what Great-Granddad and his mates had done – were doing, I corrected myself – today. (All right, I confess I don’t have every detail of Great-Granddad’s life memorized, but I have better things to do with my time. We hadn’t been sure what day we’d arrive anyway. At least I’d been smart enough to memorize the layout of Liverpool earlier.) Too bad Pluckenreck hadn’t allowed me to bring my handheld here; she’d been afraid it would mess up the development of technology in this universe. Personally, I thought she’d seen too many bad SF holos; who was she to determine what happened in this universe? But since I couldn’t refer to an online Beatles chronicle, I had to guess. I had two guesses: I’d find Great-Granddad John at either the Cavern Club at 10 Mathew Street or at the NEMS record store on Whitechapel.

When I was growing up, Dad used to say he’d take me someday to England and Japan so I could see where I’d come from. Of course, once he and Mom got divorced, he kept saying, "Next vacation, we’ll go. We’ll all go as a family." Then Mom came down with TransAIDS…. My eyes felt itchy again; maybe it was the pollution, or the salt in the air. My hands were occupied with my luggage, so I couldn’t rub my eyes. I tried to distract myself by discreetly looking around.

Since I’d spent most of my life in New York City, I hadn’t expected Liverpool to pose much of a challenge for me, no matter how seedy parts of it were in this time. What I hadn’t expected was how different this city felt. Liverpool may have been my great-granddad’s home, but it sure felt strange to me. The buildings were much smaller, even in the downtown area, and they were brick and stone, not steel and concrete. The streets seemed too narrow for the cars, which looked big and awkward compared to the sleek electro-ethanol models of my time. No doubt about it, this was a really old city.

I supposed if I’d devoted some time to really touring Liverpool, examining its architecture and learning its history, I could’ve convinced Net University to give me credit for medieval history. But I couldn’t be bothered. My mom was dead, my great-granddad’s shadow was threatening to ruin the best relationship I’d ever had, and I was alone in a universe eighty-plus years behind mine, on a dubious mission to steal my great-granddad’s DNA. All I wanted to do was get the damn job done and hurry back to the rendezvous point. I didn’t want to wait here a year for the Sagan’s next appearance.

I finally found Mathew Street; I hadn’t really realized from the maps that it’d be such a hike from Lime Street Station. My arms ached from carrying my luggage, but I quickened my pace as I proceeded down the street, which twisted like it’d been laid out by a drunk animal. What if the Beatles weren’t playing a lunchtime gig at the Cavern today, or what if they’d just left? I could wind up chasing them all over Liverpool.

I rounded a corner and crinkled my nose at the smell of rotting fruit and vegetables on the pavement. No doubt about it, this was the Cavern. Unfortunately, it was closed. Guess I shouldn’t have been surprised; it was close to three, after all. I was hungry and cold too. I looked down the street to the Grapes, the pub the Beatles used to frequent after their gigs, and wondered if my quarry was hiding there. I took a few steps toward it before I remembered I was supposed to be a innocent young American woman; it probably would be out of character for me to enter a pub by myself. Silently cursing Pluckenreck for making me play this stupid role, I turned instead towards Whitechapel. At least that wasn’t far away either.

As I wandered slowly down the street, looking for Brian Epstein’s record store, three young men in black leather jackets and pants burst out of one of the stores, talking amongst themselves nonstop as they mimed chords on imaginary guitars. I flattened myself against a doorway. My heart raced faster than it had the first time I had met my George, but for a different reason. No matter how compelling Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and George Harrison looked in their black leather gear, I wasn’t about to fall in love with any of them, especially John. My great-grandfather, large as life and twice as intimidating. The shadow I could never outrun, the black hole continually threatening to swallow me whole. In a moment, we’d finally be face to face, if I didn’t lose my nerve.

Oh God, I’d never been more afraid in my entire life.

I swear on a stack of Bibles, or better yet, a stack of DNA printouts, that I didn’t plan what happened next. My nerveless hand released my suitcase. It thumped on the concrete and perversely sprung open. Sweaters and shoes spilled onto the dirty sidewalk. At least my underwear was safely concealed in the other suitcase; I’d have killed myself from embarrassment if Great-Granddad and company had seen it. Of course, Pluckenreck would probably kill me anyway when I returned; I must have set a record for ruining the most costumes in one trip.

"Lordy, it’s a clothing sale!" Great-Granddad mocked in a high voice. He switched to an official-sounding, deep one. "Now, what’s this, young miss, running off to meet yer lover, are ya? Too scared to tell mum and dad ya couldn’t wait for the wedding night?"

George and Paul laughed.

Anger settled on me, familiar and protective, like a suit of armor propping me up inside and out. "Piss off, Great-Granddad," I muttered under my breath while stooping to retrieve my costumes.

Paul, a Liverpudlian Prince Charming, picked up a black pump. "Never mind him, love," he said as he handed it to me. "He’s always like that…" His expressive brown eyes widened as he looked first at me, then over his shoulder at my great-granddad. "Hey, John, ya didn’t tell me ya had a third sister."

"I don’t," he said flatly. Obviously, he didn’t know yet about the one his mother had to give up for adoption.

"Well, have a good look at this bird, then. She’s got yer face."

Time to stop them talking about me and start talking directly to me. I slowly rose to my full height – I had to minimize the disadvantage Great-Granddad had over me – then looked directly at him. He stepped forward and short-sightedly thrust his face at mine, so close I thought we’d collide.

He reeked of sweaty leather and smoke. His black shirt looked like he’d worn it for days; I wondered how his strict Aunt Mimi let him leave the house looking like that. His face wasn’t exactly like mine – he had a faint five-o’-clock shadow, I didn’t wear my hair brushed over my forehead – but apart from that and the difference in our complexions, it was uncannily like looking into a masculine mirror. We even both had small moles in the center of our foreheads, though I had only one to his three.

"Hey, he’s right," Great-Granddad said. He blinked his eyes a few times. "Except for the eyes."

I have vaguely Oriental eyes, courtesy of Great-Grandma. "Mine work." I wasn’t going to tell him I’d had laser surgery to correct my own poor vision. "I bet yours don’t."

I knew I’d scored by his momentary frown. "How’d you get my face, love?"

"Fourth-hand, for a penny. No one else wanted it."

As Great-Granddad drew back, narrow eyes compressed into slits, Paul and George laughed again.

"Hey, she’s American!" George said in a delighted voice.

"Good ear, George," Paul said. He turned to me with a smile so dazzling I almost forgot about my George back on the Sagan. "I’m Paul. What’s your name?"

"Joanna."

