by Mark Jeffrey
Bantam nodded. “But I already know how it was done.”
Hardin’s eyebrows shot up. “You do? Really. Usually only automatons know these things.”
“I don’t know any automatons. But I do know magic. Give me the deck. I’ve got one for you.”
Hardin obliged.
“Pick a card, any card.” He stopped short. “I can do better than that.” Bantam ferociously shuffled the deck. “You want to shuffle?” Hardin declined, seeming to think Bantam was doing a fine job of it.
Bantam set the deck down. “Jack of diamonds,” he said, flipping the top card over. It was. “Three of hearts. Seven of spades”—he flipped the topmost card off the deck as he declared its suit and number—“ten of spades. Want to know how I did it?”
“First you tell me how I did mine,” Hardin replied, amused.
“Easy. Shaved deck. One side’s slightly narrower than the other. You line up all the cards in the beginning and make sure I insert my card opposite the rest, which you do by turning your deck at the last minute if needed. Then you strip it by sliding your fingers along the side of the deck and boom! You’ve got my card.”
“Excellent,” Hardin said. “You no doubt noticed the subtle markings on the back of the deck, buried deep within the intricate design of the back of the card. The number of leaves indicates value, the shape indicates suit. You are observant.”
“As are you,” Bantam replied. “That’s what this is all about, right? The cards. The lollipops. You want to see what I catch and what I miss.”
“Why no!” Hardin protested. “This is about magic!”
“Magic, eh?” Bantam asked.
Hardin grew serious. He leaned forward. “The magic you know how to do that I don’t, that is saying something.”
“Tell me, Benjamin Bantam: How does one make a space pod appear out of thin air deep inside the most secure army base in America? The same base that serves as headquarters for the American space program?”
Bantam realized he must have landed in the sixties, which explained why nobody reacted to Coralbee’s name. He was probably dead or retired.
But that didn’t seem right either. The uniforms weren’t from the sixties. Hell, everything was off.
“You didn’t know that either,” Hardin observed, eyes narrowing. “I can see it in your eyes. Here we have a deeper conundrum. If this is a surprise to you, why did you come to a spaceport wearing a spacesuit?”
“It’s not exactly a spacesuit,” Bantam replied. “I’m not an astronaut. I’m a chrononaut. I don’t travel in space, I travel in time.”
Hardin raised the eyebrow hovering over his monocle.
“Listen,” Bantam said, taking a deep breath. “I brought some items with me that can prove what I’m about to tell you is the truth. If General Coralbee can be reached, he’ll corroborate what I’m saying.”
Bantam looked him square in the eyes. “Here it goes . . . I’m from the future.” Bantam added quickly. “Hear me out.”
Bantam interpreted Hardin’s silence as permission to continue. He spoke like an auctioneer. “The difference between me and a kook is I can prove what I’m saying. I’m on a mission for the United States Army. We have a disease that you have a cure for here—or you did back in 1944. In my time, it’s already lost. But it might still be here, even now in the sixties. The items in my capsule will prove I’m from the future. They’re way beyond anything you can make here and now.”
“That’s you’re story?”
“Yes. I swear to God it’s true, every word of it. I can prove it. Bring me my things from the capsule. I’ll show you.”
Hardin said, “Your capsule is elaborate and rather odd. But it’s also an impossibility. Why go through so much trouble to make an impossible thing? I am familiar with many of the materials, and there is a certain logic to it. But the cost must have been astronomical. Makes no sense.”
He is an odd-looking fellow, Bantam thought. Like a Martian or a leprechaun.
“I promise you it makes sense,” Bantam replied, rolling his eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I? There’s a type of energy similar to electricity but much more exotic and powerful. It sent me back in time.”
“But one thing confuses me. You said, ‘back in 1944.’ Exactly what year do you think it is right now?”
Bantam shrugged. “I’m not sure. Something’s gone wrong. I was supposed to end up in 1944. During World War II. But if you’re starting work on a space program, it has to be, what, the ’50s? The ’60s? I didn’t study this time period during my briefing for this mission.”
Without so much as a blink, Hardin said, “Benjamin Bantam. This is 1944.”
It was Bantam’s turn to stare in disbelief. “No. That’s impossible.”
“I assure you it is true,” Hardin continued. “April 8, 1944 to be precise.”
Bantam’s eyes widened. “I think my head just exploded a little bit in my mouth.” Getting a grip on himself, he muttered, “Things are different though. Something has to be wrong.”
“Different how?” Hardin leaned in, genuinely curious.
“Everything. Your clothes. Your handlebar moustaches. The fact that you’re even doing some sort of space program. There is no space program in the 1940s.”
“Let that go for a moment,” Hardin said. “You say you’re from the future. You want to gain our trust. I have a simple test for you. Can you tell us anything about our immediate future that could confirm your story?”
They’d prepared him for this but his brain was moving too slowly. His iPad had a full copy of Wikipedia on it, heavily encrypted with a mile-long password. If he could get to that, he could wow them. He commanded himself to think.
“Today’s April 8, you say?” He snapped his fingers and pointed. “Four days ago, on April 4, an Allied patrol snapped pictures of the Auschwitz concentration camp. That’s still a secret so there’s no way I could have known.”
