Honored: 7 Honorable Mention Stories from the Writers of the Future Contest

by Michael D. Britton

The building shook like a Turkish belly dancer. The lights went out, and the emergency lights did not come on.

  It was pitch black.

  As I stood in the corridor on the top floor of the World Trade Center north tower, I thought a hole had appeared in the roof, allowing a cascade of iridescent light to tumble in. But it soon became apparent that was not the case. A gentle, twinkling hum met my ears as the light quickly grew brighter, and my skin tingled as though I’d had a brush with death. The light faded, and standing before me was a man in an unfamiliar uniform – his visage lit by the glow of some kind of handheld computer.

  He reached toward me with his empty hand and said, “Come, quickly, there is no time to waste, Michael.”

  The building shook again. Caught up in the bizarre moment, I stepped toward him, my heart pounding, and was swept away in another burst of light. For an instant, I felt disembodied, and the next thing I knew, I was in a room that was clearly not a part of the WTC.

  “Welcome,” said the man. “I’m Commander Roman. I’m sure you’re feeling very disoriented right now. Please, just come with me and all will be explained.”

  My mind was racing with questions, but I kept my mouth shut, choosing instead to contend with the mild nausea in my stomach.

  Commander Roman spoke, but not to me. “Yes, he’s been secured.” A pause. “No, no there were no incursions – it was a clean recovery. I’m bringing him there now.”

  Roman stood a little taller than me, and I glanced up to his ear. I tiny blinking light in his ear canal explained his conversation – he had some kind of implanted communication device.

  “Why do I feel sick?” I asked.

  “We can approximate Earth gravity, but there’s nothing quite like the feeling of having a planet under your feet. That sure, solid rock just can’t be duplicated, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know - I mean, that’s all I have ever known! What are you even talking about – approximate gravity?”

  “I’ve said too much already,” said Roman. “It will all be explained shortly.”

  We rounded a corner and entered some sort of conference room. One wall of the room consisted of a huge, floor-to-ceiling window. It looked to be nighttime outside – which was weird, since it was about nine o’clock in the morning last I checked. In the center of the room was a long, oval table with a highly polished surface. A man with flawless black hair sat at the far end, wearing a similar uniform to Commander Roman.

  “Michael, have a seat,” the man said. “I’m Captain Anthony Stone. This is my ship,” he said, indicating our surroundings by stretching out his arms.

  “Ship?” I asked. “What are you talking about? We’re nowhere near the ocean. A couple of minutes ago I was on the top floor of the World Trade Center. There was an earthquake – or something – and then your man brought me here – though I don’t understand how.”

  “I understand your perceptions. Unfortunately, you don’t quite have a grasp on reality right now. But I’ll help you. First off, it wasn’t an earthquake that you felt in that building – it was an attack.”

  “Terrorists?” I asked, my heart starting to pound as I recalled the day eight years ago when a bomb went off in the WTC parking garage.

  “You could say that. I’ll explain in a minute. As for how you got here – we used a technology that is, as-yet, unfamiliar to you. We call it a translocator. It basically converts you into a data stream and sends the data at the speed of light, then rebuilds you at the destination from quantum-entangled matter.”

  “A teleporter?” I scoffed. “That kind of technology doesn’t exist. I mean, it’s just theoretical at this point.”

  Stone slowly shook his head. “Obviously not,” he said. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  I looked around the spartan room. “And where is here, exactly?”

  “Come, I’ll show you,” said Stone, rising from his chair and moving toward the window.

  I walked to the glass and stood near the captain.

  “See?” he said, pointing down and to the left. “That blue dot, there. That’s where you were.”

  I peered down and saw a blue and white sphere. It appeared to be about the size of a ping pong ball at my feet. “Earth?”

  “Yes. And that tiny white dot out there is the moon.”

  “That – that’s impossible,” I protested. Without warning, the nausea I’d felt for the last few minutes swelled up inside me, and I felt like I’d swallowed my heart. Unable to control it, I dropped to my knees and threw up on the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping some drool from my mouth in embarrassment.

  Right on cue, it seemed, two uniformed men came into the room and cleaned up my mess using some kind of silent Dustbuster as Stone helped me to my feet and guided me to a seat at the table.

  “You’re fine,” he said encouragingly. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

  On his way out, one of the other men placed a glass of water before me, which I picked up with a shaky hand and sipped. The cool water soothed my burning throat. My brain told me I had just seen the Earth from afar, but my gut told me this was some kind of elaborate setup. Feeling unsure, I probed for answers. “I still don’t understand,” I said. “What is going on – who are you people?”

  “The building you were in,” said Stone, “it was destroyed. You would’ve died had we not extracted you when we did.”

  “What about everyone else in the building?” I asked. “There were hundreds – thousands of people . . .”

  “Nearly three thousand of them perished,” said Stone, looking solemnly toward the window.

  “Why? Who did this?”

  “It’s complicated,” said Stone. “Perhaps it would make more sense if I first explained not who they are, or even who we are – but who you are.”

  “I know who I am,” I said. “I’m Michael Jacobsen. I run a research lab in New York City. A few minutes ago I was on my way to deliver an important presentation to some sponsors on the top floor of the World Trade Center. Now I’m thousands of miles from Earth, throwing up in a floating conference room. So give me answers, not riddles!”

  “All right,” said Stone. “I’ll brief you on the facts. But you won’t believe me at first.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Your name is Michael Dennis. You are a chrono-agent. You were born September 12th, 2001.”

  “Wait – wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “That’s tomorrow. Why don’t you start over, and tell me the truth this time.”

  Stone sighed. “Just keep listening. You were born September 12th, 2001. About ten years ago, on November 18th, 2027, your current assignment was initiated. You returned to February 20th, 1991. From there, you began to carry out your mission.”

  “You’re crazy,” I said.

  “What do you remember from before 1991?” he asked.

