Alt.History 102 (The Future Chronicles)

by Samuel Peralta

  “Well that freaked me out all over again, but I sat down. Looking back on it, I felt like I was in control, and it was my decision, but I don’t know that I really had a choice. I sat back down next to him.

  “He closed his eyes for just a second, a long blink, really. When he opened them I had this picture in my mind of him standing next to my pregnant heifer and her having the most peaceful delivery. I was stunned. He didn’t tell me the story; it was like he just transmitted it into my head.”

  Josh rubbed his forehead with his left hand as he read over the page and made a new note in the margin of his book. He was writing in some sort of shorthand so I had no idea if he was copying verbatim, or if he was cataloging a case for my admission into the mental institution. He finished his note and said, “So this man, Marcel, he had apparently been in the pasture earlier in the morning before you got there. You said you saw the sun rise, so did you hear him leave the house?”

  I thought for a minute. I tried to remember that morning in exact detail. I was awake all night, it was summer and the window in my room was open. The front porch was directly below where I slept. I didn’t remember hearing barking from our redbone hound that was always posted on the front porch. There was no rooster crowing. No chirping from the finches in the trees. Silence is all that I remember. Then I remembered the door lock.

  5

  “You know what? I just thought of this, but when I went downstairs, I put my boots on and opened the front door, but the deadbolt was locked. You could only lock that from the inside. There hadn’t been a key for that lock in a good twenty years. So he had to either go out a window or…”

  “Or he didn’t need doors.” Josh finished my sentence.

  “Yeah.” I was past the point of wondering if he believed me. I knew what I knew, and he either believed me or he didn’t. The truth is the truth, his belief was not my problem.

  I lifted my glass and let the liquid wet my lips, savoring the flavor more than anything. It’s a careful dance, balancing on the razor’s edge. I looked at Josh and took a sip. A quarter glass left.

  “I was sitting there with him, and I have no idea how long we were there. At first I caught myself looking to the house expecting Pa to come out at any moment, but he didn’t. The world was quiet and we sat uninterrupted.

  “He told me that he wasn’t really a war vet making his way home. He told me that he was from another planet. I laughed at him, of course. Then I asked him what planet he was from. He knew I didn’t believe him, and he wasn’t angry. I think he looked down on me, not in a condescending way, but like the way a person looks at a bird with a broken wing. With pity.

  “Kind of hurt my pride when I thought about it, but he didn’t let me dwell on it very long. He said ‘Let me show you’ and he waved his hand in front of us and an image appeared.”

  “Appeared?” Josh interrupted.

  “Yeah. You see how ole barkeep down there is watching his ball game on that holo-vision screen? It was like that, except there was no box from where the projection came from. He just made it appear out of thin air.

  “The projection was of the solar system and he waved his hand and pushed the planets out of the way, out to the edge of our solar system. Then he kept swiping and I saw stars fling past and when he had come to the outer edges of anything I could ever imagine, he showed me a black hole. It looked like there was all sorts of energy swirling around it, leaking in gradually. Then he flicked his finger and he showed me what looked like an explosion of light coming out of the black hole; then I saw a craft appear. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. It was a floating fortress. Then we watched the massive ship move toward our little blue marble.

  “When it got just outside Pluto, I saw several smaller ships leave the larger one and go in all directions. Then he waved his hand again and we watched one come to earth.”

  Josh held up a hand. He reached into his bag and retrieved a fresh pen and another notebook. He set his current notebook aside and opened the fresh one and laid his new pen on top. Then he reached into his bag again and pulled out a small voice recorder. “I don’t want there to be any mistakes.”

  I nodded to him. I eyed my drink, but sized up what was left and decided against it. He started the recorder, picked up his pen and nodded. I continued.

  “He told me about his world and how his people had been exploring the known universe in search of a young life form that they could share their knowledge and wisdom with. Their scouts had determined that Earth and its inhabitants were most suited to their guidance. He showed me scenes of crafts landing at various parts of the world. Then he showed me a montage of world events and how they have intervened. I saw a caveman, and how rudimentary tools seemed to appear where they were needed. I saw ancient people and how strangers appeared to share engineering knowledge that brought about these unexplainable marvels. He showed me wars and how they intervened with weapons and even weather. I’m telling you, they’ve had a hand in everything we as a species have ever done.”

  “So you’re telling me that they have been intervening in our lives and civilizations since the dawn of time?”

  “Yeah, and it goes deeper than that.”

  “How so? And why did he tell you all this? If they’ve been secretly influencing human development for centuries”

  I interrupted him. “Not centuries. Millennia. They’ve been here since our very beginning.”

  “Ok, but you didn’t answer my question. How does it go deeper, and why did he tell you all this? They can’t keep a secret this big by telling random farm boys about how they’ve been interfering in the affairs of humanity.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was challenging me, or just playing devil’s advocate. He slid the recorder a little closer to me and held his pen at the ready.

  “He told me that I had been chosen. He said that each time they chose someone to be the vessel. The keeper of the truth. Maybe like a prophet. Or an oracle. Labels don’t matter. The fact is that he told me all of it. Including the warning.”