Hardin stroked his moustache, twirling the tips around his finger.
Bantam continued, “But this is better. Tomorrow Soviet troops will fully liberate Sevastpool, and they’ll drive the Nazis out. It’ll be a complete but hard-won victory.”
“And I can even do better than that. I can tell you about a freak accident that will occur ahead of time. The sort of thing nobody could ever predict or fake. Tomorrow, an RAF pilot named Nicholas Alkemade will be shot down over Germany. He’ll bail out at four thousand feet with no parachute but he’ll live because the trees will break his fall.
“Two days later, on April 10, Mount Vesuvius will erupt at 6:19 a.m., local time. How could I fake that?”
“Let’s see what happens, shall we?”
Damn right.
HOURS LATER, there was yelling outside his cell door. He could barely make it out.
“Listen, Hardin, I’m going in there to ask him questions my way.”
This gruff voice sounded like General Veerspike’s but Bantam wasn’t sure.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
“That leg penetrated our security perimeter. I want to know how. He shows up at a space facility wearing a space suit? By my Newgate knockers, I want to know why! Was he planning on sharping the ship?”
Bantam scooted closer to the door.
Hardin said, “He wants the cure to a plague we’re developing. Are we developing such a thing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” the man snapped. “You may be in charge of the civilian space program but I’m—”
“I have discretion to make calls I deem appropriate. Your orders are to service us—”
“He is a security issue, doctor. He doesn’t fall under your—”
“All base operations fall under our supervision. Even security issues are left to our discretion.”
There was a pause and then, “For now.”
FOR ANOTHER three days, Bantam was left alone in an isolated cell they called a “salt box” with no windows or bed, only a sink and a toilet. Every time they moved him, they pl
aced a hood over his head.
For a shower, they blasted him with a hose and then deloused him as though he were in an insane asylum.
I will be an American hero, he repeated to himself.
After a blur of days, he found himself in the interrogation room again. Hardin had returned along with his two guards; another man Bantam recognized was also with them.
Despite their odd uniforms, the rank was recognizable.
“The name’s Veerspike,” the man said, seeing Bantam’s eyes on his shoulder “General Victor Veerspike.”
“Sir,” Bantam said, rising involuntarily before being yanked back by his cuffs. “Apologies sir, the captain finds himself unable to properly salute.”
“Captain Bantam,” Veerspike said. He studied Bantam closely for a long moment, and dumped out the contents of a sack he had been carrying. An iPad and an iPhone tumbled out onto the table.
“Are these the items you told Dr. Hardin about?”
Bantam’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir! If may be permitted, these can prove everything I’m saying is true.”
Veerspike cocked an eyebrow. “Uncuff one hand. Will one hand be sufficient to operate these apparatuses?”
Bantam noted the batty phrase Veerspike used. “More than sufficient.”
As soon as his hand was free, Bantam flipped on the iPad.
Nothing happened.
He flipped the switch and hit the button a few times. He’d made sure to keep the battery topped off by keeping it hooked up to the capsule’s electrical system.
He tried the iPhone with the same result: nothing.
Either the Volzstrang wave had depleted it, or one of Veerspike’s men had unwittingly run it down.
The problem was easily fixed so Bantam didn’t fret a second longer. He’d brought plugs and transformers for several kinds of electrical systems. “The battery’s dead. I’ll have to plug it in to make it work. Dr. Hardin. Is there a plug nearby?”
Veerspike and Hardin exchanged confused glances. “Plug?” Veerspike said.
“It’s out of juice,” Bantam explained. More looks of confusion. “I need an electrical outlet.”
The men showed signs of recognition, quickly followed by grimaces across the board.
Hardin squinted, clearly angry. “What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to prove my story. Once you see this, you’ll never doubt me again.”
“Are you saying your devices are electrical?”
Bantam nodded. Tired glances were exchanged all around.
Hardin leaned in close, seething with anger and embarrassment.
“Electricity is a myth. Like Greek fire. It does not exist. Are you trying to provoke General Veerspike. Is that it?”
Bantam was taken aback. “Why no, of course not.”
“Then can you please demonstrate your devices?”
“I can’t. Not without power.”
Hardin pulled away, annoyed.
“Okay fine.” Bantam persisted. “What about the Soviets? They took Sevastpool, right? Nicholas Alkemade, the RAF pilot I told you about, he was shot down, right on schedule, yes? And he lived?”
Hardin shook his head. Veerspike snorted in disgust.
“No,” Veerspike said icily. “None of those things happened. Not even close.”
Bantam began to wonder if this was all a dream.
“Now you listen to me,” Veerspike growled. “I’ve been patient until now. I’ve let the scientists go easy on you. But even they can see their trust was misplaced.” He glanced at Hardin. “I want answers, or so help me I will put the devil’s claw on you. Why did you break into this base?”
“General. Sir. I’m telling the truth. Can you contact General Coralbee?”
“There is no General Coralbee!” Veerspike exploded. “There is no electricity! Nothing you’ve said has any basis in fact! I’d call you a lunatic but you evaded all our security measures.”
