“The Hall of Industry. That looks like our target.”
Piper takes my hand in hers, her other hand still holding onto her dad. “We’ll all stay together this time, right?”
I squeeze her hand. “You betcha.”
We walk toward the building hand-in-hand. We’ve nearly reached the doors when a great groaning and squealing erupts from the front of the building. One of the oversized gears begins to turn, shedding rusty flakes of steel as it does so. The other cogs and gears on the façade of the building begin to move as well, lurching and grinding in a deafening chorus of screeches. Piper releases my hand in order to cover her ears.
“What on earth is that all about?” Piper’s dad shouts over the din.
“Can you make it stop?” Piper shouts.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the display jolts and quivers, arresting its motion and freezing in place again.
“Oh thank God,” the other Ben says. “I thought it was going to liquefy my brain with that racket.”
I study the now-motionless façade of the building. Whatever caused the commotion has passed. I look down at Piper. It’s almost like it listened to her . . . A few flakes of rust drift down in a dusty sort of drizzle, but otherwise the mechanism looks to have given up. The door to the building stands slightly ajar.
“You want to go in there?” Piper’s dad asks.
I double-check my map. “What I want isn’t really a big factor anymore,” I reply. “But if we really want to shut these guys down . . .”
The front door is propped open to accommodate a heavy-duty power conduit that runs from the interior and up the outside wall. The thick wires snake their way up the face of the building and disappear onto the roof. I don’t know who installed them, but they definitely aren’t original. Calling it a trip hazard would be putting it lightly.
The situation inside is even worse. More conduit writhes across the floor making it resemble the snake pit in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I get a vague memory of my dream. None of the cables are actually moving that I can tell, but nothing would really surprise me at this point.
The Hall of Industry is apparently some sort of museum. Glass display cases dot the entrance, and several costumed robots are on hand to greet patrons.
At least I assume they are robots. Protected from the sun and wind, these animatronic creations have fared much better inside, and some of them are eerily lifelike. As we approach, a young newsboy in overalls and a cheese cutter hat twitches to life, waving a newspaper at us. “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Marconi’s radio transmits across the Atlantic!”
Piper screams.
The newsboy lowers his paper, and his head pivots on his neck in a jolting fashion. He fixes his eyes on Piper. His voice comes out at a lower volume this time. “Why are you scared of me? Aren’t you having fun?”
Piper’s dad steps in front of her protectively. “What the hell?”
The newsboy jolts again and looks up at him. “Welcome to the Hall of Industry. Would you like to witness the birth of mankind’s greatest achievements?” The robot waits expectantly for an answer.
“What are these things?” My other self looks to me.
“Hey!” I address the newsboy. “Can you understand us?”
The newsboy rotates his entire torso to look at me. “Want a paper, mister?”
“How did you know she was scared?” I ask, pointing to Piper. “You understand what a scream is?”
“Would you like to try the guided tour of the museum?” the newsboy asks. “One of our mobile guides would be happy to assist you.”
“I want to know why you just said that,” Piper’s dad insists. “You some kind of synth? How do you know what we’re saying?”
The newsboy straightens up and smiles at us. “One of our guides has been requested. Please wait here to be assisted.”
A loud bang emanates from beyond a partition. All three of us jump. The bang repeats itself, like something heavy colliding with a metal object. The noise continues but doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. I edge around the partition, cautiously searching for the source of the racket. Piper and her dad linger near the entrance, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble.
The banging is coming from a doorway. A metal door is jammed partway open, and every few seconds a figure propels itself forward and slams into it. The door is blocked by a fallen concrete pedestal. To my surprise, I recognize the figure attempting to exit as Nikola Tesla.
“What the hell is it?” My other self shouts from the lobby.
“An inventor in a closet.”
Tesla spots me and pauses. “Would you be so kind as to assist me, sir? I seem to be impeded.”
I approach the door cautiously but stand clear of the pedestal. “Hey. What’s the deal with this place? Who’s running it?”
Tesla cocks his head attentively. “This museum is the property of Yesteryear Adventure Parks, Inc. A subsidiary of United Machine.”
“United Machine?” It’s a name I’ve heard before. “Aren’t they the ones that develop the first synthetic humans?”
“Yesteryear Adventure Park employs the most advanced technologies available to ensure maximum enjoyment of our parks.”
I look around the area of the museum we are in. A few of the bulbs are flickering in the display cases. “Looks like you haven’t had much business lately.”
“We are working hard to improve park attendance. But if we can make just one child excited about history, we call it success. That is our philosophy at the Yesteryear family of parks.” His eyes wander past me to where Piper and her dad have drawn slowly closer. “Because children are the future.”
“You think that thing is safe?” The other Ben has his hands on Piper’s shoulders.
I consider the size of the pedestal blocking the doorway, then address Tesla. “We’ve decided to forgo the guided tour. We’ll just show ourselves around.”
Tesla studies me for a moment, then bows and backs away into the darkness beyond the doorway.
Piper’s dad watches the doorway warily. “This place creeps me out.”
