Shift (ChronoShift Trilogy)

by Zack Mason

  Ty took it, his grip was strong. “Ty Jennings. Nice to meet you.”

  Mark gripped the man’s wrist with his free hand and turned it up. Another shifter gleamed in the florescent light

  “Just how many of these things are there?” Mark asked.

  “Have a seat.” Hardy pointed to an empty chair behind Mark.

  Arrgh. Typical Hardy — never answered a dad-blamed thing if he didn’t have to — and he never seemed to have to. Mark was getting sick of it.

  “We’ve got another mission, but this time, Ty is going with you.”

  Mark reclined in the chair, listening while Hardy explained. Ty appeared relaxed, absently twirling a pen in and out of his fingers and staring at the blank wall behind Hardy. Despite his appearance to the contrary, however, Ty was very much paying close attention.

  Hardy continued, “You’re going back to 1863, Mark. To Madison, GA.”

  “I’ve never gone back that far.”

  “We know that. It’s not a problem.”

  “Just surprised me is all.”

  “That’s one of the reasons Ty is going with you. He is much more experienced than you in operations during many of these eras.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “To be truthful, though, the main reason you are going is to accompany Ty. Middle Georgia in 1863 is not exactly the time or place where a person of Ty’s color is able to move about freely. He needs you as cover.”

  “What’s our mission?”

  “Ty will explain later. For now, there’s a few other items we need to go over. By now, I’m sure you’ve noticed that there’s a limit to how many times you can shift within a short period of time?”

  “That particular feature has been quite annoying. The watch shuts down for 24 hours.”

  “Yes, your device will shut down if you shift six successive times within one hour, or eight successive times within twelve hours. It’s a self-protection mechanism. Your “watch” begins to overheat after too many shifts, so it shuts down to give itself time to cool off.”

  “I'd kind of figured that out already.”

  “Well, don’t push it. We believe over-shifting may affect the life span of the device somehow. Try to always keep your number of shifts to a minimum.

  “Which reminds me,” he continued, “No more of this Shift & Strike hot doggin’, okay?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Hardy slid another newspaper article from his pocket and spread it out on the desk.

  Boys Saved by “Phantom”

  Two boys, Herbert Walker Jr., 12, and Charles Johnson, 11, of Chicago were saved from attackers last night by what they claim was a phantom. Early yesterday evening, they were attacked while walking along the waterfront by two thugs in an apparent attempted robbery.

  Police found both the thugs dead at the scene. Walker and Johnson were in a very agitated state claiming that the “Shadow” had killed them, appearing and disappearing at random throughout the attack, only to disappear again afterward. “The Shadow” is a radio program about a mysterious crime fighter that can appear in any situation without being noticed.

  In spite of the fanciful nature of the boys’ story, police noted that the deceased men were locally known hoodlums and criminals. They identified one as Malcolm “the Mick” O’Leary. Police also pointed out that the boys would be incapable of inflicting the type of wounds sustained by the men.

  Police are asking any witnesses to please come forward.

  “I see.”

  “Once in a blue moon is okay, but more than that draws too much attention to us.”

  “Sure makes things easier, especially in a fight.”

  “Maybe. But you don’t want...we don’t want that kind of attention. Too much attention inevitably will come back to bite us when we least expect it. Do your best to find ways to accomplish every mission without having to shift in front of others.”

  “Got it. Don’t shift too often and don’t shift in front of others. Anything else?”

  “Never use your shifter for personal gain in a way that brings harm to others.”

  Mark nodded silently. That went unsaid — at least for him. The possibility of using his watch in that way hadn’t even crossed his mind, but he could see how a certain kind of person might. For him, the thought of it made his gut twist in distaste. He would never do that.

  “Those are the three rules. Can you abide by them?”

  “I can.”

  “Good. Come with me.”

  Hardy led him to a metal cabinet on the wall. He swung open one of the doors and retrieved a thick briefcase. Inside was what appeared to be a folded costume. Definitely dated, slightly worn and dirty, but not aged.

  Hardy pulled it out. “This is the typical attire the average southerner would have worn in 1863. You should blend right in.”

  Inside the briefcase was also an antique, yet well-oiled pistol, along with a Bowie knife and several other key accessories.

  “Ty’s outfit is a bit different, but also fitting for the period. You can leave any time.”

  Mark turned to his new, over-sized partner who just sat there grinning at him.

  Would you go with me

  If we rolled down streets of fire

  “Would You Go With Me”

  ~ Josh Turner

  June 11th, 2012, Madison, GA

  Since airplanes fly a lot faster than horses trot, they flew to Atlanta before shifting back to the 1800's. Since Mark had left his car in the Atlanta Hartsfield Airport parking lot before traveling to Boston, they just picked it up and made the hour drive to Madison, Georgia.

  Madison was one of the few towns to escape General Sherman’s wrath on his famous march to the sea in 1864. Legend had it the town was so beautiful Sherman had refused to burn it. The truth was Madison had been the hometown of a pro-union senator named Joshua Hill, and Sherman spared it for political reasons. Regardless, the result was a perfectly preserved city reflecting Georgian architecture prior to the Civil War. Large antebellum homes lined both sides of the main street and were in such good shape, visitors could feel like they'd gone back in time to the Old South. That is, if they could ignore the telephone poles and asphalt.