"Joanna what?" Great-Granddad asked. He stood in what I recognized as his performing stance – legs slightly apart, head tilted back.

"Lennon." I hoped my tone sounded natural to them. Announcing my last name always made an impression on people, but I had no idea how this trio would react.

"That’s John’s last name too!" Paul exclaimed. "You two must be related."

Great-Granddad drew back from me. "Old Freddie gets around."

"Freddie?" I feigned ignorance.

"Isn’t that your dad’s name?"

"No. Ian."

Great-Granddad’s stance relaxed slightly. "So, we’re not siblings at least."

"Perhaps you’re cousins," George suggested.

The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. "No, he’s my great-granddad."

I froze in place, my cheeks hot. Fuck, oh fuck. This fuck-up made all the ruined clothes seem trivial. I couldn’t handle this type of work; I’ve never been a good liar. I should’ve stayed back at Golden Helix…

But Paul and George only laughed again, so hard my cheeks grew even warmer. When Paul finally managed to stop laughing and recover his breath, he said, "No doubt about it, John, she’s related to you. She’s got your wit."

Thank God; they thought it was a joke. I suddenly realized I’d never finished gathering my clothes. I scooped them up and shoved them haphazardly back into the suitcase. Don’t do that again, Jo, I told myself while I packed. Your great-granddad’s smart; he might get suspicious. Stop thinking of him as your great-granddad; use his name.

"Very well, Miss Joanna Linen," John said. "And what brings you all the way from America to grace our poor town?"

I had a cover story for this, not too far removed from the truth. "I’m supposed to collect a family inheritance from a lawyer –"

"You mean, a solicitor," Paul said.

"And where are you staying?" John asked.

"I don’t know yet."

"You do now," John answered. "Mimi will want to meet you and find out more about how you fit into the family."

Lovely; Inquisition, part two. But this was what I’d hoped for; this would give me the best opportunity to take a DNA sample from John.

"You’ll be coming to the show tonight, won’t ya?" George asked me.

"What show?"

"At the Cavern, down on Mathew Street," Paul replied. "We’re a band."

"We’re the Beatles!" John raised his hands, conductor-like, in the air. "And where are we going?"

"To the top, Johnny, to the top!" Paul and George chorused. A couple of passersby turned their heads to look before hurrying on.

"And where’s that, fellas?"

I almost shouted out the answer with them: "To the toppermost of the poppermost!"

Little did they know how true that would be. They hadn’t even met Brian Epstein, the manager who would polish their act and bring them to worldwide fame. They would next week. At least, they did in my universe.

"I’d love to hear you play," I said.

"Great. See you then, Paul, George." John took my suitcases, and before long, we were on a bus to Menlove Avenue and Mendips, the house where he lived with his aunt.

I was a little surprised by how nice the house was, but not much. John had never been the working-class hero he’d sung about, after all. We quickly passed through the glass-panelled porch, where his aunt made him practice, to the parlor. It was nicely decorated in blue and beige, with a beige tile fireplace in one wall and a bookshelf to the side. I recognized some of the vases and china on the bookshelf; in my time and universe, they had passed to Uncle Jackass’s family.

John flung his leather jacket on a chair upholstered in blue. "Mimi," he called, "look what followed me home, all the way from America! Can we keep her, please? I’ll walk her every day, I promise."

"What is it now, Lennon?" his aunt called from elsewhere, presumably the kitchen. In a moment, she poked her head around the corner. Her eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened slightly as she looked at me.

"Mimi," John said formally, "I’d like you to meet Joanna Lennon. We think she’s my cousin. Joanna, this is my auntie."

"How do you do?" I said, holding out my hand. She took it automatically, still staring at my face.

"You’re…you’re John’s cousin?" she asked.

"Well, she’s not me sister."

"Speak properly, John." As his aunt reprimanded him, she seemed to regain her poise. "I didn’t bring you up to sound common. Your little friend and that teddy boy are a bad influence on you."

I struggled to repress a grin at her descriptions of Paul and George.

She turned back to me. "It’s astonishing how much you two look alike. Where are you from? Who are your parents? Come in the kitchen and I’ll get you a cup of tea."

She gave me a cup of tea – not as strong as coffee, but still good – and a plateful of something greasy. With the food, the pollution, and the second-hand smoke, this trip was going to cut at least ten years off my life. Still, it was food, and I was so hungry even the grease tasted good. I ate as best as I could while answering Mimi’s questions and fending off the Siamese cats trying to steal bits and pieces of my meal. Catlike, John padded in and out doing his own mysterious things, sitting down once to eat as well.

Mimi questioned me most about my family; she was obviously trying to figure out how I was related to John. Mindful of my earlier slip, yet not wanting to be caught in a falsehood, I said, "My father’s side of the family is descended from a John Lennon who came to America from Liverpool."

"Ah, that’s our John’s grandfather," Mimi said.

What a lucky coincidence for me John had the same name as his grandfather.

"And you said your father’s name was Ian?"

"That’s right."

"What does he do?"

How do you explain two mediocre albums, a handful of holo appearances, and a share in a celeb PR firm to a TwenCen person? "He's an entertainer," I started to answer. At Mimi's frown, words came to me. "But he's given that up; he never was much good at it. These days he's part owner of a business." Not that HE needed to work, of course, with his own share of Great-Granddad's money. Some people had it dead easy.

"Well, at least he’s become respectable, then." Mimi stared at me, examining my appearance. I really hadn’t realized until then how class-conscious TwenCen Britain was. No wonder Pluckenreck had insisted I wear the damn costumes.

"But what brings you to Liverpool?"

I told her what I had told John about the family legacy. She was less accepting of my story than John had been. "A Lennon with a legacy? I’ll believe that when I see it. No offense, dear," she said, "I can see you’ve been brought up properly, but the Lennons around here aren’t as good as they should be. Certainly John’s father wasn’t good enough for my sister."

"But John…"

"Oh, John’s something special all right." Mimi’s dark eyes twinkled for a moment, then she frowned. "If only he’d just do something with himself instead of playing that guitar all the time. He’s smart enough, but he just won’t apply himself. When I think of all the chances he threw away at Quarry Bank, then at the Art College…" she sighed. I wished I could tell her of the success waiting for John in the future, but since I couldn’t be sure he obtained it in this universe, I said nothing.

The heavy meal, combined with all the travelling I’d done, made me sleepy. One of the cats climbed into my lap and tilted its head, demanding a scratch behind the ears. I obliged; its purring nearly put me to sleep there in the kitchen.

