by Glenn Kleier
The others shifted in their seats.
Chapter 57
Sunday, October 14, 7:10 pm, Talawanda
The living room fell quiet as Ariel resumed reading Butterfield’s novel, and the others moved on to investigate theories on parallel universes and Butterfly Effects.
After a time, Max broke the silence to declare, “That does it.”
The others looked at him, and he said, “I’ve been reading white papers on time regression. Some of the greatest minds, including Stephen Hawking, all agree. It’s impossible.”
Getting uncertain looks, he explained, “If you recall, back in ’09, Hawking held a ‘party’ at Cambridge University inviting visitors from the future as his guests of honor. None attended. His point, exactly. A stunt to support his theory that traveling into the past defies physics. He called it his Chronology Protection Conjecture.”
Max closed his laptop as if he’d settled the issue. “There’s only one rational explanation for what lies beyond that hole. A separate, parallel dimension. A mirror universe, running four years behind ours. There are no butterflies. It’s safe to contact Butterfield.”
Tia went red. “Our lives and futures hang on our decision, and we base it on a Conjecture?”
“A Conjecture supported by our experiments,” Max argued. “We’ve been mucking around in that hole for weeks, and no blowback. Not so much as a temporal burp.”
After discovering a four-year gap between Butterfield’s world and theirs, the team had been searching for ripples in the timeline, checking the news for signs history had been tampered with. So far, nothing seemed to suggest it—not that they’d any idea what such a disturbance might look like. And to Tia’s point earlier, if butterflies altered both history and living memory, how would they even know?
Stan offered, “Maybe the reason we haven’t noticed any rifts is, none of the butterflies we caused escaped Butterfield’s apartment. Or, any that did were too inconspicuous to make their presence felt. Tia’s right. Until we know for certain we’re dealing with a separate universe, we can’t risk further exposure. Too much at stake.”
Max sat back sullen. Then he straightened and snapped his fingers. “Talk about exposure. What’s the date of that fire in Butterfield’s apartment?” Opening his laptop again, he checked. “Thursday, November 6, three weeks away, four years ago.” He arched his brow at the others. “For argument’s sake, say you’re right, and we are in the same world. Do you realize what’s going to happen?”
Blank looks.
“When that apartment building burns down, the vortex is gonna be hung out for the whole world to see, whirling in the air above the ashes like a sinkhole in the sky. Imagine kids playing cosmic hoops, tossing stuff in the hole, cheering when it disappears inside, or explodes on the rim. How’s that for a conspicuous butterfly?”
An astrophysical garbage disposal, appearing twice daily in the heart of Queens.
Stan’s face went pale. “Objects entering the hole there, will instantly pop up here. But in effect, they’ll be out of existence for four years. That would create a massive break in the spacetime continuum. We could be looking at a full-blown, chronologic collapse!”
The end of Time.
Ariel shuddered. She pictured a wormhole swirling in the air, virtual butterflies fluttering out in a deadly stream, razor wings shearing the fabric of Time. Until, ultimately, there emerged a monster butterfly of cosmic-rupturing proportions.
“We’ve got to warn Butterfield,” she cried. “Stop the fire before it’s too late.”
Tia shook her head. “That will change the past, too. And regardless, it’ll only protect us in the short run. Sooner or later, Butterfield or someone else is bound to discover the wormhole in his apartment, leak it to the world, and we’ll face the same disaster.”
“You’re missing my point,” Max said. “If we were in the same universe as Butterfield, there’d already be a vortex appearing above that parking lot. We’d know about it now.”
That gave everyone pause.
Stan considered, “Maybe it’s less conspicuous than we think. Concealed somehow.”
“Easy to find out,” Max said. “We’ll drive down to Queens tomorrow and see for ourselves.”
“There may be an easier way,” Stan offered. He began clicking on his laptop. “New York City has security cameras in most high-crime areas.” He was drawing on his background at the NSA. “The videos feed into the metropolitan police grid. No sweat hacking them.”
