by Mike Chen
“In case of emergency—”
“You can call to check on me. I’ll have my phone. Good?”
“All right. Don’t forget, it’s first-Monday-of-the-month TV night.”
Miranda turned with barely a nod. She glanced at her parents, forming the inscrutable mask that appeared more and more these days. Heather beamed out a smile at their daughter before looking his way, the anxious creases returning. “I’ll pull the car in,” Heather said. Kin nodded, still rubbing his head, and Heather went back to the idling sedan. As the car rolled forward, a crunch echoed in the space, and something fired out from beneath the tire.
Kin tried to focus, examining where the sound originated and the possible debris trajectory only to catch a sudden flicker of blue light and a high-pitched burst of sound. Perhaps some post-blackout symptoms lingered.
Heather opened the car door, but stopped half a step out. “Oh no,” she whispered loud enough for him to hear. A dour line formed across her mouth and she picked up a ping-pong-sized chrome sphere off the garage floor. “Not this. You were looking at this thing again?”
A Temporal Corruption Bureau retrieval beacon. Mostly smooth outer chrome shell with bits of technological cuts and grooves in it, along with one gaping bullet hole. (Heather once called it a cross between a Death Star and a Borg sphere; he took her word for it rather than look it up.) Voice activated, holographic interface. Once implanted into his body, right beneath his rib cage.
Those details remained while other facts disappeared. Maybe because he bore the self-surgery scars to prove it.
Pain stung the side of his head, in and out like a sewing needle.
Kin remembered now. Some ten, fifteen minutes ago, he’d pulled it out from his toolbox beneath a stack of wrenches and stared at it, trying to will memories into existence.
“It’s like when I first met you. The headaches and forgetting. Things were good for so long. Why is this back? Why is it getting worse?”
Kin wanted to tell the truth: when they first met, memories of 2142 and the TCB were still disappearing. His brain eventually reached an equilibrium between his past and present around the same time their relationship blossomed. After that, symptoms appeared only when forcing memories.
Until recently.
“Six months ago...” he started. He needed to say something. Revert to the long-standing cover story of an ex-military life and ongoing PTSD? Or finally reveal that it felt like his few remaining agent memories were fading to the same black hole that swallowed up his memory of whoever he was prior to meeting her? That staring at the beacon was an attempt to trigger proof that he wasn’t going mad?
That would sound totally insane. Especially to an already-worried wife. His focus turned to the dead beacon in his hand, its futuristic alloy surviving a bullet from years ago and now apparently Heather’s car.
“Come back to me, Kin. Family is here. Metal thingy is there. What is it about this?” Heather’s voice was soft. “I’ve found you passed out three times with it. You’re obsessed.”
“It’s only some old work equipment.” He set the beacon down on an adjacent shelf. “I was seeing if I could fix it.”
“It can’t be a coincidence. Please get rid of it. Throw it away.” Out of nowhere, she winced, eyes tightening and teeth biting into her bottom lip, hand at her temple. He reached over to her, but she turned away. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long day and I still have calls to make.” Heather was an attorney, a career that brought her pride and stress in equal measure.
“Hey, you’re the one telling me to go to the doctor.”
“Seriously, I’m fine. Other than all these client briefs I have to review.” Her serious expression broke into a wry grin, putting a different kind of weight on his mind. She took his free hand, her pale fingers contrasting against his. “Look at us. Bickering about who goes to the doctor first for headaches. Like an old married couple.”
“Give us the senior discount, already, huh?”
“Well, I think these—” Heather touched his face, pointing at the creases around his mouth “—and this,” she said, stroking the flecks of gray in his hair and tapping his glasses, “make you look distinguished.”
“You, too,” he said, his tone light.
“You’re supposed to say I don’t look a day over twenty-five,” Heather replied with a laugh. “Don’t blame that on the headaches.” She gave him a playful shove, though the change in balance brought his hands to his head. “Sorry. Sorry, sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, really.” Kin stood, wiping the oncoming sweat off his forehead before his wife could notice. “I’ll be fine.”
