by J.P Jackson
The old professor pulled a reflective silver case from a shelf full of empty beakers and test tubes. Lanza and Taylor were alone in the med-lab, hurrying against the approaching comet.
"Privacy at work was my prerequisite," Lanza said, looking around his lab. "Still, let us assume they are watching and listening to everything."
"And let them try stop us," Taylor groaned, as he helped Lanza support the weight of the heavy case. “You stashin' gold bars, Karl?”
They set the case at the foot of the bed and Lanza entered a four digit combination. "Worth more than it's weight in gold," he replied, entering the numbers 2041. The coincidence caused Taylor to shake his head. 2041 was the most important year of his life - it was the year of his falling out with Lanza, the year he won the Nobel Prize for Physics, and the year of his wife's disappearance.
Lanza scowled when he saw the clock above the door. "Two hours and twenty minutes until impact. It is impossible to know how the strike will affect the bunker's power supply, thus the future depends on us acting now. Bonding the gauntlet to your arm will take at least two hours, leaving you twenty minutes to make it to the jump room.” He exhaled. “It will be close."
"It always is."
Taylor took his bottle of scotch then propped himself on the bed.
"The coordinates,” Lanza said, programming Hippocrates, “have been calculated into the torch. Survive your journey through the time and space Hamilton, and you will open your eyes one year ago today. That's one year," he insisted. "Not four."
Lanza paused to look at him. "Were you really planning on altering the date?"
Taylor said nothing. He didn't have too.
"Hamilton the coordinates in the torch took me three weeks to calculate, it's not something one can do on the fly, not even you. Please do not insult my intelligence or exaggerate your own by attempting to alter your course."
Taylor pulled the cork from his scotch and stuffed it into his pocket. He inhaled the scent of caramel fuming from the bottle neck.
Watching Taylor tease himself, Lanza sighed as he flicked opened the silver case. "The fate of humanity is in the hands of a raging alcoholic."
"I prefer dedicated," Taylor mused, drinking from the bottle. The heat from the liquor caused him to close his eyes and smile.
The golden torch had an illuminated touch-screen displaying a complicated group of celestial coordinates. Beside the screen was a power gauge sitting at 0%. Turning it over, the underside had dozens of holes from which metallic tentacles emerged. "Self guidied nanowires designed to pierce flesh, bone and bond with the nervous system," explained Lanza.
Taylor set the bottle on the bedside table and puffed as he picked up the gauntlet. "I'll slip a disk with this attached to my arm."
"It weighs five pounds," informed Lanza, dashing numbers into Hippocrates. "You will be grateful for every single ounce."
Taylor returned it to the case and pulled a cigar from his chest pocket. Lanza quickly confiscated the cigar and snapped it in half. "I can't stop you having a drink, but the smoke offends me. Take off your shirt. I am programming Hippocrates to first remove all implants from your body. You will no longer be a registered member of modern society."
"Bastards never liked me anyway.” Taylor pulled the shirt over his head to reveal his grey chest hair and torso peppered with welts and bruises. “Seems I'm never out of hospital these days.”
Lanza stuck a thermometer between Taylor's lips. "This mouth of yours will get you killed," he said, guiding Taylor's head back to the pillow before taking a reading from the thermometer.
"Preparing subject for procedure!" declared Hippocrates.
The machine's mechanical arm, with a long needle dripping anaesthetic, aimed itself at Taylor's left hand.
"I'd rather be awake," he said, jerking his arm from the injection. The interruption caused a red light to flash on-top of Hippocrates. "Warning! Procedure interruption!"
Lanza snatched Taylor's wrist and placed his arm flat on the bed. "Hamilton this machine is going to slice open your wrist, the pain will be excruciating."
Taylor conceded with a nod, and as Lanza returned to finalize the program, Taylor pulled the wooden cork from his pocket and grasped it in his left hand. As Hippocrates targeted the back of that hand, Taylor waited until its wet needle was millimeters from a vein before flipping his hand over. Hippocrates injected the cork and its sensors appeared to be fooled. Taylor pocketed the dripping cork then relaxed every muscle as if the anesthetic had been administered.
"Although it may be useless," Lanza added, confidently facing the bed. "I will attend this vote and do my best to change their minds."
Taylor closed his eyes and slurred his speech. "They're not like the rest of us, Karl. Be careful."
Taylor drooped to one side as a satisfied Lanza patted his old friend's shoulder. “Hippocrates will clean your wrist then attach the torch to your forearm. All you have to do is sleep. See you soon, Hamilton.”
Lanza left Hippocrates to it's work and Taylor opened his eyes the moment he heard the lab door close. He reached for the scotch and chugged it down his throat. It would help with the pain, or that's what he told himself.
Stifling a burp, he mentally wrestled with the temporal coordinates needed to throw him four years into the past. Specifics were vital - there could be nothing wishy-washy about his numbers. For even if he calculated the correct time and date, he still needed a precise location, making sure he didn't land himself a hundred feet underground, a thousand feet in the sky, or half a solar system away. It was the most daunting mathematical conundrum of his life, and Taylor would attempt it in record time, during surgery, and under the influence.
Lanza peeked into the cafeteria on his way past. Innocent children and work weary kitchen staff gathered around the large screens, holding hands as they watched the live feed of a flaming ball over the Atlantic.
Lanza swallowed another painkiller and shuffled toward the elevator, where a tense looking soldier stood guard.
"It is okay!" Lanza declared, forcing a smile. "I have a -"
He froze, wincing at the gun pressing against his hump and the hand squeezing the back of his neck.
"Where's Taylor?" Wertz whispered into his ear.
Lanza took a dry gulp and slowly raised his hands. "I last saw him passed out. Typical Scotsman. Drunk as usual."
Wertz cocked his gun. "Believable, if I hadn’t just watched the pair of you in the med-lab planning an unsanctioned trip far away from here. Care to explain yourself, Professor?"
"A vote has yet to be cast," Lanza argued, daring to look back. "We felt it best to be prepared for any eventuality."
Wertz prodded Lanza's hump and he stumbled to the ground, scraping his knees on the rock. "Get up on your feet. Don't make me drag you."
Lanza prepared to pick himself up when a hand reached out from the shadows. He shrieked and scurried from the outstretched fingers of President Cox. She was crumpled against a rocky inlet, weeping in the darkness. Heart racing, Lanza bent closer, throwing a hand over his mouth when he witnessed her mutilated face. There was a black and dribbling cavity where her eye once was, and the skin of her nose dangled from the tip like torn newspaper.
"What have they done to you?" Lanza gasped, reaching out to her. “My Goodness.”
"She did it to herself," droned Wertz, aiming his pistol at her forehead.
With no expression or hesitation, Wertz pulled the trigger, blasting what was left of her face over Lanza. While the gunshot echoed throughout the corridors, Wertz holstered his smoking barrel.
"Orders," he remarked, kicking Cox's limp hand into the shadows. "Wipe the brains off your face, Professor Lanza. You have an appointment."
