Several appeased mumbles echoed around the room as Mark stared over the hall. He twitched as the dampness from underneath his armpits had dried into an uncomfortable stickiness on his light blue shirt. He clicked the red cap back on top of the marker pen and walked back towards the podium. Even on this warm August day, the sunshine began to seep through the white plastic venetian blinds, momentarily blinding several faces in the front row. He took a large gulp of water, and tried to remain openly confident.
‘James Buckley from the Washington Post. Professor, what happens once you step through this “Kerr black hole”? Where do you go, end up?’
Mark raised his left index finger while quickly swallowing the water. ‘This is the brilliant part, Mr. Buckley. Once the coordinates – from any part of the world around us today – are entered into the computer, I shall be presented with a selection of events from past times that match up with these specific numbers. I can then pick a point in time that I wish to visit. Think of it like standing on a bridge over a motorway, watching the heavy traffic pass through all day long. In this case the “traffic” is in fact every period in time; from Nazi Germany to Alexander the Great, Joan of Arc to the Jurassic era. You name it, I can go there.’
‘My God, this is incredible, if it is possible of course,’ added Buckley as his blue pinstriped suit crumpled some more. ‘How far back have you been in your tests, and what have you seen?’
‘Well, we have seen it all as you can imagine. We’ve been like a child with a new toy!’ said Mark excitably. ‘Though we haven’t seen things in the way that you might think. So far for our safety we have only sent through cameras to record events. This way we have been able to determine the differing levels of danger.’
Buckley fired the Professor a derisory look before continuing in a concerned voice. ‘I’m sorry, Professor, you mean that this technology is untested on humans?! How do you know it is safe? How do you know that what you touch won’t have an adverse affect on history; will it alter anything in our here and now for example?’
Grumbles rose from the gathering as Mark attempted to quieten his audience with outstretched hands. ‘It is extremely safe, Mr. Buckley. We here at Stanford have done our sums. History will be made today, I can assure you of that,’ he replied confidently. ‘To answer your second question? No, nothing can be affected. We have been studying this as best as we can for the last four years. We have recorded thousands of non-specific single events from many different eras and times. These were all with the intention of seeing if our cameras, or interventions, caused any effect either short term or long term on the futures that followed said events. Now, whether these were small, large, one minute, one hour, day, week or whatever, these have all been thoroughly tested to exhaustive limits.’
Buckley whispered under his breath in a sceptical manner. His round face creased and wrinkled, like that of a bulldog puppy as he adjusted his thick rimmed mahogany glasses. ‘Okay. But when you’ve reached your desired location in time, well, how do you get back?’
Mark waggled both of his index fingers in mock gun style, aimed at Buckley. ‘I’m glad that you asked that.’ He dug his right hand into the back pocket of his deep blue jeans, and pulled out a small square black gadget that looked like a television remote control. ‘This Black Hole Location Remote, or B.H.L.R., we like our acronyms here, will send a signal back to the device. Once I press this green button, the computer and the machine will instantly know where the signal has been emitted from. This in turn will let it, and the team, know where I am, and if I need an exact sized hole from whence I originally came.’
‘So, it acts similar to say… radio waves for example?’
Mark paused for a split second. ‘Yes, a bit more complicated, but in a roundabout way I suppose.’
Buckley’s full lips bent downwards as he gestured with his large head, seemingly satisfied by the Professor’s answers.
The room erupted into chaotic voices as the media tried to comprehend exactly what they were about to witness. All eyes became glued on Mark as he assembled his team around the machine. He turned and faced the crowd, to which hushed silence immediately followed.
‘You there, Madam,’ he asked directly, prompting the red headed middle-aged woman who sat amongst the journalistic elite. ‘Pick a path from the past.’
The woman looked round, slightly self-conscious at being singled out before straightening her posture. ‘Rosemary Phillips from the BBC World Service. You wish for me to pick a “path”, from any past walk of life?’
‘Yes, Rosemary.’