John chose that moment to come back, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder. "Wearing the cat to the Cavern? He won’t fancy it."

"You can’t seriously mean to bring her there, John Lennon!" Mimi turned to me. "It’s a wretched place, dear, all damp and airless. Besides, I can see you’re tired. You should stay here and sleep."

I pushed the annoyed cat off of my lap and stood, fighting back a yawn. "No, I’d like to hear John and his friends play." At least it might help me with that Net presentation I had to give for my history minor, though I couldn’t explain that to Mimi.

"And then you’ll tell everyone in America about us, won’t you, love?" John asked me.

"Why would they want to hear about a band from Liverpool? When will you end this nonsense and get a proper job? The guitar’s all very well and good, John, but you’ll never earn your living from it."

John just shook his head. "You’ll be sorry you treated me like this when I’m famous, Mimi. You just wait." To me he said, "If you’re going to change, better hurry up. The bus will be leaving soon."

They’d put my suitcases in John’s room. I think there was furniture in there under the heaps of clothes left lying around, but I couldn’t be sure. I brushed the cat hair off my skirt, changed my sweater for a white blouse, and ran a comb through my hair. I also put a mini audio recorder in my purse. Too bad a digicam would have drawn too much attention, but at least I could record the music for my Net presentation. Then back we went to the Cavern.

Although it was dark by the time we arrived at the Cavern, the place was much livelier than it had been that afternoon. A line of girls was already waiting in the street; some of them called out to John as we passed. He ignored them as we pushed our way past them and down the stairs. "She’s with me," John said to the man at the door, and we were in.

The Cavern lived up – or should I say down – to the reputation it had in my time. It was a barren place, dark, dank, and hot, all narrow tunnels and archways. Moisture beaded on the whitewashed brick walls, and the air was so pungent it should’ve been classified as a chemical weapon. Rows of wooden chairs covered the concrete floor like pews in a church; the first row was an arm’s-length from the small wooden stage. Paul; Pete Best, the drummer Ringo replaced; and Neil Aspinall, who drove the Beatles to their gigs, were already setting up the instruments there. The mosaic of multi-colored blocks with band names behind the stage, framed by the arch overhead, was unexpectedly soothing. The place reminded me of a Roman-era catacomb, where the faithful minority gathered for their weekly sermons. But the gospel taught here by the Beatles was rock’n’roll.

"Make yourself at home, love," John said. Pushing through the narrow aisle, he bounded up on stage and started talking to Paul.

I’d only been here a couple of minutes and was already sweating; I couldn’t imagine how it must feel to put on a show here, especially in the leather gear. I took off my overcoat and draped it over my arm, then chose a seat in back. It wasn’t worth battling with the die-hard fans for a seat in front, and my recorder was sensitive enough to pick up sound at this distance.

Customers started trickling in. Some of the ones who’d called out to John came over to me. "Who are you?" they asked.

"I’m John’s cousin," I replied. I hoped I wasn’t blushing from the lie.

"How well do you know him? Do you know Paul?"

I knew John and Paul better than they did themselves, but naturally I couldn’t say that. When the girls learned I was an American who’d just arrived in Liverpool, they left me alone. I guess they didn’t think I’d make a good go-between.

The cramped place filled quickly, with dressed-up girls chattering over the background records about their favorite Beatle. Teenage boys lined the walls; I noted a lot of them looked like they were trying to imitate John in the way they dressed and carried themselves. I shifted in my chair and closed my eyes, suddenly wishing George was here to watch with me. Even Mom or Dad would have been good company. My eyes itched again. They’d been doing that a lot lately; I made a mental note to have the medics examine them once I returned to the Sagan.

Suddenly, at some signal I didn’t notice, all the girls around me whipped hairspray, makeup, and combs out of their purses and preened furiously. Never mind the ozone layer; the hairspray was thick enough to create holes in my lungs. I coughed and waved it away with one hand. As I was wondering if I should pretend to primp too, the other girls put their stuff away. The record playing in the background ended, and an announcer in a room off to the side yelled, "Ladies and gentlemen, the ones you’ve come to see, the Beatles!"

Furious applause erupted as John, Paul, George, and Pete ran from the back onto the stage. No screams, though; that development would come later. I opened my purse and started the recorder, leaving it concealed.

A dark-haired girl up front passed glass bottles of Coke onto the stage. "Thanks, Deborah," Paul said as he set his next to him. George brought one back to Pete. John stood off to the side, next to one of the mikes, as he finished a cigarette. Then he stepped forward and raised his guitar to his chest. He turned his head to say something to the others, and they broke into "Be-Bop-A-Lula."

I’d heard this song before, of course, on John’s Rock ‘N’ Roll album. I’d even heard a version the Beatles recorded at a live performance in Hamburg. But the sheer energy they put into it astounded me. Despite their primitive equipment, the sound resonated in my bones. Nothing on HitNet had a tenth this emotion! I’d vaguely planned to watch the audience during the performance; I’d thought I could do my Net presentation on them. But like them, I couldn’t tear my gaze from the tiny stage.

After they finished the song, Paul stepped forward to speak; several of the girls around me sighed. "Good evening, everyone, thanks for coming here tonight. That was ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula,’ and now, as a special request from Susan, we’re going to do ‘Twenty Flight Rock!’" He stepped back to play, jerking the neck of his guitar about.

And so it went. As the set continued, I noticed how John and Paul seemed to be spurring each other on. John would sing "Rock And Roll Music;" Paul would counter with "Long Tall Sally." John would do "Leave My Kitten Alone," and Paul would follow with "Besame Mucho." They weren’t the only ones singing, of course: George sang "Roll Over Beethoven," "Glad All Over," and a funny song called "I’m Henry the Eighth I Am." To the delight of a lot of the girls, Pete Best also did a mini-set, with "Matchbox," "Boys," and a Presley-influenced number I didn’t recognize. John and George shared harmonies on "Words of Love," and George showed off his guitar playing on a few instrumentals. I noticed during his solos how some of the boys standing around stared at his hands as if they were trying to catch how he played the chords. But after John and Paul shared a brief duet on "Lend Me Your Comb," it was back to the one-upmanship game.

As John finished "Slow Down," Paul grinned. "Slow down? Sounds like a good idea, John. Let’s do ‘Til There Was You.’"

"No! Not that one!" John exclaimed in mock horror.

But John played along with the other two as Paul sang. When Paul finished, the girls around me were practically swooning. Paul gave a little sideways glance at John, as if to say, "Top that!"