  Ty Jennings was a big man. Thick neck, thicker chest, and burly forearms. Enough muscle to intimidate most people. High intelligence shone behind his dark amber eyes. He looked like a Marine. For the most part, he seemed to be a man of few words, the kind of man people are naturally inspired to place their trust and confidence in.

  It felt as if Ty didn’t know quite what to do with Mark. He seemed fundamentally uncomfortable with their partnership. Yet every now and then, it was like he would slip up and break into friendly banter, only to revert back to stiff formality a short time later. Mark didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Tell me about yourself, Ty,” He said to break an uncomfortably long silence.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Normal stuff, where you’re from, places you’ve seen.....”

  Ty grimaced. “Not much to tell. I was born outside Chicago, 1944.”

  “1944! You can’t be that old....”

  In answer, Ty lifted the wrist bearing his shifter into the air. Mark nodded in understanding. How easily we forget.

  “Yeah, Mama was alone and never had much to offer us kids. Never knew my dad. Scraped by growing up, barely stayed out of trouble. Joined the Marines when I got out of high school so I wouldn’t get drafted into the general army. Best decision I ever made.

  “They shipped me off to ‘Nam and attached me to a special recon unit. Gave me lots special training for the jobs they wanted us to do. Tough missions, hard decisions. The worst scrape I was probably ever in was during the Tet offensive. But that’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

  “How did you end up becoming a time-shifter?”

  “Later.”

  Ty was apparently going to be as evasive as Hardy.

  “You ha
ven’t asked me what our objective is,” Ty noted.

  “I figured you would tell me when you were ready.”

  “Yeah, Hardy said you were a Marine too.”

  It was Mark’s turn to grin. “So, what is our objective? Why are we going back to 1863?”

  “We’re going to save my great-great-great grandfather’s life.”

  ***

  10:03 AM, April 15th, 1863, Madison, GA

  Mark had never gone this far back before. Dashing between decades within the 20th century didn’t seem like such a big deal, but somehow standing in the middle of Georgia during the Civil War left him awestruck.

  The dusty road wound ahead lazily, disappearing around a bend in the trees in the distance. They had waited to shift until they were far enough out of town nobody would notice. Out here, the only difference from the modern era he had noted so far was there were no paved roads. Granted, trees and barbed wire fences were the only other sights they’d seen till now, and those would look the same in any century. It was still odd though. You would think you would be able to tell what century you were in by the way the trees looked. Of course, that wasn’t true.

  Come to think of it, there was something different about the trees. There were much fewer of them. Apparently, a lot of what was forest in modern times had been cleared farmland back in 1863. More fields, more farms, less forests. Weren’t environmentalists always complaining about how we were stripping the world of its trees? Plant a tree, save the world. Well, based on what he was seeing here, modern times had plenty of trees. Much more than the world used to have anyway. Wouldn’t be the first time environmentalists had treated pseudo-science like it was gospel.

  Behind and to the right of Mark, Ty shuffled along demurely, dressed in the torn, soiled rags of a slave. Mark had strenuously objected to this, but Ty had insisted. He was a veteran of the mid-1800's. Having visited several times before, Ty knew not acting the part of a slave would have drawn them undue attention. A slave and a white man walking side by side like friends wouldn’t just catch people’s eye either. The south was in the middle of a war for its survival and such behavior would be attributed to a union sympathizer, an association that could get them killed. It was wiser to play the parts.

  “Ty, what’s it like being a black in America these days? Uh, I mean...back in our day.”

  Ty hesitated, then he smirked. “Honest question deserves an honest answer. I grew up in the 1940's and 50's, so it was tough. We moved around a good bit, so I experienced the best and the worst of the south, the north, out west, you name it.

  “I felt like a second class citizen, all the time. Told where to sit, stand, drink, and even ride the bus. Made me feel worthless....and helpless. Once, when I was young, a white man tried to force himself on my ma right in front of my eyes. I was about twelve. It was only by the grace of God she was spared from it.

  “That’s hell, man,” Ty continued, “Watching your mama being attacked like that and not knowing which is better, to protect her or do nothing, so they don’t come back on both of you later. In those days, there really were people who seethed with hatred just because of your color, and the KKK was still alive and kicking.”

  “How about in my time? In 2012.”

  “It’s better. A lot better. Some black leaders keep hyping up how oppressed we are, but it’s nothing like it was. Many don’t know any better because the younger generation never lived it, and some of the older ones have forgotten. But I know. I’ve lived both.

  “Don’t get me wrong. There’s still real prejudice out there. It’s not all imagined. Been called the “N” word a few times. Been followed around stores. Had some punks wave the old confederate battle flag at me from their car once. Back in the 50's, the south was worse than the north, but to be honest, I think that's flipped now. Most of the flak I get these days is from northerners.”