  “Lots of things,” I said. “Let’s see, in ’91 I formed J-Tech Industries. Before that, I got my doctorate, and before that I was in college. Before that I was in high school. I remember when Reagan was elected in 1980. What’s your point?”

  “You don’t really remember those things,” said Stone. “You are aware of those milestones as facts, but can you really describe to me a specific, personal memory associated with anything before 1991?”

  I thought for a minute. My mind was fuzzy, my thoughts swirling, and I couldn’t put my finger on anything in particular. “Well, that was a long time ago. So, no, not exactly – it’s just kind of vague. But so what? Nobody has a perfect memory.”

  “But we do have memories,” said Stone. “And you do, too. It’s just that your real memories – of the real you – have been carefully stored offsite, and are not currently accessible to you.”

  “Offsite?” I asked. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we made a backup, and we will restore that backup as soon as it is prud
ent.”

  “All right, I’ve heard enough,” I said, standing up. My knees were still a little wobbly, but I didn’t let it stop me. “Take me back to New York. Now.”

  Stone’s eyes moved to the door, where two beefy guards stood like statues. “Why don’t you just sit down and hear me out?” he asked, more of a command than a request.

  I glanced at the menacing guards, considered my trembling knees, and thought better of trying to escape. For now.

  “Okay,” I said, slowly sitting back down. “Convince me that your little tale is true. And tell me what you want from me. I’m all ears.”

  “Activate display,” said Stone, to no one in particular. A paper-thin, translucent screen appeared between the two of us, hovering a few centimeters above the surface of the desk. He placed both of his hands palm down on the smooth surface of the desk, and the area around his hands began to glow a faint green. I could see right through the floating visual display to the face of Stone, whose eyes were closed for a few moments. Then some data appeared on the levitating viewscreen. I surmised that Stone was using some sort of thought interface that worked through his palms and his desktop. From my vantage point, I could see the files he was pulling up – the words appearing in reverse, with Stone’s face just beyond the image. The screen’s luminescence cast a warm glow on his features, and revealed him to be a little older than he’d appeared at first. I watched as Stone input commands simply by looking at different areas of the display.

  “Here,” he said. “I’m going to show you a little movie. Pay close attention. You should recognize the star.”

  The image flipped in three dimensions so that it was oriented toward me – no longer a reverse image – and a video recording then played back.

  It was me.

  Only I was younger, and I was doing things I’ve never done, in a place I’ve never been. It must have been recorded about the time I finished college, but I had no recollection of it whatsoever.

  First, I was climbing into some sort of tight-fitting space suit. Then I addressed the recording device directly. “Today is November 18th, 2027. My name, and therefore your name, is Michael Dennis. We were born September 12th, 2001. I am a chrono-agent for the Allied Time Corps. So are you. ATC is sending me on a mission to 1991. To accomplish this, I will have to undergo a bulk download of my tertiary memory patterns. Once this is completed, I will be sent back, with only my mission parameters and some false memories to guide me.”

  I stared at the screen in disbelief. Surely this was some kind of clever fabrication. The video continued.

  “When I am retrieved, or rather, when you are retrieved, you will not believe any of this. You will be so immersed in your new identity that the truth will seem like a lie. My handlers have assured me that reintegration is possible – but difficult. There have been cases where an agent was lost to his cover. Michael,” here, my twin on the screen seemed to look directly into my soul, “don’t let this happen to you. I want my life back when I’m done with this mission. Now, an upload of my tertiary memory patterns will not be possible until your mind is prepared to accept them. Any attempts to do so otherwise would result in the destruction of the patterns, and possible brain damage. The first step in preparing your mind is about to take place. In a moment, I will speak a key phrase, one that has been programmed, like a post-hypnotic suggestion, to begin reorganizing your neural pathways. It only works when spoken by me. The phrase is, the doors to my mind will open in time.”

  As I heard my doppelganger speak those words, it was like a spell came over me. I was overcome with a sense of déjà vu, like I was remembering a dream I had once had – perhaps as a child – a dream with which I was intimately familiar, yet from which I was somehow removed. I felt like I knew what would happen next, only the details of the prediction were just out of reach of my consciousness.

  Stone spoke and disturbed the strange, swimming sensation of my mind. “Michael, you must understand. The reintegration algorithm may not work exactly as it was designed – it’s possible you won’t just snap out of this. Your mission was not supposed to last so long. We intended to pull you out after only thirty-six months under cover. There were some – problems – and you were gone for over ten years.”

  I stared at Stone through a mental haze, still disoriented. “Problems?” I murmured.

  Stone closed the playback image by simply closing his eyes for what looked like a long blink. As he lifted his palms from the desk, the green glow quickly faded.

  “When the time came for your original extraction, we were unable to initiate the chronovex – that’s the equipment we use for time relocation. We were working on a solution when we were attacked by our enemies – people related to the ones who attacked your World Trade Center. The chronovex was destroyed in the attack.”

  “Thirty years from now you’re still fighting those people?” I asked, amazed.

  “Unfortunately, yes. But the nature of the war has changed somewhat. A few years ago, they got their hands on some classified tech, and built their own chronovex. Now, much of the war is taking place in the past on various strands of time.”

  “You’re talking way over my head,” I said.

  Stone raised his hand to thwart further interruption, and continued with his narrative. “When we lost the chronovex, we had eight agents in the field – all were lost to time. Once we rebuilt the unit, we managed to retrieve three of the lost agents, but three had died during their extended assignments. You are the next to last to come home, Michael.”

  I tried to get my head around this fanciful story. “So, you’re saying that the last ten years of my life have been a lie? That I’m really somebody else?”

  “It’s not just me saying it,” said Stone. “You just heard it right from your own mouth. Of course – before you left, you had no idea you’d be gone so long. Nobody did.”

  I thought back on what Stone had just said. “So, there’s one more agent unaccounted for?”

  Stone became visibly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat. “I wasn’t going to talk about this until you were reintegrated. But, time is of the essence.” He breathed out a short sigh. “The final missing agent – was Nikki Dennis. Your wife.”

