Arnesto Modesto: The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler
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“You have some lying around?”
“We could have made some or bought some,” Pete said.
“Then what? What happens when they start investigating and ask where the signs came from? And people in other cars tell them it was us? And then they ask how we knew to put up ‘Bridge Out’ signs before the bridge was out?”
“We could have rented a motorboat, then pulled up alongside the Robert Y. Love and blasted an air horn into the cabin until somebody noticed, or even climbed aboard ourselves. We could have prevented the accident altogether,” Pete said.
“But then someday, someone else would have hit the bridge and killed fifty people,” Arnesto said. Before Pete could argue, Arnesto continued, “Okay, maybe nothing would have happened or maybe someone decides to upgrade the bridge before something does. It’s like you told me at the very beginning, ‘Don’t get caught.’ Even a tiny little thing that gets one or both of our names in the paper is leaving a trail. And I really don’t want to get caught. Especially with some — I’m sorry to say — nasty events coming up.”
“Well, hell, I’d listen to me. I’m a smart man,” Pete said, mumbling in the most depressed tone Arnesto had ever heard from another human being.
Arnesto laughed. “I do listen and yes, it’s true. I feel terrible about the Camaro driver. But we exposed a critical flaw in the system through an event that was going to happen anyway, didn’t raise any eyebrows that we know of, and saved a bunch of people.”
Pete nodded but Arnesto could tell he was unconvinced.
“Tell you what,” Arnesto said, “I won’t call on you for any more missions for a while.”
“Good. Now if you’re finally done eating, can you give me a ride back to the airport?”
“One more slice.”
Tragedy Hits Home
Arnesto's Home
Silicon Valley, California
Friday, January 17, 2003
Late Morning
“Is she going to live?” It was Pete calling. He sounded upset.
“Who? Is who going to live?” Arnesto asked.
“My mom. She’s been diagnosed with lung cancer. Is she going to live?”
Arnesto cursed himself. One need not be a time traveler to have seen this coming. Pete’s reaction was new to the timeline, though, so he couldn’t have remembered it, but still, he should have expected it. He thought for a bit before answering.
“Are you sure you want—”
“Just fucking tell me! Is she. Going to. Live!”
Arnesto struggled to speak. After a long silence that only prolonged the agony, he finally said, “No.”
“Goddammit. God fucking damn it. How long?”
“About three months. But that’s what happened last time — maybe if she tries more aggressive therapies right from the start…” Arnesto said.
“They already said they’re doing everything they can. You’re an asshole, you know that? You knew this was going to happen, and you did nothing to stop it.”
“I’m sorry, I really am, but you told me you didn’t want me to—”
“You’re a fucking asshole.” —click—
Arnesto heard the dial tone and hung up the receiver. Was there anything he could do for her now? He had never studied oncology, much less effective turn-of-the-millennium cancer-fighting techniques. For once, he felt certain about the best course of action, which was, sadly, to do nothing.
Even worse, he had lost the one person he could go to for advice. This was particularly bad timing, as he needed some now. The Space Shuttle Columbia was currently in orbit for its final, doomed mission. He had wanted to ask Pete if he should warn NASA, and if so, how.
NASA had already ignored Arnesto’s first warning, emailed months in advance of the launch, about the dangers of foam insulation breaking off and damaging the spacecraft. Who could blame them for not responding? Why would they, a bunch of rocket scientists for crying out loud, listen to an anonymous source from the internet offering a vague warning without any evidence to back it up? After all, they had contradictory evidence — other incidents of foam shedding which had only caused minor damage.
And these warnings were a big risk. Every time, every single time Arnesto tried to warn someone, he left one more clue out there which could lead to him being caught and possibly unable to help anyone else. And this was a special case. These were seven astronauts — seven specialists who knew the risks of space travel better than anyone. Was it worth attempting to save seven — who in all likelihood could not be saved — at the risk of losing tens of thousands? Every one of the seven was no doubt smarter than he was. What would they do in his position?
Whatever they would have done would have been more intelligent than this. He crafted another email:
I regret to inform you that Columbia will be lost upon re-entry. Upon close examination coupled with rigorous simulations, the foam which dislodged during takeoff caused catastrophic damage to the left wing. With a compromised wing structure, the spacecraft will become unstable and ultimately disintegrate.
Please initiate whatever preparations you deem necessary. Hopefully, your operation will be one of rescue and not salvage. We have all failed this mission.
Regretfully,
Anonymous
Though he had a dozen email addresses of various NASA officials, he only emailed three of them. He wanted to get someone’s attention without creating too big of a ruckus. They would have their hands full soon enough. He waited until it got dark, then made the short drive to a residential area close to the NASA Ames facility in Mountain View. It was from there he sent the email on someone’s unsecured network.
Arnesto never found out if they had acted on the information. It likely wouldn’t have mattered in the end anyway. Without another shuttle ready to launch, and without equipment with which to dock at the International Space Station, rescue was never a viable option.
