by D. J. Gelner
I nodded at Trent. “Indeed. Thank you, Jesus.”
“Later bro,” the Son of Man replied.
Chapter Four
I returned to the time machine in the hopes of getting back to work straight-away, and solving this mess created by the “what happened, happened,” conception of time that Toasted Trent Albertson (nee “Jesus Christ”) had leveled upon me.
Before I started, though, I fancied myself a swallow of scotch and a cup of tea, though I struggled with my preferred order of taking down each beverage for several moments. Eventually, the scotch won out (it always does, doesn’t it?) and I removed the bottle of Macallan eighteen year from its place, strapped to the small bar near the galley. As I poured it over rocks, I noticed a bright, red envelope hidden behind the bottle. The envelope was made out of heavy artisan paper, and smelled faintly (I thought) of smoking embers.
“Finny” was written on the outside in large, almost calligraphy-like gold print, and the back was sealed by a proper wax stamp. Whomever had prepared the letter had taken great pains to show a rather proficient level of decorum, which I always appreciated.
I broke the seal and opened the envelope, only to find two thin, almost rice-paper sheets, with the following message:
“Dearest Finny,
I trust that you’re reaching for this rather wonderful bottle of scotch because you have just met Trent and are perhaps somewhat troubled by what you have found about your inability to return to the future.
Though it is regrettable that I could not inform you of my wishes ahead of time, it was the only way that I could ensure that you would respect my orders with regard to the full scope of the mission.
Trent was indeed correct that the quantum computer can have a devil of a time processing jumps back to the future. Sadly, this is partially by design, as the computer that I provided you was constructed precisely so that you could only make a number of jumps in seria in the order that I preferred. I knew that, had this been a parameter of our original agreement, you would have been somewhat less inclined to go along with it, though I hope by now your natural curiosity and intellectualism will get the better of you, and allow yourself to forgive me in the future.
I have enclosed a list of specific places and time periods that, if visited in the precise order given, will result in you being able to eventually return to your rightful place in 2032. Should you deviate from this list…well…perhaps that’s the reason that Trent knew nothing about you. Or perhaps I told him to feign ignorance should a foppish British scientist come poking about.
Along with the coordinates and times, there is a one-line description, which should, in context, provide you with enough information to figure out exactly what you’re supposed to do in a given place and time. While you were busy spending your time and my money on all matter of technical details to get the machine ship-shape, I had a small team of experts pore over the requirements and the quantum computer to ensure that you got from place-to-place safely and in one piece, as this is utterly critical to history. As a result, you need not worry about how much time you spend in any given time period, other than the 20 hours (Twenty-one hours, six minutes, I thought) required to recharge the gravity drive and tunneling lasers. Know that you do have a specific task to accomplish at each stop, and each task should not be taken lightly. Shirking said tasks will only make things more difficult on us all, and result in all manner of backtracking and doubling around to accomplish these goals, and allow you to assume your rightful place in history, which, I assure you, is quite extensive, no matter what Trent may have said.
If you have any questions, I suppose you will have to figure their answers out yourself, or pose them to the quantum computer, though I’ve heard the thing can be positively unreliable at times. But you’re a capable fellow; I have my full trust in your abilities! Though things may get difficult at times, please do remember that ‘however history remembers it is how it happened, from the future dude’s point of view.’
Do take care, and I will see you in good time.
Humbly Yours,
Your Benefactor”
I could feel my heartbeat thunder through my head with the regular metronomy of a war drum. I was too angry to ball up the letter, nor to scream nor cry (again, Limey and whatnot), and could only manage two, spit-out words from the bowels of my soul:
“Fucking prick,” I said.
I wished the old bird was around so that I could smack him around a few times, maybe with his own gold-tipped cane, but seething at the moment would be of no use. Instead, I poured a full draught of scotch, and took out the second piece of paper, which had the following on it:
“2-4-1666: Woolsthorpe-by-Colsterworth, England: Share port with IN
23-1-65,132,571 B.C.: Isla Yucatan, Mex.: Dine w/ TR
6-9-532: Chichen Itza, Mex.: Save R.C., S.B.
31-12-1985: St. Louis, MO, USA: Communicate w/ VB
13-3-325: Nicaea, Turkey: Witness C’s skepticism at the FEC
18-4-1738: Leipzig, Germany: See the only show in town
17-6-691: Jerusalem: Corner and Deal With T V
6-2-1943: Paris: Seek out VS
6-7-2032: Baltimore: HOME”
I wanted to ball up the list and tear it to shreds as soon as I read it—what did all of the initials even mean?
“Why would I want to visit the Federal Election Commission in Turkey in 325—” I said to no one in particular, though I stopped myself as I realised how ridiculous I sounded and smacked myself squarely in the face with the butt of my palm.
And who was my Benefactor to lay out such an audacious list for me before I even had tried to make a jump back to the future? In a huff, I stormed off to the control console and dutifully keyed in the coordinates for the last jump on the list:
“Baltimore, Maryland, USA, July 6, 2032.”