All eyes in the room burned her soul with envious glares.
‘Okay, let me think.’ Phillips thought for several seconds, fiddling with her media identification pass before smiling. ‘I’ve got it!’ she exclaimed in a clear English twang which drew excitement. ‘The Crucifixion of Jesus Christ!’
The room collectively inhaled.
‘Excellent choice, Rosemary. I couldn’t have picked a better path myself. This is one of the rare ones that we chose not to view, out of respect for the many religious implications that it could conceive,’ said Mark, addressing the rest of the audience. ‘I assume that there are no objections from any devout persons here?’ The faces all consumed one another, desperately hoping that all hands remained down. ‘Excellent. Ladies and gentlemen, please stay seated for the next several minutes as the team prepare for the path.’
The team of Mike Daniels, Joseph Keller and Mia Long helped Mark get into the simple military-style combat suit. The dark olive green outfit consisted of various pockets equipped with cameras and survival tools. A camouflage rucksack had been pre-packed; it was filled with the necessary food, a digital camera, and above all else security and first aid supplies needed for the potentially hazardous, unknown journey.
‘Are you ready for this, Mark?’ asked Keller in a firm voice.
Mark could feel his heart pushing out of his heaving ribcage. He felt nauseous as his limbs began to tremble. He looked at Keller’s youthful face which, despite glistening with thick beads of sweat, remained relatively calm.
‘Relax, Mark. You need to slow your heart rhythm down,’ interrupted Long. ‘I know it’s going to be scary, but you’ve got to calm down. If you don’t, you’ll be going into shock before we even get started!’
Mark nodded, trying to take deep breaths as he closed his eyes lightly.
Daniels’ rough grip continued to pull and prod the Professor. He made sure that every camera and piece of equipment was in its place, and working.
Long’s oval face came into Mark’s eyeline. He stared at the pretty, short-haired brunette for a while. I’m going to die today.
She used her slender hands to gently cup his quivering face. ‘It’ll be alright, Mark. Remember, you’ve been trained for this. Stick to the plan and you will be fine, and tonight we’ll all be celebrating your Nobel Prize for Physics award.’
Mark opened his eyes, taking comfort in the soft red lipstick smile that warmed his heart. He suddenly felt a tranquility pass through him as she playfully slapped his cheek.
She smiled again. ‘You’re almost good to go.’
‘Okay, let’s do this.’ He puffed out his cheeks and ran his fingers through his wavy hair.
Daniels helped place the military-style helmet on his head. He could feel the tech expert’s warm breath fan his sweaty face as he checked the camera that protruded from the green headwear. He looked admiringly at the bald, overweight former soldier. Daniels knew his stuff alright, they all did.
‘Doesn’t this gear come in any other colours?’ asked Mark, half jokingly. ‘After all, I’m going to Jerusalem, not the jungle.’
‘Good point,’ replied Keller as he spun around, his foppish brown hair semi-covering his pale blue eyes. ‘Here.’ He threw the white sheet that had previously covered the machine. ‘See what you can do with this.’
Mark shrugged his shoulders as he caught the sheet. He began folding it into the rucksack anyway.
The machine still hummed and whirred as the assistants stepped back, allowing Mark to face the throng. He raised his voice to compensate.
‘What we shall attempt to do now is to open a small Kerr black hole. This will be achieved by the machine, that itself will act as a mini Hadron Collider. Using Einstein’s theory of relativity, the particles will travel close to the speed of light before smashing into each other. As these particles fly around the collider they begin to warp space and time. They will then start to focus each other’s energies which shall “open” the portal. Now, the faster these particles travel, the greater the mass. This means that we can control the size of the portal that will open.’
Again, whispers sailed around the room. Mark couldn’t work out if the media were impressed, or if they thought he was insane.
He turned and nodded to Keller, who began furiously thrashing at the computer keyboard. His long manicured fingers danced effortlessly as they retrieved the information for the coordinates, dates and year required for the destination.