“Yeah. Let’s find this time gate and get out of here.” I pick my way over more fallen debris as we wend our way through the museum. Several dioramas illuminate as we pass, showing early life in an assembly line or working in various factories. Once again, the reality has been highly stylized, with happy workers smiling away as they assemble car parts or textiles. A few of the dioramas seem to be missing pieces. Robotic workers wave empty hands instead of tools and simulate loading parts into non-existent machines. Their equipment has been either moved or stolen.
One diorama makes me pause. It shows the evolution of automated robots, tracking their use in factories and production, all the way to the point where they have taken humanoid form. Several members of the theme park cast are featured. I recognize the white-hatted cowboy from Frontier Town. The final, most recent entry in the timeline, shows the United Machine logo and a plaque that forecasts the future of robotic intelligence. The plaque reads: ‘United Machine will continue to employ the most modern technology in this park and the world, ensuring a bright future for both humans and robots alike. One day we will stand hand-in-hand to welcome that future.”
There are no more entries. Whatever future United Machine experienced next on the timeline, it obviously didn’t warrant a mention in the museum. Or no one was around to make it.
I follow the winding path, and it leads to the rear of the museum that opens up to an open warehouse where a variety of mobile steam engines have been parked. We locate the space on the map where the time gate should be located, but the contraption we find there is far bigger than any time gate. It’s a sort of tunnel, ribbed with steel columns and walls patched together from various other pieces of the museum displays. The basic frame of the structure reminds me of a small aircraft hangar, though the tire tracks on the floor appear to have been made by road vehicles. The far end of the tunnel concludes with a rolling industrial d
oor. There are canisters spaced along the columns, and the glass sight gauges of the canisters show a familiar-looking blue fluid.
“Is this what I think it is?” I ask.
“Looks like an industrial-sized gravitizer,” my other self replies. He taps on one of the cylinders. “They must have used this to gravitize all their equipment before taking it through the time gates.”
“I wondered how they managed to gravitize a helicopter,” I mutter.
There is a control panel on one end of the tunnel. It closely resembles Dr. Quickly’s design but has a placard on it labeling it as the property of ASCOTT. More of the Gladiator’s stolen goods.
According to the symbol on the map, we should be on top of the time gate. “It ought to be right here,” I say.
The time gate is indeed there, but it takes us a few minutes to recognize it. The reason we missed it walking in was because of its sheer size. Two posts that resemble flag poles are mounted to hinges near the entrance to the gravitizer tunnel. A third, thinner post connects the two at the top. In total, the device must involve at least a hundred temporal emitters. The hinges make sense, considering it would be a nightmare to try to reach the top by ladder to make adjustments or repairs. Instead, the entire gate can be brought to floor level. A solution I can appreciate.
“This one doesn’t have a plug.” Piper is standing near the control panel for the tunnel. The time gate has been hardwired into the tunnel controls via a thick conduit that runs along the outside of the tunnel and continues to the rolling door.
“There has to be a way to kill the power,” the other Ben says. “At least a circuit breaker panel. Maybe we can trace the power back to its source.”
“Looks like it goes out that way.” Piper points to the rolling industrial door where the conduit runs under the rubber weather-stripping. “Let’s follow it.” She releases her dad’s hand and runs through the gravitizer tunnel to the door’s controls.
I follow her at a more cautious pace, eyeing the gravitite dispersal arrays along the walls. If this had enough juice to gravitize a helicopter, it has to be a powerful machine. When we reach the door, Piper punches the green open button, and the motor of the rolling door begins ratcheting its chain up the pulley system.
When the door is fully raised, I step onto the back loading ramp of the museum and look past a row of wildly misshapen topiaries to what appears to be the exterior entrance to the park. Electronic turnstiles punctuate a steel fence, and a long-abandoned trolley has been overturned and stripped of various parts. The scene could pass for a normal parking lot if it weren’t for the odd amalgamation of vehicles collected around what appears to be a ticket office.
Everything from WWII era trucks to wooden wagons have accumulated there. They’ve been used to transport a windmill, multiple steam engines, and what appears to be a massive mechanical crank of the type powered by livestock. Several cables run from the roofs of nearby buildings, and another bundle is wired into a massive solar array out in the parking lot. Something is taking a lot of power.
To my surprise, there are a half-dozen weatherworn humanoid figures plodding around the mechanical crank, like so many oxen. Despite the deterioration of their faces, I recognize Marilyn Monroe, Benjamin Franklin, and a bedraggled Charlie Chaplin. Mohammed Ali looks especially disappointed to be there. Unlike the historical figures I met in the arena, I’m confident these are all robots.
I descend the back steps of the museum and make my way toward the ticket office.
Strange lights flicker inside. Blues and reds. There are noises as well—a clattering and clunking as though someone is working. Somebody has certainly gone through a lot of effort to outfit this hub with sufficient power. A figure passes by a window and vanishes quickly. But then the face comes back and studies us through the glass. Wild white hair and a bristly mustache give away the countenance of one of the most famous faces of all time. A moment later, the door to the ticket office bursts open and Albert Einstein comes striding out. His clothing is torn in places, and a patch of synthetic skin on his forehead has been scraped away, revealing a fraction of the metallic skull beneath.
