by Mark Jeffrey
But Bantam was hardly listening. He could barely contain his excitement. Hoermann Volzstrang, the man whose equations made time travel a reality, was actually here! Maybe he could shed some light on why Bantam landed in the strange 1944.
The spacious control room was punctuated with red recliners and flowers, almost like a lavish hotel lobby. The crystal skylight siphoned dappled sunlight that danced across the marble floor. The control room proved much quieter and downright pleasant.
All along the circumference sat men typing furiously on mahogany-and-ivory keypads. Above them rose great panels that appeared to be screens.
Screens? How can they can have screens without electricity?
Inside the control room, Cleveland called out, “Dr. Volzstrang! Are you here?”
A walrus of a man turned around and pulled at his moustache. “Yes?”
“Dr. Volzstrang!” Bantam said, thrusting his hand out. But Cleveland yanked him back. “Tut! You are still a prisoner, Bantam. Have a care now! No sudden movements.”
Bantam proceeded more slowly. “Dr. Volzstrang. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
MOMENTS later, they were seated around Volzstrang’s ‘screen’.
Bantam was given a stylus that attached to gears and levers to a much larger stylus that moved across a series of pins on springs, depressing them as it passed.
To Bantam’s amazement, each pixel of Volzstrang’s screen was made of a tiny crystal with a highly reflective light side and a dark side, similar to the mechanics of a watch. Whenever something was entered on the keyboard, there was the sound of a small rush of water, and the pixels turned and formed characters, reflecting the naphtha light to cause it to glow like an electric screen might.
Feeling odd about it, Bantam wrote the Volzstrang equations down in front of the man who had invented them.
When the math was on screen, Volzstrang—a quiet man, Bantam realized—stared with rapt appreciation, his mouth muttering a prayer of logic and numbers.
“It is ingenious,” Volzstrang said finally. “Only a few minds in the world could have produced this. Is this your work, young man?”
“No,” Bantam said. “It’s yours. Even where I come from, you’re one of the world’s best pencils.” Hey look at me, catching on to the lingo.
Volzstrang looked up like he’d been slapped. Cleveland cringed and shook his head; apparently this was a negative term of endearment.
Bantam quickly told Volzstrang the story of his trip back through time, with Cleveland chiming in occasionally to tell the story from the army’s point of view.
When they’d finished, Volzstrang said, “This is all academic. The production of the timewave is impossible without the existence of electricity. Many of those numbers up there represent electrical qualities.”
“Dr. Volzstrang. Assume for a second that electricity exists. Pretend it’s real. If we produced a timewave—and if say, someone rode it back through time—could it theoretically push them into an alternate universe where history was different?”
“No,” Volzstrang snapped.
“No?”
“No.”
“You’re going to totally rule that out?”
“Yes,” Volzstrang said. “That would take a different kind of wave altogether. The plasma vectors would form a differential plane.”
Bantam waved him silent. “Not that.”
“How were you planning on accumulating tomorrows, thus effecting a return to your proper time?”
They all turned. Dr. Rachelle Archenstone stood behind them.
Bantam rose, trying not to look her up and down. He realized that Cleveland and even Volzstrang were fighting the same urge.
“The timewave bounces forward in time once it unloads the capsule,” Bantam explained. “Therefore, it’s still here, all around us, right now, traveling forward in time. Even though you can’t see it or detect it. Unless you happen to have a Volzstrang radiation detector.” Bantam glanced self-consciously at Hoermann Volzstrang.
“Anyway, I have to get my capsule working again. Then I can surf it forward in time, the same way I surfed it back.”
“Surf?” Rachelle mouthed to Bantam. Bantam thought about kissing that mouth.
“He’s talking about what natives in Hawaii do,” Cleveland explained, perplexed why Bantam would choose such an odd analogy. “They use long wooden boards.”
“But the timewave does not bounce forward,” Rachelle interrupted. Her eyes danced over the equations.
