The soldier hesitated at the pyrotechnic display, then raised his rifle again.
Three explosive blasts sounded behind Tom and his whole body clenched. The soldier crumpled, bloody stains soaking through his uniform. Tom whirled around to see Ballo holding the pistol, a torpid curl of smoke drifting from the barrel. "What the hell?"
"I didn't even think. He was going to fire again. The gun was on the desk and I..." Ballo slumped down into the chair, the seat squeaking under him.
"What happened?" Tom edged up to the body on the floor and picked up the odd looking rifle. "What kind of gun is this?"
Ballo reached into his desk and pulled out a small bottle partly filled with a clear liquid. He took a gulp, then offered it to Tom. "I think it's designed to pierce the shield and make it collapse. You were holding the other shield. When he fired, that field collapsed, but luckily we were still isolated in mine."
Tom took the bottle, but the smell of alcohol mixed with the acidic gun-smoke made him nauseous. They'd just killed a man. He handed the bottle back untouched. "Someone is hunting us now?"
Ballo wiped his forehead. "Presumably the same person that sent the other Ballo—Tenford—whoever that is."
"But why?"
Ballo stumbled over to the body. Rifling through the soldier's pockets he found another shield generator and deactivated it. The soldier and gun vanished. "He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past."
"What's that?"
"Never mind. There'll be more coming after us. I don't see how we can avoid them and get the ChronSkeetas we need."
Tom shivered. "That seems unlikely."
"That's it then. We're beaten." Ballo slouched down in the chair. "We can wait for them to come and get us, wait for the shield to run out. Or just switch it off and who knows what will happen."
"There must be something..." Tom looked helpless. "You're a scientist, dammit."
Ballo gave a soft laugh. "Sometimes I see every bit of him in you. The only thing I regret is not getting a message through to you... him before all this. If only to say goodbye. It was our one year anniversary."
Ballo pulled the picture frame out of his desk and handed it to Tom. It showed the two of them in a restaurant, smiling with arms around each other's waist.
"Why did you wait so long? You said it had been weeks."
"I couldn't find any of your other analogs. I sat outside your work for days waiting to catch a glimpse of you."
"That makes me uncomfortable. I wish you wouldn't-" Tom stopped, then thumped the desk. "Wait! We control the present."
Ballo looked confused. "Sorry, I don't-"
"The Time-Bugs. You said they can be modified to deliver a message instead of a recording?"
"Yes. That's the problem."
"Couldn't we modify one and send it back to this Kinker guy? Tell him about the disaster they've caused? Are causing? Will cause?" Tom scratched his ear. "It's hard talking about this stuff. If he's a responsible person, wouldn't he hide the discovery? Everything would revert to the original time-line, wouldn't it?"
"That's a big assumption. What if he doesn't care?"
"We'll make him care. Explain everything about the mental problems the shifts are causing. How people live almost like ghosts, that nothing is solid anymore."
Ballo scowled. "What if it doesn't work?"
"We'll tell him we have the shield too. That we can send it back to destroy him and the prototype. And if he doesn't knuckle under, that will be the next thing we send."
"We can't do that though without the ChronSkeetas."
Tom smiled. "Sure, but he won't know that."
***
Ballo modified the ChronSkeeta while Tom worked on the message. It was simple enough, a basic text document that would project onto the nearest surface for Kinker to see. Both worked in a determined silence, the pistol ready on the desk, but no-one bothered them.
"It's done." Tom lifted his hands from the keyboard. He smiled and let out a small laugh.
"What is it?"
"I don't know. It's kind of silly, but it feels like we're working on a school science project."
Ballo smiled too. "This will be ready in a few minutes." He made the last-minute microscopic changes needed and uploaded the message. "That's it. The destination is programmed. We're ready."
"Okay, let's go." Tom hesitated. "How will we know if it works?"
"I'm not sure."
"Never mind. Just do it."
Ballo reached out and pressed a key. Nothing seemed to change.
"Did it work?" Tom leaned forward.
Ballo tapped the computer screen "The ChronSkeeta deployed. That's all I can tell you."
A frustrating hour passed, but nothing seemed any different than before. Ballo dug out some stale cookies and they washed them down with bottles of foul-tasting distilled water. It was Tom who finally broke the silence.
"There must be a way to check if anything's happened."
"We could try the 3V. If the shifts have stopped it should be stable."
"Sure. Let's try." Tom swallowed hard. "But I'm not sure I really want to know."
Ballo switched on the 3V and a flickering screen appeared; random half images filled the display accompanied by indecipherable sounds. Tom gasped in defeat behind him.
"Hang on..." Tapping the controls, Ballo switched to another channel.
"...also by lawmakers and political leaders, who said the current system had evolved over decades of political wrangling and could not be revamped easily despite its failure." The news anchorman looked over-tanned and rather bored.
"A ten-member investigation team has been created that will look at every aspect of what's needed-"
Ballo switched channel again.
A wide-faced announcer appeared on a sports channel. "Blake Paskerti Rondo returned to action this week following knee surgery twelve weeks ago, but the Chasers insist he is not going to start the game on Friday against the Twisters..."
