“And when will you stop trying to fix things?”
“The tide has turned, Mr. Tannor. We’ve won the war. Without the ability to jump, the Soviets were never able to gain superiority over us. I’m told the future turning point was at the Battle of New Orleans. Our troops capitalized on a moment of weakness in the Soviet Force. They’d taken control of the city and were using the Mississippi River to send troops upstream, when a Category 5 hurricane made its way through the Gulf of Mexico. The town was flooded, killing the entire encampment of soldiers.” Wallace smiled briefly. “The hurricane was named ‘Freedom’ – or, ‘Svoboda’ in Russian, just in case the Soviets didn’t catch our meaning.”
This was all too much to take in. “But why the hell did you send Blake and Tobias back to begin with?”
“I’m what they call a Cognitive Marshall, or, a Thinker –”
Ethan scoffed. “I don’t give a shit what they call you – whoever the fuck they are. Why did you choose to send them … me … aw, hell – why’d you choose us?”
Wallace took a moment to think before answering. “What I possess in knowledge of future situations, I lack in tactical military skills. We needed someone with a particular set of talents; there’s hardly a military left in the future. The few fighters we do have are too valuable to waste on such a suicide mission.”
Ethan laughed, but it was filled with bitterness. “Yet you had no qualms about sacrificing people like me.”
Wallace shrugged. “It is our reality, Mr. Tannor. We poured through profiles until we finally settled on yours. Your talents and record qualified you for the project. That is why I chose you.”
“Tobias had no skill.”
“He was the test subject, and he volunteered, mind you.”
“Because you baited him,” Ethan said.
“And you betrayed him – or, well, Blake betrayed him. I guess if you really want to get technical, you betrayed yourself. But that’s not the issue. If not you, it would have been someone else just like you. You’ve performed a great service for your country. You should be happy with that knowledge.”
“You’re fucking with people’s lives!” Ethan’s fingers curled into fists, the instinct to physically lash out at Wallace was overwhelming. “You can’t go around screwing with history like this – think about the cost of such actions!”
“Someday the cost may be worth paying, my friend.”
Ethan said nothing to that right away. He just gazed at the bleak vista as they walked, his expression sullen. Finally, he spoke. “What do you get out of this?”
Wallace stopped, and so did Ethan. For a moment, he studied Ethan’s face like he was seeing him for the first time. Then he continued walking. “Honestly, Mr. Tannor, some people are just patriots. I will do everything in my power to make sure we succeed, even if that personal sacrifice costs me my life, time and time again.”
He went silent for a beat before saying, “With all the files I’ve read about myself, it’s a wonder I continue to make the choice.”
“How so?”
“It’s a gamble you take, on who steps through the other side. The jumps … they change you. I’ve lived and died for this cause more times than you can imagine.”
“Why?”
“I can’t afford to disturb the balance of time by too much. So I choose to take my life whenever I become of no further use in a time rift – successful or not. This visit alone was for your sake, to let you know what had happened, what had been avoided because of your … because of what Blake did for all of us. The only difference between this jump and all my others is that after our conversation, I don’t have to pass on what I have told you to myself in the future.”
“And how did you do that – ‘pass along’ messages? With time capsules?”
“In a sense, yes. But I don’t keep mine buried in the sand, or in safety deposit boxes like your former self was instructed. My time is so far beyond this time that no place is completely safe. I’ve chosen to leave my messages in the public eye as mysterious deaths that always involve two things: this book,” he pulled something from his pocket, “and a coded message which only one other person can decipher. That would be me, eighty years from now.”
The object in Wallace’s hand was The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, the same book he’d taken from Tobias’s safe, along with the mysterious code.
He met Wallace’s eyes again and suddenly – as if the Rubáiyát had triggered Ethan’s memory – there was something about this man that seemed very familiar. For a moment, the answer eluded him, but then the dots connected in his mind. “You … you’re the Somerton Man?” Ethan stared at Wallace. “But how could you be sure no one today could translate the message?”
As they drew closer to the abandoned city, Ethan could see the Ferris wheel more clearly. He imagined exultant children riding it into the sky, their hearts and minds soaring with the excitement of innocence and possibilities. He glanced back to Wallace, who still hadn’t answered.
Wallace said, “Yes. That is me. As to your second question, I have little fear of that. Even if the message were decoded, its meaning would not be understood because it is in a language that has not even been created in your time.”
When Ethan looked like he was about to say something Wallace held up a hand. “Also, you need to understand that every unsolved death – especially the unique ones – eventually find themselves in the spotlight and are carefully archived. I simply look into these cases for my trademark clues and base my next approach on the code left behind.”
The sun glinted off Wallace’s ginger hair as he tilted his head to hold Ethan’s gaze. “The one thing I feared was that by continuing to leap back through time there might come a point when I meddle just a little too much, and I could ultimately cause myself to never be born and never have the chance to alter what transpired during the Cold War.”