“But it does,” Volzstrang disagreed. “You can see that if the twenty-eighth dimension is folded into a spline curve, a rebound effect will occur.”
“Yet it is not folded into a spline,” Rachelle said. “There is an erroneous assumption made here.” She pushed them out of the way. Her hands flew over the keyboard. “You see? It is folded into a hyperhexagon, not a spline.”
Volzstrang stared, pulling at his moustache, stunned. “My God. She’s right. I would have never seen that.”
“You didn’t,” Bantam said with a hint of annoyance. He turned to Rachelle. “How did you know that? I thought you were a medical doctor?”
Rachelle shrugged. “I was admitted to university when I was twelve. My syllabus included a wide range of arts and sciences, including physics. An education that is not well-rounded is not an education at all.”
Bantam agreed with a nod. He turned to Volzstrang. “It doesn’t bounce. Where does it go?”
“It travels back through time,” Volzstrang shrugged. “It would simply keep going until it encountered another force to disrupt its trajectory.”
“What kind of force?”
Volzstrang rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. Something extremely powerful.”
“Like what?”
“An explosion,” Volzstrang said. “Some scientists theorize that the atom is an enormous source of—”
“It’s called an atomic bomb. Trust me, it works,” Bantam said. “But since you’re still theorizing, that means you’ve never actually exploded a nuke. You don’t know how to make one, so it can’t be that. What else?”
Rachelle and Volzstrang sat deep in thought.
“A coronal mass ejection from the sun might do it,” came a new voice. Everyone turned toward the sound of the voice. Dr. Hardin. “A coronal mass ejection would be just the thing.”
All of them remained silent.
Hardin seemed to realize something. A small sigh escaped his lips. He sat his small form down and rubbed his sweating, odd, light-bulb-shaped head.
“Oh,” Volzstrang said, being the next to see it. “No. It couldn’t be.”
Slight alarm played across Rachelle’s face; she wasn’t following. “What is it?”
Volzstrang’s lips silently engaged in a litany of logarithms.
“The Day of the Red Sun,” Hardin said, pointing at the screen. “If you notice, there are strange attractors present in the underlying chaos math of these equations. On one hand, we have the timewave rolling backward through time like a wild beast unchained. But what is it, really? It’s essentially a wild flare of multiple kinds of tangled energies, with light and heat the surface characteristics thereof. But if you think about it in the abstract, the timewave is like the negative of a coronal mass ejection.
“On the other hand, we have the ejection itself. By chance alone, it is pointed at the earth. Normally, this would not be a problem. It happens all the time. Normally such phenomenon are quite harmless.
“But this time, the timewave and the ejection feed off one another. They are mirror images, two colliding storms. They build and multiply.
“The ejection is pulled toward the earth, massively magnified and aimed by the timewave. The two phenomenon are lovers, made for one another.
“And then they collide, scalding the world.”
“But why Europe?” Volzstrang said. “That makes no sense. If the timewave were truly generated at Fort MacLaren, would not this base have been the target of this ejection?”
/> Hardin smiled a crooked smile. “It would have, if not for the fact that it was nighttime here whilst it was high noon over Germany during that terrible day. The ejection was only stopped from reaching us by the mass of the earth itself.”
“Ah,” was all Volzstrang managed to utter.
Rachelle’s eyes hit her feet. Bantam studied her. She seemed to be fighting back tears.
Hardin noticed as well. “My dear. What is it?”
“My parents,” she said. “They met because of the Day of the Red Sun. Both my grandparents relocated to the same refugee camp in South America.” She glanced up oddly at Bantam.
Hardin sat next to Bantam. “You’re still not getting it. I will be as gentle as I can.”
“What am I not getting?” Bantam said, irritated. Why was everyone tip-toeing around him now? Cleveland was confused as well.
“I believe your journey back through time may have caused the Day of the Red Sun,” Hardin said.