“Please. Get rid of that thing. Look,” she said, her tone dropping into serious territory, “your headaches, your memory lapses. They scare me. Miranda is worried sick. Finding you like this doesn’t make things better.” She took his hand. “You need to get help.”
“I’m fine. I had a CAT scan years ago. There’s nothing wrong.”
“You’re not hearing me. We can’t live like this. It’s weighing on Miranda. She’s clamming up. Get help. Maybe it’s anxiety or something. Something about this—” she grabbed the beacon “—is giving you panic attacks. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s subconscious. Reminds you of the orphanage. Or the special forces. PTSD, it’s common for ex-soldiers wounded in combat.”
Heather’s pleas meant that Kin’s cover story still stood, even now. He just didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing anymore. “I don’t want to talk about that. Those were bad years.”
“That’s why you need to talk about them. I mean, what happens if you fainted again and smacked your head on something and died? I’d have to learn to cook and I’m not about to start that at thirty-eight.” She laughed, pulling him in, her long arms wrapped around him, drawing him toward her tall frame. “There’s no stigma to PTSD these days. It’s very real. You can get help.”
PTSD. How could he possibly explain to a doctor that his brain suffered from residual time-travel fragments, not PTSD? “So says the tax attorney?”
“I’ve been Googling it between meetings.”
Kin looked at the beacon, his eyes tracing the scored ridges exposing the device’s core. “One more incident and I’ll go. Okay?”
“Oh, Kin,” she said, blowing out a sigh. They remained in their embrace, only she deflated, sinking into him, her sharp chin digging into his shoulder. “Why are you fighting me on this? It’s gotten worse each month.”
“I’m not fighting. I got it covered.”
He said it with the conviction of epiphany, of a step so obvious that he couldn’t believe he’d ever missed it. Of all the planning and processing, lists, and visualizations, how did this option never surface before?
Let the past go.
“But you’re right. If there’s still a problem, I’ll see someone.”
Heather must have sensed the change, the unconscious knowing that only came with years of marriage. Her forehead pushed against his, their noses touching. “You are one stubborn bastard,” she said, affection wrapping the words, “and I love you for it.”
“Thought you loved me for my cooking.”
“You found me out.” She topped off their embrace with a kiss before stepping back and glancing at the empty driveway. “I’m gonna work on a brief until dinner. No more metal thing. Okay?” Heather disappeared into the house, footsteps echoing through the garage walls as she went upstairs, followed by the thump-thump-thump of a dog rushing behind her. He stood in silence, his eyes slowly turning back to the damaged future tech.
It wasn’t worth it anymore. Not when it scared his family.
Kin didn’t even know why he held on to the scrap. Maybe his subconscious sought hard evidence of his prior life. Or perhaps his stories about the orphanage and special forces and the cross-country trek were reality and the TCB was the fantasy. Th
at would explain why he couldn’t remember parents, friends, girlfriend, anything specific from his supposed future life.
Either way, it didn’t matter. Kin grabbed the beacon, marched out the side door to the large black garbage bin, and dunked it in.
There was no future. There was only the present.
Kin returned to the garage, though he paused when something in the driveway caught his eye.
A deliveryman. Complete in work boots, brown shorts and shirt, tablet in his hands. Young, maybe midtwenties. Yet no package. No truck. Only a small backpack.
And a stare. A wide-eyed stare usually reserved for disbelief.
Wasn’t the driveway empty seconds ago?
“Can I help you?”
The man continued looking at him, and though they locked eyes, an irresistible urge drew Kin’s focus away, forcing him to avert his gaze. Probably residual mental shrapnel from the beacon. “You looking for an address?”
The deliveryman started and stopped several times, only fractions of sound coming through before he looked down at the tablet. “I gotta start dinner,” Kin said, “so, if you don’t need anything, I’m going to close up.”