John settled into his arrogant-seeming performance stance, guitar braced high on his chest, head tilted back, and legs slightly apart. But when he sang, his voice was surprisingly gentle:

He closed his eyes. The stark stagelights showed up the contrast between his dark eyelashes and his pale skin. His skin seemed almost as pale as Mom’s had been. Thinking of Mom made me realize something; that "Send me some love too" line from her sig sounded an awful lot like "Send me some loving." She’d told me once she’d copied the sig from Dad; he’d used it in the e-mail messages they exchanged when they first met in high school. Was this song the original source?

John’s voice rose soulfully for the middle section:

Oh, I did miss her. And Dad, and George. Did Dad and George know how much they meant to me? Had Mom?

You couldn’t describe my life more accurately than that.

And that was Mom’s life in the TransAIDS clinic. Only she wasn’t waiting for me there anymore.

I’d spent the twenty-four years of my life constructing a protective wall of anger and flippancy around my deepest emotions. Until then, I’d thought it thick enough to protect me from the pains of life, both big and small. But with one song, John cut through my wall as if it didn’t exist.

My eyes no longer itched with the tears I refused to shed. I couldn’t keep my tears in any longer; they blended with the sweat on my face as they flowed down. I wiped them off before they could stain the collar of my blouse, but I was helpless to stop them.

Paul ripped into a raucous version of "What’d I Say," but I couldn’t listen to it. I stood up and pushed my way past the girls surrounding me. A few of them muttered angrily as I blocked their view of their idols, but otherwise they paid me no attention. I dashed up the steps leading from the Cavern. Leaning against a cold lamppost, I sobbed all the tears I’d been saving since I was a child.

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there and cried before I heard John calling "Joanna? Joanna? Where are you?"

I turned towards his voice; not much of him was visible beyond his face, his hands, and the orange glow from his cigarette. I didn’t trust my voice, so I waved at him, hoping he’d be able to see the motion. I suddenly realized how cold I was; I’d been so possessed by my grief I’d forgotten to put on my overcoat. As John approached, I forced my numb body to put the coat on.

"What are you doing out here by yourself?" John asked. "Don’t you know it’s not safe?"

"I’ll tell the muggers that if I see any."

He chuckled briefly at that, then peered down at me. "Hey, you’ve been crying, haven’t you?"

I struggled to rebuild my wall of protection. "So what if I have?"

John sighed. "Don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love with Paulie. He has to fight the birds off."

"No, it’s nothing like that."

"Then what is it? Paul said he saw you run off after my last song. Don’t tell me you don’t like our music; we’re pretty damn good!"

"You’re great," I said. "It’s just that last song you sang…it reminded me of something my mother used to say to me."

Something somber flickered in his eyes. "Your mother?"

"Yeah. She’s been ill for a long time. I didn’t want to leave her alone and come over here, but I had to. Then I got the word she died… and you wanna know why? For someone else’s stupidity!" I shook my fist at him unsteadily, and fresh tears sprung up from the inexhaustible well inside of me. "Oh, God, I think I’m going to cry again."

"Then cry, love." John’s voice had an odd note in it. "Cry for both of us. I lost me mother too."

He pulled me to him. I leaned on his shoulder, put my face on his sweat-soaked leather jacket, and soaked it a little more with my tears. He held me awkwardly, not like George would have, but I didn’t mind. I knew he had a hard time showing his own emotions at this point in his life, but I also knew he shared mine. And at least for those few moments, the similarity was a comfort, not a bother.

"Feeling better?" he asked after I finally stopped.

"Yeah," I answered. I felt worn out by my crying fit, but at the same time I was also relieved, like I’d finally be able to put down a heavy burden. I fumbled around in my purse for a handkerchief. It seemed unsanitary to blow my nose into cloth than into disposable tissue, but it was better than using the sleeve of my overcoat.

John impatiently waited for me to make myself presentable. "We’ve got to go back in there, y’know. I’ve got another set to do." He took a long drag on his cigarette, then dropped the butt to the pavement and ground it out underfoot. "And you’ve got to get on with yer own life too. Think yer’re up to it?"

I shrugged. "Don’t have much choice, do I?"

"Oh, you’ll get by, one way or another." His expression was wry. "I know I have."

Abruptly he turned, put his hands in his pockets, and strode back to the steps, not even looking if I was following. I watched him disappear below the street, a bit annoyed with him. He was more worried about his macho, tough guy pose than me. And thanks to him, I’d never wear my own armor of anger so easily again. Now that I’d cried once, it’d be much easier to do it again some other time.

But John was right about one thing; protected or vulnerable, I had to get on with my life. And right now, that meant dealing with John long enough to steal his DNA so I could return home. I followed him downstairs for the second half of the show.

I bought myself a cup of tea to counteract the cold. Someone had taken my seat, so I stood in back and listened to the second set. It went much like the first, except John was even rowdier, as if he was compensating for his sympathy for me earlier. He made puns of the song titles, he mercilessly mocked a shy blonde with a stammer, and when the amps died during "The One After 909," John swore a blue streak. Somehow they jury-rigged the amps back to life, and they closed with a wild version of "Shout," with John, Paul, and George sharing vocals. They stretched it out to nearly ten minutes and got the audience to join them. Pity they hadn’t put this one on an album, I thought as I sang along. The only performances of it that I knew of were the fragment on Anthology 1 and one on the show Ready Steady Go!

I’d hoped the Beatles and maybe some of their fans would go to the Grapes afterwards, so I could gather more material for my presentation. No such luck. Though fans clustered around the group, gradually they left in pairs and other small groups, until only three or four were left. Then Neil and the Beatles loaded their van. I offered to help, but they refused to let me do anything. The other girls looked at me strangely; I realized I wasn’t acting like a helpless female. Feminism couldn’t come soon enough to this male chauvinist time for my taste.

George stood off in a corner, inspecting his guitar before he put it away. A sudden impulse made me approach him. "I liked your playing tonight, George."

"Thanks," he replied, smiling shyly at me before bending his head.

"I was wondering…I have a boyfriend back home who shares your name and also plays guitar. I think he’d be really flattered to have a guitar string from another George Harrison. Even a frayed or broken one would make a nice souvenir."

"Ya have a boyfriend?" George sounded disappointed. "Here, he can have this one." He removed one from his guitar, replaced it, and gave the old one to me.

And so I got a genuine George Harrison souvenir for my George Harrison. I coiled the guitar string and tucked it into my purse. "Thanks, George." I kissed his cheek; he had lovely cheekbones. "You’re sweet."

He blushed as he moved off.

