by D. J. Gelner
Now where were we…ah yes! I ordered the computer to lower the gangway, and we descended it like a couple of astronauts setting foot on an alien world.
And how strange it was! It was as if the Inner Harbor had grown and swallowed the rest of the city whole. Litter and graffiti were nonexistent, and though vagrants still milled about, they quietly went about their business without so much as bothering anyone else. Notably, several more well-to-do pedestrians stopped and dropped $50 bills into the empty coffee cups in the bums’ outstretched hands.
“So this is the future, is it, Doc?” Corcoran said as he took out his gloves.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” I asked.
“What?”
“The gloves—it’s the middle of July in Baltimore!”
“Yeah, and I’ll bet you all have about fifteen different superbugs from antibiotic-resistant bacteria that’ll kill me right quick.”
“Well, well…the great Commander Corcoran, a germophobe!” I teased him a bit.
“Guess you learn somethin’ new every day,” Corcoran said, without a hint of emotion.
I couldn’t help but gaze across the street toward the giant skyscraper that dominated the skyline. In front of it stood a large glass obelisk dominated by the holographic “ChronoSaber” logo with the stylized clock face from the holovid. Underneath the logo was a scrolling line that read as follows:
“Welcome to ChronoSaber, where our business is to make sure you have the time of your life,” I thought the copywriters should be fired for that one. “Come inside if you no longer wish to experience,” the font changed subtly; apparently this was a “fill-in-the-blank” of sorts, “July 6, 2042.”
Like the video I had seen, it was all a bit corny and thus not nearly as funny as I imagined the writer had initially thought it, but—
“2042!” I couldn’t help but hide my shock.
“Yeah?” Corcoran said. “Isn’t that where you’re from?”
“2032!” I screamed at him.
“Oh,” Corcoran said.
“How could this happen!?” I cried at no one in particular. I turned to re-enter the craft.
“Whoa, whoa, Doc, where ya goin’?”
I didn’t reply as I marched up the gangway and fiddled with the controls.
“Computer! When you told me ‘time jump successful,’ what did you mean by that?”
The response flashed up on the screen near-instantaneously, “Jump to July 6, 2042 successful.”
“What did I enter as the coordinates?” my first thought was that I had somehow made a mistake in keying them in.
Another quick message, “July 6, 2032, Baltimore, Maryland, USA.”
“Why, then, you damnedable bucket of bolts, are we in 2042, exactly ten fucking years later?!” Though Corcoran had made his way back onto the ship by now, I’m sure he would have heard me were he still outside the vessel.
This time, the computer thought for a moment.
“Access Denied. Result is within acceptable measure of error,” the words flashed across the screen like a gut punch.
0.1 percent! I thought.
“Now see here, you scurrilous rogue—I am your master. I created you. And you will tell me exactly what is going on here RIGHT FUCKING NOW!” To drive the point home, I pounded several times on the display; I doubted the computer could feel pain, but I thought it best to let the wanker know that I meant business.
Instead of insulting me or…shocking me, I suppose, or otherwise attacking me, the computer calmly brought up a map of downtown Baltimore, circa 2042, and zoomed in on our position. The building across the street from us flashed and a red, circular indicator surrounded it.
“One Chrono Place,” the words flashed beneath the image. And without saying a word, I finally understood.
“This isn’t over, computer. I’m not finished with you.”
The computer thought for several more moments before the most curious phrase flashed up on the screen.
“Goodbye, Finny,” it said.
“Fuck off, ass!” was all I could mutter under my breath.
“What’d it say? Where’re we goin’?” Corcoran asked.
I knew the answer. I hated that I knew it, but I knew it all the same. It was the final insult, the last joke that was to be played on me…at least as “Doctor Phineas Templeton.” What was about to happen was going to strip away my humanity one way or another; so utterly fed up was I that I knew that where I was going, I would either emerge a murderer, having crossed the line into dispatching a person in cold blood, or that I, myself, would leave the room in a coffin.
It was a fitting end for such an awful journey. Push a man, then push him some more, then see if you can finally push him to that darkest of places, deep in the cockles of his soul that had been exposed to too much harsh light over the past several weeks, where he dared not to tread formerly, but a place to which he had become all too accustomed.
“We’re going,” I said, “to meet the person pulling the strings.”
“But how do you—”
“We’re going to meet my Benefactor.”
Chapter Thirty
I was a man on a mission as I jaywalked across the street, oblivious to oncoming traffic. Horns must’ve honked, and perhaps the Commander even offered some apologies between his pleas for more information, but I gave no reply.
We marched through the courtyard in front of the tower single-mindedly. Four officers, dressed in the same camouflage outfits as the soldiers at Chronobase Alpha, guarded the entrance. I mentally prepared myself to dispatch them with my sidearm if need be, but thankfully they simply moved off to the side and saluted as the Commander and I passed by.
Inside the lobby, a set of metal detectors was guarded by two more soldiers. I stepped through one of them and heard the loud “beep” indicating that there was metal present on my person. Despite my all-consuming rage, I had been so trained by the invasive security measures deployed by TSA that I dutifully emptied my pockets, including my holstered sidearm, and walked through the machine once more.
