by D. J. Gelner
I tore open the letter and forced myself to read it aloud in my trembling hands, though at some point my voice started to sound like the Southern twang I knew so well.
“Dear Doc,
I suppose between ChronoSaber and the museum, you figured out the gist of things. I stole the time machine. If you haven’t put 2 and 2 together on the how yet, I guess I better get to it from the start.
No doubt you’ve met that weird lady with the black hair named Helene, who apparently runs ChronoSaber. Garrett’s just a patsy. She cornered Bloomy and me and the rest of the scientists as we were studying the wreckage of the Roswell craft and offered to help us complete it sometime in 2012. Budget was tight back then, and she offered her services gratis, so I asked, ‘What’s the catch?’ She said, ‘you’ll meet a foppish Brit scientist along the way. He’ll rescue you at a certain point in his travels. Use these,’ and she handed me my gloves, ‘electrostatic gloves to get his handprint, which you’ll need to commandeer his craft. And use this,’ she handed me my (pretty sweet-looking) I-Pod, ‘to record everything he says.’”
Dear God, no…I thought.
“She said to me, ‘Earn his trust, get him to open up, so that you can eventually cobble together the phrase, ‘Computer, transfer all voice control to Commander Richard (or Ricky) Corcoran.’”
My head reeled as it all came together. Damn my photographic memory! I thought. Flashbacks overwhelmed me, first all of the times I had addressed the computer. Then I was back at Burnham’s party speaking to Corcoran, “I’m afraid it’s terribly boring, really, compared with your story. Father transferred to England when I was still young…” Then I was back in the cockpit before our final jump, “If I wanted to hear emotion in a singer’s voice, I would listen to something from…oh, I don’t know…Barbara Streisand?” Then after that fight Corcoran had with Bloomington, “Some things just are out of our control sometimes,” it was Corcoran’s voice, but I followed with, “Well Commander, I understand completely. Control is a funny thing, you know.” Finally, my mind raced to the first time I had met the Commander, in the jungle outside of his crashed spacecraft. “Commander Corcoran? Commander Corcoran!” I had said. “Like I said, you can call me Ricky,” he flashed a smile.“Indeed I can, Richard.” I said. “Ricky,” he said one more time. And for the first time, all of those little half-smiles and grins made a lot more sense. “Commander…”
I forced myself to continue reading, despite the tears that boiled off my face and onto the sheet below.
“As you’ve likely guessed, I wasn’t putting together a report—I was splicing up your audio. That thing had a hell of a recorder on it, and awesome battery life. You should really think about picking one up.
When I finished up in the john at Chronosaber, you were already gone. I rushed back to the ship and got the stash of cash Burnham had given us. I got some funny looks for trying to use paper currency at some places, but eventually, I bought up plenty of goodies to take to the past—medigel, holotrans, half the shit in the Apple store, and even lifted one of those laser rifles off of a guard.
I played the message to the computer, and sure as shit, it worked. I tried to get back to 2012, but the computer locked me out, forced me to go back to 2032. I think I’ve seen you jump this thing enough that I can do it myself now.
I left you this note because I felt bad. There are still forces at work that you can’t even comprehend. I’ll honor my word as best I can, and hopefully get you in the history books someday. I’m really sorry for the ill I have caused you—it was the most despicable, yet ultimately most necessary thing I’ve ever done. To know that bringing these things back to 2032 will end what’s left of the war is the only thing that comforts my dark conscience even now, before I’ve made the jump. I imagine the feelings will just grow worse with time.
As a peace offering, I left you this. I know how much you enjoy it, so don’t go wasting it all at once. It’ll hopefully ease the sting a bit, and get you through the next few weeks.
Do what you gotta do. I give you my solemn promise, not only as an officer in the U.S. Navy, but as an honorable man, that our paths will cross again, and I will do my damnedest to ensure that you suffer a better fate, live a better life, when they do.
Until then, though, I offer my deepest apologies.
Sincerely,
Your Friend Ricky”
Still holding the letter, I unwrapped the package, my face angry and harsh. I tore the paper to ribbons, only to find the one thing that I didn’t want to see at the moment. For as sweet as it was, and how much it had helped me through this journey, even it had betrayed me when I was most in need.
The tell-tale label of the Macallan Eighteen glared back at me, mocking me for my solitary vice that I had tried so desperately to control through the years, nay ages. Each word an embossed dagger to the heart as I read the label aloud:
“The Macallan. Highland Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. Aged 18 Years,”
And a single phrase, printed in ink, across the bottom of the label:
“Special Limited Release—Vintage 2014”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I laughed and rolled like a buffoon, for at that moment, was I little better than one? I had been utterly had, a jester for the court of infinite time, a simple pawn in a chess game played in four dimensions.
All had been for naught! The months and years of my life disappeared in one moment as I first crumpled Corcoran’s letter, then thought the better of discarding it and began to eat it; quite literally, I shoved the paper down my gullet. The first reading had so burned those words into my soul that I could recite them, start-to-finish, by rote five minutes afterward.
