The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga)

by Stan Hayes

  “With some pretty spectacular results,” Jack said.

  “Speaking of spectacular, let’s do a low pass over Chi-town and head out to the Pacific coast, where the changes in the last two millennia are way more spectacular.”

  It was as if they pushed off the roofs of the squat settlement of Chicago town, bounced over the Rockies and where circling the San Francisco Bay Area in seconds. “Hey,” Jack exclaimed, “what happened to the bridges?”

  “All torn down somewhere back in the early 2800s, after the stresses that the northward movement of the western peninsula along the San Andreas fault made them too dangerous to use. They’d become relics, anyway; virtually all vehicular transport was soaring over the Bay by then. Looks pretty without them, doesn’t it?”

  “You know, it really does. I can’t get over how sparse the buildings are on the coast.”

  “It’s like I said; intelligent people value their privacy. And by now, people know that living near the San Andreas can have its ups and downs. When you can live virtually anywhere you choose and do what you really want to do, the herd instinct’s no longer operative. Let’s move on down the coast; great view without 20th-century smog, isn’t it?”

  “Incredible,” Jack said as he continued to marvel at the all-but-undisturbed magnificence of the Pacific Coast, and, as they doglegged left, at the resurgence of timber and other natural growth in the San Joaquin Valley as they headed south to the Los Angeles basin. Many of the buildings that passed beneath them, while retaining the modest sizes of the Chicago and San Francisco areas, were set into the sides of the hills and cliffs overlooking the beaches, with no apparent concern about access to the area’s limited road system. “Highway 101 and its hot rods are long gone,” he said with a note of regret.

  “That’s for sure,” Nick agreed, “but people with the need for speed, and there are still plenty of them, don’t have to mess around with old confinements like roads, tracks or even pylons. Just jump in, or on, the electrogravitic vehicle of your choice and bang away. You can go as fast as the streamlining on your particular vehicle will allow.”

  As they circled the desert village that occupied a small spot within the site of the former city of Los Angeles, Nick said, “I’m going to need to hear a lot more about electrogravitics once we’re back on the ground. But tell me this; most of what you’ve described up until now sounds great for- how shall I say it? People of a certain maturity. Where do kids, such as they may be, go to have fun and get laid?”

  “Good point. Kids use a supercharged version of the system that’ll be in place when you’re about 40 years older than you are right now, a computer-network-based neighborhood that, no matter where they are, kids can exchange information, opinions, pictures and video recordings of each other and decide if, when and where they’d like to get together. Distance between people being much less a factor than it used to be, the fascination of putting music and hormones together can still produce reasonably large crowds of young people, and on pretty short notice. Not that it doesn’t work for adults, too; remember that line from the old Hank Thompson song, ‘I’ve got a million friends’?”

  “Oh, yeah; ‘Just Bummin’ Around.’”

  “Well, the world’s sort of like that now; out of the million people now on earth, every one of them’s a potential friend. Intelligence levels in general are high enough now that you’re not likely to encounter a bore.”

  A transcontinental dash took them to the East Coast, where the minimization of landmarks like New York City and the nation’s one-time capital, Washington, DC, looked very similar to that of the Midwest and West coast. “They moved the capital?” Jack asked.

  “Sure did.”

  “Where?”

  “Kansas City. Not much to it; just data storage and a few people- administrators, technicians, security- to make sure nothing happens to it. Even though, for all practical purposes, government as such doesn’t exist anymore, the archives record who we are and how we got here. Given the evolution of English, which is now the universal language, their value to linquists alone justifies security provisions which put the former Fort Knox to shame.”

  Jack sighed. “OK; what’d they do with the gold?”

  “Sold it off, a little at a time, over about a 20 year period, after the 29th amendment was ratified in 2042. The Balanced Federal Budget Amendment. How about one more stop before we head back?”

  “Sure.”