  “My wife?” Just hearing her name made my stomach lurch and my heart pound.

  Yes, my wife.

  I think I remember.

  Nikki.

  “There’s more,” said Stone. “She’s been under cover for even longer than you were. Six months before you left on your mission, ATC sent Nikki back to 1993 on a special assignment.”

  “And?”

  “Well, this takes some explaining. There are two components to the chronovex,” said Stone. “First there’s the actual relocator. It detects variances in the space-time continuum and finds entry and exit points for travel to time threads that we have determined to be statistically viable. As such, we are constrained in our targeting. We can only send and retrieve from certain, specific points in time. The windows of opportunity are moving ever-forward, effectively limiting our range. The second part is the method we use for tracking agents. The chronovex has the ability to view historical threads, but the scope is greatly limited. We tag our agents with a chronovariant implant that allows us to at least see the agent when the windows open, but that’s the extent of our ability.”

  The explanation made sense. It shouldn’t have, but it did. It was like I was reviewing old high school classes long forgotten rather than hearing about strange new technologies.

  Stone continued. “The problem with Nikki is that she has essentially, for want of a better word, gone rogue. She fulfilled her initial assignment, but when ATC failed to extract her, she, like you, took on her assumed identity as her own. And from what we’ve seen, the results have been disastrous.”

  Despite feeling like I had two brains, it was all starting to fall into place for me. “Let
me guess,” I said, “you want me to go back and retrieve her.”

  Stone allowed a tiny smile to flit across his lips. “You’re catching on. The next available window will send you back to 2012, just in time to make a difference,” he said. “At that point, Nikki will have been undercover for going on twenty years. She will appear about the age you are now.”

  “And where will she be? What is she doing?”

  “Michael, a lot has happened since she was sent back. By 2012, Nikki has worked her way to a position of power.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me,” I asked.

  “Nikki’s new identity is a woman named Nikki Scott. In 2012, she is the leader of a militant separatist faction called Slaves of Freedom.”

  “What?” I blurted, slamming my hand down on the table. “I’ve heard of her! She’s been rumored to be involved with some very nasty people.” Anger percolated to the surface. “How could you have allowed this to happen?”

  “It wasn’t me, Michael,” Stone said. “Don’t forget – when you were first sent on your mission, I was only twenty-two years old. ATC has done its best over the years to cope with this situation. Now we need you to finish it.”

  I stewed for a minute while I let it all sink in. This absurd reality was becoming more and more real to me. “So what am I supposed to do? Bring her in, dead or alive?” I asked with disdain.

  “You have to understand,” said Stone. “She cannot be allowed to continue the course she is on. We don’t know why, but every thirty-one years, the various time lines align, and a single strand takes precedence, eliminating the loose threads. We’ve identified Nikki’s thread as the superthread, the one that will take precedence when the time lines merge. For now, we’re safe. But by this time next year, if the Nikki time line is not resolved, life as we know it will be changed dramatically – for the worse.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “The last chronovex history viewing window indicated that Nikki Scott plans to merge her radical organization with a foreign one that shares the same goal – to overthrow and destroy the federal government of the United States. She’s adopting the ‘any enemy of my enemy is my friend’ philosophy. If she continues in her current course, it will threaten the outcomes we associate with peace and prosperity. In fact, it could change the very nature of ATC and our existence here, now.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a paradox?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” said Stone. “It’s hard to say – something like this has never happened before. We’ve never had agents lost to time, making drastic, unplanned changes to history. These missions have always been carefully choreographed, but now, well, it’s all gone haywire. This is all new to us, and we’d rather not find out how bad it can get.”

  I sat back in my chair, attempting to take it all in. Although Stone’s words were all making sense to me, part of me was still anchored in my former reality. Ten years was a long time. Those memories were fresh, but as the moments passed, they were starting to feel like they belonged to someone else – like the recollection of a movie or a really good book. The more I concentrated on the thought of Nikki, the more I could accept this and the more grounded I felt in my “new” reality.

  “Tell me,” I said. “Let’s say I go back to 2012 and find Nikki. How can I convince her that she is not who she thinks she is – that she’s from the future – that she’s my wife?”

  “Unfortunately, you’ll have to figure that out for yourself, Michael. The chronovex is not capable of transporting technology through time, so you can’t carry her restoration visual with you and show it to her.”

  “Her restoration visual – you mean, like the video I just saw of myself – where I say the magical phrase that fixes my brain?”

  “That’s right,” said Stone. “You’ll be on your own.”

  “Why can’t we just snatch her, the way your Commander Roman did with me?” I asked. “Then we can just show her the restoration visual once we have her back.”

  “It won’t work,” said Stone. “Yours was a special case. We can’t just go around abducting people from the past - it would cause too much contamination to the time line. We lucked out with you – you were about to become ashes – everyone in that time line assumed you dead either way.”

  “Dead - like the rest of the people in the twin towers,” I said, a pang of survivor guilt gripping my heart.

  Although I was adjusting to my new reality, I still felt for all those who had died. Some were my business associates, most were total strangers. All were innocent human beings. My mind returned to the questions associated with that attack.

  “Exactly,” said Stone, seemingly oblivious to my feelings. “Besides, the windows of opportunity for time relocation are specific, and the next window is way too close to call.”

  “Too close to call?”

  “We believe a critical event will occur in early 2013. There’s a time window very close to it, and one a little earlier. We’re going to go with the earlier one to give you time to effect a favorable outcome.”

  “Did Nikki’s group have something to do with the events of September 11th, 2001?” I asked, trying to connect the dots.

  “Not directly,” said Stone. “But the groups she is allying with did. And that’s why she has to be stopped.”

  “And you figure I’m the best man for the job.”

  “If anyone can pull Nikki back to reality, it’s her husband,” said Stone. “Now, you need some rest, and then we need to brief you on all the relevant events that occurred between 2001 and 2012. Your time window is due to appear in about thirty hours.”

