Soul Source: Back and There Again

by Charles Vella

  "Pretty much the farthest back we've gone is about a year," Poole said. "We have, over the years, steadily increased the distance back and examined the results."

  "With one exception, Pruitt said. "The maximum trip has been eight months, three days, sixteen hours, seven minutes and forty-five seconds. But," he turned and stared at them. "There was a fundamental difference between that exception and the mission we're discussing here."

  "What difference?" Agnes smiled. "I'm somewhat at a disadvantage Pruitt since I don't know what mission we're discussing or the exception."

  Pruitt didn't bother to answer but his eyes told Agnes and everyone else that he didn't believe that for a second.

  In the ensuing silence Warren and Sturgell Bob caught each other's eye as if trying to see who'd broken wind at the funeral. Warren finally gave a gentlemanly cough.

  "This is very sensitive ground Agnes. Very few people, this committee and the chrononauts who carried out the mission, know about Operation Sole Source. There are no written records. Not even handwritten notes. A minimal team of operational people were used and they've signed non-disclosure agreements that can only be described as draconian. We never talk about it outside of level three conference rooms or above."

  Agnes drummed her fingers on the table and stared back at him. "Well," she finally said. "We're in a level three conference room now, aren't we?"

  Warren gave the rest of them a glance and shrugged.

  "Sole Source is the subject of the first time travel protocol. From the beginning of the project, Ted and Pruitt believed..."

  "Realized."

  "...that there are two fundamental principles we must adhere to. The first is absolute secrecy."

  "Which is fraying at the edges."

  "The second is exclusivity. It's essential not only to achieve time travel, but to control it. We therefore send teams to the future to discover whether or not any other group appears to be close to achieving time travel. If they are..."

  "We send someone back to sabotage them before they can get started," Pruitt finished. "The benefits of Sole Source outweighed the significant intervention risks."

  "Brilliant," Agnes said, her problems lost for a second in genuine admiration. That was worthy of Rick Hartron. "But how do you find out?"

  "It's a small world when it comes to potential time travel. We have employees, ah, embedded in any organization with the potential to achieve it," Warren said.

  "Except the Chinese government," Pruitt said.

  Warren nodded sadly, as if the Chinese government had somehow disappointed him. "We're still working on that. But we don't believe that they've achieved it. We're working out a plan to infiltrate them that involves sending someone to the distant past and not bringing them back but aren't there yet."

  "That's why you'll see almost no Chinese employees here, even though more than three quarters of the engineering graduates in this country are Chinese," Poole said.

  "Dr. Ted was afraid the Chinese government has its own Sole Source," Agnes said.

  "Precisely," Pruitt answered, glancing at her with something bordering on respect.

  "We used to be able to recruit Indian engineers but they started going back home right after college," Poole said. "They can't stand driving past all the poverty and crumbling infrastructure in this country."

  "More jobs and better food," Warren added nodding.

  "How do you get around the hiring quotas?"

  "Aah..." Warren said. "The hiring quotas."

  "We go back and change birth certificates of some of the candidates," Pruitt explained. "We can turn them into any ethnicity we like. The primitive systems back then are child's play to our hackers. The deviations from that are surprisingly low."

  "We believe we've found a legal justification..." Warren began, but Agnes waved him off.

  "So Sole Source? The mission you're talking about. You've sent someone back to the past to sabotage someone else's time travel?"

  "We've only had to send one team back so far," Poole said. "You've probably forgotten the faster than light neutrino discovery."

  "I remember. It turned out to be an equipment failure. Hard to believe."

  "That's because it didn't happen," Pruitt said. "Or rather it happened because we sent a team back to loosen a fiber optic cable so the discovery would be discredited."

  "It was a complete success," Poole said. "We sent a future team that time."

  "A future team?"

  "Teams that travel to the future rather than the past. They're primarily men," Poole said with a glance at Pruitt.

  "That was appropriate for Sole Source," Pruitt said. "But this case is different. Men are far too likely to intervene to be trusted with travel to the past. The data suggests that the average man's range of emotional maturity can't be depended upon to watch a crisis unfold." Well he was right about that much. Society had confined primitive men to hunting for good reason. If they'd been in charge of gathering and child bearing the species would've died out before Moses.

  Agnes started to answer but another voice cut her off.

  "The future check from Sole Source showed an impact that was off the scales." Agnes started at the voice and turned to the scarecrow a couple of seats away from Poole. Even sitting he was a head taller than anyone else. That head rested on a neck that didn't seem thick enough to hold it. When he talked his Adam's apple bobbed up and down like the ball on one of those carnival games they'd had when she was a kid where you tried to ring the bell by hitting it with a hammer. It was the first thing Sturgell Bob had said since murmuring his name and slipping a cold, dry, bony palm into hers. "Hard to separate out whether it was because of the distance back or because it was the only mission that was an active intervention into the past. Most of the time we avoid interventions. We looked into it more closely and found some unexpected ramifications. Some positive, some negative."

  "There are no positive unexpected ramifications," Pruitt said. "Even the positive ones are negative."

  "That about sums up your life philosophy Pruitt," Poole said, but baiting Pruitt was like dangling a worm in front of a painting of a fish.