Tom let out a whoop of victory and hugged Ballo, slapping him several times on the back. "It worked! Damn, it worked!"
"Let's try something else."
They moved towards the computer until it slipped inside the shield's range. Ballo opened a national news page, jotting down the headlines. Then they backed away and returned. The headlines were the same.
"I guess we did it." Ballo sounded surprised. "We actually did it!"
"We make a good team." Tom grinned and stepped back. "I'm glad it worked."
Ballo held up the generator. "We can switch this off now. We don't need it anymore."
Tom was quiet for several minutes. "Will we remember any of this?"
"I think we'll be assimilated into the current timeline, but I don't know for sure."
"Will we end up in the same one?"
"I think so."
Tom reached out, grasping Ballo's hand firmly. "I hope we still know each other, wherever we end up."
Ballo lifted his hand and stroked Tom's cheek briefly, then stabbed his finger against the generator's power button.
The End
He Who Controls had a relatively long gestation period (long for me anyway). I started wondering what it would be like if time travel was cheap, uncontrolled and widely accessible, but didn't quite know what to do with the idea for several months. Looking at today's society it seemed obvious that people would use such an ability for entirely selfish reasons. So I started wondering how everyone would want to change things for their own benefit and what it would be like to suffer almost endless shifts in your personal reality. The potential effect that might have on the brain and people's life histories and personalities would be massive and devastating. Later I wondered how it might effect people at a personal level and after sketching out the main character profiles the story almost wrote itself.
One For The Money
"Good morning." Garcia examined the patient's charts and made a small satisfied grunt, moving closer
to the alter-like treatment bed that dominated the dimly lit room. "You are Elvis."
"Uh huh."
"Specifically, you're Elvis VII, the seventh produced since this project started. Though the first two were stillborn and technically don't count."
"I'm all shook up." Elvis looked around, his eyes unfocused as if not really taking anything in.
Garcia sighed. "A little disorientation is to be expected. Until ninety minutes ago you were in an Accelerated Growth Chamber. You have been maturated to the equivalent of twenty-seven years old. Throughout this process your brain was deliberately isolated while we implanted all memories and personal history available."
"You are not the Elvis. You are our product and belong one hundred percent to Real Superstars Incorporated in perpetuity."
"You're the Devil in disguise."
This is going to be more difficult than imagined, thought Garcia. The memory implants need more time to settle. "Get some rest. I'll be back later."
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
Garcia shook his head.
***
The car pulled up next to the shadowed figure buried in a black trench coat, its headlights casting bright glimmers on the damp asphalt. Garcia wound down the window, grimacing at the smell of stale food and who knew what else that immediately invaded the air-conditioned interior. It wasn't the best of neighborhoods. "Get in."
Elvis crouched, ready to run. "Got a lot o' livin' to do and it ain't happening back at that monkey house. No, sir."
Garcia stepped out and approached with his hand outstretched. His shoes stuck to the pavement with each step and he had to fight to conceal his disgust at what he was stepping in. Elvis had improved, but still had that annoying speech habit. Perhaps it was inevitable given the training, but he wished it would stop. "You've already been spotted. How far do you think you'll get on your own? Several reports have been picked up by the news."
"I'll be home for Christmas." Elvis wiggled his hips. "It's now or never. When I think about what you boys are planning... If I don't get out now, I'll be nothing but your whipped pup forever. I played that role too many times for the Colonel - I ain't doing that again."
A dog howled in the distance and sent chills up and down Garcia's back. He didn't try to point out that the Colonel wasn't part of this Elvis's life. Conversations of that nature only ended in more confusion. "We aren't ready for that kind of exposure yet. These things take proper build up and preparation. Breaking cover now could ruin our plans. You wouldn't want that would you?"
"Don't Cry Daddy. You can make another me in ten minutes, I'm sure."
More like ten years, Garcia thought. Too much acceleration had ruined the previous Elvis versions. If this one didn't work out it would probably be his last chance to complete the project. "Please Elvis. We start performance and recording training next week. You'll enjoy that, it'll be fun."
"That's what you say, but I'm lonesome tonight." Elvis looked away, his eyes low. "You folks plain forgot that there's a whole sentimental me. I'm a man, I don't have a wooden heart."
This again. He'd told the Board they should let Elvis have some companionship, but they thought it would be too much of a distraction. Now it was going to ruin everything. If only he could arrange something. Wait, there was the "sister" project. That would be perfect and she was mature enough now. "Come with me and I'll arrange a treat. A special lady by the name of Paris. She's not much of a conversationalist, but I'm sure you'll find errr... other things to occupy your time."
"Are you sincere?"
"Certainly, my boy. You deserve it."
Garcia smiled. It was a tremendous opportunity and would help Paris IV's development too. How could the Board possibly find a problem with that? It would be controlled and discrete.
"Alright, okay, you win." Elvis barely resisted as Garcia guided him into the warmth of the car.
Garcia burst from the studio, brushing sweat from his forehead. How was it possible? After all the work they'd put in. He had instructions to call the board as soon as the first session ended, but how could he break the news? He leaned against the wall, trying to control his breathing with little success.