  I nodded, my confused mind starting to get settled. I decided some rest may be just what I needed to get a handle on all this. Commander Roman returned to the room and led me to my quarters, where I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  ۞

  I awoke to the sound of a man yelling at me.

  No, he wasn’t yelling – just trying in vain to rouse me from my slumber, his voice growing more and more harsh with each attempt to break the spell of my turbulent dreams.

  “Michael. Michael!”

  I forced my heavy lids open and focused on Commander Roman.

  “You need to get up, Agent Dennis,” he said. “There’s much to do today.”

  I willed myself to stay awake, and pushed myself up on one elbow. “How long was I out?”

  “You’ve been asleep for more than four hours,” said Roman.

  “How generous,” I said.

  “What? You want to sleep all day?”

  I crawled out of the bed and slipped into some clothes that had been prepared for me.

  “New?” I asked, indicating the clothing.

  “Can’t have you walking around in 2012 wearing seven year old fashions,” said Roman.

  I buttoned up the shirt. “I had the weirdest dreams,” I said. “Dreams of Nikki, dreams of lots of people dying. Hardly restful.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Roman. “But if you think your dreams were weird, wait till you get your briefing today. The period between 2001 and 2012 saw some very – interesting – developments. And it’ll be key that you remember all that you learn.”

  “Right.”

  We left my quarters and headed down a long hallway. The artificial gravity of the ship was still playing tricks on my empty stomach. As if reading my mind, Roman said, “You hungry?”

  “Starved,” I said.

  “Well, you did empty your stomach on the conference room floor,” said Roman, smirking.

  Feeling a little affronted, I said, “So, what exactly is my rank, anyway – you know, as a chrono-agent?”

  “Well, after you were sent back, and we were attacked, ATC took heavy damages. With the original chronovex destroyed, the military took over all time-related operations. The new ATC is now just a sort of contracted branch of the military. So, to answer your question – you work for me.”
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  “I see,” I said. “but, what was my rank within the original organization?”

  “You were the equivalent of a captain,” said Roman offhandedly.

  We entered a room that resembled a miniature movie theater. Captain Stone was there waiting for me. Roman left us alone.

  “Good morning, Michael,” he said. “As we’re short on time and you have so much to get caught up on, you’ll have to eat while we work.” He gestured to a seat near him. I sat. He continued. “Are you still with us? I mean, is reality still sinking in and finding a firm hold in your mind?”

  “You mean, do I still believe that I am actually Michael Dennis, a planted operative from the future, sent back to enact certain changes in Earth history? Well, yes,” I said. “That does still feel right, despite the nightmares I experienced all night.”

  “Well, even though we lost you for a few years, I’m glad to report that you did in fact fulfill your mission. Let me start by briefing you on how that worked,” said Stone. “First – that is, right after you made that visual to yourself - your memory was wiped of everything but your specific mission parameters, so you wouldn’t contaminate the time line beyond your mission objective.”

  I ate my breakfast while Stone told me things that I should’ve already known, and as he spoke, it felt like I did already know it, even though I didn’t know that I knew it until he spoke the words.

  “You were sent back originally to help develop some technologies – hence your setting up J-Tech Industries – and also to have some political influence in early nineties America. You performed both of those tasks exceptionally. However, when your extraction date was missed, you carried on living as Michael Jacobsen – long past your expiration date.”

  “Expiration date, eh?” I said. “Makes me sound like a jug of sour milk.”

  “That’s just what we call the period of safe return. After about three years under cover, agents tend to start incorporating their new identity as their own – they lose themselves.”

  “And that’s what happened to me,” I said.

  “We’re so lucky we were able to get you back,” said Stone. He looked down for a moment. “There was a man named Bruce Langley. He trained me personally, back before the ATC was absorbed by the military. He was also your sponsor, Michael. When you were lost, it took a real toll on him. He would’ve been so glad to know you made it back all right.”

  I sifted through my mind in search of a Bruce Langley. At first, I drew a blank, but when Stone used the word “sponsor” I suddenly saw Bruce’s face again, as clear as yesterday.

  “You make it sound like he’s dead – is Bruce dead?”

  “He passed nearly two years ago,” said Stone. “He was a good man – a good leader. I just wanted you to know that I feel like I am carrying on his work, here. He had a vision, and he cared very much about his agents. And I feel an obligation to him, to help see it all through.”

  “Sounds like I’m in good hands, then,” I said, finishing off my orange juice. “I’m interested to get the history briefing – to learn what happened from 2001 to 2012.”

  “Let’s get to it then,” said Stone. He proceeded to give me a brief verbal narrative, highlighting the main geopolitical events of those eleven years. He then showed a visual on the large screen in the room. It played like a historical documentary, providing the details and context and analysis of everything from those years, and then went on to describe how things were supposed to play out after 2012, provided I could fulfill my new mission.

  “Do you have any further questions?” asked Stone at the conclusion of the presentation.

  “Not about history – it’s clear what has to be done – what I have to make happen. But when am I going to get my old memory uploaded?”

  “That will have to wait until after the mission. It’s too dangerous to travel back with your memory intact. We must stick to our standard operational protocols,” said Stone. “I know you’re going to need everything you’ve got to carry this out, but there’s just too much room for error if we send you back with your memory uploaded. You’re our last chance at this – we just can’t afford to fail. This should be a relatively short assignment – a matter of a couple of months - and after that, we’ll restore your backup and you can retire from this game, if that’s what you want. Heaven knows you deserve it.”

  “So I’m going into this blind?” I said, catching my breath. I’d assumed that they would make me whole before sending me out again, and the idea of trying to do this without all my memories was terrifying.

  “I know you don’t like it, Michael, but you have to understand – this rule is not flexible. From the beginning, ATC researchers and policy makers determined that an agent bringing all of his knowledge to the past presented a greater risk than was deemed acceptable. This is one of the rules we just can’t bend or break.”

