FEBRUARY
The Stars My Destination

Thursday, February 5, 1885
8:31 AM

The hard cold embedded in the January mornings began to soften. The pale, wintry sun leaked into February, and word got around fast that there was a new smith in town. Doc hadn't planned to open the shop until February, but everyone pushed in a week early to pick up items they'd left with the former blacksmith and introduce themselves. It was healthy curiosity, and each visitor was another voice in the casual discussions determining their place amongst them.

Emma wished some might take the hint of a closed door when the innards of the damaged flux box were scattered all over the shop's workbench. Twice they were too consumed with it to notice customers entering the shop. And because she was so paranoid that their presence in 1885 created an untold number of paradoxes, Emma took it upon herself to have the second workbench moved up onto the wooden platform of the living space when Doc was out of the shop one day. There, she reasoned, they could dissect and dismantle smaller stuff with more privacy.

She swooped in on an unsuspecting Clarence, one of the young men that helped move them in last week, when he came by to pick up some tools his father had repaired for his cabinet making. He let a laugh slip when Emma searched for a place to grab the table so they could move it.

"What're you doin'?" He walked backwards towards the barn doors, combing back toffee brown waves with his hand and replacing his hat. "I'll fetch someone from the saloon."

"Clarence, I've carried books heavier than this thing," she assured him. "Just help me get it up the stairs."

He sighed, reluctantly returning to the opposite end of the bench.

"Alright. But I don't like it. 'S not right for a lady to do manual labor."

"Lady or not, it needs done," Emma grunted as they lifted.

Clarence swung to his left until he was in line with Emma and the stairs, and she carefully stepped up. He hoisted it to his chin as he followed her onto the plank flooring, and with a few shuffles around the pot belly stove, they settled it in the space she had cleared. Emma sighed triumphantly, nudging Clarence in the arm when he came around to her side of the bench.

"Not bad for a lady, huh?"

Dusting her hands off on her apron, Emma retrieved the pieces of the flux box piled on a cloth on her father's bed and brought them over to the workbench. After opening the cloth, she separated the components and carefully dislodged a stray cable clamp from between the pulse generator and spark gap chamber. Clarence smiled, watching her wheels turn.

"You like doin' this stuff, don't you?"

"It's all I've ever really known, so yeah," she said. God, this thing is a mess. "I could build you a steam engine before I could knit you a scarf."

Emma was unprepared for the childlike wonder that filled Clarence's eyes. Coupled with his open-mouthed grin, the amusement bubbling in her chest gave rise to a bemused chuckle on her lips. What did she say?

"Do you mean the reciprocatin' kind?" he asked.

Emma's smile went slack. She blinked at him, trying to digest this interesting development while she set down the x-ray tube in danger of rolling out of her hand. Was the shy son of the cabinet maker actually engaging her in a conversation about reciprocating steam engines?

"…Yes. B-but it was only a simple one, with one cylinder," she stammered, revisiting a junior high science fair project. "It took forever to get the condensation under control, but I didn't have time for double-expansion."

"Might've been too big of a working cylinder," Clarence suggested. "The more surface area, the more condensation…"

"The less efficient the energy output. Right."

"You even out the temperature across the system and reduce that condensation with high- and low-pressure cylinders. Double-expansion, like you said. That's how the trains do it."

He walked around her to the window, and Emma followed like a moth to a flame. Clarence thumbed over his shoulder towards the train station before crossing his arms and leaning against the cold sill.

"My uncle's an engineer on one them cross-compound locomotives, and he says, bottom fact, he's never known a finer piece of machinery. 'Course, he might'a just said that because he likes trains."

Emma laughed. A good, welcome, satisfying laugh that poured from a smile so large it revealed the entire top row of her teeth. It escaped from a neglected place within, breaking through thick tendrils that denied her optimism. Some of the color returned to her world. Then Clarence was chuckling, too, and she missed how contagious organic joy could be.

Emma shook her head and bit back her smile.

"I'm betting your uncle isn't the only one who likes trains."

If possible, Clarence's eyes brightened more, but his smile receded fractionally.

"I'd've been out there ages ago if my pa didn't need me," he confessed to the tracks in the distance. "They're marvels, truly. Every one of those tiny pieces havin' a part in the grand scheme. Needing each one to make the whole thing work. It's a kind of comfort, innit? You can see it all fit together and accomplish great things."