  “Guess I can’t really know what it’s like.”

  “Maybe not. Then again, there had to be some time in your life when you didn’t fit in to some group, some time when you were despised because of something you had no control over.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  They walked without speaking, their eyes glued to the dust passing beneath their feet.

  “How many times have you shifted back to the 1860's?” Mark asked.

  “Four or five.”

  “How does it compare? I mean....the racism here must be worse, but how does it feel to be walking in an era when your ancestors were slaves?”

  “Hard to describe. Wasn’t exactly what I expected. Sure, there’s a lot more blatant racism in 1863, but I knew it’d be that way, so I haven’t really paid too much attention to it.

  “It’s frustrating to feel like I’m not free, like I can’t go where I want without an escort — unless I wanna risk getting shot, that is. Makes my blood boil seeing my people forced to work themselves to death in the fields. Other times, I’m just resigned to the fact that it’s just the way things are here.

  “There’s a lot that might surprise you, though,” he continued. “Nothing is quite as cut and dry as history teachers make it out to be in the 21st century. First of all, there aren’t as many slave owners in the South as you might think. Only about 10% of the southern population actually owns a slave. 90% of whites don’t, usually because they can’t afford any, but often because they’re morally against it.

  “The poorer whites are the hardest to figure out. Some are envious of the jobs slaves take from them. Many of those would love to set ‘em all free and send ‘em up north. Some hate all blacks and will turn you in as a runaway faster than you can blink, while others are downright cozy with us, sharing liquor, good times, whatever.

  “Same thing with the owners. Not all of them treat their slaves badly. Though too many do. I’ve seen some real bad stuff since I started coming here. On the other hand, there’s some owners that believe the best way to get the most work out of their slaves is to treat 'em well. Even though we’re viewed as property, we are valuable property. Mistreating us can be bad for business. Unfortunately, for every good owner, there’s probably two with just the opposite philosophy, though usually it’s the foreman who decides how things are gonna go.

  “There’s a rare few among the plantation owners who wish to God they didn’t have to have slaves but don’t think they can make it without them. Then, among those, there’s some who actually give in to their moral convictions, free all their slaves, and shut their plantation down, because the bottom line is, they’re right. It’s not possible to keep a plantation running in 1863 without slaves. The local economy won’t support it.

  “I admire those men. They’re willing to give up all financial well-being, even put their family’s welfare at risk, just because they are so convinced of the evil of slavery.

  Ty shot him a sly look.

  “Wanna know a dirty, little secret? I don’t worry about my people. There's no denying they suffer, and terribly. There’s also not much I can do about it, but many of them have made their peace with God.

  “No, I tremble for the owners. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and slavery corrupts the slave owner down to his very core. It’s not uncommon for owners at death's door to summon their slaves to their bedside in their last moments, begging for forgiveness. That actually happens a lot, and it’s rare to hear of an owner who doesn’t pass into eternity screaming in utter terror of figures and shadows they see lurking in the darkened corners of their rooms, waiting to drag them down.

  “Whips draw blood, but physical wounds heal. And even when they don’t, there's a healing salve waiting in heaven above. I’d choose the whip over eternal burning any day.”

  Mark scowled. “I didn’t realize you were so religious.”

  “It’s not religion. Facts are facts.”

  Mark took it all in. It was eye-opening to hear these things from a black man who’d experienced the best and worst of all eras.

  “You should have studied sociology, Ty.”


  “Ha!” He snickered, “I am. That’s what I do in my spare time.”

  They both laughed.

  For years, Ty had longingly pondered his roots, wondering who his ancestors were, what they'd been like, what they'd endured. Growing up, the only living grandparent he'd known had been his grandmother, and her history-telling had always been a bit sketchy. He’d pieced together as much as he could with the crumbs of fragmented memories that she could recall, but it wasn't much to go on.

  Many blacks he knew didn’t care much for genealogy. He could understand that. It was a much easier hobby for whites to take up. Better paper trails. Illiterate blacks weren’t always issued the proper birth and death certificates, etc.

  Whites were also more likely to find something in their family history in which to take pride. Blacks tended to think they already knew where the trail would end up....slavery. Not only was slavery not something to be proud of, it hurt to think about. No one really wanted to dwell on the inglorious and painful suffering of their forefathers, especially when subconsciously you had to recognize that their suffering made possible your future, comfortable life in the good old U.S. of A.

  A third reason Ty suspected some didn’t care for long family trees was the futility of it. Slavery capped every family tree as sure as rain. It was almost impossible to trace one’s line through that historical obstacle all the way back to Africa. Still, family history had always fascinated Ty, as had history in general, and he had wanted to try.

  When he first received his shifter, he saw no reason why he couldn’t use his free time to go back and investigate his family line in person rather than on the dusty pages of some ledger.

  It turned out to be an easy exercise when you had the right tool. First, he’d traveled back to the town where he'd been told his grandparents had grown up. He’d shifted to a year when he thought they’d be kids (Though he was very careful to limit his contact so he wouldn’t inadvertently create some kind of time paradox that would prevent his own birth).