All of us, including the girls, crowded into the van, and Neil started to bring everyone home. He dropped John and me off at Mendips first. The house was dark; Mimi must have been in bed. John put his finger to his lips before he let me in. We wound up back in the kitchen, where he turned on a light and looked at me expectantly.

I was suddenly conscious of being alone with him, with no one to buffer me from his cruel wit. Or from him. He’d already breached my defenses once tonight; God knew what else he would do to mess up my mind.

I bundled up my overcoat and purse in my arms. "Thanks for taking me to your show," I said. "It was really great."

"I know," he said. "We’ve got a really good sound, and the Cavern’s an easy gig next to the ones we did in Hamburg. I just don’t want to be there all me life."

Great; this was going to be a clichéd SF story in which the Time Traveler reassures the Downcast Genius of future glory. I really didn’t feel up to my assigned role, though. "I’m sure someday you’ll find something better." I mimed a yawn. "Now, good night." I started to leave.

"Hold on." I automatically turned back. "You can’t be serious about going to bed so early, are you?"

"Well, it has been a long day. You wouldn’t believe all the traveling I’ve done –"

"Oh, is that it?" He leered at me. "Or are ya afraid wicked Cousin John is gonna have his way with ya?" He made a few spastic faces, then reached out for me with a hand, fingers curved like talons.

I drew back, but I also raised my knee threateningly. "You try it, John, and you’ll be singing in a higher register at your next show."

He paused. "You wouldn’t!"

Not with Great-uncle Julian’s and Grandpa Sean’s existences – and my own – in this universe at stake. I lowered my knee. "Well, maybe not, but are you sure you want to risk it?"

He laughed, then dropped the ravishing monster act. "You’re a feisty one, aren’t ya? Good; I can’t respect someone I can push around too easily." He filled a kettle and placed it in a ring of flame on the gas stove. "Sit down and have a talk. It’s not every day I meet an American cousin. Don’t worry." He flashed his teeth at me. "I don’t bite. Much."

"Better not, or else they’ll put you down." I flinched as I realized what I had just said. I put my head down as I busied myself with arranging my coat and purse on a chair.

But John hadn’t a clue of the faux pas I’d committed. He sat down at the kitchen table, propping elbows on table and chin on hands as he leaned forward. We stared at each other for a while. "You really are a lot like me," he said finally. "You look like me, you’re almost as witty –"

"What do you mean, almost?"

He grinned, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "If you weren’t a nice girl, I’d tell you. I don’t suppose you write, by any chance?"

"No."

"Draw?"

"No, I don’t draw either."

"Well, it’s a good thing you don’t play guitar; I wouldn’t want the competition."

"I can play a little bit," I said, "but I haven’t practiced in years. It’s not for me."

The kettle whistled, summoning John. He got up and prepared two cups of tea. "So," he said as he put one in front of me, "you’re just waiting for the right guy to sweep you off your feet, so you can live happily ever after."

Lovely caffeine; I could never get enough. I took a sip, then cradled my hands around the hot china cup. "I may have met someone," I said, thinking of my George back on the Sagan, "but I don’t know how it will work out. We’ll probably wind up working in separate labs."

John raised his eyebrows and his cup at the same time. "Labs?"

"I’m studying to be a scientist."

I thought he’d sputter hot tea all over the table. Somehow, he managed not to. "A scientist! Go on!"

"It’s true," I said, annoyed. "What, don’t you think a woman can be a scientist? Look at Marie Curie. She and her husband isolated radium from pitchblende. She won two Nobel prizes for her work. And Rosalind Franklin, she’s my favorite. I bet you never heard of her, even though she’s English like you. But she managed to take some pictures of DNA that helped Watson and Crick figure out how it was put together."

"DNA? What’s that? Desperately Needing Amour?"

"Not quite. DNA stands for deoxyribonucleic acid. It’s the stuff our genes are made of, the stuff that makes us us." The stuff that made me so much like him.

He yawned. "Sounds dull, science. All test tubes and white coats and regular routine jobs. There’s no art in it."

"Oh, yes there is," I said intensely. I set my cup down and leaned forward. "Yeah, sometimes it does get dull, running the same experiment over and over, looking for the answer you want. Most of the time you can’t tell for sure, so you have to change the design of your experiment. Sometimes the experiment works out completely opposite from what you predicted; then you have to change your working theory. But sometimes you get a result that actually tells you something, something that takes you a little farther than you were before, or joins two things you thought were unrelated. That’s the joy in science. And science itself is an art, just like your guitar playing. I had to practice the techniques over and over until I got good at them, and I’m always trying to learn new ones. And then you have to learn how to work with other scientists too, so your combined efforts make sense, not a bunch of noise…." I suddenly realized I’d gone on too long. "Anyway, maybe you don’t see much beauty in science, but if you knew as much about it as I do, you would."

Incredibly, John was silent. He stared at me, eyes wide, for several minutes. One hand crept towards the pocket of his jacket, as if he wanted a cigarette, but he jerked it back. "Maybe you’re not so much like me after all," he said finally.

Maybe you’re not so much like me… it was like hearing the key turn in the lock of my prison door. I’d told George I was different from John, but I hadn’t been sure. But now, after having experienced him and his world, I knew I wasn’t him. Hearing it directly from John, from an unkempt, shortsighted, witty, and dominating John, still smelling of smoke and sweat, weariness just beginning to show on his face, confirmed it. No matter how many times people had compared me to John before, or how many times they would do it for the rest of my life, I would know the truth. And the truth would set me free.

"I’m not you." I grinned as I looked John in the eyes. "I’m not you."

He frowned, drawing his eyebrows together. "Well, you needn’t sound so chuffed about it."

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. "Never mind," I said as he looked at me strangely. "It’s a personal matter."

We sat there and finished our tea, talking about everything: books and music, our mothers, and the differences between America and England. As I’d expected, John was an excellent conversationalist; if he didn’t have something intelligent to say about something, at least he’d make a joke out of it. I had a hard time keeping up with him, especially since I didn’t want to talk about things that didn’t exist yet. Unfortunately, my recorder shut off partway through our discussion. When it clicked off, John looked around for the source of the noise, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he thought it was one of the cats.

John seemed so much more open and friendly during our talk than he had before. I wanted to confide in him, tell him who I really was and what I was doing here. It just seemed wrong to take advantage of him like this. But I didn’t dare. For one thing, he might not have believed me, and if he did, I couldn’t believe he’d agree to let me sample his DNA. Everything I knew about him suggested he wouldn’t like the idea of being cloned. John changed his mind more often than he did his clothes, but on something like this I couldn’t expect him to agree at any time. Odds were, he’d only get furious at me and kick me out, leaving me stranded in this ancient Liverpool.