“Thank you, sir,” one of the soldiers said with a smile. “Have a nice visit to ChronoSaber.” He nodded at Corcoran, “Commander, you can go right on through, of course.”
I grabbed my pistol and snapped the holster around my torso once more. We proceeded to the bank of elevators in front of us.
“Sir…sir, please!” Another soldier chased us down and held something toward us in his hand. I grabbed for my sidearm very slowly, anticipating more trouble.
“Sign in, please,” he said, and extended a tablet. I dutifully placed my thumb on the indicated spot and my picture and a short biography flashed on the screen before large red letters flashed up.
“Proceed to Floor 88,” the tablet read.
“Wow…big meetin’ with the boss, I guess,” the soldier said. He eyed Corcoran and a wave of understanding washed over his face. “Oh, Commander, of course—you know the way. Right on in!” he pointed at the open elevator doors on the right side of the bank. To get at them, we circumvented a fountain that, I didn’t realise until later, was identical to the one in the lobby of Burnham Harrington.
The elevator controls were a scrollable touchscreen, and, as expected, the eighty-eighth floor was represented by a wide horizontal button at the top. The doors shut almost immediately, and the Commander and I were treated to a holographic representation of downtown Baltimore, which was actually a pretty damned accurate representation of the freshly-made city I had only briefly been able to survey.
Corcoran sniffed the air, “Is that…vanilla?” he asked. I stared him down silently for several moments to let him know that his attempt at lightening the mood had fallen flat. He simply shrugged and looked forward once more.
After one of the quicker elevator rides that I had remembered (though it may have been a function of not having used one in quite some time), we emerged in a room that was identical to the posh, richly-appointed sky lobby in Burnham Herringto
n all of those years…days…whatever…ago. Even down to the “click-clack” of old-fashioned Macs and the eighties-ish look of the two receptionists.
“What a mindfuck,” Corcoran let out with wide-eyed wonderment.
I marched up to the receptionist’s desk and waited for her to notice us. After several moments, she hung up the phone, sighed, and looked at us.
“May I help you?” She asked, as if bored from working at a time travel agency!
“Phineas Templeton, here to see my Benefactor.”
“One moment,” she replied.
“Anywhere I can take a leak?” Corcoran whispered at her.
“Commander! At a time like this? When we’re so close to—”
“When I’m so close to pissing myself?” Corcoran hissed back at us.
“Around the corner to the right,” the receptionist answered.
Not but thirty seconds after the Commander ran off, an elderly man stepped out into the room from behind the corner to the left of reception. It took me a moment or two, but I recognised the large, almost Borgnine-esque face that I had seen days before, weathered by the scourge of time.
“Garrett,” I whispered.
“Expecting someone else, Doctor Templeton?” he extended a hand. I ignored it.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“‘He’ isn’t who you want to meet. I assure you that I—”
“You’re a sham—a front! Take me to him,” I pulled my suitcoat back to reveal the sidearm in my holster. “Now.”
Garrett raised his hands and widened his eyes, “Okay, okay…you’re the boss…” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I pulled the gun out, but I’m not sure the secretaries even noticed. Even if they had shrieked, I wouldn’t have heard it so focused was I on dealing out retribution to my Benefactor. The old bird was going to answer my questions, let me know why this had to happen. Why to me?
And then, he was going to pay.
“Send the Commander back when he’s finished, would you?” Garrett asked over his shoulder, almost politely. I assume the receptionists nodded in the affirmative.
We transversed the same hallway that Corcoran, Bloomington and myself had days ago in St. Louis toward the familiar mahogany door. Instead of the “Victor U. Burnham—Principal,” nameplate, though, there was none.
Garrett opened the door, and to my surprise, there was my Benefactor, seated in the chair that should have been Burnham’s.
“Ah, Finny. So good to see you, my boy! Come in, come—”
“Spare me your pleasantries, old man,” I pushed Garrett forward to reveal my Baretta and aimed it directly at my Benefactor’s forehead. His secretary, Helene, was the only other person in the room, and instinctively took several steps back.
“Helene, I’m sorry you have to see this,” I said to the attractive, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper black hair, and those piercing green eyes. Surprisingly, she was more steely and determined than the old buzzard was.
“My, my…it appears that we found the big boy guns on the ship…” the old man said. His hair and beard were all white and remarkably full, though I owed that to being able to travel through time at will, and procure the latest and greatest hair care and beauty products to—
My stomach dropped. The faintest dawn of a realisation crept over me. Though there was still a healthy layer of fog overlaying it all, my brain whizzed and whirred as the cogs and synapses fired, and attempted to make sense of the thoughts that swam through my brain. My knees wobbled as I staggered over toward a chair and sunk into it, gun still outstretched at my Benefactor.
“Why am I in 2042?” I steeled myself. “The computer said—”
“A computer that I procured for your benefit, and perhaps modified to suit my own…proclivities…” The old man said with a smile. “Helene, be a dear and get the good doctor a whiskey, will you? I think I see the faintest hint of an epiphany forming in that overpowered mind of his.” The older woman professionally sashayed over to the bar and dropped two oversized ice cubes into a whiskey glass. My mouth began to salivate with the tell-tale “plink, plink.”