Thunk.
There it was. The other shoe of Jack’s Giant, dropping on him like a house.
“The history of the entire world may have been changed from that moment forward. It’s hard to believe. I’m not sure I even believe it but these equations you produced are clearly the work of a genius. In fact, I even recognize the handiwork of Hoermann Volzstrang himself here, or the alternate version of him from the alternate version of history in your world, in any event. Wouldn’t you agree, Hoermann?”
Like a man in a trance, Volzstrang said, “That is exactly how I would have expressed this idea, had it been mine.”
“Complex mathematical ideas may be expressed in a million ways. The chance that these equations are expressed in exactly the way Hoermann would have done so is infinitely small.”
Bantam stood as what they were saying sank in.
“But the electricity. Why does nothing electric work here?” Bantam nearly popped a vein.
Hardin and Volzstrang exchanged glances, but it was Rachelle who spoke up. “The timewave plus the ejection could have been enough to short out the whole planet. If you assume electricity was once real.” She blushed, embarrassed suddenly. “I feel silly even saying such a thing.”
Hardin snapped his fingers. “Of course. That makes sense. If you posit that the earth once had a natural electrical charge, it would have been burnt out. Or more than that: it may have—oh! Yes. It is actively interfering with electrical phenomenon!” He turned to Bantam. “I must confess I have always felt that electricity should be real. Since I was a boy and read stories of it!
“But the experimental evidence always confirmed it was not. I am an empiricist: I always go where the evidence takes me.”
“Where is the evidence taking you now?” Bantam asked.
Hardin laughed. “I examined your capsule in quite excruciating detail, Mr. Bantam, I am ashamed to say. In my own defense I don’t believe I damaged anything. I was careful there. But several panels were opened, and I attempted to ascertain how such an apparatus might be made to function. Without a doubt, electricity was a major assumption of its design.
“My first thought was that this was an elaborate hoax. Or a masterstroke of misdirection. You appeared on an army base, after all. Perhaps you were an enemy, and you enlisted the help of top scientists. Could I have concocted such a hoax myself? I asked myself. Or Dr. Volzstrang?
“Were it put to us to concoct a story such as what you have told, and build that capsule—could we have done it? I am forced to conclude we could not. It is too elaborate. Do you agree, doctors?”
They nodded.
“There you see.”
Bantam’s heart raced. He was nearly hyperventilating. “You mean this crazy top-hat world is all because of me?”
“It would seem so,” Hardin nearly whispered. “I believe your story wholeheartedly and without reservation now, Benjamin Bantam. Given all the facts and their interlocking complexity, there is simply no other explanation that makes any sense.”
THE NEXT MORNING Bantam saw something in the newspapers that made every molecule in his body turn to ice.
Immediately, Bantam called for Hardin. Both he and Veerspike arrived together. “There. See that guy?” Bantam said, finger stabbing the paper. “In my timeline, he is responsible for the most horrible war ever known to mankind.”
The paper featured a large picture of a man with a curly moustache and a top hat. He was framed in an oval, like a proud portrait, and surrounded by drawings of a scroll with cherubs and eagles, as though this were a cherished anointing. The headline in the scroll read:
ADOLF HITLER APPOINTED SUPREME CHANCELLOR OF GERMANY
The moustache and clothes were different, but there was no mistaking those shark-eyes filled with blood and ink. The eyes of a shaman, a legion. There was no one person in there; instead it was a well-pool of unconsciousness. Somehow, even here, Hitler had managed to hypnotize the German people.
“You have to understand: whatever this guy does next will be bad. Catastrophic. In my world, he seized power in the 1930s. He’s a little behind schedule in yours. But you can bet he’ll make up for lost time.”
“What sorts of things?” Veerspike asked.
“He’ll attack other countries. He’ll start wars. I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened tomorrow. He’ll pretend to be friends. He’ll even sign treaties. Then he’ll roll in the war machines.
