by DG SIDNA
Curved computer terminals line the walls to the left and to the right of the room. One side has all blue lights while the other has all red. Two technicians are tending them. A freestanding terminal, like an airport ticketing stand, fronts the platform at the back of the room. That one has yellow lights and is likely used for directing jumps. The blue and red computers, though, I'm not sure what they do.
The two technicians, a man and a woman, seem very excited when we enter. "Agent Smith!" one exclaims. "We heard what happened in Brooklyn. Glad to see you got out of there in one piece."
"Did you also hear that I got canned?" Careena asks.
The female technician nods. "That rumor did circulate, yes. In fact, we've been instructed not to let you touch anything. Did you really do it? The long con?"
"Leave her be, Alice," the male technician says. "Smith has been through enough already."
"Fine, Bob."
Careena inspects the airline ticketing computer screen in front of the platform. "So you got everything programmed to send her home, yeah?"
"Yes," Alice says. "Just as the portreeve ordered. Easy peasy."
I look around the room. "Why are some of the screens different colors?"
"I'm so happy you asked," says Alice, in the voice of one who doesn't get to talk about their workday much, given the classified nature to it. "You see, that terminal is Red and that terminal is Blue. They're identical. Completely. Each holds the entirety of human knowledge. Why, there are probably a hundred million hours' worth of uploaded videos from the year you left alone. Plus news articles, television shows, legal documents, books, postcards, company earning statements, love letters, even child artwork from preschools. Anything that survived has been scanned and is kept here."
"Why?"
Careena seems impatient. "Is this really important?"
"Come on, Smith," the male technician, Bob, says. "This is the most important department of the whole ministry."
"Damned nerds," Careena mutters.
"To answer your question," Alice says. "Blue has been time-stayed. Red has not. That means changes to the timeline will affect the records on Red, but not on Blue. It takes one hundred and eight minutes for Blue to cross reference its databanks with Red's. They do this twelve times per day."
I'm surprised that I can intuit the purpose of this system so quickly. "So that's how you know if someone has changed the timeline. The entries will no longer match. Red will show the changes but Blue will still show the original history. That gives you some clue where the change occurred. It's how you know where and when you need to go to track down a jumper."
Alice winks at me. "Are you sure you're not a time agent yourself?"
"Now that you mention it, I did save her," I point out proudly.
Careena shakes her head. "Oh, come now. Bollocks. Enough chatting or these two are going to hand over all our state secrets."
She leads me over to the platform. To think, I'm almost home. But I do have one final question. Well, a million questions, but I don't want to wear out my welcome.
"So how does this chamber work?" I ask. "Aren't you afraid someone else will figure it out? That one day someone else will be able to do what you do?"
"That is always a concern," Alice tells me. "But seeing how we can't even figure it out, we're not too worried."
"How do you mean? You built it, didn't you?"
Bob answers. "Jonathan Baker built it. Not long after discovering tachyon-bond manipulation. But there's some... speculation about where he got the idea."
"Oh, great," Careena mutters. "Now come the conspiracy theories." She's pressing on the yellow terminal, but nothing is happening. Mostly, she seems impatient. I'm not sure why. I mean, I'm a little sad that this is going to be our last time together.
"It's suspicious, is all," Bob responds with a tone that says he's definitely spent too much time on conspiratorial internet forums, or whatever is the future equivalent. "Baker is gone for a few weeks, jumping to who knows where, doesn't tell anyone where he's going or where he's been, and when he comes back, he's got the idea to build this chamber. And it works. On first go."
"And you don't know how?" I ask.
"Well, there are theories," he says. "I think it likely has something to do with the way he laid strips of RGMs in the walls. He must have layered them like circuit boards, creating a feedback resonance which can fundamentally alter a particle's tachyon well, and therefor its bond to itself in the past."
I look around the room—all I see is simple white paneling.
"He covered it up, obviously," Bob points out. "So that no one could study the designs or patterns. We're not allowed to remove the paneling to take a look. Which tells you something."