“What’s your poison again? Macallan Eighteen?” The old man nodded at Helene, who continued to dutifully prepare my drink. She brought it over to me and I took a large draught; I wanted desperately to feel the slightest burn in my throat, something that I could focus on as an anchor in my reeling head.
Helene walked over to my Benefactor and smiled at him for a quick second.
“Thank you, dear,” he said. “Now, where—”
She slapped the man forcefully across the face.
“I said we keep it up until no longer is necessary, Jacob. Now, I think we owe the good doctor an explanation,” she said in her harsh English tone, as she patted the man on the cheek twice. At first it was barely noticeable, a speck of red in a sea of white beard that gradually grew larger with each passing second. Eventually the convulsions began, and the first hints of spittle formed at my Benefactor’s mouth.
“What..what’s going on?” I asked. “Stop that!” I pointed the gun at Helene, who smirked and shrugged. “No…he’s mine. I need answers! Why did you!”
My Benefactor’s body fell in a heap on the desk, eyes open, not breathing.
Helene shook her head. “He always thought he was smarter than he was. Thought that some day, I’d grow careless and make that one fatal misstep that would allow him to take control of this operation. Unfortunately,” the smirk on her face turned downright evil, “He’s the one who forgot to take his medigel this month.”
More synapses fired in my mind, “You…Helene. You’re—?“
“The puppetmaster? The one actually pulling the strings? The one who sent you on your little scavenger hunt? Don’t act so shocked, Phineas!” Her smile turned into a scowl as she pounded the table. Both Garrett and I jumped, I out of my seat, and Garrett in place. “Ask yourself, was there ever a meeting with him where I wasn’t present? Didn’t it ever strike you as odd at how clumsy I was at opportune moments, how he’d change his tune after I so ‘carelessly’ spilled scalding coffee on him? Isn’t it odd that such a ditzy secretary could keep her job for so long? Despite your incessant eye rolls and ‘harumphs.’”
“I just thought he was rogering you on the sly…” I couldn’t help myself.
At least she laughed at the joke, even if her chortle was a bit on the devious side, “There’s that English wit! ‘He’s too awkward to get with her,’ they all said. Or even worse, Victor said, ‘He’s a homo.’ Pardon the phrase, but those were his exact words.”
Another piece of the puzzle locked into place, but I decided to play dumb.
“Get with whom?” I asked, innocently as a child might.
Helene smiled, “I think you know the answer, Phineas. Much how you know why this office looks like this today. A stolen glance in a lobby just west of the Mississippi…”
“You!” I couldn’t help but blurt it out. In hindsight, I wish that my excitement had led me to pull the trigger then. “It was you getting out of the lift at Burnham Herrington!”
She rolled her eyes, “For being one of the great geniuses in all of history, you certainly can be a bit slow to put two and two together. Yes, ’twas I, that ‘stunning’ creature that you saw leaving Victor’s offices on New Year’s Eve.”
“What were you doing there? How did you get back?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Getting decorating tips. Visiting an old friend.” she quipped before she put both hands on the desk and narrowed her eyes, “Ensuring that he was prepared for your visit, and knew the full magnitude of why you were there.”
“But…the cocaine…with Bloomington…” My head began to reel.
She laughed wickedly, “Ah, you still don’t know how medigel works, do you? That’s right—it’s ‘from’ your future. My future, too, though now it obviously can exist wherever in the timeline one may have brought it, so long as the universe will allow it.” I swallowed deeply
as the realisation continued to percolate.
“How should I put this?” She continued. “Once medigel is in your system, it stays there for thirty days, repairing any damage that’s done, and slowly working its way out. As it’s still in your system, it craves anything to fix in the body, especially the deleterious damage caused by alcohol and other drugs. When the medigel doesn’t find these things, it buzzes away, entering the brain and leading to some, at times, erratic behavior, like with your friend Steven Bloomington,” she said. “But, with the proper amount of toxins in the body, you become good as new. Fortunately, Victor knew this but you did not, so he forced himself to ingest a bit too much pharmaceutical grade cocaine to induce a heart attack, and leave you even more puzzled than when you arrived in his time period.”
“Well, that puts the most burning mystery in my mind to rest,” I said.
“Sarcastic little shit,” she hissed. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Doctor? Why I would send you through time, an errand boy, with a special forces operative and another scientist?”
“The best…damned…reality show in history?” I loosened my tie and took another swig of scotch.
“Each jump, designed to accomplish a given goal,” she ignored my barb. “From destroying your confidence in the sciences with Newton, to scaring you shitless with the dinosaurs, and even letting you know that your actions had real consequences with the Mayans.”
“So the past is changeable then?” I asked.
She laughed her evil laugh once more, “How perfectly adorable, isn’t it, Zane?” She smiled at Garrett, who politely excused himself and left the room. “No, my dear Finny, it most certainly is not. Not at all. Once you actually went to those places, you fixed your ‘present’ self’s place in the timeline. You didn’t find another version of yourself or the Commander, or anyone else coming to warn you about any of the events about to occur, did you?”