Temporal Gambit

by Larry A. Brown

  Temporal Gambit

  Larry A. Brown

  Copyright © 2020 by Larry A. Brown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Creative Arts Press

  An imprint of Sienna Bay Press

  P.O. Box 158582

  Nashville, TN 37215

  Cover design by Elizabeth Mackey

  Editing by Emerald Ink

  To my wife Shannon, who has published many of her own novels. When I didn’t think I could, she prodded me into writing my first work of fiction, encouraged me all along the way, and helped edit the final version. To her, my love and thanks.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  1

  August 8, 2059

  “What time is it?”

  “6:23.”

  “How long has he been back?”

  “A little over an hour. Don’t worry; it looks like he’s starting to wake up.”

  Martin heard voices around him. Familiar voices. His eyes fluttered open and squinted at the overhead light. He tried to focus on the shadowy figures hovering over him. “How long?” His throat was dry, his voice raspy.

  “You’ve been gone about twelve hours in both your subjective time in the past and in present time,” the blurry face above him said. “This corresponds to our calculations for when the temporal distortion wave would collapse. So we’re quite pleased with the data for the initial jump.”

  “Welcome back, Martin. You’ve just traveled almost two hundred years and look none the worse for wear.” The speaker wore a stethoscope around his neck. “How do you feel?”

  “Groggy … a bit hard to concentrate,” he responded, rubbing his forehead. “But no pain. I can’t remember what happened, though.”

  “That’s to be expected. The effect of the stabilizing meds should wear off soon. This is why we insisted on using the cyber-chip to record your thoughts during the trip.”

  Martin found himself in a long, cylindrical tank half filled with a warm liquid. The hinged lid to the device lay off to one side at an angle. He was wearing a skin-tight outfit much like a scuba-diving suit but made of an iridescent material that shimmered in a rainbow of colors under the lights. It covered his entire body, including his head, leaving only his hands and face bare.

  Gripping the sides of the tank, Martin pulled himself upright.

  “Dracula rises from his coffin. Quick, where’s the garlic?” That snide comment came from David Barton, the resident smart aleck, sitting at his computer surrounded by candy wrappers. David’s ability to interject sarcasm into almost any situation was matched only by his expert programming skills.

  Next to him were John Rey Bautista and Rosa Santos, the Chronos Project’s theoretical physicists. They had joined the team after leaving top-secret work with the military. Both were Filipino, although their families had lived in the United States for several generations. They were a likable and cute couple, even though they had the annoying habit of conversing privately in Tagalog, which no one else in the group understood.

  Dr. S.P. Hewes was the team’s physician, responsible for the well-being of everyone but especially the time jumper. He had practiced medicine at the Mayo Clinic and Johns Hopkins for three decades before accepting his current position.

  Finally, standing off in the corner was Andrea Carlton. She served as the official observer for the project’s anonymous sponsor, reporting back on progress and overseeing the finances. Skeptical by nature, she had doubts about the entire business of time travel.

  Glancing around the room, Martin felt grateful to work with this team of specialists. The Chronos Project had recruited the best of the best, which wasn’t hard when you had a mysterious patron with seemingly unlimited resources.

  S.P. helped Martin climb out of the pod, and Rosa handed him a towel to dry off. The liquid dripping on the floor made a slippery mess, but it was necessary to induce the state of sensory deprivation for the person inside the pod. Once the lid was sealed, all light and sound were eliminated, and the salt water solution created the feeling of weightlessness.

  Why this experience was needed for time travel, Martin did not understand, but he trusted that his colleagues knew what they were doing. He left science to the experts while they left history to him — an equitable arrangement, in his opinion.

  Andrea spoke up for the first time. “Very well. If you’re ready, why don’t we download your personal log to determine if this huge financial gamble has paid off?”

  Martin deposited the wet towel in the nearby hamper and made his way to the chair at the computer. David gave him a round electrode pad with a wire running from it, which he attached to the spot below his left ear where the cyber-chip had been implanted under the skin. The team all turned to the large monitor on the wall and watched as it began transcribing the log.

  2

  Chronos Project

  Personal Mission Log: Dr. Martin Chamberlain

  Departure date: August 8, 2059

  Target destination: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  Target date: November 19, 1863

  Hello, this is Martin Chamberlain. I’m speaking … or rather thinking these words as a permanent record of my first journey through time. I assume the cyber-chip in my head is working properly and preserving my observations of this trip for posterity.

  I feel like Neil Armstrong when he walked on the moon ninety years ago, saying, “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” Hopefully, my experience of this historic event will be remembered as well.

