Alex suddenly realized they'd reached the platform. The air was cooler here and, despite their altitude, the damp concrete walls smelled obversely like a dank cellar. Charlie stood waiting for Alex, smiling. Alex smiled back. It was good to finally stop climbing.
"Aven't been oop 'ere in moonths," Mrs. MacGuffin explained, brushing the dust from some sort of control console. The instruments looked like something from the set of a 1950s science fiction film. Instead of touch-screens and sensors, the galvanized steel panel consisted of switches, dials and cathode ray tubes. An actual ignition switch sat next to a keyboard that looked like it had been lifted from an old Smith Corona typewriter. The console took up one entire side of the platform. In front of it sat an upholstered red bar stool for its operator. Finally, atop the console was an array of clocks, one for each timezone around the world, New York, Tokyo, Greenwich, and so on. Charlie and Alex tentatively stepped to the platform's edge. A guard rail was the only thing that stood between them and the long lethal plunge to the concrete floor below. A latched gate led to the narrow extension they'd observed from below. Now, even more so than before, it reminded Charlie of a diving board. The giant steel ring suspended beneath formed an imaginary swimming pool. Diving off, of course, would soon dispel any such illusion, as one passed clear through the ring en route to an abrupt end on the concrete floor below. "Dr. MacGuffin, he built all of this?"
"No, no. The goov'ment built the tower years before, but the project ran out of mooney. It were a bit'o scandal at the time. When we arrived, Rupert's reputation was sooch that he were able to convince them to let him have the use of it indefinitely, as well as some funding for his little research project. It let the politicians off the hook, you see?"
"Oh I see," said Charlie. It made sense. Building such a tower would have been an enormous endeavour, costing millions of dollars. Once built, however, tearing it down would cost millions more. Turning it over to the famous physicist was undoubtedly a way of saving face. Charlie also knew that the professor had no shortage of personal funds to finance his experiments. Besides his pioneering work in physics, Rupert MacGuffin had tangentially developed a new theory of economics he called 'Quantum Accounting'. This was the idea that, electronically, money might both exist and not exist at the same time. While laughed at by economists, he used these ideas to build himself a personal fortune on the NYSE. These same 'crazy' ideas would later go on to become the foundation of modern accounting practices on Wall Street. As with subatomic particles, he argued, at the digital level, money can exist in more than one place at once, provided that it remains unobserved. Unfortunately, also like quantum particles, it was possible to transition to a lower state. Knowing this, Rupert MacGuffin had pulled all of his money out before this actually occurred.
Having cleaned the console, Mrs. MacGuffin pulled a key from her apron pocket and said, "Ya dunna wanna git up here and forget the key, I tell ye. Very tiresome!" She inserted the key into the ignition switch and turned. Numerous indicator lights blinked on and off and a large digital clock on the console began flashing '12:00'. At the same time, the entire platform, started to vibrate and hum like a giant leather massage chair. Charlie suspected that contributing to the din were thousands of loose screws and corroded components. He wondered once more about the soundness of the entire enterprise.
"Look at that!" said Alex with excitement. He was pointing to the giant steel ring. The inner band of the circle had begun to glow blue like an enormous neon halo. As they watched, the glow intensified. Unlike the rest of the antique technology around them, the luminescence was utterly intangible. It was at once both entrancing and unearthly. It didn't just glow, Charlie observed, but appeared to jump and jitter in an uncanny way. He tried to put his finger on it. The best he could manage was that it was like watching a movie where the film reel had come loose, causing the image on screen to flicker in and out of sync with the world around it. The effect continued to expand, threatening to leap from the movie screen and into the audience. Suddenly something snapped into focus. The white-blue energy continued to crackle and hum, but now seemed safely contained within the hoop. The air inside the ring's confines shimmered sporadically as passing through some sort of charged field. Charlie became alarmed at the prospect of what this all meant. The absentee professor had a history of playing with fire. "What is this for?" he asked warily, "More chaos stuff?"
