The 9/11 Machine

by Greg Enslen

  Dr. Ellis could have told them—the World Trade Center had used centralized support beams to hold up the floors, but those support beams were covered with a substandard amount of fireproofing. Metal, heated by tens of thousands of gallons of jet fuel and the ample “kindling” provided by the contents of the building, began to strain and twist and stretch. Eventually, the floors above the twisting point lost their support and pancaked down onto the floors below.

  It was a story he’d heard before. And he’d hoped to never hear it again.

  But today, February 26, 2003, the world was smoldering again—the attack on the Hajj was another unforeseen consequence of the terrorist attacks here in the United States.

  He’d seen the towers come and go, but they were always there in his mind, somehow. It was like the experiment involving Schrödinger’s Cat, trapped in a box with a vial of poison equipped with a random release timer. This thought experiment argued that the cat was both alive and dead at the same time, because it was impossible to know for certain either way due to the randomness of the timer. The only way to know was to open the box.

  For Dr. Ellis, the Twin Towers were his Schrödinger’s Cat—they seemed there and not there at the same time, existing and not existing. The existence of the Twin Towers could only be confirmed with a look out the window. To him, the buildings forever existed in the shadowy nether realm of an atomic spark, quantum entangled, both there and not there.

  On his few visits to the towers, he would walk through the halls and ride the elevators and eat in the restaurants, always feeling like he was moving through a dream world, wholly created out of his imagination.

  Behind him, Ellis heard the loading doors slide open.

  “Mr. Raines?”

  It was Stevens.

  Don turned. “Yes?”

  “It’s Terry—he says he’s ready.”

  Don glanced back at the skyline and followed Stevens back inside. It had been a stroke of genius, hiring a facilities manager this time around. Stevens had proven very useful, allowing Terry to manage the staff and freeing Don up to work with the other Dr. Ellis and other outside contacts. Stevens had also done a discreet job of beefing up their security—it amazed Ellis that he’d worked in the old warehouse for so many years before with just a skeleton crew of rent-a-cops without any problems or thefts of equipment.

  His work was just too important.

  As they headed inside, a group of helicopters flew low over the river, buzzing like bees returning to the hive. They skimmed the water and traveled up the East River. Three of the choppers had troops in the doors, ready to rappel out. For one horrible moment, Don thought they were coming for him and for the machine, but the helicopters continued onward, buzzing over the Brooklyn Bridge and disappearing from view.

  Terry was underneath the primary accelerator chamber—in this version of the machine, the accelerator pointed downward to a taped-off area on the warehouse’s concrete floor—soldering something to the bottom of the machine. Ellis had expanded the power consumption methodology on this version of the machine, which should allow for a larger mass to be projected back into time. He had done away with the table from which he had fallen in the first timeline—instead, anything inside the circle on the ground would go through the temporal fold. Several technicians stood watching—Trish was at the primary control panel, while others were making adjustments behind the machine. Blueprints for the machine covered part of the control panel.

  They had finished primary construction months ago, and they were well into the testing phase now, with a score of successful experiments so far. Ellis had worked night and day—living in the warehouse had few perks, but twenty-four-hour access to the machine was one of them. He’d carried out several experiments on his own, refining the process and making sure to record any improvements.

  “OK, that’s good,” Trish said as Stevens and Ellis walked up. Terry climbed out from under the machine and stood, pulling up his pants.

  “Oh,” Terry said. “There you guys are. We’re ready,” he said, nodding to Trish.

  Ellis pointed at the soldering Terry had just finished. “What was that?”

  “Oh, I added a camera pointed down onto the target area. Makes pinpointing the laser easier.”

  Ellis nodded—Terry was a gem. Maybe, he wouldn’t have to kill him in this timeline, or any of these other people. But if Don needed to leave, the machine had to be destroyed. Leaving it operational was just too dangerous.

  Don walked over and nodded at Trish. She was smart as a whip, with a real gift for engineering. He had no idea where Terry had found her and the other interns, but they were priceless. Don looked at the schematic draped over the control panel, making a notation on the sheet, and then turned and read the numbers that covered the computer monitor.

  “Good. The power is higher,” he said, tapping the monitor.

  Trish spoke up. “It can still sustain the field, even with the larger event radius. We’ve also improved the flow-through by tweaking some of the settings on the accelerator actuator.”

  Ellis smiled at her. “You guys are good.”

  She smiled, and her face reddened.

  Ellis looked up at Terry. “Looks like we’re ready for another test. Can you save those latest changes?”

  Terry nodded at one of the interns, who scurried off to the primary computer lab. Ellis smiled—it was good to see Terry using his resources efficiently.

  Outside, Ellis heard a siren begin to wail. After a moment, he heard another and another.

  “What’s that?” Terry asked, looking around.

  Ellis walked to the loading doors and stepped outside, and the others followed.

  The warehouse next door was on fire.

  “What the hell is this?” Ellis asked the others. They watched for a moment, and then Trish shrieked and pointed across the water. They followed her gaze.

  “Part of the waterfront is on fire,” she said.