  The last thing I recall is S.P. — that is, Dr. Hewes, for the official record — closing the lid on the pod. Lying half submerged in the salt water solution, it felt like floating in the darkness and silence of space. I must have lost consciousness since the next thing I knew, I was standing here.

  Not, to my surprise, on a grassy field at Gettysburg as planned, but in a strange, unearthly place. I’ll attempt to describe what I’m seeing.

  Before me, a long corridor stretches out as far as the eye can see, all the way to infinity. It consists of a series of rings, each approximately twenty feet in diameter. The inner surface of the rings — I’m standing on one now — is made of some translucent material which emits a soft, white light.

  I’m reaching down and touching the surface, which is amazingly smooth. My fingers glide across it with no sense of friction. Could these rings be made not of physical matter but of some form of solid light? I don’t think that’s possible, but perhaps the standard laws of physics don’t apply here. Turning around, I notice that the corridor extends behind me in the other direction, also with no end in sight.

  The rings do not form one continuous conduit but are broken up into segments about ten feet wide. Between the rings there are gaps which ap
pear to be open to outer space. How can I be breathing? But I am, so it’s either an illusion or some perfectly clear material. I’m stepping out onto this break in the rings — and I’m standing on empty space. The view is amazing! So many stars. But no close suns or planets. I don’t recognize any constellations.

  Something’s happening. Down the corridor, it’s beginning to get darker. In the distance the rings of light are vanishing one by one. Even the stars beyond them are disappearing. Behind me, the corridor is collapsing too. From both sides, a wall of darkness is rapidly closing in on me. The effect creates the sensation of movement as if I’m falling toward the end of the tunnel, either way I look.

  My heart races as I watch, mesmerized by forces I can’t begin to understand. I fear this may be my first and final log entry. I …

  … find myself standing on green grass in a wide-open field. Bright blue sky above with a hawk gliding in circles, catching the breeze. In the distance, trees show off their fallcolors. Could this be Gettysburg? It must be. I made it! Unbelievable!

  But what happened moments ago? Where was I? Perhaps that corridor was some kind of portal or nexus connecting all points of spacetime. Did an advanced race of beings build it, or has it always existed as part of the structure of the universe? We may never know. I’ll simply refer to it as the Corridor with a capital C.

  Now to the mission at hand. I’ll try to keep my descriptions as objective as possible, but that will be difficult, I admit. Jumping two centuries back in time to witness one of the most famous events in American history is anything but impersonal, especially for a historian.

  Currently, I’m standing about two hundred yards from a large crowd gathering around the speakers’ stand. This plot of ground is close to where Robert E. Lee ordered his final assault on the Union position on the hill before being forced to retreat. John Rey and Rosa’s calculations were quite accurate. We chose this spot far enough away from today’s activities so that no one would witness me materializing out of thin air.

  I glance down at my attire: a standard military uniform of the Union Army, a dark-blue wool coat with brass buttons down the front. The insignia on the sleeves indicates a rank of corporal. The cuffs are frayed from wear. The light blue pants have stains on the knees.

  The illusion is perfect. The chamo-suit functions like the techs said it would. They named it after the chameleon since it changes appearance as needed. The surface of the suit consists of microscopic nano-projectors which emit pixels of light to create a convincing image to the eye as long as no one touches it. I am not supposed to interact physically with others anyway, so hopefully that won’t be a problem.

  Much of the science behind the suit escapes me; all I know is that it works. No time traveler should leave home without one. It’s strange wearing a rough wool outfit that doesn’t feel hot or scratchy. I assume the suit’s hood is projecting the image of a blue cap on my head, and I’m tempted to reach up and touch it, but I realize I wouldn’t feel anything there. Hopefully, I’ll find a mirror somewhere or at least a pool of water to view my reflection.

  I’m climbing the hill approaching the speakers’ platform. The ravaged ground shows evidence of the shallow graves hastily dug after the battle. I try not to step on them, but there are so many. Some have temporary wooden markers identifying the individual; many others do not.

  As I make my way toward the crowd, which contemporary reports estimated at twenty thousand, the noise level is surprisingly low. The people are speaking to one another in hushed tones. There’s no shouting or laughter. The solemnity of this site has affected everyone here.

  On such a beautiful sunny day, it’s hard to imagine the carnage that took place here a few months ago. In contrast to the present tranquility, those three days in July were filled with the thundering of cannons and the horrible cries of dying men in the bloodiest battle of the Civil War. Over seven thousand were killed in action or died of their wounds and disease in the days following. To commemorate the fallen, the governor of Pennsylvania decided to establish the Soldier’s National Cemetery on this battleground.