"Oh, no dear," said the old woman, as if the answer were perfectly obvious. "It's for time travel. This is a time machine."
Charlie and Alex stared at her blankly. In any other circumstance, such a claim would have been preposterous. "Of course it is," said Charlie.
Chapter 18
"I can't say, I told you so." – R. Dawkins
Donna Craig, the White House Press Secretary, stood in her customary spot behind the podium, trying to tame the middle-aged lions that were the White House press corp. She looked around the room of half-raised hands and pointed to NBC News correspondent, Chuck Todd. "Yes, Chuck?"
"Same question as yesterday, does the President have any plans to bring in the National Guard to help quell these riots?"
Donna put on her patient face. "Not at this time. The riots, as we all know, have been decreasing. The violence has reduced. Local police might have been initially caught off guard, but have been doing a first rate job in restoring order across the country. The President thanks them, and all first-responders, for their service."
"What about Cleveland?" someone shouted.
"The standoff in Cleveland is regrettable. The President is following it, and all events, very closely. Introducing the army at this point however, would not help alleviate the situation. In fact, he believes it could escalate it further." Donna looked about the room for another of her favourite reporters. This was the time-tested protocol of the press corp—you can ask pointed questions but, if you want to get called on again, make sure they're not barbed. She spotted Julie Conner from Fox News and gave her the nod, "Julie?"
"Is the White House still denying the existence, or at least authenticity of Weapon X?"
This was another question Donna had already answered many times before. She sometimes wondered if reporters learned their craft from her ten-year-old son, asking for something again and again in the hope of wearing her down. 'Weapon X' was the name the media had given to the alleged weapon held aloft by the terrorist Ali Madda. No one could accuse the media of originality. CNN's Wolfe Blitzer had been running 3D holograms of the device, opening it to show it containing glowing green isotopes which would then explode. CNN would then cut to a graphic of desolated cities. They even ran estimates, based on 'expert analysis assumptions', also known as 'complete fabrications', about the number of survivors. They advised their viewers to "go to their basements" and "duck and cover" in the event of detonation. Donna now assumed her motherly calm look, it was the same face she used when comforting her young son. "One of the reasons that the riots have been controlled is that the initial fear has subsided. People have realized how silly it is to panic the moment some terrorist claims to have a mythical 'doomsday device'. Remember, chaos is what the terrorists want. People who spread fear are helping the terrorists win." This was the tactic that had been decided on prior to the press conference. First, dismiss the danger. Next, make it clear that only fools and conspiracy theory nuts could take the existence of such a weapon seriously. The Vice-President himself had been on ABC News the night before joking about how the same people who believed the 1969 moon landing was a hoax, now believed we'd built a weapon capable of destroying the Earth years prior. "We can't do that now, let alone in 1957! And making it the size and shape of a 7-11 Big Gulp Slurpee? Impossible!" Even the subject matter experts on CNN agreed with that, and began showing a 3D graphic of how many Cherry Slurpees it would take to fill a single 1950s era nuclear warhead. The real discussion, however, centered on the fact that the Vice-President seemed to think that Big Gulps and Slurpees were the same thing. His critics said this showed that he w
as out of touch and merely trying to pander to the electorate. Even PBS's Washington Week panel agreed, saying that the gaff "fit the narrative for the Vice President" and "could spell trouble for him on the campaign trail."
* * *
Ali Madda pried his fingernails carefully into the seam and pulled. After a moment, the shell popped open. He popped the pistachio into his mouth and reached for another. All the while he watched the White House Press Conference on Al Jazeera with barely suppressed glee. It felt good to be talked about, and ever since issuing his threat, all the world did was talk about him. He spent almost every waking hour glued to his TV or iPad. They were obsessed with him, and so was he. I feel important, he mused, like how a 'Real Housewife' of Orange County must feel.
"Susan?" asked the infidel White House Press Secretary in her blasphemous pantsuit.
"Can you confirm reports that the President has been spending a lot of time with members of the Holy Church of Preordination, specifically leader Reverend Duke Norman?" asked the burkaless blonde reporter.