On February 1, 2003, Arnesto and the rest of the nation mourned the loss of the Columbia crew.
***
In mid-April, Mrs. Morgan’s funeral concluded, and people were doing that awkward thing of lining up to pay their respects. Arnesto felt even weirder because he hadn’t spoken to Pete since their hostile phone call.
“Arnesto, thanks for coming,” Pete said.
“I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Pete nodded then said, “Hey, come over to my dad’s house afterward.”
They caught up in Mr. Morgan’s living room. Pete talked about his mom, how she had withered away due to the cancer. He talked about how he wished the priest had spent more time talking about her and less time preaching about God.
“I agree,” Arnesto said. “And why was he the only one to get a snack?”
“The communion wafer? Who knows.”
“So… are we cool?”
Pete took a long time to answer. “I guess. I think I’m in too much shock to be mad at you anymore.” He looked around to make sure they were alone and added, “So, what’s happening in the future?”
“Are you sure you want to talk about this, I mean, today?”
“Please, I could use the distraction.”
“Pete,” Arnesto said, pausing, “there’s going to be an earthquake. Actually, a series of earthquakes around the world. I need your help.”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know what to do, how to warn people. Maybe it’s time I came forward, revealed who I am. I always used my foreknowledge of these quakes as an excuse to stay anonymous. Maybe that’s over now.”
“Well, if that’s what you feel is best,” Pete said.
“So you agree?” Arnesto asked.
“No, you idiot, I was being sarcastic. Jeez, you go a few months without me and you turn into this,” Pete sneered. “First of all, what do you know about these quakes?”
“Dates, places, magnitudes, casualties.” Arnesto noticed Pete’s confused expression and explained, “Years from now I was a programmer on an earthquake game
. Actually, the project was scrapped early on when the team realized all we had was a weak setting for yet another post-apocalyptic first-person shooter, but not before I had done a lot of research on the subject. I still thought it would be cool to do an earthquake game, so I reviewed my notes from time to time—”
“Reinforcing those memories, making them stronger.”
“Right.”
“And you can’t email those governments because they won’t believe you until after the fact, at which point, you may have done little more than cause an international incident.” Pete understood.
“If I go public, then at least there’s a face...”
“Why not go to the president, anonymously? Give him the list, then after the first one or two, he or his people will probably believe you.”
“But will anyone believe him?” Arnesto asked. “What happens if they find out he ignored the first couple of entries? Or if he decides to let certain countries suffer or tries to sell them the information? Involving the government might mean a death sentence for countless civilians.”
“What about paying somebody off the street?”
“A patsy? Still unrespected and probably too unreliable.”
“Scientists then. Give them the list. Maybe they—”
“They won’t accept something without evidence. Even when the list starts coming true, they still might be hesitant to report it without proof,” Arnesto said.
“Damn. Sounds like you need some sort of… faith healer,” Pete said, snorting at his own suggestion. He waited for Arnesto’s rebuke. When it didn’t happen, he said, “Oh, come on! Faith healers are only great at deceiving the masses for their own personal gain. They can’t be trusted to actually help people. In fact, as con artists, they’re probably the last people on earth who would believe you anyway, no matter how accurate you were or how much money you promised them.”
“What about an actual priest?” Arnesto asked. “Some salt of the earth guy who actually believes what he’s preaching. Somebody pure of heart and well-spoken. Somebody truly willing to sacrifice in order to save thousands of lives.”
“He would already be starting with a flock of sheep willing to believe his every word.”
“Exactly,” Arnesto said. “If we can get him to believe me, maybe we can warn people from the get-go.”
“Hmm, relying on people’s gullibility to tell them the truth. But you can’t talk to this person. Ever. He can’t be able to identify you even by your voice.”
“I need to find another do-gooder to act as an intermediary,” Arnesto said.
“Exactly. Are you sure about this, though, letting religion take all the credit?”
Arnesto had to bite his tongue to keep from revealing how religion would turn the United States into the laughing stock of the civilized world in the decades to come. “Believe me, I’m not happy about it, but for now, I don’t see a better way. Now I have to find these people.”
“Remember the LA riots?” Arnesto’s scowl answered Pete’s question. “Duh, of course, you were there. Wasn’t there some guy in the midst of it all who was trying to calm people down? He got people to stop and listen and was hailed as a hero.”
“Sounds like the anti-Arnesto,” Arnesto said. “I missed it. I was too busy running for my life, followed by avoiding all news for the next few weeks. Besides, that was eleven years ago, I probably couldn’t find the guy now even if he was a religious leader.”
“Right, maybe you can find somebody from an event that was more recent.”
Or one that hasn’t happened yet.
Arnesto felt some relief as a plan began to form. He even had somebody in mind. When it came time to say goodbye, he gave Pete his sincere condolences and returned to his own dad’s house where he was staying. However, instead of waiting a few days for his flight home to California, he went to the airport early the next morning and got on the first flight to Louisiana.
