by Glenn Kleier
Max turned his laptop to Ariel, displaying a “new” election poll from four years ago.
“Shackleton’s lead in the swing states is dwindling,” he said, “We need that endorsement from Butterfield. If saving his life wasn’t incentive enough for him, let’s up the ante. Offer him a million-dollar lottery this time. Hell, ten million.”
Tia grabbed Ariel’s arm. “Twenty, if he forwards my email.”
Of course, the bribes would go unpaid after the Big One, and Ariel was relieved when thunder ended the bidding. The hole opened, Stan inserted the antenna, and Ariel sucked up her scruples once more. But when she tried to connect with Butterfield, she found his link dead.
She alerted the others, and Max checked her connections.
“The problem’s on the other side,” he snapped. “The bastard shut off his computer!”
Preventing them from contacting him.
And Ariel from resending Tia’s email.
The afternoon crawled as the team hunkered in the tent sifting the archives for changes in the past. Nothing of consequence. The obit of Tia’s mom remained on her screen.
Then shortly after 5:00, Max rocked forward and whooped, startling the others.
“Hot damn,” he cried, turning his laptop to show them.
Ariel saw a four-year-old Hawk News promo:
Election-shaking Announcement
from The Prophet of Queens
Live at 6:00
Tia whispered like a prayer, “If Butterfield follows through on the endorsement, he’ll forward my email, too.”
Assuming he received it.
Time passed like torture till the top of the hour, Tia’s obit never wavering. As twilight fell, everyone crowded Max’s laptop for a new, four-year-old announcement.
A Hawk News host appeared on screen, seated at an anchor desk.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, beaming, “We‘re pleased to have with us, Scott Butterfield, better known to viewers as the Prophet of Queens. Mr. Butterfield informs us, this will be his last public appearance. He has a special prophecy to deliver, and it concerns tomorrow’s election.”
A headline read: Prophet Makes Election Pick, and Ariel’s chest felt taut as a drum.
The camera widened to show Butterfield in a black hoody, cowl up, shepherd’s staff in hand. A sign he was still on board, Ariel trusted. But he did not look in good spirits. Like he hadn’t slept in days. And there was something else. A hardness in his eyes and jaw she’d not seen before. Gone was that air of uncertainty he often displayed, replaced by steely resolve.
He corrected the host, “Not my prediction.” And turning to the camera, he declared:
“The Lord’s prophecy is simple: These are dark times, the country is in deep trouble, and we need a leader who can guide us back into the light. The Lord has therefore decided to bestow victory on the best choice for our next president—Republican Senator, Roger Filby.”
The oxygen went out of the tent. Ariel felt numb, and Max moaned as if his soul had been wrenched from him. They watched dazed as Butterfield hauled himself to his feet with his staff, and refusing questions, he tossed his lapel mike on the desk and walked off set, leaving the host speechless.
Max’s face was redder than the setting sun, and the team went deathly quiet as the enormity of their defeat settled over them. Then Stan began frantically searching the archives, breaking the silence to report, “The prophecy is going über-viral…” He clicked more keys to add, “And the InstaPolls are already moving.”
Tia looked like she’d been in a car wreck. Rising with a grimace more animal than human, she turned on Max to scream, “You just had to keep pushing him, didn’t you? You not only lost us the election, you goddamn sonovabitch, you lost me my mother.”
Chapter 122
Monday, November 3, 6:08 pm, City of God
Reverend Thornton sat alone in his office, riveted to a TV. The Prophet had just delivered a profound new prediction, and Thornton couldn’t control his shaking. His phones began to ring. He let them go to voicemail, drinking-in the moment. No God-fearing voter in this God-fearing country would dare flout the prophecy. The Lord was delivering on His Covenant, same as He’d saved Alice’s life and forgiven Thornton the grievous sin he’d borne these many years.
Tears rolled down his face. He felt overwhelmed and deeply humbled. It was as if God had raised up this unlikely Prophet expressly to help Thornton achieve his dreams. The lofty goals he’d set for himself so long ago were coming to fruition. And now with the Lord’s continued blessings, Thornton and his protégé, President Filby, would begin returning the nation to rock-solid Christian principles.