‘31º 47’00’ N 35º 15’03’ E; these are the coordinates for the Mount of Olives, in Jerusalem,’ shouted Mark over the throbbing metal as he craned his neck from the bright computer screen. ‘This is near where Jesus was reported to have been crucified, though at that time it was outside of the city.’ He looked back at the screen, then back to the audience. ‘I shall be transported to the Mount of Olives, to which I will travel through the Kidron Valley and on to the East Temple Mount. Once there I head to Golgotha, the place of the Crucifixion, which today is more commonly known as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.’ He waited for the next set of information to follow. ‘Okay, I shall be going back to Friday 3rd of April, erm… AD 33.’
Suddenly, there was a flash. The room shook and frightened cries came from within the crowd of seated bodies.
Long held up her hands and appealed for calm. ‘It’s okay, but please stay seated for your own safety, and ours.’
The audience remained half stood, half sat. There was a loud crackle, like the amplified sound of a fly frying on an electric insect repeller, as a 12-inch tear materialised in the air. A cold blast exited the rip as it gradually began morphing into a cylindrical spinning shape; it grew larger with each rotation, slowing as it reached its maximum five foot diameter.
Mark looked to each of his colleagues’ faces in turn. He instantly felt that each one portrayed false, confidence-lacking smiles as the gust from the hole blew their hair and clothes in all manner of directions.
Long mouthed the words ‘good luck’ to him as she shielded her delicate eyes with a pair of clear plastic glasses. He looked to the retreating crowd and gave a nervous thumbs up. Closing his eyes, he ducked and stepped through the coiling portal, and into the infinite blackness…
Mark heard another loud pop as the space began to rotate before his squinting eyes. White specks elongated into semi-circular lines that stretched endlessly. He felt violently sick as his head started to spin. There he stood, in the enormous centre of this black hole as events from all the different centuries of life swamped his brain in a drowning pool of imagery. They flashed up in large windows, like billions of television channels all waiting to be selected for the desired viewing. The preprogrammed times, dates and coordinates went to work. In a split second, numerous images were presented directly in front of his blurry, fading vision.
‘Yes, the Crucifixion, of Christ,’ he stuttered as he fought to stay on his feet.
Complete silence followed.
Bright sunshine struck his face as he staggered out of the spinning swirl of blackness; sweat immediately gathered upon his lined forehead. He peeled off the plastic protective glasses, the black elastic twanged as he tugged them from his head. Slowly, he stepped onto the water-deprived lands that were the Mount of Olives.
He raised his left hand loosely in front of his eyes in an attempt to block the blazing sunlight. He peered between his fingers before averting his gaze. The hole was gone. A feeling of sickness rippled through his stomach, forcing him to his hands and knees. He retched, vomiting up the liquids that he had previously drank. He watched as the grateful earth sucked up the watery contents and bile. Regaining his breath, he looked at his watch; 8:25 a.m. glowed back at him in green neon as he shielded the glass from the light. He was still disoriented as he tried to recover his equilibrium. He slipped the protective glasses into the rucksack, and pulled out the green water bottle. He quickly took a long drink which eased his sudden dehydration.
The helmet cam had to go, it was way too hot. Add the fact he would stick out like a sore thumb if he was spotted. He pulled the white sheet from the rucksack and splayed it outwards before wrapping it around his heavily clothed body. The heat was excruciating as the layers began to take their toll. He knew that he shouldn’t remove any of his clothing as the risk of leaving something behind was too great. Even though the tests had proved that nothing would be affected by something as simple as a lost t-shirt, he didn’t want to take the chance, he himself still had reservations. Besides, he didn’t have the room in his rucksack anyway.
Just get on and deal with it. He started the journey through the Kidron Valley.
