“Yes, but I’m no coder myself.”
“Object-oriented programming is quite fascinating—and surprisingly applicable to the manipulation of time. This discipline uses two concepts, a class, which is a detailed definition of complexity—for example, how a car’s engine works—and an object that is a member of that class, the car itself.”
“Interesting, but what does it have to do with time?”
Father put both hands on the rail and leaned out, breathing in the night air. “Few people know this, but I can tell you with some certainty that time is the same as object-oriented programming. I do not speak metaphorically, but realistically. Each of us is an instance of a class. You are Dr. Daniel Rice, but you are not the only one. You’ve already seen video from another version of you, another instance of the class of Dr. Daniel Rice. I’ve seen the same thing myself.”
“You’ve been to your future?” Daniel had suspected it, but it was time to establish credentials and corroborate the evidence. Otherwise, Father and his organization might repeat half-truths all night.
“Yes, many times. I’ve had long conversations with myself. Several versions.”
Daniel inhaled deeply. “That would be difficult.”
“It’s not. It’s eye-opening. The true nature of our universe is revealed. I am one of many. One instance of a class. The same is true for you. There are countless Dr. Daniel Rices, each occupying a slice of time. A quantum bit of time, a chronon, as you scientists say.”
“What’s more,” he continued, “each instance uniquely interacts with his world, just as objects within code do. Your instance asked to meet with me, and here we are. But another instance of you may have decided to speak with Brother Christopher instead.”
“The many-worlds concept.”
“As some call it. I prefer many instances. The world doesn’t duplicate just because someone interacts with it, but paths through time branch regularly. I tell you this so that you’ll understand our motivation. You will return to your time with information that will change our time. The instance of me that stands before you will know nothing of these changes. But other instances of my class will.”
He hadn’t provided any evidence, but his theory was possible. Altering the past might only affect the people of the past. Their future versions, if those versions could be thought of as separate people, might never know that a change had taken place.
“I have a duty to my class. We all do.”
“Manipulate events in time, and your work will improve the lives of other versions of yourself. It’s an interesting idea.”
“It’s more than interesting. Once you fully understand its power, the idea is compelling. It’s why the Committee was formed. Our duty is to manage history not for ourselves, but for our classes.” He took Daniel by the elbow and guided him back toward the door. “When your device is ready, return to your own time. Our people will give you an explicit procedure. Follow it. Do not deviate—your life depends on it. Once you are home, pass our instructions to the leaders of your day, and make sure they follow them precisely. Millions of lives are depending on it.”
Daniel contemplated one piece of the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit. Zin had examined a log file in the belt’s controller and determined that Becton had made multiple jumps, presumably never flowing forward and therefore never testing the concept of snapback. And yet, on his final jump, snapback very likely killed him.
“If my safe return is guaranteed by this procedure, then why did Becton die?”
Father’s face soured. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that Becton died.”
Daniel shrugged. “I guess from your perspective, it hasn’t happened yet. But unless something changes, when you send him home next week, he’s going to die upon his return, possibly from an effect they call snapback.”
Father shook his head. “Such an imbecilic idea, snapback. A fantasy perpetuated by elite alien machines who pass themselves off as one of God’s creatures.” Father’s face was stern. “If Elliott Becton died, it was because he didn’t follow the procedures given to him, the same procedures I give to you. There can be no deviation.”
Daniel’s head was spinning with the potential consequences of every interaction between the past and the future. According to Father, convincing Becton to follow the return procedure would save his life. He wouldn’t die in an Orlando police station, as he had. The FBI might never learn about the mysterious coin. It might be delivered to Daniel in a completely different way. Or not at all.
Are we changing history even now? Or is something else going on?
24 Readiness
USS Nevada
North Pacific, 12 nautical miles southeast of Adak Island
October 9, 2023 16:07 Pacific Time
Lieutenant Commander Helen Tierney lowered her binoculars and stiffened as a cold gust of Alaskan wind blasted the bridge of the USS Nevada. Though well above the spray coming off ocean waves, the bridge on a ballistic missile submarine was no more than an indentation at the leading edge of the sail. Not much of a wind break.
“Visual is clear,” she told Captain Cory Lundstrom, who stood by her side. The lack of nearby vessels confirmed what radar had already told them. They were alone, hidden below a thick cloud layer just south of the Aleutian Islands, exactly as planned.
Another blast of cold air raked across the bridge, and the submarine’s executive officer grabbed her cap before it flew into the Pacific. “Nippy,” she yelled in the wind.
“Let’s get below,” Lundstrom said. “Bring her down to launch depth.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Down several ladders and into warmer air, they entered the Command Center, where a dozen sailors manned multiple computer workstations surrounded by switches and glowing lights. Two of the sailors sat at control wheels like a pilot and copilot, ready to guide the eighteen-thousand-ton boat wherever the officers pointed.
“XO has command,” the captain called as he walked in.