  They headed south, tracking the ridge of the Appalachians, then the Smokies. Jack saw Kennesaw Mountain first, then Stone Mountain far in the distance, and between them a modest little settlement that he hoped was still called Atlanta. They turned, tracking east, dipping down to treetop level, and Jack felt the feeling of home, stronger than he’d felt it since grade school. As they approached Bisque, there wasn’t a landmark of any sort to remind him of the little town where he’d grown up- until they headed south, when he saw a very familiar pair of buildings. “Nick! Are we back in the 20th century? That’s Chez Mose, sure as hell!”

  “Nope, not yet. Glad it looks the same to you; a lot of the materials, both interior and exterior, have changed over the centuries. But then so have the technologies that make it possible to preserve the 20th century look. A fitting monument to a remarkable man; Peter Weller, in his role as Moses Kubielski. I think we’ve done a creditable job in preserving it, if I do say so.”

  “I’ll say so, too,” Nick said. “But who’s ‘we’?”

  “You. And I.” As he said the words, they metamorphosed into images of their respective personae. Jack reflexively attempted to feel himself on various spots of his ephemeral self, and felt nothing.

  “Let’s take a couple of these,” Nick said, nodding at a group of one-piece formfitting chairs that looked to Jack as if they’d been molded out of dark blue plastic. Two of them separated themselves from the group, rose a foot or so above the patio surface, and proceeded to the water’s edge, where they landed. “and walk down to the lake. I’ve a bit more explaining to do.”

  They sat, looking at what Jack guessed were easily twice as many ducks as he’d ever seen on the lake. They took their turns landing on the swimmers’ raft, then diving into the water. “Those ducks; they look a little bigger than the ones I’m used to.”

  “They are; and fledged a bit differently too, but you have to get close to them to see the difference. We try to keep everything looking the same as it did in 1956, but evolution has a mind of its own, even in the relative eyeblink of two millennia. Which brings me to why we’re sitting here. Although it’s been, I think, the best for all concerned, I’ve been flying under false colors within those millennia for most of your life.”

  A look of profound resignation swept over Jack’s face. “How so?”

  “Well, first I was a bird, then I was a character from some of your favorite films, and I think both of those identities served us well. Going on with the charade, however, is kind of pointless in the light of what we’ll be doing later this evening. So, if it’s all right with you, I want to give you a look at my true self.”

  The resignation on Jack’s face deepened. “You’re not slimy or anything, are you?”

  “I don’t believe you’ll think so. May I?”

  “At least the pit of my stomach isn’t really here. Sure, go ahead.”

  In a fraction of a second, Jack was looking at himself. He grinned, already understanding the cosmic scope of the joke. “Holy shit.”

  A graying, slightly weatherbeaten Jack Mason smiled back at him. “Sorry about slipping you the red herring; my spurious birth in the fifth millennium, that is. I thought it best to give you the truth in digestible doses. Anyway, not bad for a 2295-year-old, huh?”

  Pete rolled out on a heading of 095 as the altimeter passed through 1200 feet, the Albatross carrying 50% flaps as it descended on Lake Lavon, airspeed steady at 80 knots. At 1230 local time, the terrain around Dallas had built up sufficient heat, even in late November, to make the first part of the approach
fairly bumpy, but the controls’ spasms died down as the aircraft passed over the lakeshore. Settling into the calm water with its customary thump, it slowed quickly, grudgingly accepting transition to boathood. Pete glanced over at Linda with the trace of a smile. “Wanna drive?”

  “Why not? I’ve got it,” she said, adding power to the starboard engine as she spoke. The preflight briefing, delivered secondhand to her by Pete, called for mooring the Albatross, port side to, at the end of the jetty on end of the U-shaped lake by 1300 hours. As the nose passed through the middle of the 180 degree left turn, she gradually pulled back the power and prepared to meet it with power from the port engine. Pete had already broken out the binoculars and was scanning the shore for the jetty.

  The plan provided for a man in a red shirt to be offshore in a dinghy; once he was sighted, they would bring the aircraft back to an easterly heading and hold it against the wind, which was forecast to be 10 to 15 knots out of the east-northeast. Red Shirt would take the plane’s bow line, make it fast to the jetty, tow them in hand-over-hand and secure a stern line. They would then wait for their two passengers, dressed as golfers and carrying golf bags, who, except during takeoff, would not speak and were not to be spoken to. On the golfers’ arrival, scheduled to be no later than 1320 hours, Red Shirt would cast off the Albatross, freeing it for takeoff and a return to Miami, directly over the Gulf of Mexico under visual flight rules, just as they’d come.