The man hesitated, then shook his head. “Sorry, my mistake,” he said in a crisp English accent before walking off.
The garage door rolled down, dwindling sunlight bouncing off Heather’s car’s side mirror and catching a weathered penny taped up above his workbench, something he’d carried with him since he could remember. The mere sight of it draped calm over him despite the afternoon chaos. He marched over and without thinking, he kissed his fingers and planted them on the penny, his lucky penny, the action so reflexive he barely remembered it.
He considered one last look at the beacon, one final visit with the future. The gesture seemed moot, especially since he had a new lasagna recipe to try. He might even use it for a Home Chef Challenge audition.
After all the trouble caused by his old life across eighteen years, saying goodbye came with a sigh of relief. With the past behind him, anything was possible.
CHAPTER 2
Kin remained silent.
He would have said something if he could have, but the mother/daughter battle unfolding in front of him rendered him speechless.
A few minutes before they’d called Miranda down to dinner, Heather pulled him aside and said she knew a way to get her to open up, to lighten the mood after the afternoon. “Stop overthinking things and just serve. I’ll handle the rest.” He obliged, unsure of what to expect.
They ate at half his speed, all while Heather and Miranda debated, voices growing louder and hands getting more animated. Heather occasionally went out with her so-called “geek friends” for movie nights. Was this what they discussed?
“And Janeway crashes the ship,” Miranda said complete with hand gestures, “to restore the timeline. You can’t top that.”
“It’s good. It’s up there, I agree. But I’m sorry,” she said. “In terms of self-sacrifice, you’re never going to top Spock. ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.’ That is science fiction at its best. That list I read today agrees with me.”
“Oh, come on. They write those things so people like us argue over it.”
“It’s working, right?” Heather finally resumed eating the lasagna, her fork clinking against the plate. “Tell you what. Tonight we watch Star Trek II for First Monday. Tomorrow, we’ll watch those Voyager episodes. Bonus family viewing.” Heather gave Kin a knowing look, her lawyer’s strategy plotted out from the first word to the final punchline of squeezing in some family time with Miranda. “And then we’ll revisit the argument.”
Miranda gave a mock groan that turned into a laugh, and both mother and daughter turned to him. “What do you think?” Heather asked.
“Dad fell asleep the last time we watched Star Trek II.”
For most of her life, Miranda had been a daddy’s girl, tagging along with a soccer ball in tow or sitting with him during early morning Premier League matches broadcast straight from England. But in the past two years or so, there’d been a gradual shift, like all the sci-fi seeds Heather planted long ago suddenly sprouted. Now she and her mother spoke in a vocabulary he couldn’t even understand. A twinge of jealousy surfaced, enough for him to needle his way into the conversation despite knowing better. “You know, I’ve recorded the Arsenal/Tottenham match. I bet Miranda would much rather watch that. Am I right or am I right?” Kin looked at his daughter, though rather than seeing the expected nod of approval, her eyes darted back and forth between her parents. “Miranda?”
Tension filled the dining room table, something far too palpable for a simple TV debate. Heather’s brow wrinkled with a concern heavier than it should have been.
“Actually, I had a suggestion.” Miranda quietly offered.
“Remember, this week’s match is huge. Arsenal can take over first—”
“I was going to say we try Doctor Who. I know Mom will like it.” Her eyes dropped to her plate, aimed directly at the small piece of remaining garlic bread. “You might, too, Dad.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get—”
Heather’s voice came with a quiet persuasion, eyes staying solely on their daughter despite speaking to him. “Maybe we should try Miranda’s suggestion.”
Miranda continued looking down. Even Bamford, who’d been snoring away in her dog bed, seemed to go quiet. Heather’s phone began vibrating violently on the table, an insistent buzz that caused the flatware to dance against the dishes. “It’s the firm,” she said, looking at the small screen. “I gotta take this. But Doctor Who sounds good. I keep hearing about it.” Heather’s voice gradually disappeared as she made her way to the home office upstairs, her tone shifting into an efficient professionalism that seemed at odds with the woman who was just debating Star Trek as a means of family bonding.