A familiar voice came over his answering machine—Archbishop Bartholomew Rand. Thornton detected a more deferential tone to His Excellency’s voice tonight.
“Congrats, Brooks. Looks like I owe you an apology, our Prophet delivered on his Covenant after all. I suppose it’s time we call a Council meeting, set our priorities for the new administration. Is next Wednesday here good for you?”
Already it was starting. Rand and the other Council members would be jockeying for influence on Filby. But none had Thornton’s éminence grise. He, and he alone, would pull Filby’s strings. He picked up the phone.
“Yes,” he replied, “a meeting. But we’ll be holding it here, in the City of God.”
Chapter 123
November 3, 7:25 pm, Talawanda
In the wake of Butterfield’s mutiny, the team sat around the tent in silence, a dark night closing in. Ariel watched with concern as Tia grew increasingly sullen and distant. No hope now of seeing her mom again, she’d left the newspaper obit on her screen as a haunting reminder to Max.
At length, Stan spoke the unspoken.
“All our hard work and risks, and we made things worse. If Filby wins by a larger margin than before, he’ll pull more Dark Agers into Congress. It’ll mean even more anti-science bills.”
“And this time,” Max said, “they’ll have the votes to shutter TPC.”
Dooming their careers here before they’d even started. Four years ago, construction on the collider was far from complete. Were TPC to have shut down prior to the team arriving, it was unlikely any of them would have ever met. Each would have been set adrift on the sea of Time, and of the four, Ariel saw her voyage into the future as most precarious. Fighting panic, she scavenged for hope.
“Assuming Filby wins again,” she asked, “is it possible we’ll be spared the Big One?”
Stan looked dismal. “I’m afraid the bulk of our tampering hasn’t caught up to us yet.”
Max exhaled. “Like getting a bill for the surgery that killed you. The tab will come due.” And then he surprised everyone by suddenly slamming the table with a palm. “But by God, as long as I’m still kicking, I’ll be damned if I’m giving up!”
Ariel moaned, “The polls open tomorrow at 8:00 AM. Even if Butterfield turns his computer back on, we can’t reach him till 10:00.”
“Too late to prevent Filby’s election, maybe,” Max said, “but we can still clip his coattails. If we can just get Butterfield to walk back his prophecy, we might stop the Dark Agers from taking over Congress—and keep TPC alive.”
Ariel had never met anyone as tenacious as Max. She wondered if OCD was fueling it. But at least he was giving them something to focus on besides their imminent demise.
“Think,” he prodded. “There’s got to be a way to change Butterfield’s mind. Surely we can come up with something.”
Stan checked his watch. “Get him on air by midday tomorrow, we’d have eight hours before the polls close out West. Maybe enough time to salvage Congress, a lot of tight races out there.” He turned to Tia. “And we can take another shot at your email.”
Max said, “Everyone has his price. We’ll offer Butterfield a hundred million.”
Tia seemed too deep in her spiral to pull out. “He’s onto us,” she snarled. “He knows we used him, and he’s pissed. A bribe will only make
things worse.”
Stan pointed out, “How could it be any worse?”
Silence.
Ariel said, “There’s one approach we haven’t tried yet…”
The others looked to her, and she saw a glimmer of hope in Tia’s eyes.
“The truth.”
Chapter 124
November 4, 6:30 am, Talawanda
The team spent a restless night in the tent, suffering three more quakes, each stronger than the previous. Between the tremors and Stan’s snoring, Ariel hardly slept. But Stan and Max had made reinforcements to keep the tent standing tall—hopefully enough to weather the Big One.
Ariel woke before dawn, Stan and Max still asleep. But Tia’s bedroll was empty, and Ariel saw no sign of her. Thinking her in the house making coffee, she rose and slipped into her robe.
Soon as she stepped from the tent, however, she spotted Tia sitting on the porch steps, face awash in the light of her laptop. As Ariel drew close, she saw Tia’s cheeks wet with tears, and rushed to her.