  Across the river, along the Jersey side, dozens of warehouses and buildings were ablaze—the horizon was darkened with smoke. The flames must’ve been two hundred feet high for them to be seen from Red Hook.

  “Oh my God,” Ellis said and turned, looking at the other warehouses on his side of the river.

  Behind them, Stevens was shouting at them to come inside.

  He directed everyone to the computer lab, where Terry was watching the TV. Behind him, one of the interns was finishing up, creating new CD versions of the schematics and placing them in a red CD case that always held the latest schematics and testing and experiment data.

  “Sir? You better see this,” Terry said quietly.

  On the screen, massive numbers of rioters were moving through the streets of New York.

  The CNN announcer came back on the screen.

  “Again, these are live pictures from above New York City. The rioters have moved slowly through the city, setting fires and destroying cars as they went. We have unconfirmed reports of gunfire as police in riot gear have attempted to step in and stop the crowd, which appears to be making its way up the east side, traveling up 12th Avenue. We are also receiving reports of mass rioting, looting, and setting fires from several other large cities around the world, mostly in the western nations. A group has barricaded themselves inside the top of the Eiffel Tower, threatening to blow themselves up. We’re also hearing—”

  The power went out.

  “Jesus,” Terry said. “I’ll get the backup generators running.” The other interns ran off after him to help, all of them except Trish.

  Ellis turned, shouting after Terry. “And check with security! Why didn’t they come on automatically? I thought they were set up—”

  “That was me,” Trish said quietly. “It was my fault. We needed some of those components to increase the power output.”

  He looked at her but wasn’t sure what to say. She reminded him of Sarah, the Sarah he’d met in college, the Sarah that had told him so many stories of her childhood in Texas.
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  “Oh, uh—that’s fine,” he stammered.

  Trish shook her head. “No, it’s not fine. I could have jeopardized everything for a sixteen percent increase in the primary power actuators.”

  Ellis looked at her.

  “You know this machine as well as I do, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I should.”

  Before he could ask her what she meant, the power snapped back on, and he turned the TV back on.

  “Reports are coming in from all over the world with similar stories of Islamic riots. The destruction of the Ka’aba, their religion’s most holy site, had sent the entire religion into a state of unorganized panic. Governments around the world are calling for calm.”

  Terry and the interns returned with two security guards.

  “Mr. Stevens—there’s a fire at the front gate!”

  Ellis turned to Terry.

  “You get the machine operational. Now.”

  Terry looked confused, but Trish nodded, somber.

  Ellis grabbed his shoulders. “Terry! It might already be too late, if there’s another power outage. Get the machine working right now!”

  Ellis and Stevens ran after the guards to the front of the building and out into the parking lot.

  The Red Hook area of lower Brooklyn was covered in a pall of smoke—it looked like entire blocks of buildings and warehouses were now on fire, far too many for a fire department to handle. Across the river, helicopters buzzed over New York City.

  A large group of rioters were making their way down Van Brunt Street, firing their guns into the air and throwing Molotov cocktails through random windows. As he watched, he saw one of the mob shoot an unarmed man running through the streets. They had vehicles, too—trucks carrying more guns and a long row of taxis following behind. It looked like a long, yellow snake, dragging its way up the street.

  In the middle of the street, a dark-haired woman was standing next to the open door of a car, taking pictures of the mass of rioters moving down the street. Ellis immediately recognized her—it was the Post reporter.

  “Shit,” Ellis said quietly.

  The guard and one of the Italians came running over.

  “They’ve gone ape-shit,” the Italian said. “I’ve only got eight guys, but we can push this crowd away, if you want. It’s going to get ugly, though, and draw a lot of attention.”

  Ellis knew what he meant—even if they saved the warehouse, the cops would be all over the scene. Assuming there were still cops out there.

  But trying to explain away the machine was a lot easier than rebuilding it.

  “Break out the guns,” Ellis said to the group. “We have to protect the warehouse.” He turned to Stevens. “And did you notice our other visitor? Escort her inside and bring her to me.”

  Ellis led the men inside and started handing out automatic weapons and grenades.

  From outside, he heard the distinctive patter of gunfire.

  “Keep your men under cover and open fire,” he told the Italians. “And hand out the extra guns to the other guards.”

  Ellis ran back into the machine area—he saw the interns crawling all over the machine, removing safety equipment and plastic coverings. At the control panel, Terry and Trish were working feverishly at the controls.

  Ellis turned and ran into the computer lab. He opened a large, locked safe that sat on the floor behind his desk. From inside, he took out a familiar-looking leather satchel, along with a squat, drum-like device.

  2.36

  Brooklyn Bridge

  The Brooklyn Bridge had stood as a symbol of American can-do attitude for over a hundred years. Completed in 1883, the massive stone and metal structure connected Manhattan with Brooklyn, bridging the East River and allowing pedestrian and vehicular traffic into New York City. It took 13 years to sink the massive pilings and build the towers and decking, and it cost 27 men their lives, including the architect, German immigrant John Augustus Roebling. During the surveying phase of the project, his foot was crushed by an arriving ferry at the dock where he stood—his toes were amputated. The resulting tetanus infection killed him soon afterward.