Moments later, he rotated his screen to display a live nighttime shot of dilapidated brownstones and an empty lot, seen from a utility pole across the street. Date and time were burned in at the bottom. Tapping more keys, Stan rewound the image, time racing backward into daylight. He stopped when the clock read 1:59 PM.
“Here’s Butterfield’s address this afternoon,” he said. “We know there was a vortex at 2:00.”
Punching more keys, he magnified the image, and Ariel saw the upper front corner of the building to the left of the empty parking lot, approximately where the vortex should appear. A bit fuzzy, but clear enough against sunlit bricks. Stan hit “play,” and they waited.
The timestamp ticked past 2:00, a few pigeons flew by, nothing more. Stan sped back through the rest of the day, stopping to check at 10:00 AM. Nothing. He jumped back another day, still nothing.
Max sat back smirking as if he’d just hit a walk-off home run. “I’m telling you, we’re not in the same universe. Let’s contact Butterfield, and I’ll prove it.”
Tia turned to him. “And what if you’re wrong? We’re in totally uncharted territory, and given what’s at stake, we’ve got to make damned certain.” At stake was not only their fate, but perhaps the world’s as they knew it. “If Butterfield’s friends from work are still alive, we can try reaching out to them. They knew what was going on in his apartment. If they’re in our universe and recall what he told them, we’re done, the butterflies win. But if they can’t recall, you’ve got my vote to contact Butterfield.”
Stan gave Max a conciliatory look. “Shouldn’t be hard to track them down.”
Ariel agreed, and Max shrugged. It took Stan no time to determine the two men still resided in New York City, at the same jobs, and he came up with their addresses and phone numbers.
“Okay,” Max said, “let’s make some calls.”
Chapter 58
Sunday, October 14, 8:00 pm, Talawanda
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eight bells, and Tia flexed her neck and shoulders like a boxer before a bout. She sat at the coffee table, her phone cued to FaceTime, preparing to call Scott Butterfield’s work friend, Zing Li Po. The others sat opposite, out of camera range.
Using FaceTime and having one of the women place the call was Max’s idea. He reasoned that Li Po would be more receptive to a call from a female. Tia certainly didn’t trust ham-handed Max to manage the delicate conversation—a total stranger asking another about a long-departed friend. Ariel was uncomfortable with the deception, so the task fell to Tia.
Calling for quiet, Tia typed into her laptop a number Stan gave her, the computer emitted a ringing, then a man’s falsetto voice.
“Yeah?”
Tia smiled into the face of a fortyish man in Mensa T-shirt. Slight build, wary eyes.
“Mr. Li Po?” she greeted him. “Forgive the intrusion, I’m Tia Diego, calling about an old friend of yours.”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Google.”
“What friend?”
“Scott Butterfield.”
Li Po blinked and frowned. “Scott? Scott died years ago. Why you asking?”
“I was an acquaintance of his. I’m trying to learn what happened. I understand he was having problems in his apartment shortly before his death. Strange occurrences. Do you recall him mentioning anything about it to you?”
Zing’s eyes grew warier. “You an arson investigator? Let’s see some ID.”
“No, nothing like tha
t, I’m simply a friend. I just have a few questions.”
“Maybe shit was going on, maybe it wasn’t. Unless you got credentials, lady, buzz off.”
The screen went blank, dial tone.
Jesus, New Yorkers were rude. Tia sat dumbfounded, turning frustrated eyes to Ariel. “You need to do this, mi corazón,” she said. “Who could say no to you?”
Max turned to Ariel, too. “We’ve one, last shot. Just bat your eyes and stick to the script.”
Stan nodded, and Ariel, looking miserable, traded places with Tia.
Chest tight, Ariel inhaled and entered Reggie Watson’s number into her laptop. There came a ringtone, and moments later appeared the glowering face of a middle-aged black man. The glower deepened as he took her in.
“H-hello, Mr. Watson,” Ariel said. “Sorry to disturb you. You don’t know me, my name’s Ariel Silva. I was, uh, uh, acquainted with Scott Butterfield.”
She’d gone off-script to avoid an overt lie.
The man’s eyes searched. He smiled, but his glower remained—a permanent fixture, it seemed.