“Please. You’ve got to understand one thing: this man is dangerous beyond anything you’ve ever seen or could imagine.”
Veerspike snorted. “Germany is our friend. Germany has always been an ally of America. They are grateful for the aid we brought during the Day of the Red Sun.”
“Or resentful,” Bantam snapped back. “I’ve been reading your papers: their economy hasn’t been great. Exactly the way it was in my world. Hitler took advantage of the fear and resentment. The details are different but the circumstances are the same. Germany’s got little-man complex as a nation. Hitler knows all the right buttons to push to goad it into doing what he wants.”
“You’re paranoid,” Veerspike said. “And ungentlemanly. Why ever would you try to rouse our hatred against our dear friends, the Germans? Bad form. Bad form indeed.”
Veerspike left. After a moment, so did Hardin.
But Bantam noticed that Hardin took the newspaper with him.
Sabotage Most Foul!
THE MORNING began with a mind-stabbing explosion.
Bantam awoke immediately. Pushing through the fog of dreams, he stumbled out onto the balcony.
The black-diamond Volzstrang Pin, the impossible tower made of the hardest material known to man, was falling.
The base of the pin was on fire in a way Bantam had never seen before. This fire was green. It wiggled strangely in a way that clearly signified burning, but not in the way that a yellow flame flickered and licked.
Boom! A secondary explosion ripped into it, sending millions of black-diamond shards spewing in every direction. As the shards struck the pavement surrounding the pin, it sounded like the tinkle of broken glass.
Bantam watched in horror as the pin wobbled in slow motion, like a drunk about to tip over. Vibration waves traveled up its length, visibly bending the diamond superstructure. The sight struck fear deep in his heart.
It was going to tip over.
Dear God! Bantam wondered how many square miles it would demolish when it finally crashed to the ground. Thousands of people would be killed.
Unable to help himself, Bantam ran to the door, which was locked.
He had to do something!
He could taste fire. Klaxons began howling all over the base. Back on the balcony, he could see a massive plume of acrid smoke steadily pumping out of the base like black lava injected into the sky.
Men poured out of the barracks, throwing their clothes on as they ran. Dirigibles circled the Pin. Personal flying machines lifted off rooftops, and some men jumped onto exotic bicycles.
Boom! A third explosion. This one did
it. The base lurched up out of whatever secured it to the ground, almost like a pogo stick. When it rammed down again, the pin shattered in several places, sending several segments whirling and falling.
One hit a dirigible, neatly slicing the balloon in two halves that flapped flaccidly. The carriage went into free fall with the sounds of screams on the wind.
The largest segment that reached up into space was in free fall, tilting and bending like a switch as it fell.
With a deeper shade of horror, Bantam realized what was happening. It was going to crack like a bullwhip as it hit.
As the near end landed, the top portion suddenly gained speed. An unholy howl rang out as the uppermost pin segment broke the sound barrier. A sonic boom. It snapped into the earth, drilling down well past the horizon.
Thousands of people were just killed in their beds, Bantam thought.
Other shards of pin bounced from their initial impact, flying in all directions. One small piece was headed directly for him. Stupidly, he stared as it approached.
It was like a chunk of a Greek column, rolling through the air like a barrel.
He could see a cross-section. The diameter was the size of a football field, a lot bigger than it seemed from far away.
Bantam’s brain finally kicked in and he ducked as the pin cross-section slammed into the room next to his.
And then, mercifully, it was over.
After a few moments, Bantam realized the American Space Program had been set back a decade at least. Germany would win the race to the moon for sure now.
GENERAL VEERSPIKE KICKED open the door personally.
Two of his men grabbed Bantam and held him down.
“You son of a bitch!” Veerspike screamed. More men poured in behind Veerspike. Immediately, they began searching the room.
“What?” Bantam asked. “What is it?”
Veerspike snarled and belted Bantam across the face so hard Bantam’s skull rattled.