Emma watched the handful of people milling about the train station. A lightness flowered in her chest at how nicely the philosophical overtones of Clarence's insights applied to the delicate nature of the space-time continuum. It was a comfort to know her place in it mattered, even if she wasn't sure of her role at this juncture. When she captured his attention again, she could see him committing her smile to memory. And he spoke so prettily about engines that she allowed it.

"I wouldn't have guessed you knew so much about engines," she said.

Clarence smirked as he leaned off the windowsill.

"Forgive me, Miss Brown, but I feel I ought to be the one saying that to you."

"Not bad for a lady, huh?"

The barn doors blew open, severing their gaze. The brisk gust rushed in from the window, too, and Emma whirled at the sound of her father's voice.

"Emma! Are you here?"

"Coming!"

She and Clarence walked around the workbench and down to the shop floor as Doc led Galileo and Archimedes into the warmth of the livery by their reigns. A large crate was centered in the cart behind them. Emma's inquisitiveness radiated from her large eyes, and Emmett gave her a coy smile before registering Clarence's presence amongst them. The young man tipped his hat in greeting.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Brown."

"Hello, Clarence," he said, settling Galileo with a pat on the snout. "I have your father's order just over there, if you'll bear with me a moment."

"No need, sir. Miss Brown got me all taken care of." Clarence stepped sideways and picked up the two sawblades on the edge of the shop's workbench and headed for the door. "Thank you. He'll be real happy to have these back."

Clarence shared a subtle, parting glance with Emma. She froze as the sensation winding in her gut knotted tightly. Her face ignited, sending her heart into a gallop.

For the love of God, stop smiling at me.

"Good day, Miss Brown."

And stop with that adorable Western twang.

"Bye."

Emmett's brow furrowed at the high octave in his daughter's voice. He looked over at her, surprised to witness her melting with mortification. Cheeks aflame and pupils blown; she was clearly ready to bury herself in a hole and never come out again. Doc's lungs began to burn with unspent laughter. At the risk of exacerbating her wrath, he teased a venomous glare out of her by raising an eyebrow.

"Shut up, Dad."

Doc flashed an indifferent frown. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Good. What's in the crate?"

With that, Emmett wisely picked up a crowbar and hoisted himself into the cart before reaching down to help Emma up. After working the lid free, he handed Emma the crowbar, took out the brown-papered package inside, and removed from that a burnished brass microscope with the utmost care. He smiled widely at his daughter's light gasp.

"That is beautiful," she breathed, reverently grazing the body tube. "Bausch & Lomb?"

"Schrauer," Doc said, pointing to the maker's script painted on the back of the foot. "I thought I might take a look at the time circuit control microchip with this. The significant magnification should aid our endeavor greatly. Let's get it set up."

Emma held her breath as Doc eased the microscope into her hands so he could get out of the cart. She cradled it against her body like a babe and admired it as such. Her fingertips danced under the stage, from the mirror fork to the inclination joint, all the way up to the draw tube. She knelt to pass it to her father and joined him at the now-private workbench. He placed it near the window, on the other side of the disassembled flux box.

"Where's the microchip?" Emma asked.

"In the DeLorean. We'll leave it until later tonight," Doc decided. He clamped the foot of the microscope to the table to keep it in place. "I finally met Marshall Strickland in town this morning, and he is coming by soon to see what we've done with the place and introduce his deputy. If we make a good first impression, they might leave us alone."

February 5, 1885

I blatantly ogled a boyishly attractive engine enthusiast today, and I couldn't hear myself screaming at myself until half an hour ago. The voice of opposition was drowned in a vicious torrent of thrill and hormones that has yet to ebb. I am afflicted with the hallmarks of a girlhood crush.

That's all it is. I can't be made to feel guilty about it. Biology did not give me a say in the matter.

He was just helping me move a table, and the next thing I knew, my pathetically lonely ass had cartoon hearts in her eyes because he said a few big words I didn't expect him to know. And why is it my fault that I enjoyed discussing a common interest with a cavity-inducing sweetheart? Anyone would. Anyone trapped a hundred years outside of her comfort zone would be thrilled to have a kind stranger give her an inkling of her normalcy back.