“Nice to meet you, Ariel. Not sure I recall the name.”
“You, too, sir. I understand you used to work with Scott.”
“None of that ‘sir’ stuff. I’m Reggie. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Reggie, I’m trying to learn more about what happened to Scott.”
“You know about the fire, of course?”
“Yes. But I’ve been looking into the last weeks of his life, and it seems there were some strange things going on in his apartment. Things that upset him. It’s been on my mind. I’m hoping he talked to you about it, and you might recall.”
Someone offscreen interrupted the man. He turned away, then back. “Afraid you caught me at a bad time, Ariel, I’m about to put my daughter to bed.”
“If you can spare me just a minute, please.” She batted her eyes.
Reggie sat back folding big arms across a big chest. He looked down, nodding. “Yeah, Scott told me and a friend about it. He was hearing weird noises, seeing weird stuff.”
Ariel deflated, hearing groans from across the table, stifling hers.
“We thought it was microwave beams, or maybe his place was haunted.”
Ariel sank further in her chair. The man had just connected Butterfield’s past to their present. It appeared they did indeed inhabit the same universe, butterflies and all.
The worry must have shown in her face. Reggie said, “But it was something else caused the fire. A lamp in an apartment down the hall. Nobody’s fault, one a those terrible things.”
He paused, exhaled, and when Ariel failed to respond, added, “Let me give you some peace of mind, Ariel. You should know, at the end, Scott got himself right with the Lord. Before all that stuff happened, he had no faith. We argued about it all the time. But those last days he got to reading his bible. He finally saw the Light. You can take some comfort knowing that.”
A voice offscreen called, “Dad,” and Reggie paid Ariel a rueful look. “Sorry, gotta go. But if ever you feel like talking more, or praying, you call again, you hear?”
She thanked him and signed off, and Tia snapped at Max, “So much for Stephen Hawking. Anyone care to Conjecture how we shut down TPC without spilling our guts?”
Max swore. “It makes no sense. If we are in the same damned universe, what the hell happened to the vortex after Butterfield’s fire? Why is it gone?”
No one could answer that, and Stan said, “Tia’s right, we don’t dare come clean to TPC. There’s no containing something this big, every military on the planet will rush to build their own time machines before an enemy beats them to it. It’ll make the race for the Bomb look like a soapbox derby. We need a plan to shut TPC down that doesn’t let the genie out of the bottle.”
Tia said, “No way I can think of—short of sabotage.”
The idea of destroying the magnificent technology they’d labored so long and hard to create revolted Ariel. She couldn’t imagine the others having the heart or courage, either.
Still swearing, Max seemed to have accepted the situation. “The race for the Bomb is a good analogy,” he said,” but you’re looking at it wrong. What did we learn from all that? How many decades have we had nukes? How many decades have pundits predicted apocalypse?” He gave them each a searching look. “We’ve proven we can live with the Bomb, the world’s learned restraint. Why any different with a Timebomb? Besides, it’s not like you can build a supercollider overnight, much less undetected. I say, set that genie free, the world can handle it.”
Stan sighed and shook his head. “Yes, the machinery to create a wormhole is massive. But technology never stands still. Initially, the Bomb took a Manhattan project to build, and weighed tons. Now weapons-grade fuel is plentiful, and a nuke can fit in a suitcase. How long before science finds a shortcut, and some terrorists build a Time machine in a basement?”
Max turned to Ariel for support, didn’t get it, snatched his laptop, and headed to his room, leaving the others to wrestle the dilemma.
An hour later, Max’s door opened, and he called out, “Hey Stan, got a sec?”
Tia called back, “Dammit, Max, we could use your input out here. What the hell you working on, anyway?”
He responded matter-of-factly, “A Grand Plan to solve all our problems.”
Ariel had little faith in that, Max’s shield of invincibility gone. Only an hour ago, he was certain Butterfield existed in a parallel universe.
Tia, however, seemed willing to cut him slack. “So long as it doesn’t involve butterflies.”
And she waved Stan on.