  Red Shirt having retired to a well-worn black & white 1957 Chevy two-door that was positioned to block the jetty, Linda and Pete took the opportunity to relax for a few minutes prior to the return leg. They had topped up the fuel tanks at Galveston on the way in, so the run back in beautiful autumn weather promised to be just as smooth as the ride over. A long day, but it paid some bills and didn’t include the possibility of being shot at, which was an unavoidable risk with most of the jobs they’d flown for the CIA’s Miami Station since John Bisceglia had shown up there as one of the heavy hitters a couple of years back. “Johnny Boots,” as he was known in Cosa Nostra circles, answered to “Colonel Bisceglia” when he was on CIA business. That business was the assassination of Fidel Castro.

  They relaxed in the cockpit, drinking early-morning coffee from the two-gallon urn that had been recently installed in the plane’s mini-galley. Linda checked the weather forecast on the VHF radio, then ran idly down the dial to see what she could find in the way of music. What she got instead was Dan Rather reporting the shooting of President Kennedy. The President, Rather said, was being driven at high speed to Dallas’ Parkland General Hospital for treatment. The prognosis, Rather hinted, was likely to be grave. “Jesus! This can’t be happening,” Linda grated, her left hand flying unconsciously to her throat.

  “Sounds like it has,” Pete said in a flat tone that held no optimism. “Let’s see what else he has to say.”

  1320 hours came and went; the golfers were a no-show. Then, on the heels of the announcement that President Kennedy had died from multiple gunshot wounds, three staccato beeps from a white Rambler station wagon’s horn cued their arrival. “Tell me when they’re aboard,” Pete said; Linda stepped up onto the copilot’s seat, putting her head and shoulders through the Albatross’s upper hatch. The briefing called for the flight crew to take in the bow line, and for the passengers to bring in the stern line on the pilot’s command. They would then secure the after hatch, advising the flight deck via the intercom when the after cabin was ready for takeoff. “They’re in; there’re three of them,” she said, clambering up through the hatch and onto the aircraft’s nose to await the released bow line.

  Red Shirt gave the nose a healthy push out into the lake; Pete advanced the port engine’s throttle for a few seconds to bring the aircraft to an easterly heading. Handing the coiled line to Pete through his overhead hatch, Linda returned to the cockpit and took it back from him, stowing it behind her seat. “Flight deck to after cabin,” Pete called, “recover the stern line and secure the after hatch. Advise ready for takeoff.” as soon as he felt the stern line go free, he advanced the throttles to move them into the channel and get the aircraft onto “the step,” with the hull riding high in the water, as quickly as possible. The wind had died down, and he wanted to take advantage of that; the Albatross could be a real handful in a crosswind takeoff. “Flaps 100%,” Pete said to Linda.

  The intercom crackled. “All set aft, Ace,” a gravelly voice declared.

  Acknowledging the transmission with a quick double click of his mike button, Pete pushed the throttles forward to takeoff power. “Call airspeed,” he grunted. That beach’s gonna come up fast.”

  “80 knots,” Linda responded. “90 knots. 100...” The Albatross broke free of the water, rising slowly over the scrub pines and bungalows crouched on the lake’s windward side. Pete initiated a gentle right turn, heading south for Houston, the Gulf and Miami.

  After hearing early radio reports of the President’s shooting and death, Linda and Pete were forced to conclude that their passengers were likely to be connected in some way to what had happened. As twilight approached, Pete dialed in 870, WWL New Orleans, on VHF, and they listened to Neil Strawser, the anchor for CBS News’ radio coverage of the unfolding drama in Dallas and Washington. The President’s accused assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald, a one-time Marine turned defector to the Soviet Union, denied any connection with the killing of the President, or that of police officer J.D. Tippit, who had been shot dead near Oswald’s boardinghouse within an hour of the President’s shooting. Dan Rather, the CBS reporter in Dallas, quoted Oswald as saying to reporters at the police station, “I didn’t shoot anyone,” and “They’re taking me in because I lived in the Soviet Union. I’m just a patsy!”