Our conversation gradually slowed. I was pushing my exhausted brain cells to the limit, trying to think of a way I could feel out John’s opinions on a procedure that for him existed only in science fiction. If I could get his objections recorded…no, that wouldn’t work; the recorder was off. Suddenly I realized he was breathing heavily. "John?"

I looked over at him. He was slumped forward, head resting against his right shoulder, lips slightly open as he blew air through them. He’d taken off his leather jacket; maybe that’s why he seemed younger than he really was.

Even legends of rock and roll have to sleep sometime.

This would be my best chance to sample him without his knowledge – assuming he didn’t wake up. I watched him for several moments to make sure he didn’t. I tried to think of other alternatives to this – sampling someone else, or even doing a little genetic surgery on my own DNA to pass it off as his. But I didn’t have the equipment to do that. More importantly, it was just as unethical to falsify a sample as it was to take it without his permission. I’d known all along I’d have to do this; if I didn’t do it, they’d just send someone else on the Sagan’s next run. I might as well get the dirty deed over with.

I’d already had too much tea, but I finished off the cold dregs anyway. I pulled some samplers out of my purse, then got up and approached him.

"Forgive me," I whispered to him. "You don’t know how much my world wants you back."

He slept on, offering me no absolution.

I clicked one of the samplers open, exposing a glass tip. I gently pried John’s lips wider apart with one hand and ran the glass tip over the lining of his mouth. I could collect plenty of freshly-shed cells there. With luck, some of the cells would still be alive; they’d then proliferate in the medium stored in the sampler. Even if they weren’t, they could be preserved so their DNA could still be used. I’d probably collect lots of bacteria along with human cells, but that didn’t matter; the medium had been tailored for human cells. To make sampling even easier, the glass tip had been treated with a chemical that would change color when enough cells were collected. I held the sampler against my white sleeve; sure enough, the glass tip had a reddish tinge. I withdrew the tip back into the sampler, then locked the cap into place and opened the mini-vent, complete with filter, at the other end.

John didn’t feel a thing.

I contemplated the sampler for a few minutes, admiring its microscopic contents. The cells I had just gathered contained 46 chromosomes in 23 pairs. Like all men, John had a mismatched set of sex chromosomes, but the other 22 pairs were identical. If I took all the chromosomes from just one cell and carefully laid them end to end, they’d stretch out to six feet in length, just a little longer than John himself. But evolution had packaged the DNA so neatly it all fit in a space just a millionth of a meter across. And in the approximately 50,000 genes encoded in all this DNA were instructions for making one human Caucasian male, thin, brown-haired and hazel-eyed, with a long nose, bad eyesight, and musical and linguistic gifts.

Who says there ain’t no poetry in science?

I collected a second sample as a backup, then labeled both samplers with John’s name, my own, and the date. All I had to do with the samplers now was make sure they were kept at room temperature and received adequate airflow. If something went wrong with one of the samplers, I could siphon off the medium and transfer it to another sampler. I hoped I wouldn’t have to do that, though; that was a messy procedure, and not always effective.

I hid the samplers, then shook John. "John, John, wake up! Wake up and go to bed."

When I did rouse him, he was too tired to appreciate the joke. I helped him make his way over to the sofa, where Mimi had laid out a blanket, pillow, and a change of clothes for him. He laid down, still fully clothed. "Don’t I get a goodnight kiss?" he mumbled as I tucked him in.

I kissed his cheek. "Goodnight, John."

"G’night…cousin." He was soon asleep again.

I crept upstairs and washed up as quietly as I could. I thought I’d had trouble falling asleep, but I think I slept as soon as I excavated the bed and fell into it.

I did have an odd dream, though. I was back at the Cavern, the only audience member present. The Beatles – this time with Ringo – were playing, but they were doing the "Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End" medley at the end of Abbey Road. They changed the words slightly: instead of "Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight a long time," they sang, "Jo, you’ll never carry that weight anymore." "Or will you?" John added, looking directly at me. They exchanged their farewell solos, then they sang, "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." Paul smiled at me, then winked. "Time to even the score, love."

I woke late, refreshed and calm. I laid there for a while, staring at the sunlight coming through the window while I thought. John had given me several gifts last night: the gift of tears, the gift of my own identity, and of course, the gift of his DNA. Though he hadn’t meant to give them to me, I still owed him a debt. I could think of only one thing that could equal what he had given me. His life.

"Where’s John?" I asked Mimi after breakfast.

"Out. I’ll bet he’s with his little friend again." She pursed her lips disapprovingly. "So, how did you like his show last night?"

"It was fantastic," I replied.

"Oh? You think they’ve got a future, making all that noise?"

I smiled. "With a little luck, yes."

I left to collect my "legacy." There was another traveler here in England who’d arrived on the Sagan’s last visit. Pluckenreck had arranged for him to give me some jewelry and other fake family mementos, in case someone like Mimi questioned my purpose here. I’d also pick up his filled samplers and recordings to bring back to the Sagan.

On the bus back into downtown Liverpool, I tried to figure out what I should do to steer my great-granddad away from the fate he’d suffered in my universe. Unlike Eliot’s Prufrock or my nemesis Pluckenreck, I dared disturb the universe; there was no reason to expect this universe to follow mine. But that meant John’s path might diverge from what I knew at any time. Brian Epstein might not visit the Cavern, for instance, or he’d fail to get George Martin to produce the Beatles. Beatlemania might not catch on outside of Liverpool, or John might not meet my great-grandma and move to New York. When anything was possible, how could I hope to thwart one specific outcome?

All I could do, I finally decided as I stared at the gray Liverpool streets, was tell John about the possible fate ahead of him, but emphasize it might not happen. But I couldn’t tell him now. Even if he believed me, it seemed a cruel thing to do to him, making him aware of his possible future. Better to let him live his life normally as long as possible, then find a way to warn him when the time was close.

I got off close to St George’s Hall. I was supposed to meet the traveler next to what was known as my time as the John Lennon Lion (of course!), one of the four stone lions guarding the place. A heavyset man in a hat, an overcoat, and a long scarf was already waiting there, two bags by his feet. While I was wondering if he was the traveler, he came up to me. "Excuse me, but do you know a Ms. Pluckenreck?" he asked. When I nodded, he continued, "You must be the traveler she sent to John Lennon. You look a lot like him, you know."

"I know," I replied cheerfully, "but I’m not him."