  “And I’m supposed to convince my wife that she’s an agent, without even being able to appeal to her with our shared memories? This is a suicide mission.”

  “Believe me, I’ve already tried to change this. The Board of Governors, the ATC Commissioner – I even took it to the President of the First World – because I understand the critical nature of this mission. But no one is willing to take responsibility for what could happen. Now, I know it seems strange, but if you were uploaded, you’d insist on being downloaded again before the mission. You’re a dedicated agent, and you believe in these rules because you understand the dangers.”

  I sat back in my chair and exhaled explosively. “Can I at least get briefed on Nikki – not who she is now, but Agent Nikki Dennis?”

  “Yes,” said Stone, “we can get to that right away. There’s not much time before that window opens.”

  I spent the next couple of hours getting to know my wife. Then they had me make a brief visual record – a message to myself to help me readjust upon my return from this mission. Next I was taken to a large, two-story room that resembled a laboratory. In the center of the room was a gunmetal gray chamber, about the size of a school bus on its end, with steps leading to a single hatch entry. Thousands of colored wires led from the top of the chamber down to several banks of computers, and also up to the ceiling, where they disappeared into the steel rafters. At least thirty technicians buzzed about, reading various meters and punching data into their glowing consoles.

  Stone and Roman shook my hand and wished me success, and I climbed the steps and entered the giant metal cocoon, feeling a distinct sensation of déjà vu. I sat down in the contoured seat within, and the door automatically closed, slowly eclipsing my view of the lab. As it formed a seal, I found myself sitting in near-silence, accompanied only by the sound of my own breathing.

  I looked around the small shell and saw a few more of the colored cables that adorned the outside, and a single visual monitor set into the door in front of me. The monitor came on, and I was greeted by the face of one of the control room scientists.

  “Agent Dennis, my name is Johnny Nakamura. I’ll be in charge of initiating the transfer today.”

  I nodded.

  “All you’ll need to do is lay very still – we’ll take care of the rest.”

  Before I could question what he meant by “lay very still” – the chair started to slowly recline and a support came up under my legs. After a few moments, I was lying flat on my back with my arms at my side.

  “Excellent,” said Nakamura. “Now, just close your eyes, take a deep breath, and hold it.”

  I did as I was instructed.

  Nakamura muttered a few quick commands to his subordinates, using technical terms that I didn’t understand. Then his voice returned more clearly. “Standing by in five, four, three, two, one. Activate chronovariant streaaaaaaaam-eam-eam-eam.”

  Nakamura’s voice seemed to stretch and echo and distort and finally fade away to infinity. My body tingled all over. I was tempted to open my eyes and release my breath, but my fe
ar of interfering with the process and messing things up kept me rigidly in place as if I were getting an MRI. Within moments, or after an eternity, I thought I heard the sound of the ocean, a distant roar growing louder and louder.

  The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed.

  “He’s coming around,” said a female voice.

  I opened my eyes and stared up at a man in a white doctor’s coat.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked, his voice deep and sure.

  “Yes,” I said feebly. “What’s happened – where am I?”

  “You were found washed up on the beach,” he said. “You’ve been in a coma for four days.”

  “Oh,” I said, struggling to get my bearings.

  “My name is Doctor Halsgaard. Do you recall how you happened to wind up on the beach?” asked the doctor.

  I thought hard for a moment. “Um, no,” I said.

  “Your identification says you’re Michael Hashir. Is that right?”

  As soon as I heard the name, it was like a light bulb turned on in my mind, illuminating the dark corridors. I remembered who I was. At least, who I was supposed to be. I recalled the parameters of my mission. I realized I had to get out of there and get to work.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said, trying to sit up. “I’m Michael Hashir.”

  “Take it easy,” said Dr. Halsgaard, gently placing a hand the size of a waffle iron on my shoulder and easily restraining my weak body from rising any higher. “You’re not going anywhere, just yet. We need to run a couple of tests to make sure you’re all right.”

  I agreed, and spent the next day recuperating, fabricating some story about having been surfing and wiping out. When my tests came back clean and I had regained my strength, I was released from the hospital and my mission began in earnest.

  ۞

  The first step was to focus on my identity parameters – to learn who Michael Hashir was, and how I could use this identity to get close to Nikki.

  Despite some mild disorientation, my mind was clear with regard to the mission. I centered my thoughts and triggered a memory capsule, as if by instinct, and with a little mental effort I was able to access what I needed to know about my cover.

  Michael Hashir could be summed up as a paranoid tycoon. Living in the shadows and pulling the strings, the corporations I owned had strong ties to Middle East oil, and I used a share of my vast financial resources to secretly fund fringe organizations that shared my extreme views.

  It was certainly an ideal cover for getting in with Nikki’s group, Slaves of Freedom. Now all I had to do was find her. At first, I was amazed at how ATC laid the groundwork for the cover of their agents. Somehow, everything about my new identity was in place. As I thought about it, I seemed to remember that ATC sent back what they called forensic agents for brief missions to assemble the fake lives of the field agents.

  Looking at my driver’s license, I saw that I had been set up with a penthouse apartment in Washington D.C. that served as the base of operations for my nefarious off-grid activities. I caught a cab back to my place, paying for it with my Black card.

  In my apartment, I booted up my computer and started combing my files for useful contacts. After a few encrypted cell calls, I managed to find someone who was willing to put me in contact with Nikki. A meeting was arranged for that night, Wednesday, October 31st, 2012. Halloween night.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening familiarizing myself with my cover, and reading up on the day’s news. Less than one week out from the general election, the news was all politics. From what I could see, it was going to be a very tight race between two historic tickets.

  When eight o’clock rolled around, I headed out to meet Nikki. She’d agreed through an intermediary to meet me on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. I knew who I was looking for; she was told to look for a man in a white trench coat. As I approached the Memorial, I passed several groups of Halloween revelers, decked out in a variety of costumes, including caricature masks of the presidential candidates. The political cycle had powerfully infected the population this year, and was even worse here in the nation’s capital.