Then the odds of success flashed on the screen:
“1.8%”
One point eight percent! I slammed the metal panel on top of the console as forcefully as I could manage, though I seem to recall that it hurt somewhat more than I would have thought, and found myself vigorously shaking my hand for several seconds to dissipate the pain.
Okay, Old Bird, I’ll play your game, I thought. Or perhaps I whispered it—in either case, it was the thought in my mind at the moment. I’ll go on your little ‘scavenger hunt,’ but I will find you, and when I do, the result won’t be two friends celebrating over a glass of scotch!
I took a long drag off the whiskey glass and savored the warm liquid as it burnt my throat on the way down; even I can appreciate the subtle hint of smoke and utterly smooth finish that defined the Macallan Eighteen, which was, coincidentally, from the same year that I had finished my doctorate at age eighteen.
“You’re nuts,” my father said when I told him of my intention to make physics my profession, in his starkly frank, American way of saying things. “There’s no money in that.”
Oh, if he could only see me now! Sipping some of the finest scotch in the world in a time machine that would have bankrupted more than a few countries and companies to create!
I collected myself and dialed in the coordinates for the first jump:
“Woolsthorpe-by-Colsterworth, England, United Kingdom, April 2, 1666.”
Sure enough, the display almost instantaneously flashed:
“99.9.”
Damn it all! I thought. It continued to fluctuate between 99.9% and 99.8% for quite a while, before it finally settled on 99.9% and stayed there.
Resigned to my fate, I took another long pull off of the scotch, and decided that since time was no longer “of the essence,” I would get properly leathered; after all, such a good bottle of scotch shouldn’t go to waste, and though there was a crate of the stuff in the pantry, who knew when I’d have time to enjoy any more?
“What am I thinking?” I definitely said this part, “I have all the time in the universe!”
I spent the rest of the evening drinking as I gazed out on the anc
ient Judean landscape. At twilight, it was almost as if looking upon another planet, eerie and harsh and unforgiving all rolled into one. Though I’ve come to learn that there’s a term for such disoriented sensations (“temporal disassociation”), such a condition does not undermine the very powerful thoughts and feelings I experienced as I looked around the landscape.
At one point, I felt positively randy, and decided to set all of the walls of the ship to “one-way transparent,” so that I could look around in all 360 degrees. As I did so, I experienced a moment of panic (and, in hindsight, levity) as a rather hideous little fellow rode his camel full speed into the side of the cloaked time machine. Or I should say that the camel stopped short of the craft, and the little bearded fellow flew out of his seat and slammed into the side of the ship. He staggered to his feet and felt for the outer surface of the machine before he screamed some dialect of Aramaic for the equivalent of “bloody murder,” as far as I could gather. I had half a mind to activate the ship’s external intercom and really give him a show, but I thought the better of it, lest I attract undue attention and have to open up the armory. Once the fellow left, I did move the ship several hundred yards away, in case he decided to come back and visit the site of the “miracle” once more. I poured one final glass of the wonderfully smooth scotch, and allowed myself one of the cigars in the pantry as a celebration of a first step in the mission “accomplished” as I placed the Doobie Brothers’ “Takin’ it to the Streets” on repeat over the ship’s internal loudspeakers (for those of you questioning my rather archaic and eclectic selection in music, I’d proudly suggest that you fuck right off). The last thing that I remember from that evening was hammering the tambourine beat from the song on top of the command console.
I passed out in the command seat and woke to a symphony of finely-tuned jackhammers inside my brain, each note of…what was this dreadful song again? No matter…I cursed myself for destroying so many of my extremely valuable (and much-needed) brain cells in a fit of emotion. The view was still in 360-degree mode, and I ordered the view to return to “standard,” and for the customary “window” pane at the front to darken. My next order of business was to turn off that dreadful noise, the appeal of which I may have overestimated in my drunken stupor.
I surveyed the damage to the cabin. I had dug into the food stores, though I’m proud to admit that my own personal “autopilot,” as it were, gorged on the perishable items first, the baguettes and cheeses that were loaded into the galley.
As I made my way to the larger table next to the galley, though, I noticed the smoldering remains of what appeared to be a sheet of rice-paper.
In a panic, I fumbled through my robe, and realising that its pockets only contained the medigel, I rifled through various drawers throughout the cabin. I finally found a similar piece of rice paper, but it wasn’t the list; rather it was the Old Bird’s condescending and bombastic letter, which I could easily do without. My slightly-sunburned skin went pale with the realisation that I had no map to reach the future; though I probably had a good enough memory to piece the places and years together, I still had no idea what I was to do upon my arrival. I was a Bedouin, a wanderer, forever condemned to meander through time to try to find my way back home!
I needed to relax, and though the scotch once again sounded appealing, I nearly vomited at the thought of going on another bender. No, I needed something soothing and familiar, something that would calm the nerves and steady the mind. I needed my customary cup of tea (always Earl Grey, always hot).