  “And what is that warning?”

  “He showed me that this is not our first time around. And that we wouldn’t last much longer.”

  6

  I could tell that Josh was getting anxious. I had done my homework about him, and I knew that the unusual wouldn’t scare him off. I also knew that my reputation preceded me. Nobody wants a drunk for a prophet. Humans are funny in that we demand perfection from our leaders and visionaries. Not that I think I’m special or anything. I just happen to be the guy that got the news that the world was ending.

  “Marcel told me that this was actually the 70th time that they had changed the course of humanity’s fate. Each time they would intervene at different times and watch how we as a species reacted. According to them, we have done better and worse, but the result is always the same. No matter at what point they stepped in, eventually we descended to our basest of behaviors. Greed, hatred, envy, and jealousy. Humans always seem to wind up in the same place.

  “Each time they determine that the course that humanity is on is beyond redemption and all is lost, so they step in and reset it.”

  I picked up the glass and took a sip. Josh scribbled a note. “What do you mean, they reset it?”

  “Remember how I told you that they used that black hole to travel? I don’t understand all the science behind it, I don’t know that humanity has ever been allowed to get to the point where we can understand it, but they have a way of using that spot in space to manipulate space and time. They go in and they can come back out at any point that they choose. So they pick a different point in our history, choose a unique set of circumstances and see what we’ll do. Seventy times they’ve done this.

  “One time they might allow humanity to go unhindered for thousands of years, then they reset it. All of the progress that was made, all of the people that were born, all of the civilizations just disappear. Can you imagine?

  “Can you imagine what it’s like to walk around with
that burden? You wonder why I drink? Do you know what it’s like to know that everyone around you will disappear just like they never existed?”

  Josh gave me a sympathetic look. Ever the professional, he didn’t judge me, nor did he offer consolation. He just waited and listened.

  “Marcel told me that the last time, before the last reset, that they orchestrated a major intervention in the big war. He told me that they manipulated world forces and that the Americans were attacked at a naval base in Hawaii. Can you imagine that? The result was that the U.S. entered the war earlier and with a vengeance. The war lasted a handful of years instead of decades, arguably saving many lives. But it didn’t matter. One war is shorter, but people don’t learn. They still found ways to live in chaos.

  “They even allowed one of their crafts to crash in the desert out west somewhere and allowed the humans to recover the wreckage. They made sure the military folks and scientists had everything they needed to reverse engineer the advanced technology thinking that all humanity needed was a boost, a leap forward in innovation. Didn’t matter. A few decades later they reset again. And here we are now. Advanced technology. Holograms and space exploration, laser weapons and flying cars, and where are we? Still embroiled in wars and skirmishes all over the world. People rob people in the street. We hate our brother. We step over starving and wounded people while we rush to a theater to be entertained. And you wonder why I drink.”

  I pick up the glass and drain the rest in one gulp. I slide the glass away from me toward the rear of the bar.

  “There’s your story. The world’s not gonna last much longer. People need to be ready. Print that. See what it matters. I’m out of hope.”

  Josh placed his pen down. “Thank you for your time. I’m going back to my motel and transcribe my notes and I’ll meet you back tomorrow for the next round. I really want to get into the big rally a few years ago when the riot cops had to be called in. There are so many incidents throughout the years to cover. You have been to every hot spot in the world it seems. You're a bit of an enigma, to say the least.”

  “I didn’t ask for it, and when it’s time for the reset, they’ll choose another. And we’ll go around the merry go round again, then they’ll choose another and we’ll go again. And again. And again.”

  Josh packed up his bag. “We’ll get into all that. Thanks for your time. See you tomorrow.” He slid his coffee cup aside, took a bill from his pocket and put it on the bar. He nodded to the barkeep as he exited the front door.

  The barkeep walked toward me, picked up the bill and put it in his apron. He poured my glass full of the amber liquor. He set the bottle down. “Drink up my friend. Your time is nearly here. Your rest is coming.” I could see compassion in his inky black eyes.

  The barkeep said, “He’s the one. Don’t you think?”

  I nodded, took a deep drink from my glass and said, “Yeah Marcel. He’s the one.”

  I drained the glass and the world went dark.

  A Word from Hank Garner

  Hank Garner is the author of Bloom, Mulligan, The Witching Hour, Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, Writer's Block, and has contributed to several anthologies.

  He also hosts a weekly podcast called Author Stories where he interviews successful authors each week about writing and the creative process. Find the podcast at

  http://hankgarner.com/category/podcast/

  Hank is currently working on more stories from Weston, The Writer's Block serial, and more entries in the Mulligan Cycle. Hank lives in Mississippi with his wife of over twenty years and five children.

  http://www.amazon.com/Hank-Garner/e/B00IPISPCO/

  The Finest Mask

  by J.J. Brown

  What if the Europeans who invaded North America three hundred years ago had been susceptible to infectious disease epidemics, but the people of the indigenous nations living there were resistant, superior in health? In this world, disease has decimated nearly all of Europe’s population, as well as the colonists who survived in North America. Gene hunter, scientist Sir William Potter travels from London to New York City searching the blood of the healthy for an elusive gene that he hopes could prevent the ravages of the future.