  They were still digesting Oswald’s words when the aircraft suddenly yawed to port, vibrating as though it were being buffeted by storm-force winds. Switching off the autopilot, Pete applied hard right rudder and held it as he said to Linda, “Go back there and see if you can see what’s going on.” Hopping out of her seat, she moved to the cockpit door for a preliminary look at the situation. Looking beyond one of the “golfers,” who was seated with an open umbrella in the passenger seat nearest the door, she could see that his two companions had opened the top half of the after hatch. One of them held the door open against the air stream, while the other held an upended golf bag in the opening, dumping its contents into the Gulf.

  As she was about to move aft to get the hatch closed, she felt the impact of an object hitting her left shoulder. She was looking down at the spot where she’d been hit as her knees buckled. The man holding the umbrella quickly closed it and ran, ashen-faced, back to his associates. Grabbing the man with the golf bag, he said to him, “The fucking thing still had a dart in it; it’s in her now, and she’s a goner. What the hell are we going to do now?”

  “Shit!” The other responded, running immediately forward to look at Linda momentarily, and then to the flight deck, pistol drawn, to confront Pete. “What the fuck was that girl doing back there? Now she’s dead. A stupid fucking accident, but she’s dead just the same. How long before we get to Miami?”

  Without responding, Pete pulled the yoke back into his stomach, propelling Linda and the golfers immediately into the tail section of the aircraft, stunning the golfers sufficiently to allow Pete to level out, engage the autopilot, and pull his MAC-10 from the bag mounted on his seat back. Killing the three golfers with as many short bursts, he turned to Linda. Cradling her head in his left hand, he gently pulled up her eyelid, confirming that she was dead.

  Leaving the golfers where they lay, he carried her gently forward, placing her in the aircraft’s forward lower bunk and securing its safety straps. Returning to the flight deck, he sat in serious thought for two or three minutes, then switched off the autopilot and took up a heading of 030 for Bisque Municipal Airport.

  28 DIMENSIONALLY STABLE

  It was five past two in the morning. They’d crossed the coastline about an hour back at 6000 feet jus
t south of Myrtle Beach, the autopilot holding a steady 084 magnetic per Nick’s instruction. Linda sat in the copilot’s seat, looking as healthy, if not more so, as she had before she’d been hit by the assassin’s fatal flechette, even under the cockpit’s red illumination. “Feeling OK?” Nick, now visible to her and Pete as well as Jack, asked her.

  “Hell, I feel fine,” she said with a bright smile. Glancing toward the rear of the aircraft and the bodies of the assassins, she asked, “Did that guy really shoot me with that stupid umbrella?”

  “Yes, he did,” Nick responded. “Good thing that you made a liar out of Jack and kept your amulet on. That was the CIA’s fatal toxin, not the one tactical teams use to put guard dogs to sleep.”

  She looked askance at Jack, who was standing behind Pete. “I just said that I didn’t think any woman would keep any piece of jewelry around her neck 100% of the time,” he said, still mildly delirious over Linda’s recovery.

  “Well then, Sparky, I didn’t make a liar out of you after all,” she said, raising her left ankle sufficiently high for everyone to see her Flx miniature. “ Now- ah-”

  “Nick.”

  “Nick, yes, I’m so sorry, but my head’s still a little scrambled. Jack’s right about one thing. He gave these- amulets? to Pete and me while we were on Mr. Pawley’s boat. He insisted that we put them around our necks right then, so I did it, more to humor him than anything else. He wouldn’t tell us where he’d gotten them, just insisted that we never take them off. Now you’re implying that it had something to do with saving my life?”

  “It had everything to do with it,” Nick told her. Now that I’m part of all three of your realities, it’s time to come clean about the little- well, Jack’s always called them mini-Flx’s, so let’s just call them that. Put simply, they’re perpetual storage devices that hold everything necessary to reproduce you, in case of something such as you just experienced happening.”