Tierney took over, barking out orders, and the room came alive with activity. A minute later, the deck tilted, forcing everyone standing to grab the nearest handrail. Launch depth was forty meters at the keel, enough to submerge the massive ship while leaving only the tip of a single antenna above the water.
Captain Lundstrom pulled a microphone from its hook on the bulkhead, his voice broadcasting from bow to stern. “All hands. Prepare for TRE, commencing in five minutes. This is a readiness exercise. Exercise only.”
The TRE, or Tactical Readiness Examination, was standard procedure for the world’s most deadly machine. A ballistic missile submarine was a weapon that no one expected to use, but to ensure that it could be used, regular drills were required. The TRE would bring every system online, walk through every step of launching their twenty-four Trident II D5 missiles, and ensure that every crewmember was ready to perform as required.
There were subtle differences between an exercise and the real thing. Targeting computers would use simulated authorizations, and the live fire control trigger would remain locked away in a safe, accessible only to the weapons control officer. Instead, they would use a simulation trigger whose signal to launch went only as far as the computer.
Weapons Control Officer Lieutenant Randall Kline tapped Tierney on the shoulder as he walked past. “Heading below. Let me know when you have the sim codes.”
“Should be just a few minutes.” She watched as Kline dropped through a hatch to the Fire Control Room, one deck below.
“Launch depth,” a sailor called out.
“Steady as she goes,” Tierney replied. “Compensate for ballast.”
“Aye, ballast is nominal. Even keel.”
“Very good.” Tierney glanced toward the captain. “The boat is ready, sir.”
Lundstrom nodded and spoke once more into his microphone. “All hands. Battle stations, missile. Spin up port and starboard tubes. Set condition to 1SQ.”
The command was no different than he would have given if this were
the real thing. Training wasn’t useful unless it mimicked actual conditions. The condition code 1SQ was a signal to everyone on board that they were expected to be on high alert and treat every system as active. But like any training exercise, key safeguards would be included to ensure that no missiles ever left their tubes.
“Comm, give us some codes,” Tierney called out. The communications officer was one of those safeguards. He would simulate the reception of a command that would come from Naval Operations if the president were to order a nuclear strike. The encrypted codes would provide randomly generated targets, many of them simply locations in the ocean.
A minute later, the communications officer had completed his task. “Ready, ma’am. Standing by.”
“Ready, Captain,” the XO said. She reached to a safe and dialed a combination that had been reset and memorized when they’d left port in Bangor, Washington. Inside was a ringed binder and a single key on a lanyard. The captain performed the same task at a safe on the far side of the room.
Tierney thumbed through the pages of the binder. “Got the authorization code?” The communications officer handed her a slip of paper with a lengthy sequence of letters and numbers printed on it, the decrypted first line of their simulated launch command. She compared to a page in the notebook.
“Launch command is authorized by the exec,” she said and handed the slip of paper to the captain.
He examined it against his identical binder. “Launch command is authorized by the captain.”
“Aye, Captain,” she said. “Comm, send the codes to Fire Control.”
The checks and double-checks would ensure that no single person gave the launch command or activated the systems. By design, it took the full complement of the submarine’s crew to send a missile skyward.
The captain and exec stepped to opposite ends of the Control Room. Each lifted a cover and inserted their key into a switch.
“Ready, sir.”
“Switch on,” the captain commanded.
They both turned their keys simultaneously. A red light on one side of the control room started flashing. Tierney issued several more orders, and one by one, sailors confirmed the status of system readiness.
“All systems green. Standing by, sir,” Tierney said.
The captain picked up his microphone. “Fire control, captain.”
“Fire control, aye,” came the response over a speaker. “Weapons Officer Kline. Codes received.”
“Okay, Weps, you’re authorized. Initialize the fire control system.”
“Aye, Captain. Authorized on your orders.”
********************
One deck below in a small room on the starboard side of the submarine, two sailors stared intently at their computer screens. One of them, Fire Control Technician Second Class Joshua Swindell, had a single bead of sweat running down the side of his cheek.
Standing behind them, Weapons Officer Kline hung the microphone back in its cradle. “Let me know when you’ve got the targets loaded and confirmed.”
He lifted an orange pistol grip from a slot on the desk. It looked like a cross between a video game controller and a handgun, complete with a trigger but without any gun barrel. The device was attached to the desk by a coiled wire and was labeled on both sides with the word SIM.
“Initialized,” called out one sailor.
“Initialized,” Joshua said.
Joshua had no idea what would happen next, and his lack of knowledge was just as terrifying as the task ahead. The Lord was testing him. If he was lucky, that was all it was, and he wouldn’t have to carry the task to its completion.
He fingered the slip of paper in his pocket. It would only take a few seconds. Type the code into the computer and the simulated targets would be replaced. Impossible to accomplish with the weapons officer standing right behind him, but the Lord’s vision had been explicit. Weps would be the first to die.
