Jump City: Apprentice

by MK Alexander

  “What then?”

  “Suitable transportation.”

  “Wait, I think we’re having two different conversations. I was talking about time travel,” I almost whispered the last two words.

  “It seems to me, no matter what we decide, we still need to go north. ”

  “North?”

  “Of course. There is a reliable bus service, though it takes rather a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Three or four days.”

  “Non stop?”

  “No… there are numerous way stations along the route, small hotels to spend the night and such.”

  “How about we fly back?”

  “On an airplane?” Fynn asked.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “This present day is hardly the apex of civil aviation.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t care to fly, not in nineteen thirty-three.”

  “Why not?”

  “Have you ever been aboard a twin engine Curtis?”

  “No.”

  “I will refer you to rule five: Avoid dying at all costs.”

  “How about the whole zeppelin thing?”

  Fynn seemed confused by my question. “Well, the USS Akron is berthed nearby… I suppose we could finagle passage… though I’d prefer to find other means of transport.”

  “Okay, so how do we get back then?”

  “There’s a tramp steamer en route to Fairhaven in two days. I could reserve a cabin.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A week or so.”

  “That’s not very fast either.”

  “Perhaps it’s best to allow events to percolate for a while.”

  “Then what?” I asked, fighting down my growing confusion. “Do we jump ahead to August again?”

  “This is our dilemma…” Fynn said and raised an eyebrow. “Ironically we are in the relative past to when we first arrived. Anything we do now may change that future… So there is an inherent danger in whatever action we take.”

  “Jumping to the future, you mean?”

  “Even remaining in the present. Of course, if we jump forward from here, there’s no telling where we might end up geographically.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d hate to end up in the middle of Kansas or somewhere.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “It’s always a possibility, Patrick. Especially if we are jumping so close in time.” Fynn paused. “Surely I’ve told you about the law of diminishing distances.”

  “I’m not sure I remember that.”

  “It only holds true for hard jumps; but the further in time one travels, the closer in location you are likely to find yourself. And unfortunately, the opposite also holds true.”

  “Seems counter intuitive.”

  “I can only agree, but such has been my experience.”

  “Well, shouldn’t we check to see if we fixed history?”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know… jump ahead a couple of months, see what’s up.”

  “That hardly seems practical. We have changed this timeline most certainly. If we leave now and travel ahead, who’s to say it’s the proper timeline?”

  “How do we know Mortimer is even in Sand City? I mean, in this present, in February…”

  “We cannot be positive. I say we return and do a bit of reconnoitering,” Fynn said.

  “No one will remember us there.”

  “As you say.”

  “And Grimaldi’s Blue Streak?”

  “We’ve yet to hire this car.”

  “Right… Well, I think we should go back to New York and check on Madeline and the Brigadier.”

  “From what you’ve said, Madeline, her brother, and the rest are not injured.”

  “No…”

  “Well then, I say we go directly to Sand City.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a great idea. I think we should go back a week or so and stop the fire. We could use the temple and be very exact.”

  “Best we stay in the present for now.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Traveling even further to the past will only make matters worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “We could accidentally undo everything we’ve done. Who is to say we might take a different course of action and undermine all our efforts thus far.”

  “Okay… But what if Mortimer isn’t back yet?”

  “Assuredly, he is by now. I will go further, and venture to say he has not yet left.”

  “How can you guess that?”

  “If we have restored your precious timeline, everything should be back in its proper place.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, it seems obvious. We know Mortimer got his cane to work sometime in August thanks to Edmund, and then traveled back to set the library on fire.”

  “Obvious to you maybe.”

  “We can surmise his cane did not function before August since he was stymied by the closing of the borders.”

  “In the previous timeline, before we fixed it?” I clarified.

  “Yes, it’s likely now the borders will not be closed.”

  “I still don’t get how he started the fire.”

  “To jump to the library and set it a blaze on the very day we are leaving for Miami— this is too coincidental.”

  “Maybe he used the temple?”

  “I have considered this, though I believe Mortimer would not risk it, given its unreliable nature.”

  “All this tinkering with history then, it’s Drummond?”

  “Very likely. We have evidence that your president was wounded by his minions. I will speculate that Mortimer is uninterested in such things.”

  “Politics, you mean.”

  “Yes,” Fynn said and paused. “The would-be assassins we saw yesterday… Mr Drummond’s presence at the library, and in Sand City as you observed. Surely it is so?”

  “I guess….” I paused to sort through my confusion. “Okay then, we should go to New York and talk to Murray.”

  “Why Murray?”

  “He should have a good handle on everything that’s happened. We can tell what’s changed.”

  “Yes, that may be a wise course of action.”

  “Maybe it’s all been fixed?”