Every girl would deny it in the face of "true love", but we all understand on some subconscious level that a crush is intense, short-lived, and would never work out in real life. I can't even picture kissing the guy, and it's a relief, honestly. Nothing ever came of having an innocent crush on someone, so it's best to accept what's happening to me so I can weather the storm and be done with it.

I never had a crush on Marty. How could I have a crush on a boy that always felt too unobtainable, even for my daydreams? I liked him from the start. It was a serious liking, grounded in reality. I hoped for slow dances and off-handed compliments, not some dream home on an island with dream jobs and a pet tiger. Liking someone is entirely different from having a crush on them.

She stared at her shadow flickering on her canvas wall.

Why do you feel the need to make the distinction, Emma?

Her pulse spiked with shame.

Doc made a good first impression with the marshal and deputy that afternoon. Probably better than intended. According to Marshall Strickland, Emmett's disciplined work ethic guaranteed a prosperous working relationship with the people of Hill Valley; they needed someone reliable in this role.

Emma told him he overdid it by offering their services to the marshal's men free of charge. He did so to keep them in the good graces of law enforcement – two simple folk that could be trusted to just go about their days in peace – but Emma's observations were as keen as ever. Instead of his offer buying him the privacy he wanted with his time machine, he was extended an invitation to the next town meeting.

"Miss Brown is welcome to join you, of course," Strickland had said. "I hear tell the women's bible study is already planning luncheon for Easter Sunday."

That suggestion landed Emmett by himself in the church for the town meeting a week later. Emma stayed at the shop, dismounting the warped temporal field stabilizer from the front bumper to straighten it out.

"I have no intentions on being here Easter Sunday," she had muttered with a mallet in hand.

"It would still be good of you to come."

"Tell them I'm not feeling well," Emma said, laying the flux band on the anvil. "All of the orders we got in today are finished, but Statler's bringing us two buckboards and a horse in the morning. I'll catch up on some of the DeLorean's repairs while you're gone."

There was a fair turnout for the meeting. People sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the pews while others stood. Doc's patrons and their associates shook his hand when they saw him, complimenting his work and recommending his services to their neighbors. Several approached him as prospective clients, and by the time he found a place amongst the men lining the eastern wall, Emmett had four more jobs on his plate.

The room soon fell into a hush as the mayor took his place up front.

"Good evening, everyone, and welcome. It's good to see you all in good health and good spirits, especially at this time of year. Before announcements, we will begin this evening with an introduction," Mayor Thomas said. "Hill Valley has a new blacksmith!"

The mayor motioned to Doc with a grand sweep of his arm, and the pews groaned in chorus as their occupants turned to see him. Emmett threw up a hasty grin and inclined his head.

"Emmett Brown came to us with the new year, and he came with experienced hands, quality craftsmanship, and remarkable skill," Mayor Thomas boomed. "In addition to his talents in the forge and merits in character, I am also told that Mr. Brown is well-read and takes an interest in the numerous and captivating fields of science."

Most seemed surprised by this piece of trivia, but a handful of eyes shone with admiration and respect. Emmett stood taller under the approving gaze of a woman in a dark emerald bonnet. Straightening his coat, he smiled at the mayor, accepting the expectations of his endorsement.

"Thank you, sir."

"I think I speak for everyone here in welcoming you and your daughter to our town," Mayor Thomas said before addressing the consenting hurrahs of the townsfolk. "May we each do our part to help them make Hill Valley their home.

"Now, for announcements."

The 4:00 train scheduled to arrive next Tuesday was delayed in Carson City and would not arrive in Hill Valley until Wednesday morning. Scarlatina was in the area again, as was Stinky Lomax. The dressmaker was in need of an apprentice, the telegraph would be out of service on Saturday for the installation of new lines, and the general store finally had "that maple syrup from Vermont you all like" back in stock.

The primary discussion revolved around fundraising for the new courthouse. All those in attendance voted in favor of a festival to be held at the end of May with the proceeds benefiting the clock tower. A planning committee would be assembled at the next meeting. In the meantime, everyone was encouraged to meditate on the matter.

