by Anthology
Somehow I doubt it’ll actually be the first time.
I keep things simple at first. Calling the lab with bomb threats doesn’t work. They don’t believe me, or maybe it’s not the collider’s fault after all. Either way, the light comes right on cue.
Pranking the lab won’t tell me if they’re responsible. To know for sure, I’ve got to talk to someone in charge. Sniffing out a federal lab director’s personal info isn’t as simple as blackmailing my boss. It takes me a while, but when I’m done I feel like me and Dr. Sedgwick are old friends.
I can’t just call Sedgwick and tell him not to start the collider. He’s dealt with more than his share of whack job protestors. The man probably wouldn’t bother telling me to screw myself before hanging up.
I’ve got to play this smart. Hopefully it won’t take too many tries.
No matter how many times I call, it takes too long for the ringing to stop.
“Hello?” says the precise male voice on the other end of the line.
“Your name is Dr. Michael Sedgwick. You have a fourteen year-old daughter named Cassie with your ex-wife Rachel. She’s your ex because of the call girl you slept with during an Energy Department get-together in Georgetown six years ago.”
“Who—who is this?”
“Nobody,” I say, trying to keep the fatigue out of my voice. “Just shut up and listen. Right now you’re sitting on a heavy ion collider. In four minutes it’ll generate strangelets and turn the planet to charcoal.”
“Are you some fringe science reporter? If you’d read last Friday’s press release you’d know that the scenario you described has about the same chance of happening as being struck by lightning three times in a row.”
This is as far as I’ve gotten without Sedgwick hanging up. Poor bastard doesn’t know what his old lab assistant told me since last time, though.
“You got grant extensions on a finished study and spent the extra money on a side project good for five tax-free patents. That’s gotta be illegal. Maybe I’ll ask your DOE bosses.”
I hold the receiver close. Silence on the other end. Time to hang it up and try again.
“What do you want?”
I hear Sedgwick’s voice a moment before I put the handset on the base. In an instant the receiver’s back at my ear. “I only want one thing,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level. “Don’t start the collider.”
“I told you,” Sedgwick says, all ivory tower lecturer again. “The odds of strangelet formation are statistically insignificant.”
“And I’m telling you it’ll happen. I know it will because it already has. Over and over again.”
“You’re mistaken.”
I go ahead and vent my frustration. The prick’s earned it. “And you’re too chickenshit to call me crazy. I already know I am. But waking up in my bathroom every ten minutes after a blazing light takes me apart ain’t one of the symptoms.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t want to. Lord knows I wouldn’t if I didn’t keep seeing and feeling it.”
“If this is a blackmail attempt, then stop toying with me and make your demands.”
“For a scientist, you don’t learn so fast. Let me lay it out for you. My name’s Russell Karhart. I’m a drill press operator at Janowicz Metalcraft. I’m calling you from six miles down the interstate off of Veterans’ Highway. In three minutes or so the world’s gonna end, and I’ll end up in front of my bathroom mirror. It keeps happening, but only I remember.”
A sigh comes through the earpiece, and Sedgwick says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Karhart, but you’ve given me no evidence to support your story.”
“No evidence? Think about it. How does a rube like me get your private office number? How do I know about your kid and your affairs and your fraud? I’ll clue you in on a little secret, jackass. We’ve had this conversation before. Not only that, I’ve racked up one hell of a long distance bill with Cassie and Rachel and Vijay—or I would if I wasn’t stuck in a time loop out of some Saturday morning cartoon. Do you think I could crack your personnel file or pump these folks for dirt without any of it getting back to you?”
“You experience the same ten minutes repeatedly?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And each ten minute period terminates in a bright light, after which you find yourself in the same time and place where you began?”
“Glad to hear you’re catching on.”
“If I weren’t so inclined to question your sanity, I’d say you’re giving a pretty accurate description of quantum time travel.”
“Whatever it is, I’m gonna do it again real soon, and you’ll be dead. So give me the quick and dirty version.”
“Special relativity allows for time travel. It just takes huge amounts of energy. There’s also the issue of temporal paradoxes: killing your grandfather in the past, for example, which would in turn prevent you from being born and going back to kill him.
“Quantum theory hints at ways around these problems. Instead of transporting matter through a wormhole or a black hole’s event horizon, you’d simply alter its particles to match their quantum state from the target time period.”
“Amazing. What’s that mean to me?”
“Imagine that there’s a big rubber band tied around you, but the other end isn’t just tied to a fixed point in space; it’s also anchored to a certain point in time. In your case, that point is your bathroom ten minutes before the alleged strange matter event. This tether only has ten minutes’ worth of slack. After that it always snaps you right back to the same time and place.”
“You’re right. I have to be crazy, because that actually made sense. Can I cut the band?”
“That’s just a metaphor. To stop the repetitions, we’d have to know what fixed your quantum state at that point in time.”
Sedgwick pauses. The next I hear from him is a sharp inhale. Then he says, “If the collider is creating strangelets, it may have produced micro black holes. One of them could be the anchor.”
“I’m no rocket scientist,” I say, “but wouldn’t that mean it’s making mini black holes before the strangelets?”