His fingers trembled as he punched in the number, hoping no-one would answer. Then the display lit up, showing the Chairman and entire board, their virtual faces floating around the darkened office like ghosts.
"Good day, Mr. Garcia. We've been waiting eagerly." The Chairman laughed. "You're early, so I assume things went well?"
Garcia swallowed hard and tried not to retch.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Chairman. Please give me a minute."
"What's wrong?" The Chairman scowled. "Is there a problem, Doctor Garcia? I thought you'd allowed for all possibilities. You have the best voice coaches, don't you?"
All the voice coaches in the world couldn't fix the caterwauling and incoherent grunts I've just witnessed, thought Garcia. The studio door opened and one of the sound technicians ran towards the restroom, hand clamped across his mouth. For a moment Garcia heard the tortured wails again and tried desperately to shut his ears.
"Good god!" The Chairman's face filled the phone screen. "Was that...?"
Garcia nodded. "Live performances are out of the question, Mr. Chairman. Miming may be possible, but it will require a lot of coaching."
The Chairman waved his fist. "No new material? That will cut potential profits by as much as forty percent. How could you let this happen? You're supposed to be the best. You're finished, do you hear? Finished!"
Garcia withered. Perhaps he should reconsider the Regan proposal, though he hated the idea of working in politics. "There's always an element of risk in genetic manipulation, Mr. Chairman... Perhaps we can use enhancement techniques. The computer guys are getting pretty good at that."
"What good is an Elvis that can't sing, you idiot?" The Chairman reddened. "Is anything salvageable? How were his general performance skills?"
Garcia thought hard, searching for the best way to describe the awkward jerky spasms he'd seen. "Well, Mr. Chairman... There was a whole lotta shakin' goin' on."
The End
In Murphy's Law, one of the characters was involved in a military operation where she saved "Elvis VII". This was meant as nothing more than a random piece of "historical" background to add a little depth to the character—the implication was that somehow Elvis was reborn or cloned. My wife, Hilary, picked up on this and asked right away what the story was behind Elvis VII and when was I going to write it.
I resisted the idea for a long time as I'm really an Elvis fan, but she continued teasing me and bugging me about it. Then—in a flash of inspiration (or madness...) —I had the idea of the clone being programmed with everything from the original Elvis's life and speaking only in song titles. I thought initially that would be hard, but after doing some research, I realized that Elvis had recorded so many songs that it was very achievable. The story almost tumbled out after that.
Uh huh.
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed these stories and please share your thoughts with me. This book would not have been possible without the help and support of my family, numerous friends (even though many of them think I’m crazy!) and other members of the writing community. I’d like to thank them all (and share the blame) for everything I’ve done. I’d especially like to thank my wife, Hilary, for her constant love, support and patience.
The best way to help any writer, especially an indie like myself, is by word-of-mouth. Please consider leaving a review on your favorite book retailer. Even if it's only a line or two, it's very much appreciated. Also please look out for other independent authors, there are a lot out there who work hard to bring you stories that you would never see through commercial publishers.
For a complete list of my fiction, please visit my website and consider signing up for my free update newsletter. I will not share your information with anyone for any reason, and won't bombard your mailbox, either. I o
nly send updates when I have a new book or special deal for my readers to know about.
Thanks again.
David M. Kelly
Also From David M. Kelly
(For a complete list of my books, visit http://davidmkelly.net/my-books/ )
Joe Ballen Series
The Joe Ballen series is a near future, sci-fi noir thriller series, featuring a smart-mouthed space engineer, engaging characters, cynical humor, and plausible science.
You can ask Joe Ballen anything, except to give up.
Joe Ballen dreams of returning to space, but after an accident left him half-crippled, those days are over. Luckily for Joe, Geneering gave him new limbs. Better than nothing, but not enough to allow him to go back to his old job as a space engineer. A natural loner, he now scrapes a living by illegally flying cabs in flooded-out Baltimore.
But when one of his passengers suffers a grisly death, Joe is dragged into a dangerous conspiracy centered around a prototype Jumpship. No one believes the ship will work, not even the space-faring Atolls who have barricaded Earth from the rest of space. But someone is murdering everyone connected to it.
As the bodies pile up, Joe becomes suspect number one, and his enemies will stop at nothing to hide the truth. With the help of a disturbed scientist, a senile survivalist, and his glamorous boss, can Joe untangle the puzzle and uncover the truth before he becomes another dead statistic?
The future’s about to get a lot more action packed!
Available via books2read.com/MOE-JB1
In space, treachery runs deep.
Joe Ballen’s working on a new ore-processing platform in the harsh environment around Mercury. When a savage Atoll attack decimates his crew, Joe is injured and returns to Earth to recover. While it’s a setback for the project, at least it means he can rebuild his relationship with his wife after nearly a year away.
But then the security forces come calling. Vital starship engineering files are missing, and without them Earth has no hope of escaping Atoll domination. Someone has to locate the files, and Ballen is bulldozed into the not-so-choice assignment.
Dead Reckoning and Other Stories Page 16