  “Fixed? You speak of the fire, I presume.”

  “That guy I told you about, the Inquisitor.”

  “That guy wouldn’t fix anything, even if his life depended upon it.”

  “I take it you two don’t get along.”

  “You might say that…” Fynn grimaced slightly. “He takes a rather dim view of changing timelines.”

  We were interrupted by the hotel desk clerk who appeared with a silver tray. “Your letters are ready, sir.”

  “Ah, thank you very much.” Fynn took the bundle of envelopes and put a coin on the tray. He turned back to me. “I arranged for a secretary to type my letters, under the provision of strict confidence.”

  “The plan B?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, we might need it because I don’t think this timeline is right at all.”

  “Isn’t it close enough?” Fynn asked.

  “No,” I said a bit too vehemently. “This can’t possibly be okay…”

  “Why not? We saved your president… The rest of history is more or less the same.”

  “It’s not the same at all… it has to do with symbolism…”

  “Explain, Patrick.”

  “We can’t have a crippled country and a crippled leader. It’s not right.”

  “Yet, this is what history records, am I correct?”

  “Might have been the reality, but it was not the perception. We didn’t see FDR as a cripple at all. He was empathetic but strong, fearless, optimistic. This resonated throughout the country… if he can overcome his adversity, so can we…”

  “We?” Fynn asked pointedly.

  “What do you mean?” />
  “I think you’ve grown rather too attached to this time period.”

  “I- I guess you’re right.”

  “Think of this then: a president, shot and paralyzed, yet he recovers courageously… I would think this symbolism carries equal weight to yours.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “You can’t expect everything to be just so.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “There are bound to be some small differences between this present and what you recall from your future. It’s quite unavoidable. The trick for us is to minimize such changes… and with a bit of luck everything will work out fine.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “Patrick, I fear that you are overly fixated on the purity of your history. You must understand: your timeline and its particulars are gone forever, irretrievable… The best you can hope for is a good approximation.”

  “Still…”

  “And, I can say with some assurance that this particular history is not very promising. In fact, I would rate it fair to poor. There are far better outcomes, and I say that with all the objectivity I can muster.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “History could take a course that is better than you might imagine, that’s all.”

  “You’re talking about signals from alien conquerers again.”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “Well, it has to do with influenza… and a kind of second renaissance.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “It starts rather dismally with the pandemic of nineteen-eighteen, but ends quite well.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know about this.”

  “Patrick, you must realize by now that going back to your exact timeline is quite impossible. I dare say, it doesn’t exist as you recall it so well… It’s bound to be slightly different. Your future is not a fixed place— it’s always in flux.”

  “I’m still having trouble with that.”

  “To be perfectly candid, Patrick… our agendas are beginning to diverge— perhaps severely. You want to keep your history intact, and this is completely understandable, but to me, it is quite secondary. For me, the important thing is to find Mortimer and put a stop to his plans.”

  “His plans?”

  “Whatever they may be… but primarily, I must destroy this dreadful cane.”

  “Alright, I’m sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.”

  ***

  The Manchurian docked in New York early Sunday morning and wasn’t due to depart again for forty-eight hours. That gave us plenty of time to find Murray and check in at the library. Fynn and I hailed a cab at the docks, though we could have easily walked to 10th and 37th. We trudged up the three flights to Murray’s dark apartment but this time found the door open. Pushing it aside we came upon a horrific scene: there was a man hanging with a rope around his neck, dangling near an open window. I rushed over to lower him but Fynn stopped me.

  “Wait, you should touch nothing,” he cautioned. “Clearly, poor Murray has been dead for quite some time. There’s nothing we can do to help him.”

  I looked up to his face, contorted by pain, but I immediately noticed something wrong. “That’s not the same guy… It’s not Murray.”

  “What?” Fynn asked.

  “It’s not him.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’ve met him twice and I’m pretty good with faces. Besides, the glasses are wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “They’re rimless and square, and well, not nearly thick enough.”

  “But if this is not Murray, then where is he?”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Hmm, perhaps we are not the only ones in need of a knower.”

  “We should call the police.”

  “Yes, by all means, but anonymously. I don’t wish any further entanglements here.”

  ***

  With some difficulty we figured out the bus schedule and bought tickets to Nyack, New York, a small town along the Hudson River. Not long after, we crossed the bridge, and Fynn became ever watchful of the Albany Post Road. He called out to the driver:

  “If you could let us off now, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Now? There’s no stop close to here... next one isn’t till Piermont.”

  “Nonetheless, would you be so kind?”