I staggered over to the tea service in the galley and removed the first box of Earl Grey from its resting place. As I did so, another red envelope, with the same style of paper and embossed with identical calligraphy as the one from the day before, practically jumped out at me from behind the tea box. I cocked my head to the side as I destroyed the seal and greedily tore into the damned thing, and began to read the contents:
“Dearest Finny,
If you’re reading this, I trust that you’ve already destroyed the first list in a fit of drunken rage and debauchery, or at least as much debauchery as a man can manage by himself (I trust that you’ll give the head a proper cleaning). I’ve enclosed another copy of the list, seeing as though that as smart as you may be, you were too dumb to not photograph it into your tablet and save a copy to the ship’s memory banks. DO NOT FUCK THIS UP AGAIN! There are no more copies to save your ass this time. You have been warned.
Humbly Yours,
Your Benefactor”
This time, I could only manage a single word, two syllables that conveyed my thoughts perfectly.
“Wanker.”
Chapter Five
Too often we take linear time for granted, and along with it the idea that every day millions of souls will take their final gasps, and forevermore go silent. Each passing day is but a weigh station, a short stop on the road to that final moment that ultimately defines us all, and makes us move in time with whatever reality we currently occupy.
When you’re a time traveller, each of those days has no meaning, or should I say no greater meaning outside of oneself. Of course I am one step closer to that final milestone of death we all shall one day embrace, but all sense of generation, of shared experience and memories, any idea that you’re tethered to this time, this moment, this instant is gone. You are a nomad wandering the wastelands without a compass or map, forever damned to cross the same river and name it a thousand different things.
Unless, of course, you have a fabulously wealthy Benefactor who apparently had the benefit of knowing the future (and the past, and whatever), and the foresight to provide you with the very map needed to get where you needed to go.
Truth be told, once I found that second map, I was actually grateful to the Old Bird for including it; though I initially had been appalled by the presumption of it all, absent that map, I would be similarly lost to time, even more of a footnote to history than I already am. I recorded it in every way that I knew how; I even scanned a picture into my tablet and re-wrote it in triplicate in the margins of the old paper Bible.
It could be worse, I thought. I could’ve tried to make a low-probability jump in my drunken stupor.
I cringed at the thought of being cast adrift in space, which would have more than “complicated matters,” before I took another sip of tea and studied the list once more:
“2-4-1666: Woolsthorpe-by-Colsterworth, England: Share port with IN”
Perhaps the Old Bat had thrown me a bit of a bone. I was enough of a student of history to know that the “IN” that my Benefactor referred to was likely none other than Isaac Newton. The dates worked rather well, and despite my rather off-hand and regrettable comment in the first chapter, Sir Isaac remained one of my foremost heroes.
After all, how many men had contributed so much to so many different disciplines, and had such a profound effect on the world? Calculus, optics, mechanics; all areas utterly revolutionised by Newton. Outside of Da Vinci, he was perhaps the greatest Renaissance man in history. Only time will tell if, eventually, someday, “Templeton” takes its rightful place among this group of peers, though I most certainly have my doubts.
I knew that this was the man my Benefactor wanted me to meet, but I felt a flutter in my chest; what if he wasn’t? What if I was to meet “Ignatius Newcombe” or what if the “IN” didn’t refer to a person at all, but rather a thing, or a direction to share port “in” something? Regardless of the Old Bird’s intent, I thought that I would start with Newton—it was the best lead I had, after all—and move on from there.
Besides, I thought that given his somewhat unorthodox views on Christianity and the church, Sir Isaac might rather enjoy hearing about my run-in with our friend Toasted Trent Albertson.
“Computer: what type of dress would be appropriate for England, 1666…nobleman,” I said. I thought I was rather clever; after all, I’d have a much easier time meeting Isaac Newton (even pre-knighthood, I suppose) as a noble rather than as some member
of the rabble. Not to mention that I gathered that the noble clothing was more likely to be made of silks and satins, and hence far more comfortable.
The computer opened the glove compartment and flipped to one of the pre-packaged outfits: a rather fancy-looking purple silk waistcoat with a crisp white, frilly shirt, and matching purple pantaloons. Long, white socks and polished, black, buckled shoes completed the ensemble, which I found to be rather gaudy, even if it belied a simple elegance that has somehow vanished through the centuries. I put on the clothing, an activity far more time-consuming than I would have imagined.
Perhaps the Old Bird hates me, after all, I thought as I looked in the mirror in the head. I especially didn’t like the 2001-esque coldness with which the computer complied with my request, which aroused a new round of paranoia at a potential HAL-like computer takeover. Alas, nothing nearly so exciting was to be the case as of yet.
Though my hangover had begun to fade, my usually crystal-clear mind was still foggy and dull like a London winter. I eased my way into the command chair, and was delighted to see the coordinates for the time jump already loaded into the console from the night before. I allowed myself a smirk as I cautiously raised a finger over the red, flashing icon and quickly pressed it.
The machine immediately came to life, as each half rotated in an opposite direction and the gravity drive kicked in. The ship shot off toward the town as the cloaking device disengaged, now visible to everyone in all of its shiny, metal splendour.