Emmett merged into the center aisle, shuffling towards the exit when the meeting was adjourned. Those who laid eyes on him for the first time during the mayor's speech were compelled to make his acquaintance on their way out the door, including the bonneted woman. She was in her fifties, about ten years his junior with deep laugh lines and cheeks beginning to turn rosy with age. He stepped to the side when she called his name, trying to decipher the meaning of the impudent twinkle in her eye.

"Mr. Brown. We shall get on famously, I think."

Emmett narrowed his eyes, humoring her. "We shall?"

She nodded with a sage smile, patting his arm matter-of-factly.

"I'm Mary Ward, the schoolteacher."

"Emma! I'm home!"

There was a bounce in his step as he closed the barn door and tried to locate his daughter. The lamps around the main floor and shop bench were still lit, but the ones at the private workbench and writing desk were out. Instead, two lamps burned in the corner between his bed and the wood stove – one in the window behind the bathing curtain and one on a stool just outside of the tub. He heard the water slosh as she reached for the stopper.

"How was it?"

"You missed out," Doc chided playfully, rolling up his sleeves to feed the horses. "The mayor gave us quite the welcome! Now the gunsmith is bringing us work in the next two days. And the butcher. And the barber!" he chuckled, swatting stray straw from Newton's mane.

He placed the feedbag before moving on to Archimedes. Emma tossed a used towel over the shower rod and pulled down the nightgown hanging next to it.

"I also met the schoolteacher, Mrs. Ward. She tracked me down after to see if we'd come to the school to do a science lesson! 'Of course,' I said, 'of course! We'd love to be there'."

Doc was somewhat crestfallen at Emma's silence, having hoped she would take an interest. It seemed right up her alley; he bored quickly when he taught at the head of a classroom, but small children were a different matter, able to be shaped and influenced by the wonders of the world around them. And Emma spent her free time tutoring her peers. He would have thought a glimpse into the workings of a one-room, nineteenth century schoolhouse would have improved her spirits.

He finished with Galileo and thinned his smile in the direction of the bath. Not to be deterred, he kept his speech up-tempo as he threw more logs into the pot belly stove.

"I thought we might take the microscope in for a demonstration," he suggested, leaving ample room between his statements for her to chime in. "Or we could go to the lake one afternoon to collect water samples. I'm sure Mrs. Ward would spare us the apple on her desk should we discuss gravity."

Nothing.

Emmett wet his lips. He muted the enthusiasm in his voice.

"We could do whatever you'd like to do," he appealed gently. "Chemistry, geology, psychology. I know you had a soft spot for meteorology in your youth –"

Emma gripped the edge of the shower curtain. It slid aside lifelessly, unveiling a very different girl from the one Emmett left two hours ago. Her eyes were fevered and distant. Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion as she breathed through creased lips, and he could feel how sorely she ached by the pronounced weariness of her features. Despite her sickly pallor, a bright, red, blotchy rash coated her throat. Emmett swallowed, immediately sobering.

Damn it.

"Come over here."

He guided her to the padded sleigh bench at the foot of his bed. The rash was nearly solid on the back of her neck, and he could feel the heat radiating from it when he lifted her wet hair to look. Emma dropped to the seat in slow motion. She was barely there, unable to determine how long it had taken him to unearth his flashlight from the DeLorean. He took out the batteries, shook them in his fist, and put them back in the flashlight once they were warm.

"Open."

She winced as she did so. A dim beam danced down her throat. As expected, it was swollen and streaked with pus. He wouldn't put her through the agony of feeling her lymph nodes.

"Where else is the rash?"

She whispered from the front of her mouth to avoid irritating her vocal cords.

"Just my neck."

Emmett turned off the flashlight. "How long have you felt sick?"

"I felt tired today," Emma croaked, holding her head in her hand, "but I was up late. The fever came on about an hour ago. I got in the bath because the chills were so bad."

Emmett frowned. He remained tightlipped as he shook out a spare quilt and piled two pillows beside her. She bent her brow but arranged the pillows to her liking and curled up in the blanket. Emmett had flashbacks to her bout with pneumonia as a toddler, seeing her so miserable. But as awful as she looked, he knew she felt worse. And knew the worst was yet to come.

Emma mustered the strength to look up at him.

"Is it strep?"

Scarlet fever.

Scarlatina.

In the area again, just like the mayor said.