Chapter 59
Monday, October 15, 8:39 am, Talawanda
Ariel woke to find the house quiet. She assumed the others were still asleep, everyone having stayed up late struggling for ideas to shut down TPC without betraying the existence of the wormhole. As of her bedtime last night, however, no one had anything, Max and Stan still working alone in Max’s room.
She rolled out of bed yawning, slipped into a robe, let Newton out the window, popped in her contacts, and headed for the kitchen, surprised to hear voices. Soft.
Max was saying, “…not till we know for certain. Only way to get the girls aboard.”
“Aboard what?” she asked, entering, and Max and Stan broke off.
They looked exhausted, hunched over laptops and coffees, bleary-eyed and stubbly. She wondered if they’d slept at all.
Stan closed his laptop, and Max angled his away, telling her, “In due time.”
“Am I intruding?”
Max slid out a chair with his foot. “Not at all.”
Ariel heard Tia in the bathroom, and poured two coffees, taking the seat.
Neither man would make eye contact, and Stan seemed down-right sheepish. Tia shuffled in and flopped, looking as haggard as the men. Worse. Pensive, upset. Ariel knew that look, and a glance at the calendar on the fridge confirmed why. Two years ago today, Tia lost her mom.
This weary group needed a boost, and Ariel rose to fix waffles for all. Tia wiped her eyes to ask, “Any fresh thoughts how to end this mess without setting off a Timewar?”
“I’ve got one,” Ariel offered, pouring flour in a bowl. “But you’re not going to like it.” She had the floor, and continued, “We could try to co-opt the black-hole scare.”
“What do you mean?” Stan asked.
“I mean, go ahead and expose the vortex to the world, but not as a time warp, as a black hole. The Dark Agers will go nuts and force the Nuclear Regulatory Commission to shut TPC down.”
The others groaned, and Max said, “Stoke the false hysteria and kill science? Great idea.”
Tia said, “TPC will know it’s no black hole. They’ll investigate it and peg it a wormhole before the NRC can get its pants on. No stopping the genie. We need faster-acting poison.”
“Then I’ve got nothing.”
Tia asked Max, “Any progress on your secret project?”
&nbs
p; He was slow to respond. “I hit a snag, but thanks to Stan, I think I’m back on track.”
“You let Stan in on it, not Ariel and me?” Tia’s skin was extra-thin today.
“Too many chefs.”
“And what do you call Stan?”
“Sous-chef.”
Tia scowled, and Stan said, “We just need more time to iron out some wrinkles. If we tried to explain now, you’d think us crazy.”
Without warning, Tia grabbed Max’s laptop, turning its screen. Ariel was surprised to see a seating chart of Yankee stadium.
Tia cried, “What the hell? Your fix involves going to a ballgame?”
Max shut the lid, and Tia swore and went to help Ariel.
After breakfast, the men dumped their plates in the sink, excused themselves, and retreated to Max’s room again, leaving the women to brood.
Tia glared after them. “What do you make of those two?”
Ariel wagged her head. “I never know what to make of Max. How can you live with someone for so long, and really not know them?”
Tia slammed down her mug, spilled her coffee, and stared at it with tears in her eyes.
It took a moment before Ariel made the connection. Tia’s mom. Shortly before her death, the poor woman had slipped into a depression no one detected. Not even Tia, who was closest to her. Her mom had called Tia asking her to come home, and Tia had sensed something was wrong. But at the time, she was in the throes of a problem at TPC, her mom insisted she could wait, and Tia made a choice she would always regret.
“Oh, Tia, I didn’t mean…”
Tia stood. “Mind if I leave you the dishes?”
“Of course not.”
And taking the leash, Tia went outside, departing with Newton for the back pastures.
Tia was still out, and Ariel was alone in the living room with her laptop when Stan entered from the hall heading for the front door. She heard the shower running in the men’s bathroom.
“Nearly ten o’clock,” Stan told her.
He and Max had been alternating guard-duty in the tent, watching for passersby. Stan’s turn, apparently. Ariel paid him a smile as he left, and soon Max strolled in, dressed, hair still wet.