IT WENT ON like this for hours. Same questions, same answers. Bantam was exhausted beyond belief, and he almost welcomed being locked up in his dark cell again.
He passed out as soon as he hit the floor.
This time, he missed the voices outside.
“Did you tell him?” Hardin asked.
“Tell him what?” Veerspike said.
“That Vesuvius did erupt. Exactly as he predicted.”
Veerspike growled: “Add that to the list of questions he hasn’t answered yet. I don’t like things I don’t understand, Hardin.”
“Patience, General Veerspike,” Hardin said. “Something interesting is going on here. It is worth investing some time to discover what it is. Would you say he is dangerous? A threat you can’t handle?”
Veerspike seemed taken aback. “Him? No. But that’s the only reason we haven’t tortured the truth out of him.”
After Hardin was out of earshot, Veerspike said, “Not yet.”
Cliff Cleveland, Astronaut
BANTAM AWAKENED in a new room. A sumptuous Victorian-style room.
This time he lay in a luxuriously comfortable bed. To his surprise and delight, an open window led to a vast balcony. No bars.
He hopped out of bed but found his arm restrained but not by leather bindings: a needle had been stuck into his arm. An I.V. drip.
“Tut!” a voice snapped. Bantam turned his head. Nobody was there. “Up here!” A buzz-cut blond with a lantern jaw was hanging upside down. His knees were hooked around a pneumatic tube that ran across the ceiling. He wore a wide grin Bantam gathered immediately was permanently plastered on his face.
“You’ve got needles in you. When General Veerspike finally let Dr. Archenstone examine you, she was most distressed.” The man made a mock-frown. “She insisted on proper medical care.” He gestured at the I.V.
“Thanks. I guess. Who are you?”
The man burst into laughter. “You passed the first test. I’m only the most famous man in America. The name’s Cliff Cleveland. Astronaut.”
Cleveland let go of the tube and landed on his feet with the perfection of a trained gymnast.
“Hardin wanted to see if you’d let your guard slip when you woke up. See if you were faking. But not you!”
“So what now?” Bantam asked.
“I asked Hardin if I could take you out for a walk. That is, if you feel up to it.”
“You mean . . . outside?” Bantam asked.
“Yes, outside. You’re still on a leash. You’re still a prisoner. But to be perfectly honest, they don’t know what to do with you. They can’t let you go until my launch. But they don’t want to be uncivilized. That would be ungentlemanly. Walk?”
“Sure,” Bantam replied, hardly able to believe his luck.
“You’ll find clothes in the closet. You say you’re an army captain but we have no verification of that. For now you’re a civilian, and these are civilian clothes. I’ll give you a few hours to get ready.”
Cleveland rose. As he left he said, “I would not endeavor to escape via the balcony. It’s a long way between floors, and you’d drop to your death. And you’d be shot while you are dropping. And when you landed on the ground, you’d be shot again. See you in a few hours!”
BANTAM removed the needle from his arm and rose to inspect his surroundings.
One vertigo-laced peek off the balcony verified everything Cleveland had told him. Bantam opted instead for a bath.
It took Bantam nearly half an hour to don the strange clothes they’d given him. The straps, buttons and collar were thoroughly bizarre.
But it was the newspapers lying around the room that Bantam found the most interesting.
He had expected to see news of World War II. The battles. The dead. The heroes. But he saw none of those things.
Instead, the front-page story featured the grand opening of the Phlogistonian Aerotel, a spectacular building “installed in the sky itself,” kept perpetually aloft by a combination of dirigibles and propellers.
No way, his mind snorted.
Furiously, Bantam flipped the page.
The next article spotlighted the President of the United States, Phineas T. Cobb, en route to the South American summit.
Underneath that, a story about the German Space Program.
Here we go, he thought.
But no, it was all wrong. This wasn’t Nazi Germany; this was old Germany.
To his utter shock, Bantam read that Albert Einstein was the head of the German Space Program. The accompanying picture showed Albert, his white hair waving in the wind, standing proudly next to the German spacecraft: a great Jules Verne-looking egg-like device made of iron, glass, and gold was attached to a black-diamond pole that stretched up forever.
With a start, Bantam realized it was similar to the pole he’d seen when he’d first arrived at Fort MacLaren.
After reading the article several times, Bantam surmised that this spacecraft would not ascend with rockets but by an elevator. The giant beanstalk—the endless pole—was a space elevator.
Bantam paused a moment to absorb the idea. He wondered what existed at the top floor.
As he flipped pages, he noted several pictures of dirigibles but no airplanes. Not one. People still used horse and buggies to get around, judging from other pictures. There were several personal dirigibles, cars with wings, propellers, and a cigar-shaped balloon to allow flight.
The cities were clogged with these contraptions. They flew amongst the buildings at all altitudes.
On the other hand, they had exotic materials that didn’t correspond to anything Bantam knew of in his world. Unbuntium, naphtholeum, and a gas called helux.
The giant space-elevator poles were not possible in his world. No material was strong enough to support a structure so thin and tall. Yet somehow these horse-and-buggy people had managed the feat.