“Dad, this show. It’s about...” Miranda’s warbled voice trailed off and Kin noticed her taking short, quick breaths. “It’s about time travel.”
Miranda’s mention prompted a different physical response from his usual time-fragment headaches, not quite the usual pounding temples, but a tight chest and tighter jaw.
What was she implying?
“I’m, uh...” The very fact that Miranda brought up time travel in such a direct and pointed way left Kin speechless.
Miranda glanced down the hall, then finally returned her dad’s look. “Dad.” Miranda paused. “I have a confession to make. I hope you’re not mad.”
Anger was the last thing on Kin’s mind. Fear stood out, reminiscent of his early days here, constantly looking over his shoulder, wondering if the TCB would come and rescue him—or if he might be considered a temporal fugitive himself for breaking the agency’s noninterference protocol. The exact protocol remained muddy, but it was definitely bad for anyone to know about the secret agency’s existence—in this era or 2142. “I’m not mad.” He set his chopsticks on the plate. “I’m glad you’re being honest with me.”
Miranda nodded, though she continued looking away. “Mom doesn’t know this but I found your notebook. The one in your workbench. I was looking for a screwdriver the other day. You know how you’re so weird about your tools?” Weird must have been teen speak for practical, since his tools were arranged by function, size, and frequency of use. Like how he arranged his cooking utensils, his work desk, his sock drawer, all of it felt instinctual, part of the very core of his being. “I noticed one drawer was messy, junk just thrown in there. I looked at it for a laugh but then I noticed a notebook in there.”
It took several seconds for Kin to realize—to remember—what Miranda was talking about.
The notebook. His journal.
The epiphany caused a jabbing pain against his skull, forcing him to steady himself.
He’d completely forgotten it, how he’d pulled it out some six months ago,
studying it in the garage to restore lost details. He’d fought off the oncoming headaches, desperate to mine specifics of his missing past.
It didn’t work, as if his body didn’t want him to remember. Then sometime during the last few weeks, that moment also evaporated from his brain. Until now.
A flush burned Kin’s cheeks; ironically, his mind went full agent mode, visualizations of response options.
Including a new one, one he hadn’t considered in any conversation over the last eighteen years: tell her the truth.
Before he picked, Miranda spoke. “I thought you should know I liked it.” The color drained from her face, a grayish tan rather than the usual light brown. “I mean, I never knew you wrote science fiction. You don’t watch any of our shows.”
Science fiction. She thought the journal was filled with tales, like her Doctor Who or Heather’s Star Trek shows. Yet they weren’t fiction, they were details of a very real future: case histories, equipment specs, protocols, any facts he possibly recalled in a mad scramble to document things before his brain erased them. That ink had dried about sixteen years ago, shortly before he’d met Heather.
After he’d met her, searching for lost memories seemed as important as old tools in a junk drawer.
Kin’s whole body relaxed, from his shoulders down to his toes. “Ah, that.” More options came up, ways to spin the tale without going much deeper. “I took a class shortly before I met Mom. I don’t know if you’d call a bunch of notes ‘writing.’ I wasn’t very good at it. I didn’t even tell her about it.”
“Your details, they were so specific. Like you were there, seeing it all.” Miranda’s uncertainty turned into a broad grin. “It was awesome. ‘Temporal Corruption Bureau.’ Scaling boots for climbing buildings. Plasma dischargers. Branches around the world. Weird sciency stuff about how time travel works. ‘Sphere of influence,’ ‘tentpole events,’ how did you even come up with all that? It’s like the world-building stuff my teacher was talking about. ‘First you code something fun, then you build a world around it to make people care.’” Her eyes narrowed as she turned away to look out the window. “You should write more.”