“What is it?” she cried with alarm.
Tia rotated her screen to display the Omaha World-Herald obits page. Ariel was confused, then felt her eyes bug as she searched the listings for Tia’s mom, in vain.
“Oh my God, Tia,” she cried, hugging her. “Oh my God.”
Newton started barking, and moments later, the men staggered from the tent and stumbled over. Max was near naked, Stan in pajamas, no glasses, squinting.
They stared at Tia’s screen, Stan’s eyes popped, and he wrapped Tia up, gushing, “Butterfield sent your email after all! And it worked.”
Max yawned. “I don’t get it. He double-crosses us with Shackleton, but follows through on Tia’s email?”
“Makes sense to me,” Stan said. “He couldn’t go back on his word to Thornton, and he couldn’t refuse Ariel a favor.”
Ariel asked Tia, “Have you tried calling your mom?”
“Yes. Her number’s disconnected. I sent her an email, and it bounced. But I know she’s out there, she has a Twitter page now.” Showing the link to the others, she took a long breath. “And apparently, so do I. We tweet each other every day.”
Max’s voice fell to a whisper. “You’ve got a Doppelgänger?”
Stan said, “Please tell us you didn’t contact your, uh, your self.”
“I tried, but I couldn’t get through to me, either.” Tia wiped her eyes. “There’s a commuter flight to La Guardia at noon. I can connect to Omaha, and be home tonight. I’ll send for my trailer later.”
Stan froze. “No-no, Tia! You and your twin can’t meet. The Law of Conservation of Mass.”
Conservation of Mass: a law of physics stating that the total amount of matter and energy within a universe cannot change, neither increase nor decrease in quantity by so much as an atom. Meaning, the addition of a second Tia to their universe presented a grave dilemma.
Max said, “If you meet, one of you will cancel the other out like a duel. No telling which one will be left standing.”
Tia appeared taken aback, only to recover and counter, “Then why do I still exist? There’s already another me running around out there somewhere, and I’m still here.” She pointed to the tent. “It’s not the Trapping Horizon protecting me, we’re on the porch.”
Stan said, “I have a possible explanation, but you’re not going to like it.”
Everyone went quiet, and he sighed. “The many Timequakes and waves we’ve set off these past weeks? I believe it’s thrown the universe into a state of upheaval. We’ve prodded and stretched the Timeline to the breaking point, stretched other laws of physics along with it—including the Conservation of Mass.”
Max nodded. “But it can’t continue like this. The universe will correct the instability.”
“Yes. The universe will recalibrate Time with a final quake and Tsunami.”
Ariel felt panic. “We’ve got the Trapping Horizon to protect us.”
“Only so long as we remain inside it,” Max said. “If Doppelgängers are already popping up, it bodes bad for us sooner or later. It says the world has moved on and left us behind.”
“What do you mean?” Ariel cried.
Stan said, “It seems we’re anachronisms. We’ve entered the last phase before the Big One. And when it blows, its wave will wipe away all the accumulated glitches.”
Including them.
Max looked as pensive as Ariel had ever seen him.
He took a long breath and said, “We know now, multiverses do exist. Superstring Theory is correct, we solved The Grand Equation.”
The elusive, long sought-after Theory of Everything.
He sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll be around to collect any Nobels.”
Tia jumped to her feet. “I’ve got to pack.”
Ariel panicked, clutching Tia’s arm. “You can’t go!”
By her eyes, Tia was well aware of the risk.
“I can’t hide here forever, mi corazón,” she said. “Mom’s out there, and whatever time I’ve got left, I’m spending it with her.”
And turning, she went inside the house.
Chapter 125
Election day, Tuesday, November 4, 8:42 am
Endicott, Percy & Moore Communications
Kassandra cleaned out her office, chucking her belongings in a cardboard box, swearing under her breath, fighting tears.