  I headed up the steps toward a masked woman sitting at the feet of Abraham Lincoln’s oversized stone likeness. The mask she wore resembled one of the vice-presidential candidates. I was not in costume, but my collar was turned up to ward off the frosty air, and my scarf was pulled up to cover my mouth and nose – so my face was slightly obscured.

  “Crazy, isn’t it?” I said, sitting down beside her and looking out over the crowds.

  “Not as crazy as it’s going to be,” she said.

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “Half of those people are going to be sorely disappointed by this time next week.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about,” said Nikki.

  “Oh?”

  “Who won, who lost – none of that will matter,” she said, remaining cryptic.

  As I pondered her words and struggled to grasp their meaning, she pulled off her mask and turned to me. “Well, I’m here. What exactly did you want to talk about? My people told me you’d said it was urgent. So, let’s skip the small talk. What do you want?”

  When I saw her face, looked into her eyes, my heart leapt in my chest and I caught my breath. I tried not to let my feelings show on my face, but I knew that she had to have seen something in my eyes.

  “I want to help you,” I said.

  “Oh yeah? How can you help me?”

  I lowered my scarf to reveal my mouth. Again, I had to catch my breath. “I have information that will affect your plans.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you know about my plans?”

  “Practically nothing, to be honest. But I guarantee that the information I have will affect you, regardless of the details of what you are planning to do.”

  She said nothing, sizing me up with her eyes. I remembered that look. She was appraising me, using her gift for discernment to determine if I was lying to her. I passed the test.

  “All right,” she said, pursing her lips, “but we do this on my terms. I’ve done a little research on you, Mr. Hashir. I couldn’t find all that much information, but from what I saw, I think we have a lot in common. Let’s return to my headquarters, and then you can tell me everything your little heart desires.”

  “Good,” I said. “And you can call me Michael.”

  We stood, started to walk down the steps, and then she stopped. “Just one thing, Michael. Why?”

  I just stared at her.

  “You say you want to help me,” she said, “but what do you want out of this deal? Surely you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “For me, this is personal,” I said, telling her the truth. “If things work out between you and I, it will mean that I will get my wife back.”

  She looked at me for a moment, and it seemed like a flicker of recognition crossed her features, but then it was gone. “Very well,” she said, turning to continue down the steps. “I trust a man with personal motives more than I trust a man with mercenary motives. In the end, money means nothing, anyway.”

  With that, she put her mask back on and strode down the steps, leading the way to her organization’s lair. I pulled my scarf back up and followed her to a car. We got in the back and her driver drove off without receiving a word of instruction from Nikki. After about twenty minutes of riding in silence, we entered a parking garage. Inside, we parked and then got in an elevator that took us down to four levels below ground. It opened to a narrow hallway that had one locked door, flanked by a pair of bearded men with large assault weapons.

  “Aren’t those illegal in D.C.?” I asked.

  “Only if you get caught,” said Nikki, nodding to the guards as we passed through the door into her office.

  We took a seat on a couch that faced a world map that was marked with push pins of various colors.

  “Dri
nk?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, decanting a ruby liquid into a short glass. “So, how are you going to help me, Michael?”

  I knew I had to take this slowly, or risk winding up with a new hole in my body. “First, I do need to know a little bit about your plans,” I said. I knew I needed to stall a little – to find a way to let the conversation flow so I could start slipping in some clues and hints that may start to trigger Nikki’s subconscious grasp on reality.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “I’ll be glad to share – after all, if you aren’t able to help me, you don’t have to leave here alive, so it’s no risk to me.”

  I cringed inside as I heard my wife speaking so coldly and callously. A memory came unbidden – Nikki standing in front of our bathroom mirror, sneering slightly, practicing her “villain” talk. She knew that one day she may get an assignment like this, and she wanted to be convincing undercover. As I looked at her now, I realized that all that practice had paid off only too well.

  “Tell me about your time line for the next ninety days,” I said. I wanted to find out if the potential change of administration was going to affect Slaves for Freedom’s plans.

  “Okay,” she said with a smirk, taking a sip of her drink. “But I’ll start at the end and work backwards, just for fun.”

  I nodded. “Whatever works best for you.”

  “January 21st, 2013. A new world order begins. January 20th – this city is leveled by a thermo-nuclear device.”

  My heart sank and my mouth became dry. My face remained a stone.

  “January 19th, the president-elect – whoever that is – and the vice president-elect, along with the president, vice president, Supreme Court, most of the Congress and a number of dignitaries and heads of state arrive in D.C. for the inauguration. January 18th, the final stages of the bomb delivery are put in place. A week before that, some of our mid-level operatives allow themselves to be captured overseas, and give up some fake information that helps lull the establishment into a false sense of security. Two months before that – that is, next week, after the elections – Slaves for Freedom formalizes ties with our foreign allies, al Qaeda. Tomorrow, I meet with my AQ contact to set up the rest of the details and put this time line in motion.”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ll take some water, now,” I said.

  She poured me some water from a pitcher on the end table and handed it to me. “So, are you impressed?”

  “Very,” I said, fighting the urge to express how sick this was all making me. “So, you’ll manage to get everybody, then, eh? Inauguration Day will be a real jackpot,” I said, faking a smile.

  “Anyone who’s anyone will be there,” said Nikki. “It’ll be a gold mine. And with Washington gone, everything will change.”

  “How large of a warhead are we talking about?”

  “Enough to take out the entire Beltway, including the Pentagon and the CIA. We’ll cut the head off the snake.”

  “And the body will die with it,” I said.

  “Exactly.” She raised her glass as if offering a toast. “And a new world will begin.”