Karim switched off the TV. He was seething. "You see? You see? They do not believe us! If they do not believe we have the weapon, then we might as well not have it at all!" He gesticulated wildly as he said this, pointing at the small metal canister sitting on the nightstand. "We must make them believe us!"
Ali Madda, who had raised his hand to cover his face, scowled at his fanatical friend. "Stop spitting, Karim! You alway spit when you talk." They were sitting in the master bedroom of his luxury estate. The estate was on the man-made island of 'New Brunswick' in the archipelago known as 'The World'. The World was a collection of three-hundred artificial islands in Dubai designed to be sold off as lots to the uber wealthy. Handcrafted by indentured servants out of sand and hubris, the archipelago had one fatal flaw. Every one of the artisanal islands was now slowly sinking back into the sea and threatening to take their opulent dwellings with them. Some islands were sinking faster than others. For now, New Brunswick remained solid enough to serve as a home base for Ali Madda and his entourage. Ali Madda had never been to the real New Brunswick in Canada, but he imagined it to be an exotic and magical place.
"I'm sorry, Ali," said Karim, wiping his chin, "but we must prove to them our might! We must show the infidels. Allah gave us the weapon that we might use it!"
Ali who was now struggling with a particularly stubborn pistachio, shook his head. "Your father used to spit on me too. It used to hurt him in the organization. People don't want to listen to people who spit."
Karim threw up his hands in frustration. He stomped angrily over to the wall of windows that formed a panoramic view of the rest of The World. From there they could see England, Norway and Jamaica. They shouldn't be able to see Jamaica, of course, but that particular island had begun to drift a month prior and was now sliding into Europe, leading to an unexpected border dispute between Jamaica and Ireland. "Ali, please. You don't understand, if they don't fear us, then..." Karim trailed off as he saw his friend's face flush red with fury. He had overstepped his bounds.
"You, Karim, do not tell me what I do and do not understand," Ali snarled. He paused to pick up the canister, then waggled it at Karim as he spoke. "The people who matter believe us. The President of the United States knows we are telling the truth. His allies in Europe suspect it. If we heard the rumours of this device then so did they. Whatever people say in public, make no mistake—they are terrified." Ali spoke these last words with deliberation, as if daring Karim to contradict him.
"I'm sorry! I am so, so sorry!" said Karim, bowing obsequiously. "I intended no disrespect."
"Apology accepted," said Ali with satisfaction. He resisted the urge to pat his friend on the head. Instead, the terrorist leader lifted the canister high into the air, then brought it down like a hammer. The blow split the pistachio shell where it lay on the table. It also had the unfortunate effect of demolishing the nut inside. "Damn it," Ali grumbled, "I really need to be more careful."
* * *
"Well, it's obvious we're never going to understand the math," said Charlie.
Alex gazed at the diaphanous fabric of space-time suspended matter-of-factly in the ring below. It reminded him of the Native American dreamcatchers he'd made in elementary school, but without all the feathers and stuff.
Mrs. MacGuffin hemmed for a moment, then nodded. "So, with time travel, it's lak space and time is a giant ca'pet and we're all boomps in't."
"A giant carpet?"
"Aye. You push down a boomp and it just poops up in another spot."
Alex snickered at the old woman's pronunciation of the word 'pop'. Charlie threw him an admonishing glance. Alex pointed at a silver module covered with dials. "What's that do?"
"Tha'? Oh, tha's just the geolocation compensator."
"The geo-what?"
Mrs. MacGuffin sighed. "So, if you watch your science fiction films, you 'd think you can just go back in tam and poop up in the same place. People forget that the Earth rotates at aboot a thousand miles per hour. So if you go back in tam just one hour you'd end up—"
"In Russia?" asked Charlie.