"This is all new, by the way," Careena tells me. "Last time I talked to these nuts, they were convinced that we're standing inside the husk of a dead neutron star. So take anything they tell you with a grain of salt."
Bob scratches his temple. "Yes, well, we haven't got all the specifics worked out exactly. Unfortunately, Baker took his secrets with him to the grave. But there's more to the story than we know, that much is for sure. Now, miss," he says to me. "If you'll just stand on the platform."
"Alright," I say.
Bob uses a cloth to wipe Careena's fingerprints off the airport terminal with the yellow lights. "You know, I'm really tempted to send you back just a few days, just to see if Alice's theory really works," he tells me as a little joke. "The free agent has always been hypothetical until now. You could save me a thousand credits on last week's poker game."
I remember Careena had also suggested that I was unique somehow, that because of the way I was brought here, I could jump to periods in time that no others could, the blackout dates as they were called, which cover the last four hundred years of history.
But I don't care about any of that right now. All I want now is to go home. I'm tired. I'm overwhelmed. My adventure has lasted long enough.
Careena seems to understand the way I'm feeling. "You'll be back in Brooklyn soon, freckles," she says as I stand on the platform under the spinning umbrella. "It will be like none of this ever happened."
"It did happen, Careena."
And it did, the good and the bad.
"I know, luv."
Bob presses a button and the doors to the chamber slowly close. It must be required for the chamber to function.
"I guess this is it then," I tell Careena. I tear up, even though I promised myself that I wouldn't. "I don't know what the hell has happened over these last few days, but I won't ever forget you."
"Alright," Careena says, somewhat dismissively. She seems fidgety now that the doors are closing. Some people are bad at farewells, so I decide to forgive her.
"Can you tell Story I said goodbye?"
"Yes."
On second thought, I do find the old woman's abrupt attitude off-putting. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, blondie. Everything is going to be fine."
This is the exact moment I know everything will not, in fact, be fine. On cue, alarm klaxons blare and the pleasant light of the room turns harsh and serious.
Alice turns to her companion. "Bob, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything."
Both technicians turn to Careena.
"Smith, what have you done?"
"Alice, Bob," she addresses them. "I’m sorry about this."
She fires Old Bessie. The blasts are invisible and knock them back. They fall to the ground and don't move.
I scream. "You killed them!"
"Don't be silly, freckles. I stunned them. They're my bridge partners. I'll never win another game without them. Now quickly. Give me Hecate."
I stare. "I don't know if I should. You just shot your friends. And they were so nice."
Careena is loosing her patience. "I shot them because they're nice. If Soolin thinks even for one second they were helping us, she'll arrest them both. And then where will my bridge game be? Now the ring, pleas
e, or we're going to get shot for real."
"You said Hecate was out of juice."
"A slight exaggeration, now come on!"
I want to hesitate, I do, but already there is a loud banging on the door. A crowbar is making its way into the crack. In a fit of rage, I take off the ring and toss it to Careena. "What is going on? What did you do?"
She jams the ring on her finger. "That dumb hag must have figured out I gave her a fake. Damn thing was supposed to fool her scanner long enough for us to be out of here. Look, I had to power down the real Hecate to avoid tripping the sensors. It’ll take her two minutes to respin, then I'll get us out of here."
I look back to the door. The crowbar has wedged it open a crack. There are several soldiers out there, including Grimalkin and Paddock. And they look furious. "I don't think we have two minutes," I tell her.
Careena sees the situation as well. "Schnitzel. Alright, plan B." She aims Old Bessie and shoots the small airline terminal computer next to the platform, blowing it into smoldering pieces.
"What the hell!" I shout. "Now we can't go anywhere."
"Don't worry."
My face turns red in anger. "Don't worry? You just shot the computer that's supposed to be taking me home!"
"Yes, I did! Look, it was programmed to transport you. And it still is. It's coded for you. Only now, without the manual controls, it's going to default to your thoughts just like Hecate does. So, well, get us out here, will you? And don't forget to take me along, please."
"So I just think about home?"
"No!" she scolds.