I laughed like a maniac through the streets of Baltimore for weeks on end, fluttering to-and-fro mad as a hatter in June, trying to shake ChronoSaber’s goons all the while. It was a laugh I’ve never been able to replicate before or since; one minute light and relishing in the absurdity of it all, the next dark and sinister, and hoping for nothing more than to wring the life out of Ricky Corcoran, to clasp my hands around his neck and dig in for his dear life, which should be mine, mine, MINE!
I rushed across a bridge (The Richard J. Corcoran Bridge, to be exact!) and hustled to my lab, only to find any trace of it bulldozed from Hopkins’ campus. Another park, a green space that would never spill the secrets it once contained.
I heard the sideways comments of “proper” individuals; “Gone mad with the time sickness, he has!” They’d exclaim in hushed tones. More than a few passers-by took pity on me and threw me a spare twenty or so, told me to get help and get clean. But my mind was finally clear as a whistle in springtime, sharp as a T-Rex tooth! Oh, the jokes that time—nay, the universe itself!—could play on an unsuspecting time traveller!
Then came the mourning period; why did history and creation smile on people like Ricky Corcoran and Trent Albertson and leave true genius in the gutter to rot, a festering sore on a foreign time? I asked myself this question millions of times under countless bridges and overpasses, and still couldn’t find an acceptable answer.
“Haven’t I done everything you asked me to?” I asked to the sky one particularly dark and rainy evening. “Didn’t I follow the rules? What more do you want? My life? My soul? Take them! They’re yours! I submit, existence! I kneel before thee, a man, broken!”
There was, of course, no response. There was never a response, though my experiences dictated that someone was most certainly listening somewhere out there. How else could my grotesque existence so nicely and neatly package things up for all of the others around me? Was that not “fate” or “God” or “the universe,” or whatever else you wished to call it?
I began to cobble the events of my life together, to try to place exactly where or when it had gone wrong, and realised that my life’s story was actually rather exciting. I began to forego all of the bottles of scotch that my take as a panhandler usually brought (all the while saving that “special” bottle of scotch Ricky had l
eft for the perfect time) and instead saved up for a budget-level tablet and keyboard to memorialise this manuscript that I have written these many months now.
I scrounged up enough to have this tale couriered to the time right before Corcoran was set to take off on his nefarious mission, to out him for the fraud that he is before harm could befall all who had suffered the slings and arrows of time travel, including myself. I gave the courier strict instructions to provide this manuscript in whole to some talentless hack eager to make a name for himself as ebooks were beginning to come into fashion, where my scrawlings need not pass through the watchful eyes of editors or publishing houses to reach the masses. As I said before, the odds are 99.9% that I have already failed; the book is, as far as I know, not a best seller. But as we have seen before, even that 0.1% can be enough to otherwise alter the flow of history, for better or worse.
So I ask you, dear reader—did I accomplish my goal? As you’ll recall, it was to provide the God’s honest truth, as much as that can even exist any more, and recount my tale. To expose the fraud Corcoran for the liar and cheat that he is. To out my Benefactor, Helene, who may or may not be destined to become one of the most ruthless businesswomen of all time.
But to most importantly to give credit where credit is due—to ME! The true creator and all-knowing father of time travel! The man who hath suffered insult and apathy silently for far too long.
Several of my contemporaries (and by that, I now mean Clarence and Mason who live under the bridge [that very same Corcoran Bridge, mind you] with me) have asked “would I do it all over again?” Sadly, the answer is “Of course.” Not because I want to or I think it’s somehow been a worthwhile learning experience, or a way to foster personal growth.
Rather it’s because the universe demanded as much. It gripped me by the collar and cast me about, its own personal plaything, the one piece that it could move all throughout the space-time continuum. And perhaps most importantly, the only piece with the natural curiosity to listen to what it had to say, to comply with its every desire, no matter how absurd those desires may have been, and dutifully take my established, “rightful” place in this completely wrong-minded history.
We ride the current of time during our brief stay on this planet, completely at its whims. Even when it appears that we have craft to navigate its rapids and eddies, know that it is the mighty river that ultimately commands us through our lives. All we can do is grab a paddle and attempt to stay out of the more dangerous parts, all the while casting caution to the wind.
Or is it? Wait—I have it! One final jump to change it all! No more Corcoran Park, no more bridges bearing That Man’s name, just one simple final jump that will provide me with the peace of mind I need to survive. I’ll get the money somehow; just no more drinking for a little while longer, no more sweet, sweet anesthetic blissfully rescuing me from this awful existence. I could even stow away! Give the guards the slip—that shouldn’t be too hard. They’re beginning to get downright complacent when it comes to me! Where will I go? Past? Future? Does it matter? My past to change this future, or this future to escape my past? The point is to be the one place in time where everything is as it should be. No more time travel, no more insanity. No more narrow escape from death at the hands of a T-Rex, all those years ago. Or was it days? I don’t even fucking know any more!
Here comes the laughter again, washing over my soul, cleansing it, clearing it, and wiping it clean! Yes, that’s my medicine now! How daft! How mad! How utterly droll!
Now, now, Finn, get a hold of yourself. Cling onto that last nerve for dear life. Cage your unbound mind and make it your friend once more.