  The driver relented and started grinding the bus into a lower gear. He finally came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Fynn passed a coin his way and said thank you. We hiked along the road until the inspector spotted a trail that led towards the cliffs. Evening was falling, and by the time the sun had set, we came across the ruins of the library. Amidst the rubble, Fynn found a charred sofa and a chair near a table. We sat just as darkness set in. I was freezing, shivering, with only Ming’s shiny green jacket to keep me warm.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We wait until we are noticed.”

  “Noticed?”

  “Hopefully by Brigadier Thomas.”

  It didn’t take long. The brigadier was on us within minutes, and not so stealthily this time. His head, or the top of his tall hat, appeared along the remaining wall of the mansion and he called out: “Good heavens, it’s you, Fynn… and your friend, what’s his name. I took you for intruders.”

  “Glad to see you, Thomas. A terrible state of affairs, I see.”

  “To put it mildly. Ah, but with your help, we can fix this in a jiffy.”

  “My help?” Fynn asked.

  “I have no one else to turn to. The blasted Inquisitor won’t lift a finger.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “At the guest house… not many of us remaining though.”

  “And Madeline?”

  “The trauma of it all… My poor sister was in a state of utter despair and she’s up and left.”

  “Where did she go? The future, the past?”

  “Oh, nothing like that. She’s staying with some friends in the city.”

  We walked back to the carriage house in darkness, and safely, thanks to the brigadier’s sure-footedness. I was surprised to find Grimaldi’s Blue Streak missing, but remembered it wasn’t even here yet. Back at the cottage we came upon Ming, his wife, and the Quantifier, all enjoying a supper of won ton soup which seemed to be scooped from a cauldron hung over the fireplace. Cook laid some out for us as we joined them at a giant wooden table. Fynn greeted everyone warmly except Mr Quandary, the Quantifier, to whom he nodded and muttered, “Hello, Jasvir.”

  “Fynn has come back to fix the fire,” Brigadier Thomas said enthusiastically, once he had slurped down his share of soup.

  “Have you now, Fynn?” the Quantifier asked in a dry voice. “What makes you think it needs fixing, eh? Rather contradicts the order of things, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.” Fynn turned to him.

  “The preservation of relative cause and effect.”

  “Well, something must be done.”

  “A tragedy to be sure, though we still have the library in the past… accessible to us, if needed.”

  “And going forward?”

  “I doubt it will be necessary.”

  “Of course it is,” the brigadier protested. “And I’ll personally go back to catch the blighter by the scruff of his neck.”

  “And who would that be, Thomas? Who set fire to the library?” Mr Quandary asked.

  “Of course it’s Mortimer’s doing,” Fynn said as if any other conclusion was superfluous.

  “Do you have any evidence?”

  “Do I need any?”

  “You’re a policeman, of course you need evidence.”

  “Who burned Alexandria?”

  Fynn’s question was met with no reply.

  “Let me ask another way: Is there a single person on earth other than Mortimer who would have done this?”

  “Could be that Drummond chap,” Brig
adier Thomas said.

  “What would motivate him?”

  “I’ve often heard him say, ‘too much knowledge is a dangerous thing.’”

  “I think that was someone else.”

  “Perhaps his religious zeal?” the Quantifier suggested.

  “So you know of Mr Drummond,” Fynn said.

  “Yes. I have a man keeping an eye on him, or rather his dynasty.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I prefer not to say.”

  “But you will admit Mr Drummond is a danger?”

  “He may be…”

  “And your watcher, it’s Kaiser Wayne?”

  “That’s one of his monikers… a splendid fellow, always does what I ask and never interferes.”

  “The man is more of a spectator than a participant,” Fynn complained. “You do know he’s been murdered.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it’s probable that he will be. Mr Drummond kills him in August,” Fynn said. “And I’ll go further: It’s quite likely they are one and the same person.”

  “Impossible.”

  “There is the distinct possibility they are doppelgängers.”

  “Astonishing.”

  Fynn paused and an angry expression crossed his face. “And all this… it is something you were going to mention, no doubt?”

  “Well… I was waiting to see if there’d be a causal cascade. So far nothing’s happened at all.”

  “That’s encouraging at least.”

  “I had this Kaiser fellow keeping an eye on things. I didn’t want you to be bothered.”

  “You do know Mr Drummond is likely working with Mortimer,” Fynn said.

  “Are you trying to say they are in league together?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, that’s most distressing. Still, best we don’t meddle in such things.”

  “I’m forced to disagree.”

  “Only you, Fynn, would say such a thing.”

  “I’m afraid it all goes back to the cane that I’ve been telling you about.”

  “Oh yes, this infamous cane. I’ve no evidence of that either. Surely the cane of his is a sort of technological marvel— must it not originate from some future time? Though I can hardly guess when.”

  “I have it on good authority this is the exact present when the cane makes it’s first appearance.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m a policeman, trust me.”