In Joshua’s other pocket was a key normally kept in the safe on the wall, its combination known only by the weapons officer. How the Lord had extracted the key from the safe, Joshua would never know.
Joshua imagined the final task, his heart pounding. As the last person alive in Fire Control, he would unlock the trigger box. Inside would be a red-handled pistol grip, like the simulation version but with LIVE written on both sides. He would pull the trigger three times, and the floor beneath him would shudder as each missile exploded to the surface on a blast of flash-vaporized steam.
It would be the hardest thing he’d ever done.
25 Celebration
The mood was festive, the attendees numbered in the hundreds, and the musically synced light show that played out on the ceiling was extraordinary.
The “small party” that Brother Christopher had described required no less than the ballroom at a neighboring convention center. A moving sidewalk suspended over the city streets provided direct access from the Golden Spire.
Except for the glass of iced soda that he wished were bourbon, Daniel was surprised at how entertaining the grand event had turned out to be. A few of the partygoers wanted his autograph, usually scrawled across one body part or another. But for most of them, an autograph was hopelessly outdated. They wanted a capture.
The technique involved flipping an olinwun into the air, posing, twisting or jumping while the device collected 3-D images, surrounding sounds and even smells, and then catching the coin before it hit the ground. It was a form of entertainment, modeling and photography, all rolled into one.
Three elegantly dressed, highly energetic young women who couldn’t be out of their teens had just finished a capture with Daniel at their center.
“Oh my God, it turned out great!” said one girl, pointing to the cone of light projecting upward from her olinwun. Within the cone was a fully three-dimensional video of the three girls posing like fashion models, laughing, jumping and screaming as they clung to Daniel’s arms and shoulders. Daniel’s part in the performance consisted of a stealthy smile with arms folded across his chest. His best Napoleon Solo impersonation.
The video clip could be rotated to any angle and even zoomed out to life-sized human figures when the olinwun was placed on the floor. On their encouragement, Daniel stepped through the elaborate projection, encountering the unmistakable scent of the girls’ perfume as he did.
“A slice of reality, captured forever,” he said. “I like it. What do you do with these captures?”
One girl shrugged. “Mmm, post them, exchange them. The guys usually upload them into games.”
“Yeah, lots of games use them,” her friend explained. “If you do a real-time interactive capture, you become part of the game.”
“Like immersive virtual reality?” Daniel asked.
She rolled her eyes and smirked. “Way better than that.”
Daniel laughed. “Sorry, I guess I’ve missed a lot.”
The girls waved goodbye as another group approached, led by Brother Christopher, who had been popping in and out as Daniel’s protective chaperone, though he claimed his role was no more than that of a helpful host. Daniel was unconvinced. At least Brother Benjamin had been upfront about hiding information. Christopher was all smiles. The kind designed to obscure.
The men in the group introduced their wives, who were the first older women Daniel had met since arriving in this very skewed future. They all seemed pleased to meet him, with several questions that boiled down to how the Stone Age man liked the modern world. Questions he answered as gracefully as he could.
Daniel recognized one of the men from Security, Brother Samuel, who had snipped the hair sample.
Time to push this investigation forward.
“Brother Samuel, it finally occurred to me the true purpose of that hair-clipping diversion,” Daniel said to him.
“To sample your proteins,” he answered. “To reset your olinwun.”
“But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there?”
Brother Samuel seemed unsure what to say next,
stuttering without saying anything. It didn’t appear to be an act.
Push a bit harder. “Some olinwuns have hidden compartments, I’m told.”
Samuel still had the same questioning look. He clearly didn’t know. Possibly due to their bureaucratic layers. One level didn’t seem to know what the next-higher level was doing. But another answer might be time itself. Daniel had to keep reminding himself of the nonlinearity of events. Someone would prepare the coin that Father would give to Becton, but that might not have happened yet. Becton wouldn’t even arrive until the following week.
“Sorry, my mistake,” Daniel said. No reason to press the poor man any further. He simply wasn’t the right target.
One of the women reached out. “Dr. Rice, now that you’ve seen how much more advanced things are now than they were years ago…” She hesitated, looking slightly embarrassed to ask her question. “Well… I just wondered if today might be the turning point for you personally.”
“Turning point?”
“Yes, for your rejection of the old ways. You know… the reckless science of the past, before there was divine guidance.”
“Sorry, I’m not really sure what you mean.”
“Well, you’re here to prevent the nuclear war. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, that’s the mission.” He didn’t realize everyone else knew this fact, but it might have been part of the grade-school education that had made his name so well known.
“It just breaks our hearts to think that if the Committee had been around sooner to manage science, none of those people would have died.”
No one had yet mentioned this role of the Committee. Father certainly hadn’t. “Sorry, I don’t really see science as something to be managed. It’s a methodology for discovering what’s real. But I hear your point. The nuclear weapons of the past may have been handled recklessly. I wish we’d found a way to eliminate them before they were used. But I see that as a political issue, not a scientific issue.”
The Quantum Series Box Set Page 78