  "So the world we're living in..."

  "Ah," Warren had mastered the art of jumping into a conversation with a murmur. "All of those records have been destroyed." He glanced around the room. "There is no record of what the world would have been like without Sole Source." Just in case you wanted to know.

  "I wasn't asking Warren," Agnes lied. Warren sealed the pact with a dishonest smile that said, 'of course not.'

  "I have to agree with Pruitt," Sturgell Bob went on, although doing it appeared to give him about as much pleasure as sniffing something a dog'd dropped on the sidewalk. "Going back that far in time is dangerous enough. It's very important that the team is scrupulous about confining themselves to gathering information and not intervening. Even then..." his words trailed off in a shrug.

  "How do you actually check the future impact?" Agnes asked to give herself time to think. They didn't want the mission either. But telling Rick that she couldn't do it would only get her yanked and replaced with someone more compliant. She was going to have to send someone, so why not...her mind drifted back to the young woman with the bat, Sarah, as Sturgell Bob talked.

  "It's quite simple. We send chrononauts to various points in the future before the mission and again afterward. They collect similar data to that collected in the present and we measure the differences. As I said, there is an algorithm that reduces the data to a single percentage deviation."

  "Travel to the future is even more dangerous than to the distant past," Poole said. "Not to mention that the opportunity for abuse is great. You wouldn't want the chrononaut buying a lottery ticket." He looked around the room but only managed to get a wince from Warren. "So those missions are carefully controlled. We, or rather the future versions of ourselves, collect a standard set of data that is handed over to the chrononauts in a highly
controlled environment. The chrononauts don't leave the facility."

  "Why dangerous?"

  "Time travel," Sturgell Bob said "...isn't just a matter of moving through time." His voice scraped across her ears as dry as his palm had been on her hand. "You also need to position the chrononaut at a point in space where she can land. For short periods into the past we can know this exactly because essentially the entire surface of the earth is photographed virtually constantly. As long as we avoid roads and sidewalks where people might be walking there's not much risk. Farther back though, there are much bigger gaps in photographic evidence. And in the future there are only what's been sent back from other missions to the future, and that's incomplete. Early on, we missed several times."

  The solemn faces around the table told Agnes everything she needed to know about what it meant to 'miss'.

  "So you could drop someone inside the wall of a building."

  Sturgell Bob nodded solemn agreement. "Or under a car if a road's been built that we don't know about. And of course we also need to estimate the exact position of the planet and its speed and direction relative to the time of the launch. We have very accurate records for the recent past. Before that the records are good but there's a margin of error that could easily prove fatal. And every time we travel farther into the future the potential variance in the estimate rises."

  "And what happens if I end up in the same room as my past self?"

  "That shouldn't happen," Poole said quickly. Agnes glanced toward Pruitt and found herself staring into his eyes. Confidence and experience were sucked out of her like a vacuum cleaner. She was suddenly twenty again, mesmerized into walking into the headlight of an approaching train. She felt the blood rush to her face.

  "Agnes?"

  She broke free from Pruitt's stare, catching the trace of a malicious sneer as she turned to Warren, who was staring at her with equal parts concern and curiosity.

  "Sorry," she said, taking a deep breath. "I seem to have drifted away." Bad trip? Couldn't get to sleep? Apologize, but making excuses is a sign of weakness.

  "We're very careful to keep chrononauts away from their past selves," Poole added piously, the high priest explaining secret rites to the uninitiated. He was focused on Pruitt. Didn't seem to notice Agnes turning red as a tomato. She refused to look around and see who else was wondering what her problem was. Get a grip. There's too much at stake here to act like a schoolgirl.

  "We don't have the least idea what would happen," Pruitt said. "We've been lucky so far that we haven't found out, so of course we assume that means it isn't possible."

  "As it happens," Warren's smooth baritone rolled over whatever'd been about to come out of Poole's mouth, which drifted shut as he glared Pruitt as if he were trying to figure out where exactly to put the knife. "This particular mission is to go back about the same amount of time as Sole Source. Twenty-four years."

  "The risks are incalculable," Pruitt told the air over their heads. "For all we know none of us will still be sitting here once they leave."

  "Once they leave?"

  "Think about it," he said, turning back and boring into her eyes again, but she was ready this time, and stared back. "From our point of view in the present, once they leave it's happened, whatever it is. We're powerless. All we can do is look at the deviations when, if, they return." He stopped and looked around the room, finally letting his eyes settle on Warren. "This would be crazy if Ted were still here. It's potential suicide without him."

  They sat in glum silence. Not even Poole bothered to argue with that assessment.

  "And what," Agnes said slowly, watching for Pruitt's reaction. "Could be so important to be worth those risks?"

  "Spare us the charade Agnes," Pruitt answered. "We both know you've been fully briefed. No doubt you know more about all this than we do."

  The rest of them watched Agnes but she ignored them. "What's the process for considering missions?"

  "The Planning Committee meets," Warren said.

  Ah. How could she not've guessed? This place probably has committees for parking and bathroom cleanliness. "And who is on the Planning Committee?"