The traveler, who was older than I had first thought him to be, gave me the bags. "This one’s your inheritance," he said, pointing to the brown one. "You can give it back to Ms. Pluckenreck when you return to the base. The other one has the samplers and other things. I’ve been told you know how to monitor the genetic samples?"

"Yeah, I’m a lab tech in my other life. Any problems with them that I need to know about?"

"I don’t think so." He leered at me, raising thick black eyebrows. "You sure you don’t want to stay in this time, sweetie? The sixties are gonna be great!"

I stepped away from him. "I’m not a TwenCen kind of girl. Besides, there’s someone waiting for me back home." The Sagan was just as much home as anyplace else, I supposed.

"Suit yourself, then."

I left him and bought some writing supplies, then went to a coffee bar on Whitechapel; I’d noticed it the day before. The coffee was weaker than what I was used to; it took two and a half cups before I finally figured out what to say:

November 2, 1961

Dear Great-Granddad John,

Brian Epstein. George Martin. The Ed Sullivan Show. A Hard Day’s Night and Help! "Strawberry Fields Forever." Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Yoko Ono, my great-grandmother. The break-up in 1970. "Give Peace a Chance." Your lost weekend in LA. The birth of my granddad, Sean Taro Ono Lennon. Double Fantasy.

Do these things mean anything to you? If they do, then your life paralleled that of my own great-granddad closely enough that I have to warn you of something. But first, I have to explain who I am and where I come from.

As you’ve probably guessed. I’m not really your American cousin. I’m your great-granddaughter, from the year 2047. And technically I’m not your descendant; I’m the descendant of a John Winston Ono Lennon from another universe. It’s a weird property of physics that every time there’s a choice to be made, the universe splits into two. Choice A happens in one universe, and Choice B happens in the other. This just keeps happening all the time, so there are innumerable universes existing alongside our own. I can’t explain this too well; I’m not a quantum physicist. If you want to learn more about it, I’m sure you can find books on the subject or talk to physicists. People know more about this in my time than they do in yours, but I think you should be able to find some information on it.

I’m telling you all this because I don’t want you to die the way my ancestor did in my universe. Please keep in mind, Great-Granddad, that IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE THIS WAY. For all I know, it won’t happen to you at all; this universe may be different enough to ensure that it won’t. But not even I can predict your future; this is just one possible future, one I hope you can avoid.

On December 8, 1980, you and Great-Grandma leave the Dakota, your New York home, to go to a recording studio. Among the fans waiting by the entrance is a young man with glasses; he came all the way from Hawaii to see you. You sign your latest album for him, and you probably think nothing more of him. But when you arrive home that night, shortly before 11:00…

I had to stop for a moment. When I was a child, it’d been awful enough learning about John’s murder, but then he’d been more of a family myth than a real person to me. Now that I’d met him, it felt even worse. But I forced myself to continue describing what had happened; it was the only way to make sure it wouldn’t happen here. After I put down the grim details, I continued,

I can’t really tell you how to cheat death – I’m sure you and Great-Grandma can think of something. But please take this warning seriously. This guy is obsessed with you, and that makes him dangerous. He doesn’t hurt just you; he screws up the life of every Lennon after you. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to grow up as one of your descendants. Because you died so young in my universe, we’re expected to replace you. And that’s fucking impossible. It’s not so bad for the other three Beatles’ families; I’d much rather be a Harrison than a Lennon!

I wondered if I’d ever get that wish. I daydreamed about my George for a few minutes, then finished my coffee and went back to the letter. The sooner I finished that, the sooner I could return to the Sagan.

But in spite of everything, John, I’m glad I had the chance to meet you. You’ve helped me figure out a few things about myself. I know people will always compare me to you, but it’s not going to bother me so much anymore. No matter what they want from me, I’m going to live my own life. I hope your life is a long and happy one, and that you get to spend more time with Great-Grandma and Granddad Sean. Maybe you’ll even live long enough to see "my" birth. To change one of your song titles, only tomorrow knows.

Love from your great-granddaughter,

Joanna Mitsu Ono Lennon

I placed the letter in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote "For John--Do not open until December 1, 1980" on the front of an envelope. That would give him a week to prepare; I hoped it was enough.

I returned to Mendips. "Well, what sort of legacy did the Lennons leave you?" Mimi asked, eyeing my bags.

"I didn’t have a chance to examine it yet. I’ll take a quick look while I repack. I’ll have to hurry if I want to get down to London in time to catch the flight."

"You’re going back to America? So soon? I thought you just arrived!"

"I did. But my mother’s very ill – I mean, she was very ill. If I’d only known what was going to happen, I would’ve postponed this trip." I blinked rapidly as more tears formed in my eyes. No matter how much crying I’d done last night, it hadn’t been enough. I wondered if George would let me cry on his shoulder when I got back.

Mimi’s skeptical expression softened. "Yes, John told me about it before he left. I’m sorry to hear about your mother passing away, Joanna." Without warning, she drew me into a hug. I was startled, but I allowed her to hold me. How many years had it been since I’d been able to hug my own mom? I admit I dampened Mimi’s shoulder, but I didn’t cry as much as I had the night before. The tears would always be there, and I had things to do before I let myself deal with my grief again.

Once I was alone again, upstairs in John’s room, I tried to figure out where to put the letter. I couldn’t leave it out where’d he see it; he’d read it too soon. But if I hid it too well, he’d never find it. I finally slipped it between the wall and the wardrobe. When Beatlemania forced Mimi to move, she’d find the letter. I just hoped that if she read the letter, she didn’t dismiss it.

Time to repack. I looked at my "legacy" first. They hadn’t given me much: a few journals and bundles of letters, probably not authentic Lennon papers; a pewter snuffbox; a 19^th century silver watch on a chain; and some jewelry and other trinkets, nothing valuable. I left the watch out for John; its face was cracked, but it was still the best part of the legacy, and it just seemed right to share it with him. Besides, I had my true legacy in the samplers in my purse.

I bundled the papers and trinkets in with my costumes, then checked the samplers. I nearly cursed; most of the samples were already dead. Never send a traveler to do a lab tech’s job. The fool hadn’t even added preservative to the dead samples; I had to do that myself. I debated what to do with the samplers, but I finally put them back in their original bag. It offered the best air circulation for the remaining viable samples, and I wanted all the samplers in one place, so I could keep my eye on them.

I had everything packed when there was a knock on the door. "Oh, Lady Lennon," John called, "may I come in? I’d like to see all yer lovely jewels."

"You want to see jewelry, go to the Tower of London." I opened the door for him. He had changed into a checkered shirt, but he still looked as if he had slept in it. "I didn’t get much, mostly family papers. The other things were hardly worth the bother of coming all the way to England." In case Mimi asked him about them later, I quickly unpacked a few trinkets to show him, then put them back.