There’s work to be done.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was a rare sunny day in London, or at least as sunny as the notoriously dreary city got on a thoroughly autumnal Sunday in November. A man in a rather plush, black cashmere topcoat and fedora carried a small boy on his shoulders. His eyes were haggard and bag-heavy, the result of far too little sleep and perhaps a few too many cigarettes in his off-hours. These were the times that made it all pay off, though; the transfer to London, all of the long nights and moronic traders with whom he dealt, even his wife’s departure to be with some awful street artist she had met in some long-haired part of the city.
It was all worth it for moments like these. The man stared out at the still-new London Eye and winked at it. Though it never returned the gesture, the man often liked to imagine that it did.
“Candy Floss! Two pounds fifty!” A vendor cried from a nearby cart.
“Papa! Papa! Please?” The boy asked.
The man pretended to consider the question for several moments before he “capitulated,” and nodded with approval.
“Hey now, bub. ‘At’ll be two pounds fifty.” The vendor said.
The man rummaged through his thick wallet. He thought that he would have to clear it out one of these days, but when would he ever find the time to do so? He plucked out a five pound note and handed it to the boy on his shoulders.
“Go ahead, Finny. Give the nice man his money.”
The boy extended a cautious hand toward the vendor, who eagerly took the bill from him.
“Out of foive,” the vendor motioned toward his cash box.
The man extended a waving hand, “Keep the change.”
The vendor smiled, “Thank you, sir. Always been a fan of da Yanks, I have. Even now, a year on from 9-11, I think you’re doin’ quite well, if I do say so myself, despite what a wanker that President Bush of yours may be and ‘dis noise about Iraq ‘ee’s makin’.” He handed the boy one of the cones of spun pink sugar. Immediately the lad tore into it like he hadn’t eaten for days.
“Tyrannosaurus Rex—RAWR!” the boy yelled as he took a massive bite of the sugary treat.
The man chuckled. “Easy now, Finn—you don’t want to eat it all right away.”
“But Daaaad! It’s so gooooood!” The boy protested. The man shook his head and grinned. The candy floss vendor bid the two adieu as they continued their walk near the river.
“Papa, why did you give that man extra money?” The boy asked.
“What do you mean?” The man responded with an impish grin.
“The candy floss was two pounds fifty, and you gave him five pounds. You paid double what it cost.”
“Not bad for a six year old,” the man said, barely able to contain his pride. “Sometimes, Finn, those who are fortunate like to give a little extra to those who work hard and aren’t as fortunate.”
“Why?” the boy asked.
“Because, we want to reward hard work, Finny. It’s tough times out there.”
“But that man just stands there with the candy floss all day, guarding it.” The boy said.
“From hungry little boys like you?” The man dipped down and the boy squealed with delight as he clutched his beloved candy floss to ensure that it didn’t go flying. “I’d say that’s hard work.”
The boy laughed. They came upon an alley, and a shadowy figure sat up against one of the brick walls. His long hair was dark and unkempt, and an equally untamed beard covered his face, yet somehow added some slight distinction to the prematurely wrinkled skin that surrounded his eyes.
“Spare change, pop?” the bearded man asked. He smiled from ear-to-ear.
“Now Finny, that’s a bum,” the man said. “You work hard because you don’t want to end up like him.”
The bum smiled and locked eyes first with the man, and then with the child that sat on the man’s shoulders. The smile waned for a moment as the bum’s eyes widened, and the faintest hint of recognition washed over his face. Dimples pushed at his high, gaunt cheekbones as the grin returned in full force.
“Come along now, Finn.” The man put his wallet away and walked off.
The bum’s smile lingered for quite some time after the encounter, despite the man’s not-so-subtle dig at his expense. The vagrant’s eyes glazed over as foot traffic continued on the narrow cobblestone
street in front of him.
So many people flittering to-and-fro, and for what? He thought. What good will it do them?
The drifter reached several times to his right, and eventually grasped his target; a brown paper bag, which obviously holstered a bottle of some type of alcohol. The bum took a deep draught on the bottle until his tongue stopped dancing with the telltale burn of its contents.
The bum removed the bottle from its bag and looked at it, baffled. He turned the container upside-down and a couple of drops fell from its mouth, onto the cobblestones below. He jerked the bottle up above his head, eager to catch one more taste, no matter how small, of the fine liquor.
There will be other bottles, the drifter thought. Next week, then.
He placed the bottle next to him gingerly, as if putting his prized possession on display for the rest of the world to see. The bum knew it didn’t matter; likely some street sweeper would break it or think it a novelty gift if he came upon it.
But to the vagrant, it was a link to his past, how he had arrived here, and the reason that he found it so important to make his way to this end of the alley every week so that the same man could embarrass him in front of his child.
Most of the passers-by ignored the vagrant, though the occasional good samaritan offered him a low-denomination note, they didn’t so much as make eye contact with the pitiable homeless man, who eventually picked up the empty bottle, sunk back into the alleyway, and half-passed out against the wall of a building.
Had passers-by stopped to look, they would have noticed something very odd indeed; the bottle was no cheap paint-thinner of a gin, but rather carried the familiar label of Macallan eighteen year scotch whiskey.