They entered the edge of the city, walked several paces down the empty street. Wallace said, “My fears have come to fruition. My parents never meet and I am lost to the future.”
Ethan frowned. “I don’t understand. If you were never born, how do you exist now?”
“It is quite complicated, Mr. Tannor. And I do not the have the time or inclination to get into such details, but consider me from a different, or parallel, dimension.”
“I have no idea what the fuck you mean.”
“I am from a future unlike the one that will be,” Wallace said. “But simply take this example: if I am sent from the future, and history is changed, I do not cease to exist in the here and now. There are many versions of myself left, but they are dwindling.”
Now they were in a plaza, surrounded by buildings and scattered litter. The air itself felt oppressive, and Ethan found himself thinking about how much radioactivity was probably still here. He rubbed his temples where a dull ache was forming. Was he getting radiation sickness just from walking into this place? Then he thought of Blake and felt an unexpected swell of emotion.
Wallace stopped next to a wooden bench that was cracked with age, most of its paint eroded away. “The future isn’t set in stone, Mr. Tannor. What is done can always be undone, and I will do whatever is necessary to make sure it always ends in our favor.” He paused, and when he spoke again his voice had taken on a steely edge. “Even if it means killing children in their sleep.”
The words chilled Ethan. “You don’t seem to be violent by nature. What makes you so vengeful?”
“It’s not vengeance, it’s desperation. When all other routes are closed, sometimes a darker path must be taken.”
He sat down on the bench and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one of them out into his palm. He started to light it, then hesitated, looking back up at Ethan. He smiled slightly, and said, “You may want to flee the scene of yet another unsolved death.” He motioned at a cluster of buildings down the block. “If you head in that direction, past the shopping center, the first street you come to will have a car waiting to take you home.�
�
Home. It was exactly where Ethan wanted to go. Somewhere familiar. To leave all of this behind. He looked around, suddenly feeling nervous in the midst of this ghost city, and headed off in the direction Wallace had indicated.
He did not look back at the man on the bench.
***
April 26, 2009, 12:22 PM
Ben Wallace stood and walked north, toward the abandoned amusement park. The place had been set to open just days after the disaster. It had never known the running of children’s feet, their delighted squeals, the laughter of families …
He walked by the ticket booth, strolling past the bumper cars, and the swing boat ride as he made his way down the small stretch of land that led to the park’s main feature, the Ferris wheel. There was a small roundabout near the Ferris wheel, and Wallace sat down on it, leaning against one of the corroded hand holds.
Here, he finally lit the cigarette and brought it to his lips, inhaling deeply with each pull. He sat there, looking around at the sadness of this place. The cigarette’s smoke stung his eyes and he wiped away the wetness that had formed. His lids were feeling heavy and his fingers began to tingle.
He took one more long drag with what felt like the last of his energy and flicked the cigarette into the dirt. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his favorite book, stared lifelessly at the pages. The lines he had memorized as a boy looked back up at him and began to blur. He recited them to himself a final time:
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
The beautiful passage was meaningful to him, for it summed up his existence. Had he changed the unchangeable? It had been a Herculean struggle; one that had come at such a great personal cost. He was so tired.
Wallace gazed at the brown pages with sightless eyes and uttered his last words.
“Tamám Shud.”
Seconds later his body slumped against the iron bar, the book slipping from his fingers to land at his feet in the dirt.
68 Sequelibrium
April 26, 2009, 1:08 PM
The car had been waiting for him just like Wallace said it would, a black stretch limousine. Ethan climbed in the back and the driver pulled away. He never spoke to Ethan, concentrating on the road as he drove. Ethan felt himself slipping into a semi-trance as he watched the panorama stream past the window, almost too stunned by all that had happened to even formulate coherent thoughts.
He half expected they would be stopped and questioned by authorities, but nothing happened. Russia didn’t seem to act like the police state he remembered. What else had transpired in his absence?
More than an hour later, the vehicle arrived at a secluded terminal on the outskirts of an airport where a private jet sat ready for him to board. The driver signaled for him to get a move on, so he climbed out, suddenly feeling drained of all energy. He wanted to sleep and forget everything.
He walked up the steps of the plane and was greeted by a serious looking flight attendant who directed him to his place in the aircraft.
“Sir, there is a change of clothes for you in the back. Make yourself comfortable.”
That was exactly what he wanted. Hex’s mangled body armor felt heavy on Ethan’s chest and the memories associated with it were not fond ones. The new clothes fit comfortably enough, and after the quick change he walked back to take his seat.
There was an envelope on the cushion with his name printed on the front in neat script. He opened the package and saw it was filled with money and a pair of keys. From the look of them, one was a house key and the other a car key. The one hundred dollar bills looked different to him than what he was used to, but he doubted they were fakes. He stuffed everything in his newly acquired jacket and collapsed into the seat. The cash hardly compensated him for what he’d been through, but he wasn’t about to turn it down either.