  WILLIAM LOVED HIS WORK. He lusted after each new gene he cloned like a man deprived of sex. He delighted in the fantasy of new molecular worlds, as he synthesized DNA in his London lab, one nucleotide building block at a time. In his mind, he was a creator. A designer. He flexed his broad hands, clenched them into fists, and crossed his arms.

  He stared out of the high-speed train window at the clear summer sky until he felt nauseous and swallowed back the bitter taste. On this expedition, he hadn’t stopped at his childhood home in the ghost town of Plymouth, Massachusetts, but instead purposefully pushed memories to the back of his mind. Distractions, he thought. On route to sample each of the 13 regions along the Atlantic coastline that made up the United States in the year 2020, Rhode Island was behind him and New York in front of him. Right now, he thought, he was nowhere.

  The void is a dangerous place for a scientist’s mind. His thoughts flopped wildly back and forth like a fish pulled out of a lake on a sharp hook. He pressed one hand on the side of his brown canvas pack, hoping the human blood samples he’d already collected were staying cold enough, fresh enough, to give him high quality DNA.

  Each time he cloned uncharted territory, if he found a truly novel gene, he made it his. The right discovery always becomes a product; that defines success. He advanced a new gene into gene therapy trials whenever he could, giving a set of volunteers the experimental inhalations or injections.

  His obsession was disease-resistance genes. Which one of the U.S. regions would yield the genetic command-and-control center he needed to change the future and wipe out a dreaded infectious disease? Who had that perfect gene hidden away, silent, in the nucleus of every cell of their body? When he found it, he, Sir William Potter, would change his world. He would make it beautiful again.

  This next conquest he’d name W-Factor, he decided. W was for William. The left corner of his mouth turned up just two millimeters into what his wife home in England would call, “not quite a smile.”

  Marsh grasses streaked by like a river of green covering an endless swamp. White egrets watched, motionless. The birds were patient, expert hunters with no need to impress, no desire to change their world. He envied their quiet confidence. The stink of stagnant water and smog snuck in around the edges of the window. As the train approached the island cities of New York, William couldn’t tell the difference between the noxious odors.

  The break in his usual lab routine that this trip, and each sample collection trip, forced on him was maddening to William. And he hated returning here. The thoughts came. How Plymouth was devoid of opportunities for work in genetics research. How he could have been stuck just crossing varieties of corn. Maybe breeding domestic pigeons like Charles Darwin. No molecular biology jobs were to be found here. He couldn’t count the number of ways he was thankful he’d made the move across the ocean to study when he’d had the chance.

  Coming back was a disappointment. The rolling hills were stripped bare of the trees he knew by name. Rabbits and squirrels had been hunted to numbers so small he was unlikely to see any on the trip, let alone get to eat one. He liked the taste of rabbit—squirrel not so much—he remembered, pulling out a pair of binoculars to look out the windows. Now he was hungry. When he put the binoculars back in his pack, he protected the lenses from bumping containers of collection vials, syringes, dry ice, and chemicals he’d need later. He hoped he would need them, anyway.

  Hope was not a plan, but he had that, too.

  Hunt the gene down and capture its DNA. Dissect it. Cut it into manageable bits with molecular clippers called enzymes that snip the gene’s backbone at precise sequences. Break it into pieces small enough that they become easy to govern, control, manipulate—that was the strategy. Find the code that makes the gene what it is, different from others, worth naming, re
creating by the millions. Make them. And sell them.

  Anyone would want a new disease-resistance gene, he thought, no matter the price. He was surely right, from the military struggling to keep troops alive, to the privileged types like his own wife, hoping to preserve her last scraps of physical beauty.

  The train rocked as it slowed and entered the station, rhythmic as a heartbeat. William’s eyes closed, and he circled through the steps of his last sample collection and extraction. Pulverize the fragile living cells on dry ice. Suspend them in the sterile soapy liquid that dissolved the cell membranes and released the nucleus that held the chromosomes and their DNA. Mix it all with the toxic chemical phenol, to destroy the protective coating and release the genes. Cover it all with freezing pure ethanol to make the precious DNA fall out of solution.

  He slept. He saw fragile molecules precipitate and become visible miraculously, like snow materializing from a dense fog. DNA appeared like ghostly threads of white and he wrapped the strands around his slowly twirling glass rod. Clinging. Delicate. Yielding to his touch.

  Translucent neon images flitted across the blackness of his closed eyelids. These were phantoms he could almost see, all the things he had liquefied to extract their DNA over the thirty years of his career in molecular engineering. He recognized plants that had been his subjects, then lab mice. Human body parts too small, too large, too old, too young, or maybe infected, but in some way—he didn’t need to know why—not good enough for organ transplantation. And on this trip, human blood samples. He saw needle tips entering veins.

  He was pulverizing, suspending, mixing, freezing, and the molecules were falling, wrapping, twirling, clinging. They were so lovely.