  "The people in this room. Along with operational and technical support, outfitting, travel...."

  "Then I suggest," Agnes said, standing with a confidence she wished she felt. She waited while they scrambled to their feet, surprised they couldn't see the emotions surging under her thin layer of skin. Her psyche's chant of 'stop the mission' being slowly drowned out by a chorus of 'stop the crime.' And why not? Even beyond the selfish reasons of stripping away years of guilt, why not save the people who'd died there? But could she really stop it? Why not? she asked herself again. "...you find them. It appears we've got a mission to plan. I'll be in my office." Trying to figure out what to do about all this. She scanned them with her eyes, which rested on Pruitt. "Waiting."

  Agnes watched them file out. Poole with a nervous smile, Sturgell Bob eyeing her curiously. Warren with the bemused expression good lawyers always wore to show that everything'd come out just as they'd expected.

  Pruitt followed at the end of the procession, then stopped in front of her. They stared at each other for a long time.

  "I think," he finally said in a low voice, one eye on the door as it slid closed. "That we should talk. Don't you?"

  *

  "They're in there aren't they?"

  The young woman'd marched down the hall right up to where Justin stood next to the empty secretary's desk, trying to convince himself that spying on his new boss was a morally acceptable avenue for career advancement. The only good part, or at least the closest part to a good part, was that Mr. Hartron'd assured Justin that Agnes knew exactly why he was there. He didn't doubt that. Agnes was his mother and every teacher he'd had in elementary school rolled into one terrifying bundle of lethal authority. Like the child of Attila the Hun and the Wicked Witch of the West. 'Oh look. She's strangling the puppy for wetting on the carpet. Isn't that adorable?'

  "Who?" he asked. She walked past the hand he held up to stop her and stared at the closed door with a frown before turning and looking him over disdainfully.

  "Who're you?"

  Who am I? I'm the assistant to the new director. I'm the one asking the questions here. And just who are you?

  "Justin," he finally said, leaving out his last name the way he had ever since the first day of kindergarten had taught him what his mother'd never mentioned. Even the teacher's lips had curled up when she'd read it. The young woman nodded as if that's exactly what she'd expected then turned back to the door.

  "Who're you?" he finally ventured.

  "Sarah," she snapped without turning around, evidently figuring they were holding their relationship to first names.

  "Nice to meet you."

  She nodded. At least it looked as if the back of her head were nodding. She turned back and looked at him without appearing to see him. Her mind someplace else. He felt his courage creeping back. He walked around between her and the door and stood facing her.

  "Who're you looking for?"

  She glared at him a minute as if wondering whether she'd bother to tell him. "Pruitt," she finally spat out the name as if it were wrapped in rotten fish. She looked up as if she'd suddenly noticed Justin standing in front of her. "He can't get away with this. Even if Ted is gone."

  "Get away with what?" But the question was lost as the door slid open and they filed out of the room, eyeing him without curiosity. Whatever'd gone on in there had sucked up whatever attention they had. Three of them walked past as Justin stood staring at the open door. Evidently the Pruitt that Sarah was looking for wasn't one of them because she didn't accost any of them as they passed. The first one ignored her, the skinny, nerdy looking one gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder, and the sharply dressed black guy threw her the tolerant, bemused look he might bestow on a small child that he knew was up to no good. Sarah took a step toward the door but Justin m
oved deftly in front of her.

  "Sorry," he said, marshaling all the importance that he could attach to his ambiguous status. "I need to make sure they're finished first."

  "You..." she started, but he'd already taken a step toward the door. Take control. Don't let these women push you around. The only way to gain their respect was to demand...

  "What the hell do you want?"

  Justin's mouth opened. What do I want? What do I want? Doing my duty. What do you think? A parade of answers whirled through his mind but all that made it to his open mouth was, "I...I..."

  "Outside." Agnes pointed a finger at him that he was sure was going to start shooting. "NOW."

  Justin leapt back as the door swished closed in his face. He stared at it for a few seconds then turned.

  "They're still conferring."

  "I heard," she said with a smirk. "Never mind." She turned on her heel and strode away. "Waste of time anyway," she called over her shoulder.

  He stood in front of the closed door, watching her walk away. Something about her that he couldn't put his finger on. The door swished open behind him and he turned.

  The person who came out of the room didn't say anything. Just stood there with his nose a quarter inch from Justin's forehead and stared down at him with icy blue eyes until Justin stepped back, stammering apologies, then walked past as if he'd mercifully stepped around an insect instead of crushing it under his shoe.

  "Just in case you still don't understand," Justin turned to the voice, smiling weakly even though he knew it wasn't a joke. "...even though I've explained this to you. You. Are. A. Flunky." Each word came down as if she'd taken off a high heel and was using it for punctuation on his forehead. "Your job is to spy on me and report back to Rick." OK. So at least Mr. Hartron was right about that part. "But you don't ever," she marched two steps at him and it took all of his will power not to flinch. Well, almost not to flinch. What was it with her and pointing fingers? "Ever." She stopped with the tip of her nail making a very slight impression on his nose. "Ever. Walk into a private meeting of mine again. Ever. Do. You. Under. Stand?"