The plane took off minutes later, headed for New York City, or so he hoped. If he hadn’t been so exhausted, the flight would have probably felt deathly slow, but he spent most of the trip asleep. The few moments he was awake were spent in silence, staring vacantly out the small window and thinking about everything that had happened.
There was no one else aboard the plane. Not even the flight attendant who’d first greeted him was around, and Ethan wondered if the man had actually been the pilot or copilot.
He was in the throes of a disturbing dream of explosions, gunshots, and spliced body parts when the wheels touched down. Rubber screeched loudly, jolting him from sleep.
Ethan glanced around, still in a mental fog. His vision was blurry and he rubbed his eyes. Was it all a dream? The last four days had been too far-fetched to comprehend and he found himself hoping it had been a figment of his sleeping imagination.
He looked outside and saw other planes taxiing into their gates. They appeared pretty much the same as he’d remembered, except some of the logos were different, some were new, some missing. The last time he’d been on one of these machines, he was shackled and heading straight to Russia under guard of The Sons of Stalin.
Unless none of that had been real. If that was the case, what was he doing on this plane? How had he gotten here? His sinking heart told him the answer. It had been real, and now, it was over.
The ‘flight attendant’ from earlier emerged from the cockpit and opened the plane door. Outside, a set of steps on wheels was rolled into position. Ethan stood up and moved to the front. He nodded at the serious-looking man then walked out into a cold, brisk breeze. New York. He was home.
Another black stretch limo was waiting for him across the tarmac. As he approached, the driver got out and opened the door for him. He slipped inside, settling himself into the luxurious cushioning of the seat. He could get used to this.
The rest he’d gotten on the plane had finally begun to loosen the tension in his body, and Ethan started to feel less like he was in a constant state of alert. A small sigh escaped his throat as he laid his head back and closed his eyes.
The driver left the partition window open and commenced conversation as he started up the limo and pulled away. “So, did you have a long trip, sir?”
Ethan opened his eyes, and sat up straighter. You could say that. “Slept most of the way.”
“I don’t blame you. I’ve always been terrified of flying. The wife hates it too.”
Ethan decided to shift the conversation to something more normal. “Hey, I have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“How did the Steelers do this year? I’ve been out of town for a while.”
“On business?”
“I guess so.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t really follow football. I’m more into college basketball. For me, it’s always been Duke. People can’t handle the Devils, man.”
Ethan hated college ball. “Thanks anyway,” he said, feeling a little let down.
“Say, why don’t you just look it up on your cell phone?”
“My what?”
“Lost yours, huh? I’ve done it a few times myself.” The driver put a hand in his coat, executing some deft but dangerous maneuvers with the steering wheel as he fumbled for something in his pocket. Then he extended his arm backward through the panel, handing Ethan a small rectangular device.
Ethan took the item and regarded it skeptically.
“Just access the internet. Look it up on Google or Sports Center dot com.”
“What is this thing?”
“It’s my cell phone – an iPhone – everyone’s got one.” The guy shot him a strange look through the rearview mirror.
Saving face, Ethan gave the contraption back. “It’s no big deal, I’ll just check later.” He looked out the window, and thankfully the driver didn’t keep talking.
Ethan tried to absorb the changes around him. He had trouble taking it all in – that he was here, in this time. At f
irst glance, besides the vehicles on the street looking sleeker than the ones in 1986, there weren’t a whole lot of changes that stuck out. At the same time, an unsettled feeling had penetrated his subconscious as he stared outside. He couldn’t identify this feeling, but figured it had something to do with the life-changing events he’d just experienced.
The quick drive on the interstate went smoothly and soon the limousine was pulling to the curb of The Elysium Terrace, which to his surprise didn’t appear to have changed at all; on the outside, at least.
It felt good to be home, but what Ethan couldn’t stop thinking about was the twenty-three years that had passed. Dread stirred in his heart. How was he just supposed to pick back up where he left off? Art would be decades older now, and a quick sadness filled him. All that time lost. The well of anxiety deepened. Is Art even still alive?
Brakes squeaked as the limo came to a smooth stop. “Thanks for the ride,” Ethan said, handing the driver some bills from the envelope Ben had left him on the plane.
“No problem, sir. I’ll text my boss to let him know we’ve arrived.”
Text? What the hell is that? But Ethan feigned understanding. “Sure; do what you have to do. Thanks again.”
He got out of the car and inhaled the familiar scents around him with a deep breath. Yep. He was back in New York.
Opening the double doors in front of him, Ethan strode into the lobby, praying to God that Disco Donnie had long since left his station. He didn’t want to try to make up an excuse that dieting and exercise had halted his aging process.
A new receptionist sat behind a desk in the remodeled entryway. The outside may not have changed, but Ethan barely recognized the interior. The unsettled feeling intensified, as though underscoring the point that he’d been gone for a long, long time.
And the Tide Turns Page 37