"Is that it then? Why’d they make you come here?"

"To make sure they didn’t get lost in the mail, I suppose. But at least I got to meet some of my English relatives." I brought out the watch. "Here, John, I’d like you to have this. It’s not much, but you ought to have a share in my inheritance."

He didn’t take it. "No, no, I can’t do that. It’s yours."

"So I can give it to you if I want." John was carrying his guitar; I’d never get the chance to do this again…. "Actually, if it makes you feel better about taking the watch…maybe you could give me a quick guitar lesson?"

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. " I thought you said it wasn’t for you."

"It’s not. My family forced guitar lessons on me when I was a child. I thought maybe I should try it one more time, just for fun."

"All right, then." He helped me settle the guitar into place. Its weight brought back childhood memories of sitting in my teacher’s dusty apartment, staring at Lennon-McCartney sheet music. He’d come down hard on me whenever I made a mistake; I still winced when I remembered him saying sardonically, "You’ll never earn a living playing like that, Ms. Lennon!" But he wasn’t here now. I closed my eyes and slowly felt my way through "Be-Bop-A-Lula." John prompted me when I forgot which chord came next.

"Not bad," John said. "Here, let me show you a thing or two."

He guided my hands into position for a few chords, and we went over the song again. This time it went a little easier. I played it one more time, a little faster. John sang along while tapping the beat on his knee. Our music filled the room, connecting us on a level beyond that of our common blood.

When the song was over, I regretfully gave the guitar back to him. My fingertips were raw, but I felt exhilarated by the playing. "Thanks," I said. "I’m glad to see I’m not as rusty as I thought I was."

"Have ya changed yer mind about yer science now? I don’t think the birds would go for it if we added a female to the group."

"Oh, no, I don’t want to ruin your act." I’d vowed long ago I’d never let myself get caught up in the music business, not after the way they treated my cousins Evan and Jon. But if I had my own guitar, I could play private duets with George. I didn’t have to reject everything John had done to separate myself from him, after all.

I looked at my watch. "I’ve got to go if I’m going to catch the train. You’ll see me off, won’t you?"

He shrugged. "If I didn’t, Mimi would never forgive me."

I said a quick goodbye to Mimi before John and I took the bus to Lime Street Station. We got there about five minutes before the train left for London. John escorted me as far as the platform. "You’re a queer sort of bird, Joanna," he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, "but you’re all right. Next time you come to England, make sure you swing by ol’ Liddypool."

"I will." I hated this; I knew I’d never see him again. I put down my suitcases and bag of samplers long enough to hug him fiercely. His body was stiff, but he let me hug him without protest. I slipped the silver watch out of my pocket and deposited it into the pocket of his leather jacket. "Take care, John. Give my regards to Paul and George."

The train whistled. He patted my shoulders, then released me. "You’d better go."

I grabbed my bags and boarded the train, return ticket clutched between two fingers. I managed to get a window seat next to the platform. As I settled myself in, I could see John still standing there, with a solemn face and his hands in his pockets. I waved at him; no response. But as the train started to move, he suddenly contorted his face into an expression so grotesque I had to laugh. I stuck my thumbs in my ears and wriggled my fingers at him. We made faces at each other until the train left the station.

My mixed-up circadian clock meant I slept fitfully on the train back to London, then on the overnight flight to New York. When I woke up in the middle of the night, the other passengers on the plane were all asleep. I pulled out one of the samplers with John’s DNA and tried inspecting it in the dim light. As far as I could tell, the cells were still alive. I sniffed the sampler just to make sure, but I couldn’t detect any bad odors. All I had to do was keep the samples alive until I got back to the Sagan; once there, I could turn them over to the medical lab and let someone else worry about the details.

Or could I? John was my ancestor, after all, and I’d been the one to take the sample. Someone else would prepare John’s DNA and inject it into a denucleated egg, then trick the egg into thinking it had been fertilized normally. Someone else would care for the egg as it developed into an embryo; someone else would transplant the embryo into a host mother. And once the embryo developed into a baby, someone else might care for the boy. Still, that child would come into existence because of what I had done; that made me a parent of sorts.

But what would become of that boy with John Lennon’s genes? I stared into the black night outside the tiny window. I could see two possible futures for the child; they played out in my mind like scenes from a bad holo. In one, the boy would be raised on a steady diet of Lennonism, much as I had been. He’d be trained on guitar, piano, and voice, only he’d be pushed harder than I, a mere girl, had been. Every scribble or doodle of his would be scrutinized for signs of John’s humor. Every day, he’d have John held up before him as an example of greatness; John’s faults would be downplayed, at times almost made into virtues. I knew from my own childhood what that would be like, and I wouldn’t go through it again for all the millions Uncle Jackass had squirreled away in the Dakota.

The second alternative was even worse. Uncle Jackass and the suits at World Music had to know John’s genius was as much a product of his environment as his genes. If they wanted a second John Lennon, they’d have to recreate his childhood as much as possible. How far would they go with that? Would they force the boy to choose between his parents when he was five, then ship him off to live with another relative? When the boy was a teenager, would they let him resume a relationship with his mother, then have her killed off in an "accident"?

I shuddered. They might very well do that.

No matter which scenario played out, this boy was doomed to an unhappy childhood. I knew what it was like being John Lennon’s great-granddaughter; it would be infinitely worse to be his clone, much worse than what Grandpa Sean and Great-uncle Julian had endured. He’d never have a life of his own or be encouraged to develop as a normal child. No one would ever see him as a unique person; they’d always see him as John Lennon’s clone….

No one would, that is, unless they’d been through a similar hell.

I put my hand on my belly. The John in my dream must have known all along that I was only exchanging one weight for another.

For this boy to have any chance at all, I’d have to become his mother.

Sandra Ulbrich started her writing career in high school, when she made up her own lyrics to songs. She soon graduated to writing sonnets, villanelles, and free verse. After obtaining her bachelor's degree in molecular biology/English and a Master of Technical and Scientific Communication degree, she worked as a teaching assistant, a science writing intern at the National Cancer Institute, a technical writer, and a proofreader. She is currently a lab technician at an enyzme-producing company. In addition to writing poetry, Sandra has also written a fantasy novel called Day of All Seasons, which has been submitted for publication. She is currently writing a sequel, called Fifth Season. When not writing, Sandra enjoys listening to classic rock (especially the Beatles), reading, gaming, attending cons, and chatting with her friends.