  My arrival time is perfect. Standing at the edge of the crowd, I can see the president now, riding a chestnut horse with others in procession. Lincoln is dressed in black, wearing a dark crepe band around his stovepipe hat, a sign of mourning for his young son Willie who died of typhoid fever the previous year. The president receives a military salute as he and members of his cabinet occupy the platform with other dignitaries. Many men in the crowd uncover their heads in respect, although some near me grumble to one another, complaining about his mishandling of the war and the issue of slavery. I want to speak up in his defense but dare not.

  A photographer is setting up his camera on a tripod. It must be Matthew Brady, whose work will preserve this important period in American history. His haunting images of fields littered with bodies made this war a vivid reality to the people back home. Perhaps I can meet him after the speeches. Surely a simple handshake won’t trigger a time paradox.

  There’s a sense of anticipation in the air, awaiting the arrival of the featured speaker Edward Everett. In his day Everett, a former governor and senator, was regarded as one of the country's finest orators, and most of the crowd have come today to hear him, not the president.

  Initially, the organizers had not included Lincoln in the ceremony, but when he responded to the formal invitation sent to all important public figures, they had no choice but to schedule him on the program, requesting he make “a few appropriate remarks.” Would anyone now remember this day if they hadn't?

  Following a prayer and music by the Marine Band, Everett begins his speech. From history I know it will go on for almost two hours. His eloquent phrases seem to please the audience, but they strike me as flowery, pompous, and too eager to impress with his comparisons to ancient Greek battles and quotations from the classics.

  That’s not why I’m here. I watch Lincoln, captivated by his stately presence, his smallest gestures, his facial expressions, his stifled yawn while Everett drones on. One time he takes his glasses from his coat pocket and reviews his handwritten notes.

  I also observe the men around me with their tired, hardened faces weary of this war. It has taken its toll on soldiers and civilians alike. Some men have nodded to me with respect for my apparent service while others view my uniform with sadness, perhaps seeing a reminder of someone they have lost.

  Finally, the agonizing wait is over. Lincoln walks to the podium. He takes a moment to look over the audience and clears his throat. He holds his manuscript in front of him but does not read from it. He begins: “Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation …”

  There’s no need to record the rest of these immortal words, spoken in less than three minutes. But I can’t truly describe the feeling of hearing them from the mouth of the one who wrote them. The familiar phrases sound so fresh and alive, filled with significance. Surely these men standing here can sense that these words will outlast them.

  But contemporary reports tell a different story. At the time, many people considered the speech unexceptional. Lincoln himself told a companion that his address was a failure and had disappointed the people. Even in the address, he said, “The world will little note nor long remember what we say here.” How wrong he was. I wish I could tell him.

  The ceremony concludes, and the crowd disperses, but I am still standing here, dazzled by what I have witnessed. Although in my academic career I specialized in studying ancient civilizations, I have always found this period of American history fascinating. I admire Lincoln immensely and find myself contemplating a tempting possibility.

  What if I return a few months before April 15, 1865? I could search for John Wilkes Booth; as a famous actor, he was a public figure and not difficult to find. Could I stop him somehow? Could I save the life of this man whose words have moved me so?

  But I know this is impossible. Our Chronos team has had many late-night dis
cussions about the potential dangers of tinkering with time, opening up too many unforeseeable consequences. Changing the past could alter the present for better or much, much worse. No one has the right to make such decisions affecting the lives of billions.

  My stomach is growling, reminding me of how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. Perhaps I can locate a pub in the town before I’m transported back to the present. I’m assuming I bought a round-trip ticket. As much as I’ve enjoyed my visit, I don’t feel like making 1863 my home; I appreciate antibiotics, movies, and indoor plumbing too much. I trust that if my team of experts got me here, they can return me to where I belong.

  This is Martin Chamberlain, signing off.

  ///end log///

  3

  August 8, 2059

  Once the log transcript concluded, the team sat for a few moments until David broke the silence with “Wow.” The reality that they had actually sent a man through time and brought him back safely impressed even the “wise-crack wizard,” as the others called him. David was fond of the title.

  “Remarkable. Truly remarkable.” S.P. patted him on the back. “Martin, you handled yourself admirably on this first mission.”

  “All the data checks out so far,” Rosa added, reviewing the computer screens. “We’ll need to compare everything to our theoretical models, but right now, I’m very pleased — and excited. Like David said, ‘Wow.’”