  As I offered her my best fake grin, I wondered how she could have fallen like this – how she could have become so evil. But then I thought back to my life as Michael Jacobsen. I wasn’t particularly evil, but I was definitely someone else. That was simply the effect of the memory download and the false memory implants, combined with many years too long spent in this undercover condition. I still didn’t have all my memories of our life together, but I knew she was my wife, and I knew this was not who she really was – so I tried not to hate her.

  “Tell me about this wife of yours,” she said, as if reading my mind. “She sounds very – valuable – to you.”

  “Oh, she is,” I said, glad that she had asked the question and given me an opening. “Like you, she’s a true patriot. And beautiful. She’s extremely intelligent and capable. And she has a wicked sense of humor – really keeps me on my toes.”

  The more I spoke of Nikki, while staring right at her, the more easily the description came. Little memories seemed to flash in my mind – Nikki sitting on the bed reading a book – the way she would curl up next to me on the couch after a long day – her laugh.

  “She sounds like quite a woman. Where is she now?”

  I had to fight the urge to tell her that she was right in front of me. “Look,” I said. “I know that there are some details of your operation that you’re not telling me – and that’s your prerogative. Likewise, as I’m sure you understand, there are some things that I can’t tell you right now.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “It just seems that if you want help getting her back from wherever she is, it would be useful for me to know where that is.”

  “When the time is right, I’ll let you know,” I said, finishing my water.

  “Whatever works for you,” she said, a little gleam in her eye. “Now – what information do you have for me that will help me achieve my goals? And let me remind you – this had better be good.”

  I leaned back against the leather couch and cradled my empty glass in both hands. “What if I told you that when your men are captured overseas, and try to plant that false intelligence – it won’t work, and security will be heightened as a result?”

  “How could you know that?”

  “If I reveal all my secrets, that won’t be any fun now, will it?” I said. “Let’s just say that I have connections that you did not find when you researched me – and those connections have reliably informed me that they are aware of that part of your plot.”

  “Only that part?”

  “Only that part. But knowing that part, and nothing else, means that they are going to step up security on a large scale in January.”

  “Then we’ll have to compensate, by moving up our prep time line to get things in place before the security is increased,” said Nikki.

  “That’s right, you will.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. Is that all you have?”

  “Oh no. I have much more that can help you. That’s just a sample. What I need to know, before proceeding any further is – are we okay? Do we have a deal?”

  “Well, I don’t really have a way to verify your claims, but it seems you are trying to help me. And your profile – what I know anyway – indicates that you’re on the same page as us. In fact, there are rumors that a fair amount of your money has found its way into the hands of our new partners, AQ. So, I’m inclined to believe you.” She stared me in the eye with that piercing look of hers. “To trust you.”

  I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Excellent.”

  ۞

  Over the next few weeks, Nikki Scott’s plans continued to come to fruition, and she updated me on her progress at each of our weekly meetings. At each rendezvous, I provided her with intelligence to assist her, and she asked me about my wife. Each time, I would tell a story or paint a mental picture, but avoided the specific truth about where she was. Each time, Nikki would press me for more, but I would keep her at bay. And despite my constant effusion about my “missing” wife, it became clear by early January that Nikki was falling for me. It was only natural, of course. And I was having a hard time holding back my feelings toward her, even though I detested what this distorted version of my sweetheart was doing.

  But I was running out of time.

  It was January 19th, 2012. The day before Inauguration Day. Washington was packed with leaders, media, and what was expected to be the largest citizen turnout ever. All ripe for destruction at the hands of my own better half.

  If I was going to make this happen – if I was going to fulfill my mission and save the world – it had to be now. I had learned that Nikki held the key to this operation. She was to provide an al Qaeda operative with the code sequence for arming the nuke. She was the only one with that information, having obtained it from on
e of her own operatives before that man was killed.

  As the moment approached for her to contact the bomb man, I knew that it was now or never. This was it. I had to confront her with the truth.

  We’d grown comfortable enough together that I was able to convince her to take a walk through the park for the hour before her time to provide the code. It was a park that I had realized we used to walk in together between missions – in the future. It was hard to imagine that it could be razed by a nuclear bomb – that those walks would never take place. The paradoxical nature of this mission was mind boggling.

  “So,” she smiled. “Tomorrow’s the big day. Are you finally going to tell me how I can help you with that wife of yours? I’m beginning to wonder if she really even exists – or if it was just a ruse so you could get close to me. I mean, the way you describe her – she actually sounds a lot like me.”

  “Okay,” I said, “you caught me. You’re right. I just wanted to get close to you.”

  I took her hand. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she stopped and turned to me. She saw my expression and said, “You’re serious.”

  “Nikki,” I said, “this is going to sound a little – crazy – at first. But, the reason my description of my wife sounds so much like you, is that - she is you.”

  She looked confused, but continued to hold my hand.

  “You, Nikki, are my wife. Your name is Nikki Dennis. And you’re a time traveling agent from the future.”

  Nikki’s perplexed expression suddenly exploded into laughter. She brought her hand up to her mouth, as she always used to when she was having a good belly laugh.

  “Michael, you are one funny guy. Weird, and funny. Now come on, cut the joking and tell me the truth about your wife.”

  “That is the truth. You are from the future. And so am I. We work for something called ATC – the Allied Time Corps.”

  Her expression reverted from jubilant to serious as quickly as it had first changed. Now she did release my hand. “This isn’t funny anymore,” she said.

  “Admit it,” I said, “from the first moment you saw me, back at the Lincoln Memorial, you recognized me. You knew me. You have always known me. I’m your husband. We don’t belong here, Nikki. You’re not a terrorist any more than I am. You don’t really want to kill people – it’s just part of your ATC mission parameters gone awry.”

  Nikki’s face was a wash of confusion and turmoil. It seemed that my words were having an effect. She seemed to be doubting the reality to which she had grown accustomed. Then her face turned to anger.

  “I don’t know who you are or why you’re messing with me, but you are not going to ruin this! Tomorrow, the world will change – and you are not going to stop it!”