Not that she wasn’t expecting this, but to have it done so, so dismissively. After how hard she’d worked for this damned place, how close she’d come to saving EP&M’s ass. A pink slip left unceremoniously on her desk. Franklin Percy hadn’t the courtesy to sack her himself, leaving the satisfaction to Shonda.
A guard stood at Kassandra’s door, burly arms folded, watching what she put into the box. She was dreading the walk of shame through the office, everyone aware. And of course, Bobby Driscoll wasn’t letting her off without a last shot.
He popped his head in her door. “Gotta hand it to you, Kassie,” he chirped, “you had me worried for a while. Slick move seducing that Prophet. No way I could compete there.”
Failing to draw a response, he leaned against the door by the guard to add, “A little advice, babe, from a man’s perspective. Next time you want to hustle a dude like Butterfield, make sure he puts up before you put out.”
He cackled, and the guard joined in.
Kassandra finished packing and turned, smiling sweetly. “You know, Bobby, I was wrong about you. We’ve got something in common after all.”
He raised a brow.
“…We’ll both screw anyone to get ahead.”
Snatching the box, she marched out the door, tossing back, “And you can keep your advice. If ever I want your perspective, I’ll stick my head up your ass.”
She breezed off, and the security guard followed, laughing.
Chapter 126
November 4, 10:00 am, Talawanda
Ariel sat at the table in the tent flanked by Tia and Stan, staring into the roiling vortex before her. Like seeing inside her own head. She’d adjusted her laptop camera to include Tia and Stan in its view this time. Max was perched on a stool in front of the vortex, poised to insert the antenna in the wormhole when it appeared.
No longer was Ariel dressed as an angel. For the first time, she was presenting her true self, hair down, plain blue blouse. In the spirit of full disclosure, however, she’d skipped contacts and makeup.
The election of four years ago was already underway, outcome a fait accompli, according to the exit polls. All the same, the team was committed to slowing down the Dark Age onslaught. If they could somehow convince Butterfield to endorse the Democrats, they might yet keep Congress out of Filby’s hands, and save TPC. Assuming, that is, Butterfield showed up this morning. The prospects did not seem good after his recent behavior. And as the wormhole opened once more, Ariel had the sinking sensation it was for the last time.
Max inserted the antenna, then rested its opposite end on his stool to keep it in place. H
ustling behind Ariel and the others, he dropped to one knee where he could be seen on camera, too, his hand warm on Ariel’s shoulder.
Ariel opened videochat. And to her surprise and relief, there sat Scott Butterfield. Slumped, arms folded across his chest, big tabby in his lap. Maybe he was seeking some closure, too.
“Hello,” Ariel greeted him contritely.
He said nothing, taking them all in. His frown deepened.
Anger, or curiosity?
“You’ve every right to be upset,” Ariel told him. “We should have leveled with you from the start. My name is Ariel Silva. These are my colleagues—” she gestured to each in turn, “Tia Diego, Maxwell Bach, Stan Bronkowski. We want to apologize for what we’ve put you through. Please let me explain.”
He dismissed her with a wave of a hand. “Way ahead of you,” he said, glancing offscreen. “I moved my plant. I’m looking at your wormhole as we speak. But I admit, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the time-travel thing.”
Ariel’s heart felt leaden. He’d read Tia’s email and uncovered their ruse. And now, rightfully resentful, he was going to make Ariel’s job all the harder. She pushed on.
“Whatever you must think of our tactics, we know you care about the country as much as we do. Under Filby, things are going to get very dark. He’s a puppet of Thornton’s Council, up to his ears in illegal collusion. If you’d let our hindsight be your foresight—”
“I get it. You don’t like the direction the country’s headed, and you stumbled onto a way to change it. Except, stealing an election isn’t exactly legal, now is it?”
Stan said, “Our goals were honorable. We put our lives at risk.”
Tia added, “We made mistakes, yes. There’s no precedent for what we faced, no guidelines.”
Scott scratched the cat’s ears. “You needed guidelines to act in good faith? And now you’re caught in your own trap. A Timetrap, and the clock is ticking. So what becomes of you?”