“Most likely, yes. The ten minutes you keep reliving is probably the interval between black hole formation and strangelet production.”
“Holy shit, are you saying the collider’s already on?”
“Of course, Russell. A heavy ion collider isn’t like a light switch. There’s a lengthy startup procedure.”
“If that thing’s on, you need to get the hell off the phone and tell your people to shut it down, now!”
From the distant sound of Sedgwick’s voice, I can tell he’s set down the phone and is talking to somebody—urgently but calmer than I would—about turning off the collider. All I can do is stand there in my kitchen doorway. The air’s getting thicker. It smells like bacon grease and sweat.
“Russ?” Sedgwick says through the phone.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve asked the lead technician to terminate the experiment. For obvious reasons, I haven’t told him why. He says that the risks aren’t negligible at this stage, but he’s working to comply with my request while minimizing damage to the facility.”
Helpless rage bubbles up inside me like hot bile. “I don’t care if you turn the whole damn place into a smoking crater! We’re talking about the world, here.”
“I understand that, Russ. But even if we started ripping fuses out, at this point it could be worse than keeping the experiment running.”
“What’s worse than the end of the world?”
“We can’t assume worldwide destruction based on your experience alone. The event might only affect our little corner of the globe—unless we aggravate it.”
“Just tell him to hurry.”
I’m left hanging again, stewing in frustration. It’s too long before Sedgwick gets back on the horn and says, “The emergency shutdown won’t respond. The technicians are blaming some anomalous energy spikes. It’s ha
rd to tell at first glance, but these numbers are consistent with conditions theorized to generate strangelets.”
I’m not sure if the moisture on my cheeks is just sweat. I can’t keep my voice from cracking as I say, “Okay. We came close this time, but no dice. I’ll call you right back. You won’t remember, so give me something to cut through the bullshit and get you listening.”
“I believe you, Russell. I really do,” Sedgwick says in that voice parents use to break the news when a dog dies. “I was in the lab until four minutes ago. Nothing that could cause EM interference—including phones—is allowed down there. I answered your call as soon as I returned to my office. The plain truth is, even if you convince me right away, it’s highly unlikely we’ll be able to stop the collider in time.”
“How unlikely?” I ask.
“I’d say that the chances of successful termination within that window are statistically insignificant. I’m sorry.”
“Is there someone else I can call—someone who could reach you in the lab?”
“Trust me. That would take even longer. I wish I could tell you differently.”
I nod, knowing that Sedgwick can’t see me, and I set the receiver back in its cradle. Then the light comes and turns everything into it.
I’m looking at the razor. I think of running the blade down my arm, but the damn thing probably isn’t sharp enough to open a vein.
I’ve just dialed the lab’s head of maintenance when it dawns on me. I’m the one who knows. Why should I waste time getting people to believe me? If Sedgwick’s right and stopping the collider is dangerous, why should I ask someone else to do it?
The phone’s still ringing when I hang up. If you want something done right, do it yourself.
The collider’s plans and operating manual are all online. Learning enough tech jargon to read them takes longer than I’d like, but who’s counting?
I need a linchpin: an easy target. I know I’ve found it when I read about the collider’s power supply. It doesn’t pull juice from the grid. The lab has its own power station. If I take it out, I stop the collider.
According to Sedgwick, I’ve got six minutes to kill the power. A team of electricians working by the book wouldn’t make it in time, but they’d probably want to survive. Plowing a dump truck into the generator should get the job done.
Stepping onto the sidewalk is like walking out of prison. I haven’t seen the sun for so long it makes me squint, and the noise of traffic inching along the four lane street is deafening. Pedestrians on their way to work part around me like I’m a rock in a human stream. The cool air smells of exhaust fumes and a hundred different coffee blends.
People give me funny looks. It might have something to do with my half-shaved face or my choice of an undershirt and bare feet on a day when most folks are wearing jackets. I ignore them and look for transportation.
Every taxi in sight is full. Even if I could get one, the roadwork down the street is slowing traffic to a crawl. A vehicle won’t do me any good inside the construction zone, so I join the migrating herd of office workers. To be honest, I’m a little nervous around people after being holed up by myself for so long. Going with the flow of foot traffic, I only cover a few blocks before a blast of light and pain plants me back in front of my bathroom sink.
I ditch the razor and rush out the door. This time I dive right in, shouldering my way through the crowd while ignoring dirty looks from network admins and paralegals.
I’m still in the construction bottleneck when a red light stops the human herd in its tracks. I hesitate, which turns out to be a big mistake when I step from the curb and into the path of a truck. Time slows down enough for me to hear the squeal of brakes and see the horrified look of the kid behind the wheel. I’m glad it’s not a semi; just a pickup. It still kills me, though.
At least I’m pretty sure it does, because there’s much less pain, and blackness instead of light, but I end up looking at my half-lathered face in the mirror again. The razor’s plastic handle feels like lead in my hand.