"Other way actually, a better guess would be somewhere in th' Atlantic Ocean. But tha's wrong too. Donna feel bad. It's the same mistake Rupert made when he first tested it and sent poor Doris back in tam. He never forgave himself for tha'. Poor Doris. You see, not only is the Earth spinning, but it's also orbiting the soon. On top of tha' the universe itself is expandin'. So the GC figures that all out and accounts for it. Tam travel, it turns out, is actually quite complicated."
"Imagine that."
"Anyhoo, if you want to end up in the same place, your tam machine really also has to be a teleporter as well—a space-time machine if you will."
"Um... what happened to Doris?" asked Alex.
"Who knows? She went somewhere, I s'pose. Moost unfortunate." For a moment she stared sadly into space then added, "Did I mention Doris was a hamster?" Alex and Charlie shook their heads 'no'. "Look, all ya really need ta ken is that it wurks. You go through that hole and you coom out somewhere and somewhen else."
"Okay," said Charlie. He understood that, but still struggled to believe her. The idea that time travel could actually work seemed preposterous.
Mrs. MacGuffin read his expression and sighed. "Fine, dear, I'll show ya. Give me yur shoe, if ya please." Charlie looked at her skeptically. "Just let me 'ave it a sec, you'll get it back soon enoof." Charlie untied his left sneaker and handed it to her.
"Thank-ye," said Mrs. MacGuffin. She spun a dial on the console, then turned and strode out onto the diving board platform. She held out his shoe by the laces and, before Charlie could object, unceremoniously let go. His footwear fell one hundred feet to the giant temporal hoop below and was gone. Charlie and Alex both blinked. The shoe had simply vanished. There was no effect; no flames nor bolts of lightning, nor was there any sound of it hitting the ground below. Instead, it had simply ceased to be. If this was time travel, thought Alex, it was rather anticlimatic. "Um... where's my shoe?" asked Charlie, who was, at that point, teetering on one foot like an oversized uncoordinated flamingo. Time travel, he thought, looked suspiciously like being vaporized. It also seemed to have a rather distinct odour, he noted, the smell of burnt toast.
"Not where, when," said Mrs. MacGuffin. She put on her reading glasses to view the dials. "1926. Same date'n time as now since tha's the default and I only changed the year."
Charlie stared at her. His flamingo impersonation was becoming more and more desperate. "So... how do you bring it back?"
"Bring it back? Oh no, we canna do that. I mean, things come through the other way sometimes, but tha's mostly luck. Tha's where the swallows came froom—1702, South of France, a farm outside of Toulon. Aye, after that we kept it closed unless we were usin' it. As Rupert used to say, today it's sparrows, tomorrow it could be Richard III. Who knows? Anyhoo, the gate is unpredictable on the other side, so it's really a one way trip."
"But you did say I c
ould have my shoe back, didn't you?" asked Charlie, suddenly concerned about the prospect of hopping down all those stairs and ladders.
"Oh aye, dear me," said Mrs. MacGuffin. She then stooped beneath the console to unlatch a compartment. The inside was cluttered with equipment parts, ragged manuals, a one armed Boris Yeltsin action figure and other various nicknacks. The old woman rummaged about for a moment before extracting a small brown box from which she blew several decades worth of dust. She then opened the box and extracted a single blue running shoe. The fabric was noticeably aged, but it was clearly Charlie's missing sneaker, long lost only moments ago.
"Wow," said Alex.
Charlie accepted the shoe dumbly. Both he and Alex looked at the old woman with new found astonishment. The recovered shoe felt like a parlour trick, but one he could not explain away.
"Rupert found it in a field round back about twenty-years ago. He suspected it might be from the future. As soon as I saw your shoes, I knew what I had to do."
"But then... we could go back in time and fix everything!" Alex exclaimed. "We could save my mother!"
We could save my family as well, thought Charlie. He became aware of his emotions rushing like water under dangerously thin ice.
"Oh no, " said Mrs. MacGuffin. "Most certainly not."
Both stared at her. Charlie felt a flash of anger. How could this woman so easily dismiss the possibility of saving his daughter's life?
"You canna go back an' change time. It's simply impossible."
Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World Page 15