He marches forward a few paces, then stands calmly in front of the ticket office, appraising us. A sign flashes above him, the illuminated words sliding off-screen and reappearing again in an eye-catching banner. Ticketing, Reservations, and Information Kiosk.
I read it twice before it sinks in.
I take a step back.
We’ve discovered the orchestrator behind the Temporal Fugitives escape. The boss man they’ve all been talking about. It’s been this theme park the whole time.
I’ve found TRIK.
26
“If time travel doesn’t confuse you from time to time, you’re probably doing it wrong.” -Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2109
“This was you?” I shout toward the robotic Einstein. “You’re the one who broke the Gladiator and his gang out of prison? The one who has been orchestrating the changes to the past? A ticket office?”
The robotic Einstein hobbles forward on stiff-jointed legs. “Have you enjoyed your stay today at Yesteryear Adventure Park? Can I interest you in an annual pass?”
“We almost died!” I shout. “What the hell are you trying to do?”
Einstein cocks his head and addresses Piper. “You’ve been our first guest in many years. I hope you will come back again with friends. Children are our future.”
I consider the robot standing in front of me. Does he really not get it? Does he not understand what we’ve been through?
“Your park is a death trap. It’s a falling-down heap of rusting garbage. Why are you still operational?”
Einstein pivots to face me. “Customer satisfaction is our primary focus at Yesteryear Adventure Parks. If you have been unhappy with your visit today, we would be happy to extend you a credit to be used toward a future visit.”
“There’s no reasoning with this robot,” the other Ben says. “If he has the warp clock in that shack of his, we just need to take it.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “This place is cuckoo. Let’s see if he’s got it in there.”
I walk past the robot and make for the ticket office. Several bundles of conduit clog the doorway, but as I step over them, I get a view of the mess inside.
It’s a control center. Video monitors, gate controls, communication displays. It’s all here. But it’s more than that. One entire wall of the office has been dedicated to a glowing, flashing network of computers. They are connected to a single point. The warp clock.
I wasn’t sure what I expected. Abraham’s handiwork has never failed to impress me, but this is a level of complexity that I’ve never seen. At its heart is a glowing, swirling ball, the colors and consistency of the ether that emanates from the time gates. But this ether looks more condensed somehow. It keeps flashing and changing, its brilliance increasing and decreasing in irregular waves. It looks as though someone has sought to contain a raging, magical beast behind the glass. Every few seconds the light vanishes, darkening the glass, but then the colors return, flaring back to life and splashing against its container.
It’s fascinating.
Around the ball of light and color there are rings that look like they physically restrict the shape of the central orb. Controls.
“Heads up, Ben. You’ve got company!” Piper’s dad shouts from behind me.
I turn to find the robotic Einstein entering the office.
“You are an unauthorized person. This area is restricted to authorized park employees only. Please return to the public use area for your safety.”
“I need to know how to use this thing,” I say. “How did you shut down the chronometers?”
“The Ticketing, Reservations, and Information Kiosk welcomes your questions. In this case, your query would be better assisted by park management.”
“There is no more park management, Tin Man. You’re all that’s left of this place.”
The robot goes silent,
and for a moment, I think that he might have gotten the message. But when he looks back up, his gaze is indecipherable.
“In the event of an inadequate resolution from management, I must ask you to exit the park.”
“Happily,” I mutter as I work to disconnect the warp clock from the wall.
A strong hand settles on my shoulder. “That is the property of Yesteryear Adventure Park. Your immediate departure is required.” His grip tightens on my shoulder, and I’m suddenly flung to the floor, crashing to the tile.
“Oh, hell no,” I say when I recover from the surprise. I climb back to my feet and point to the warp clock. “That device is the property of Dr. Harry Quickly. My family. I don’t care what you think you are doing here, but it’s coming with me.”
Einstein widens his stance. “This device is currently in use as part of our Improved Attendance Directive. It now aids in our primary objective—the continued influx of new customers.”
“Your park is a wasteland!” I shout. “Whatever happened to this timestream, there are no more guests. I don’t know what apocalypse went on out there, but I’m sorry to tell you, they won’t be coming back.”
“That is why the Improved Attendance Directive is using all equipment at our disposal to reach a more innovative solution. We have determined that attendance at the park has dropped due to negative events in human history. That is why, logically, we must change history.”
I blink and try to understand what he’s saying. “Hold up. That’s what’s happening here? You’re using the time gate technology to try to change the attendance at your theme park? That’s not how time works!”
“We have had assurances from technical contractor Maxwell Franco that if he was granted access to the equipment he left stationed in this park, he would be able to change history per our directive. History is the cause of our drop in ticket sales and is therefore in error.”
“You’re definitely changing history all right, but you have no idea what you are doing!”
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 185