  She pulled a pistol from inside her coat and pointed it at me. I was equally quick on the draw. Both our weapons were equipped with silencers and leveled at each other’s chest like a mirror image.

  “Nikki, don’t,” I said. “I warned you the truth would seem bizarre, but it’s true. You have to believe me. I know you – I know that you can tell when someone is lying. Look into my eyes, Nikki – look – am I telling you lies? Or am I telling you the truth?”

  I could see her struggling. And I knew exactly what she was going through – only she didn’t have the advantage of a restoration visual or any algorithms to help her return to reality. As a tear rolled down her cheek, she raised her weapon a little higher, preparing to shoot me between the eyes. I quickly raised my weapon over my head, along with my other hand, to indicate surrender.

  “Don’t shoot,” I said.

  “No, don’t,” said a man’s voice from behind me. I turned to see a familiar-looking man who’d stepped out from behind a nearby tree, holding a gun. He trained it on Nikki. “It’s over, agent Dennis. I’ve been sent to finish this before it’s too late.”

  Nikki quickly adjusted her aim, pointing past me to the other man. In the instant she moved her arm, I could see out of the corner of my eye a slight flinching motion in the man’s hand. Like a reflex, I threw myself to my right, placing my body between Nikki and the man.

  Time seemed to slow as I felt the bullet enter my shoulder and thrust me backward. The impact caused me to twist as I fell to the ground. An instant after feeling the heat of the bullet, I landed at Nikki’s feet, blood oozing from just above my right collar bone and already soaking through my white coat.

  I lifted my head and looked toward the shooter. My vision blurred, but then sharpened again, and I saw that Nikki had managed to dispatch him. He lay still on the ground, weapon still in hand. She kneeled down beside me and ripped open my coat and shirt to inspect my wound.

  “Why did you do that?” she muttered through gritted teeth as she attempted to stop the bleeding.

  “Because you’re my wife,” I wheezed.

  She suddenly stopped what she was doing. With one hand pressing firmly on the hole in my shoulder, she stared into my eyes for what seemed like an eternity. As I watched her study me, I saw tears well up in her eyes and drip onto my face. It was dawning on her. I had done what was necessary to make her see – to snap her out of her illusion.

  “Michael?” she whispered. She leaned down and cradled me in her arms, pulling me close, slowly rocking me. “What is going on?”

  “You’ve been lost on assignment for a very long time,” I said. “I came to find you – to bring you home.”

  “And who’s that? Who did I just kill?”

  “I think he’s one of us,” I said, wincing. “Go check him out.”

  Nikki moved to the prone man and rifled through his pockets. They were empty. Then the man moved and groaned.

  “He’s alive!” Nikki said to me over her shoulder.

  “Agent Dennis,” the man croaked. “You need to come with me.” He passed out again. Nikki checked his pulse.

  “He’s still with us,” she said, “just unconscious.”

  “We need to get out of here,” I said. “Help me to my feet.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” said Nikki. “As far as this world is concerned, I’m still Nikki Scott.”

  She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and made a quick call. Within a minute, four tough-looking men jogged up to us and carried both me and the other agent to Nikki’s limo, which was waiting just around the corner.

  Nikki ordered the driver to take us to her headquarters and then rolled up the privacy glass.

  “You both need medical treatment,” she said, “and I have a doctor on staff. You’re going to be fine.”

  “What about the handoff?” I asked. “There are people expecting you to provide the arming codes for the nuke.”

  “They’re gonna have to wait,” she said.

  ۞

  The Slaves for Freedom doctor bound up my wounds and also took care of the other agent. When he came to, we had some questions for him.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, trying to place his face.

  “I’m Max Roman. I was sent as a contingency to make sure that you didn’t fail your mission,” he told me.

  Suddenly, I recognized the commander. “Well, in a way, you did just that,” I said. “Your shooting me brought Nikki back to reality. My willingness to sacrifice myself proved to her that I was telling the truth.”

  “Well, I’m glad that we’ve been able to recover you,” he said, turning to Nikki. “But there’s still the issue of thwarting tomorrow’s attack. How are you going to stop it?”

  “I’ll just keep the codes to myself,” said Nikki.

  “And you’re the only one who has them?” Roman asked.

  “The only one still alive. I set it up that way on purpose – to protect myself. Just in case anyone decided to double-cross me, I’d be worth a lot more to my new allies alive than dead.”

  “They don’t have a workaround?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of,” she said. “But it won’t matter anyway. I�
��m going to call in a very detailed anonymous tip to the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA – just to be sure – you know they don’t communicate that well between themselves. They’ll find the device today.”

  “How do we get back home?” I asked Roman.

  “I was sent as an in-and-out job,” said Roman. “Get in - restore things so that when this superthread takes over, life will be all right in the future - then get out. Extraction is supposed to take place at the next window, which occurs tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Then they can just take us all home, then,” I said.

  “Not so simple,” said Roman. “Nikki Scott is established here. She could wind up dead in a park, but she can’t just disappear. Remember, that’s the whole reason we didn’t just perform a smash-and-grab extraction with her in the first place. A cover needs to be provided.”

  “Can’t we make it look like she was killed by her co-conspirators for failing to deliver the nuke codes?” I asked.

  “That would work,” said Roman, “but we’d need to do it right – something that would leave no identifiable remains.”

  “My doctor specializes in that kind of work,” said Nikki. “That’s why I pay him the big bucks. He can make it look like I was disappeared, no problem.”

  “Then let’s go home,” I said.

  I grasped Nikki’s hand with my left hand, the other now in a sling. Her touch felt good – it felt right. It was like there had been a transformation. Holding Nikki Scott’s hand had been a mixture of sadness, anger, longing, and revulsion. Holding Nikki Dennis’ hand – having my wife back – seemed to make the pain of being shot fade into the past. “It’s good to have you back,” I said. “It’s been a long time.”

  THE END

  Seer

  Writers of the Future Honorable Mention, September 2008

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