  The bridge was 85 feet wide, enough room for three lanes of vehicular traffic in each direction. Television helicopters were hovering over the bridge, and Ellis glanced at the TV to watch. It looked like people were shooting into other vehicles. In both directions, vans full of men had stopped on the bridge.

  The announcer came on again, stating the obvious. “Again, it looks like they’ve blocked the bridge and are firing at cars as they approach. We’ve seen several drivers shot, and in one case, the victim was thrown over the side of the bridge into the river. He looked like he was still alive when they threw him over.”

  The scene changed to replay recorded footage. “Earlier, the gunmen were simply firing randomly at cars, but now traffic in both directions has been blocked by the vans and crashed vehicles. The gunmen used ladders atop the vans to climb up to the pedestrian bridge and continued firing on cars and pedestrians. The walkway is clear now of people, except for the gunmen.”

  The reporter was quiet for a moment as the helicopter zoomed in, and the camera clearly showed the gunmen firing at drivers trapped in blocked cars. Other drivers were jumping out of their cars and fleeing back to the Brooklyn and New York sides of the bridge.

  “We assume that the police are on their way,” the reporter continued. “But with the other riots and fires taking place in lower Manhattan—”

  The helicopter jerked and appeared to spin away from the bridge, and for a moment, the camera showed only the shining surface of the East River, smoke drifting over it. After a moment, the helicopter righted itself.

  “OK, yup, we’re back on,” the reporter said, panting. “Sorry about that, folks. It appears the gunmen in the white van were firing at us as well, so we’re backing off.”

  The screen showed the bridge, this time from farther away. On top of the white van were several men, jumping up and down and waving AK-47s in the air. One of them squeezed off a few celebratory rounds.

  “OK, I see the police coming,” the reporter said, and the camera turned to the entrance ramp from Manhattan. “Actually, it’s a SWAT team,” the reporter added.

  Ellis shook his head and looked away. He didn’t have time for this—he needed to get his stuff together.

  2.37

  Visitor’s Pass

  “Where are we going?” Cassie screamed, but the man would not let go. He dragged her through the gate of the barbed wire fence that surrounded the warehouse. Behind them, rioters were firing indiscriminately at the buildings on either side of the street.

  Cassie passed several men that she had seen before, hanging around the warehouse. Now, she understood they were security—they were armed and stationed behind the fences and crates and cars, protecting the front entrance of the warehouse. She was looking up at the front of the building when a window above her shattered.

  She gripped her camera closer as the man led her up the steps and inside, and the sound of gunfire behind her lessened.

  “I don’t know if you can tell, but we’ve got a situation here,” the man said, looking down at her.

  She’d been outside the warehouse, taking photos, when her editor had phoned about the rioting. For some reason, Muslim anger had coalesced in the past twenty-four hours into palpable violence, and the epicenter was New York City and the surrounding boroughs. Foreman told her that armed groups of men were moving through the streets, setting fires and gunning down people.

  She looked up at the tall man. “Who are you, again?”

  “I’m Stevens, the facility manager.”

  She glanced around—they were in the front room of what looked like a doctor’s office. There was a reception area and some low tables and chairs. There were even magazines out for people to read. On the wall behind the desk hung a huge “Blossom Investments” logo.

  “OK, well, thanks,” she said quietly.

  “No problem,�
�� Stevens answered. “Why didn’t you get in your car and leave? You saw them coming.”

  She nodded and held up the camera. “I wanted some more pictures.”

  He shook his head—he reminded her of Mike, her editor. He was always yelling at her for putting herself in dangerous situations. Of course, she argued, if she were a bleached blonde hottie, she wouldn’t have to work so hard. Instead, she was brunette and plain, nothing flashy. And she was driven.

  Stevens was looking at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just… we’ve been keeping our eye on you for a while.”

  “What?”

  Stevens smiled. “You’ve been hanging around, taking pictures. Dr. Ellis said to leave you alone, that it didn’t matter. I thought your articles were very…interesting. Especially since I’m in charge of keeping this place quiet. How did you find out so much?”

  She looked at him—he wasn’t angry, just genuinely curious. “Well, I spend a lot of time in basements.”

  He made a face.

  “I do a lot of research,” she continued, smiling. “Public records, ownership records, things like that.”

  “Oh. Well, I need to take you to Dr. Ellis—he wants to talk to you. Come on.”

  2.38

  The Outsider

  Stevens walked in, followed by the mousy reporter. Ellis looked up and saw them standing there. Stevens was looking at him, but the reporter was still outside the office, looking up.

  “Thanks, Stevens. Can you make sure the front of the building is secure?”

  Stevens nodded and ran off.

  Cassie wasn’t looking at Ellis—she was staring out at the massive particle accelerator, which took up half of the floor of the warehouse. She lifted her camera to take a picture.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Ellis said quietly. His bag and the small bomb were on his desk, ready to go.

  She turned to him. “You’re the older Ellis, right? The older brother?”