And wouldn't you know it: not an antibiotic in sight for another forty-three years. No Tylenol, no television; she was going to have to suffer compared to what she would have dealt with in 1985. The doctor prescribed a tea of meadowsweet and poppy to take the edge off. Emma was nauseated by the taste, but with excessive amounts of honey and the prospect of some relief, she downed it in three gulps and went right back to sleep on the sleigh bench.

He thought to make his own batch of penicillin, but the process took at least two weeks in ideal settings, and he wouldn't be confident enough to administer homegrown antibiotics unless the situation was dire. She would be better by the time it was ready anyway; scarlet fever was typically mild and ran its course in ten days. Emma also had the benefits of being raised in a world with vaccines, good hygiene, and a nutritious diet. Her health was, in general, more robust than the current population, and that gave him some comfort.

But on the third day of fever, she was difficult to wake. The rash spread. Her nightgown was drenched from the night sweats, and Doc struggled to get a few sips of tea into her at a time. He began to develop a headache and prayed he remained in good enough health to see Emma through the worst of it. Customers were no longer admitted to the shop; all exchanges took place at the door, including those of a social nature.

"Simple yet effective," Mrs. Ward said, presenting several jars of translucent, yellow soup. "Garlic, chicken stock, noodles, and pepper. It's strong, but it helps clear the head."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ward. That's very kind." He sat the basket inside the door. "I'm sorry I won't be able to give that demonstration right away. You understand, of course."

"The science lesson can wait," she tutted with a gentle smile. "Take heart, Mr. Brown. She'll be on her feet in no time."

Clarence also came by without official business to inquire after Emma and leave her a book.

Catechism of the Locomotive

M. N. Forney

Clarence's name was on the inside of the cover. The table of contents outlined the mechanical workings of locomotive steam engines with such chapter titles as "Force and Motion", "The Expansive Action of Steam", and "On Work, Energy and the Mechanical Equivalent of Heat".

Emmett's eyebrows rose. There was more to this kid than meets the eye.

"We struck up a conversation a couple weeks ago. Thought she might have an interest in it," Clarence explained when Emmett looked at him. "I know my little cousin had to stay in bed for a while after the fever left him, but by then, he was well enough to read while he rested. Miss Brown seems the type to like her books."

"She does."

"Well then, here's hopin' she likes this one."

Emmett smiled, regarding this boy with newfound curiosity.

"Thank you, Clarence. I'll be sure she gets this."

"Good day, Mr. Brown."

"Emma?"

Her eyelids took some time to inch apart under the impossible weight of her drowsiness. The pain behind her eyes bloomed like fire and rendered everything out of focus, but the diseased fog parted from her bedside as his voice permeated her limbo.

Marty smiled tenderly.

"How're you feeling?"

Emma's lip shook.

I'm hallucinating, so, "Not good."

Her eyes hurt too much to keep open, but perhaps that was for the best. This was an elaborate fever dream, cruelly convincing her that he was brushing a delicate kiss against her damp hairline.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured.

She lazily acquiesced, burying her face in her pillows as his presence withdrew.

As she fell away again, Emmett's face carved with worry. He refreshed and replaced the cloth on her forehead.

February 22, 1885

Scarlet fever is no joke.

Dad finally let me return to the loft today so I could rest in my own bed. I'm still weak, but I've spent the last two days walking around the shop to get my strength up again. I ate two bowls of soup, some bread, and an ear of corn today. That's the most I've eaten in one day since I got sick. Dad had a bad headache and a sore throat for a while, but it was a trifle compared to what I had.

I'm supposed to stay in for another four or five days. I've fallen asleep reading Clarence's book twice so far, but not because it was dull. And I let myself listen to one song on Marty's Walkman this afternoon. I haven't heard studio-produced music in so long that it felt like an out-of-body experience.

Dad is going to take the microscope to the schoolhouse tomorrow to show the kids. He said that I could decide on the next lesson, but now that I'm getting back on my feet, it's time to hunker down and fix the DeLorean. Marty is still standing in the middle of that road when I close my eyes.

I don't know how much longer I can bear it.

The Stars My Destination (1956) is an American science fiction novel by Alfred Bester. In the 24th century, a man figures out how to use teleportation technology to travel through time.