He stopped for another drink amidst the heat. A quick glimpse at his watch told him that it was 9:10 a.m. He had been trekking the gruelling, gravel-strewn valley for around 40 minutes. He looked around cautiously before sighing in amazement as the valley appeared to carry for miles into the distance. It was another good opportunity for him to take some pictures of the surroundings on his digital camera. To the sides of the valley thick old trees stood firm, even in the sparse conditions. Gazing back, he snapped away at the crude handmade crosses, fascinated as they seemed to bob up and down in the sea of graves that drifted across the dirt hills. A touch of sadness washed through his sweat-soaked body, causing the hairs on his skin to rise. He knew that he was close as he looked forwards, at the East Temple Mount.
His relaxed demeanour was soon interrupted by loud noises. He turned sharply as the raucous sounds stung his sensitive ears. The globules of salty water ran from his skull, curving down his face as he listened intently. He took backwards steps behind the trees off the path. He remained out of view as he started to become agitated. He gently slid the camera and water bottle back into the sides of the rucksack, then tried to blend with the scenery.
The thunderous vibrations became louder as many feet trampled the parched earth. From his position he could see Roman soldiers bypass the temple on their march towards Golgotha. The gold in their tunics reflected fiercely in the blazing sunlight. Perspiration ran profusely from underneath the brass helmets that adorned their wet heads. A baying crowd followed swiftly behind. He bent his neck, desperate for a sign of Jesus which, he knew, would come soon enough.
Mark’s heart thumped as the top of the newly made wooden cross jabbed the warm air. It jutted up and down as it entered his vision repeatedly before disappearing. The strands from the scourge whips darted in and out of sight with each vicious, slashing strike. Flesh dangled grotesquely from the razor sharp metal and bone fragmented tips that were attached to its leather tassels. With each attack the glimmering shards got duller as fresh blood coated the unrefined weapons. The shadowy form carrying the cross cried as it struggled to remain on its feet.
He flitted between the trees, keeping a healthy distance from the crowd as he tried to direct his small shoulder cam towards the masses. I hope that you are recording this, Caravaggio’s paintings of the flogging are correct!
The hike up to Golgotha was unbearable. He dug his boots in firmly as he ascended the mount. The intense heat seemed determined to break him; the effort was immense as he staggered with the heavy rucksack. Suddenly, 300 yards ahead, the people stopped. He looked around quickly, pulling out a creased map as he searched for a suitable location to watch the events unfold. According to his position on the paper he noticed that the Garden Tombs were nearby. This was where Jesus was to be buried, for the second time. This wou
ld give him some necessary cover for now.
He climbed awkwardly to the top of the tombs, digging his hands into the dry surface as he retained a firm grip. He collapsed onto his knees, exhausted as he reached the top. Grimacing, he wriggled out of the cushioned nylon shoulder straps that had twisted into his sore flesh. He waited for a moment as he tried to regain his breath.
The rucksack lay in the dust next to him as he sat crouched, looking down upon the crowd. Lumps of dry mud rolled speedily away from him at the intrusion. Small trees and wasting greenery offered some minor protection from the eyes of Jerusalem. He pulled the helmet cam from the rucksack and positioned it carefully on his head. Then, he synchronised the recording settings with the shoulder cam, followed by the digital camera. He began taking pictures of the ancient scenes, clicking away like a maniacal tourist. He removed his eyes from the view finder and paused for several seconds.
From this point forwards, history books will no longer contain drawings. They’ll contain the exact pictures of the events themselves!
A stench of sweat, rotting fruit and human faeces hung in the air. Mark was continuously swatting the flies from his sticky face with one hand while attempting to gather information with the other. His body squirmed from the overbearing heat that engulfed his skin.
A horrific high-pitched scream penetrated the stifling atmosphere. Mark cringed as the sound sent a shiver down his spine. He raised his head for a better view, seeking to rise above the verbal spewing that was aimed at the centre of the controversy. Again, the Roman soldiers held back the people as they demanded blood; their spear-tipped pilums thrusted back and forth in their attempts to steady the clamouring waves of aggression.
Blurred Vision: Seven billion voices about to be silenced Page 17