Collections
New Orleans, Louisiana
Sunday, April 20, 2003
11:30 a.m.
After a brief search and several phone calls, Arnesto believed he had a hit on a location: the Lower Ninth Baptist Church in the Lower Ninth Ward of New Orleans, only a couple miles away from the French Quarter. That neighborhood would also become one of the worst-affected areas hit by Hurricane Katrina, with standing floodwater depths of over ten feet in some places.
It was during the aftermath, when he and his wife, Katrina, were watching the horror on television, when they aired a piece on “The Heroes of the Hurricane.” This included one person in particular, a preacher, who pulled several people out of the rising water to safety. Then he saved an old woman trapped in the wreckage of her home. Finally, he interrupted and ended a conflict between two rival gangs at the Superdome — while he was reclined on a gurney donating blood. While Arnesto had been impressed as hell, all Katrina had said was, “Why is he called, ‘Father’ if he’s a Southern Baptist?”
Arnesto stopped for some delicious gumbo followed by an even more delicious beignet as he waited for church to let out. He didn’t dare attend himself, but was able to hang out on the corner and eavesdrop as the man he was looking for, Father Martin, said goodbye to members of his congregation. Person after person gave the father a hearty handshake, high-five, or fist bump.
A frail, elderly woman said, “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t have anything to put in the coffers today. With my prescriptions—”
“Miss Louise, what did I tell you about that? You need to take care of you first. I even see you looking at the collection plate, I’ll kick you out of my church.” She and a few of her friends who were standing behind her all started laughing. “I mean it, I will kick you out. I will kick you all out.” The group howled with laughter.
“Thank you, Father,” Louise said. “You know, you remind me of my late husband. Except you’re tall, strong, and good looking.”
“Oh, Louise. If you were eighty years younger.” She pinched his cheek, but he gently swatted her hand away. “Get out of here.” Every word was pure amusement to everyone within earshot.
Arnesto himself laughed at the banter as he slunk away. He couldn’t help it. The group’s laughter was contagious. The rapport Father Martin had with his congregation was clear. Arnesto knew he had his man.
He now had the first half of his team, but he still needed to find the second half. He had it in his head that a social worker might be what he needed, so he started calling homeless shelters in the area. The man he talked to at the first place he called was polite but too busy to stay on the phone answering Arnesto’s odd questions. At the second place he called, a woman answered.
“Hello, Lower Ninth Mission,” she said.
“Hi, I was hoping to talk to a social worker.”
“Of course, who is your case manager?”
“Oh, I don’t have one. I just wanted to ask—”
“Are you in any immediate danger?”
Arnesto was taken aback by the question. He looked out the windows of his rental car, then said, “I don’t think so.”
“What I mean is, are you safe with yourself? I hope that doesn’t offend you, but sometimes people call us as a last-ditch effort before hurting themselves.”
“Oh, I understand. No, I’m fine, thanks. I wanted to talk to someone about the mission and the work they do there.”
“We work one-on-one with people suffering from drug and alcohol abuse, or victims of domestic violence, people with illnesses, and of course, people who are homeless. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but do any of these apply to you?”
Arnesto considered each one briefly. “No, I’m doing fine, I promise. I just wanted to— wait, why do you ask?”
“I sensed a pause both times I asked about you. That usually tells me something is going on. Don’t get me wrong, you sound fine, but I detect a lack of certainty in your voice.”
“Yeah, that’s true. You must be a good judge of character. Are you ever wrong?”
Arnesto looked down the block. He could probably walk there in thirty seconds, and he was curious to hear what she had to say. But no, as tempting as it was to get some counseling from this woman, that would defeat the whole purpose of trying to find someone — someone like her. She had taken control of their conversation from the beginning, but now he needed to take charge. “Yes, I’m nearby, but I can’t come in. And before you use your Jedi mind powers on me again, tell me the truth. Do you like helping people, are you good at your job, and is your shelter accepting donations?”
His sudden change in demeanor caused her to reflect a moment, but then she answered, “Yes to all three.”
“Excellent. I promise, I will be in touch. Oh, I almost forgot, what’s your name?”
“Isabel.”
“Isabel, thanks for taking the time to speak with me today and I’ll talk to you again soon.” He hung up before she could reply. As soon as I figure out what the hell the plan is.
He spent the flight home brainstorming and came up with a simple plan. The hard part would be convincing Isabel, so he spent much of the next work day figuring out what to say to her. The next day, he overnighted her a package consisting of several packs of brand new socks, one of which contained an envelope with cash inside, and a burner.
Then he took a drive during his lunch break to call her at the shelter and warn her about the package. Though she was cautious and confused by his actions, they agreed to talk the following night after the package had arrived.
The next day, when the time for their call was almost at hand, Arnesto headed for the door, but his daughter intercepted him.