Anyone else who got flattened by a truck and then woke up safe at home would be ecstatic. It’s all I can do not to vomit. Instead of relief, the only thing going through my head is the fear that I can’t die. If that’s true and I can’t stop the collider…
I sprint into the living room, through the hallway, and down the stairs. I jump from the third to last step and hit the ground running, knocking people to the ground in sprays of hot coffee. Loose paperwork flies like a ticker tape parade just for me. I ignore the dead people’s curses and surge forward.
I pace myself to make the light and breeze through the crosswalk. A block later my burning chest reminds me that I haven’t gotten regular exercise since I played right field in high school. I tell my lungs to shut up, and I keep pushing.
My vision’s going fuzzy around the edges when someone obviously more athletic than I am tackles me from behind. Cool concrete rushes up to smack my face and scrape my bare arms.
“Next time, listen when I say ‘stop’!” says the guy on my back. If he told me to stop, I must’ve pushed it into the background with all the other noise—not that I’d have listened anyway.
Cold metal clamps down on my wrists, and the guy—the cop—starts reading me my rights.
I try to explain how the officer doesn’t understand. How I don’t want to hurt anybody. How a whole lot of people will get hurt if he doesn’t get the hell off me and let me go.
What comes out of my mouth must sound a lot less reasonable than it does in my head, because the cop hauls me to my feet and locks me in a choke hold till I black out.
A mile a minute doesn’t seem like a tall order these days until the world’s riding on it. I make a game of seeing how far I can get before the clock runs down. Every step I cut out gives me more time. It’s a good run if I can shave a whole second off my dash through the living room.
I stop caring what people think when they see me burst onto the street, smeared with foam, in jeans and an undershirt. I don’t really see them as people anymore. They’re all dead, anyway. I’m the only one who comes back.
At least I think I am.
I’ve gotten to know my route pretty well. It’s not bragging to say that I’ve memorized every inch of the half mile or so I can usually cover before the light comes. For the longest time, nothing’s different but me and the stuff I change. Even Officer Salazar, that prick who takes me down sometimes, is always goose-stepping from his cruiser to the schmuck in the car he’s ticketing at exactly 7:53 AM.
Then one time, something else is different. I cut through the park—more of a green spot with some flowers and a couple benches—just before the intersection of Ninth and Veterans’ Highway. I go another half block before my brain registers the lady in pink and green sitting on the bench. She wasn’t there before. I’d bet a year’s lousy wages on it. I get so caught up in that train of thought that I never see the car that pastes me across the asphalt.
I take the same route next time, but nobody’s in the park.
I need wheels, and Salazar’s are parked at Tenth and Veterans’. I get there as he’s marching up to the car he stopped. Trying the cruiser’s door reveals that the moron left it unlocked. Unfortunately he wasn’t stupid enough to keep the engine running. I slide on in and start searching for a spare set of keys.
“Get the hell out of there!” Salazar sounds like he’s screaming in my ear instead of shouting from the curb.
I hit the power lock and keep looking for the keys, but Salazar uses his to unlock the door. He tases me, but that’s nothing compared to how much juice the light pumps through me.
Officer Salazar thinks he’s just doing his job. The bastard doesn’t know he’s the opposition in my little game. I feel a little sorry for him.
I could learn how to hotwire his car, but what fun is that when stealing his keys is a much bigger challenge? I’m not the world’s best pickpocket. Going the sneaky route gets me beaten, tased, and pepper sprayed mor
e times than I like to admit.
Time to answer force with force. I learn pretty quick that I can’t fight a guy who’s twenty years my junior and in much better shape; not even with surprise on my side. A weapon seems like the best way to level the playing field. When bringing a kitchen knife to a gunfight fails, I figure it’s best to use my enemy’s weapons against him.
The handgun’s in a holster that makes it much harder to steal than the taser, so I go for the easy score. Salazar tries to draw on me, but his holster slows him down. I pop two barbed metal bolts into his thigh. There’s a smell like singed plastic, and he goes down.
I grab the keys off Salazar’s belt and nearly fall over myself in a mad dash to the car. I’m in the driver’s seat fumbling with the ignition key when the son of a bitch gets up and starts limping toward me. He’s almost touching the side mirror when the engine roars to life. The construction zone’s too congested for a dramatic exit. Instead I ease into traffic with Salazar jogging beside me, pounding on the window and yelling.
Figuring out the lights and siren takes a minute, but when I do the other drivers make way. A ticking clock only I can hear drives me on.
Pretty soon traffic clears up enough for me to gun it. I’m coming up on Cedar when my speed starts dropping. Panic hits me harder than a truck. I mash the gas pedal to the floor, but the needle keeps dropping until I’m doing fifteen in a forty-five. A red rage takes me, and my fists batter the wheel, seats, and dash while obscenities pour from my mouth. The curses are just animal sounds by the time the light comes.
If I’d bothered to look it up, I’d have found out that all the local police cruisers have anti-theft devices. I don’t have time to kill the remote slowdown. I could kill Salazar before he reports his car stolen, but not the dozens of witnesses with cell phones.
There must be another way.
Plan B comes together sooner than I thought.
That woman’s in the park again. She’s wearing a pink dress and a green sweater. A light blue ribbon holds back her strawberry blond curls as she sits on that same bench and sips from a tall paper cup. I can smell her coffee as I run by. She waves at me.