The doors fly open and soldiers storm the room, firing energy weapons. Careena ducks behind the remnants of the airline terminal and I fall to the ground on the platform. Fortunately, they aren't shooting at me—they're trying to hit her. I'm pretty sure, though, that no one should be firing anything inside this room.
Careena yells in-between firing shots back. "Don't think of home! They'll find you there. Think of anywhere but bloody forking New Jersey! Hurry!"
There are more blasts. I'm terrified. I put my hands over my head and try to sink into the floor and disappear. I just want this all to end. My mind is racing. Thinking of a place, any place, should be easy, but it's all a blank, a giant empty void. There's so much confusion, so much screaming, and so much noise coming from every direction.
Finally, a thought comes to me.
The soldiers stop firing.
Because Careena and I are gone.
FIRST INTERLUDE
Here, a little boy and a loving young mother.
"I had the dream again, mummy."
"What dream, my love?"
"About the red monster."
"A monster?"
"Yes, but it looked like a person."
"And what did this person do?"
"They watched me."
"And what did they say?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"They cried, mummy."
"And why did they cry?"
"Because they had to do something bad."
"And they didn't want to do it?"
"No, I don't think so."
"And this red monster scares you?"
"Very much."
"Well, they can't hurt you. It's only a dream."
"I know."
"I'll protect you."
"I know."
"No one will ever harm you."
"I love you, mummy."
"I love you too, my little angel."
"Will we mend the fences today?"
"No, we should do your studies."
"But who will mend the fences?"
"Alloy can do it. That's why we bought him."
"But doesn't he get tired working all day?"
"He's a robot, silly. Robots don't tire."
"He looks tired!"
"That's because he's so old. He's all we could afford."
"Was he born here, like me?"
"He wasn't born, my love. He was made, like your shoes. But not here. Maybe he was even made on Earth, the place I come from. He could probably tell you if you ask him."
"Can you show me where Earth is again?"
"Yes, tonight. Your father taught me which star."
"I wish I could remember him."
"I wish that too."
"Do people die on Earth, mummy? Or only here?"
Here, a pause.
"They die everywhere, my love. Even on Earth."
"People shouldn't die."
"I know."
"It's not fair."
"I know. Our colonies are hard places, harder than any of us expected. We bear the hopes and expectations of the universe, along with the whips and scorns of time. It's always like that on the frontier. Do you know what frontier means?"
"It means we're on an adventure!"
Here, a laugh.
"Yes, I suppose it does. And like any good adventure, we have to be strong."
"We'll be strong, mummy."
"You're right. You are my strength. And we're lucky to have Alloy now, even if he's old and second-hand. But we'll be able to save a little. You can go to a proper school and a university after that. A university is like a big school for grown-ups. You'll go on to do great things. You won't have to be a farm-maker like me."
"But we need the farms."
"We do, you're right."
"You look sad, mummy."
"It's not sadness. I just have regrets, regrets I hope you never have."
"What's regrets?"
"Regrets are things in the past, things that you wish you could change, but can't."
"But maybe you can."
"Oh? And how could you do that?"
"With science, mummy! Science can do anything."
"Even change time?"
"Yes, why not?"
"Oh my little Jonathan, you're such a thoughtful little man. Don't ever let the world change you."
"I won't, mummy, not as long as I have you."
Here, an embrace.
Here, a mother’s love for her only begotten child.
Here, the beginning.
TWELVE
We met in Brampton, on the summer solstice of 1939.
I open my eyes. I'm alone in a field. The breeze is pleasant. The sun is casting down golden rays from a clear blue sky. There's a vista before me, gentle and rolling, a bucolic dreamscape of pastures and fields and the low stone fences that separate them. It's the sort of scene I'd expect to find on a painter's canvas, in a poet's lyric, a songwriter's ballad.
I take a seat on the hillside. The grass makes way for me like a cushion. With a long, deep breath, I take everything in. There are fields of barley and wheat to my left, moving with the breeze like the waves of an ocean. There's rapeseed to my right, bright, yellow, iconic; contrasting sharply with the lines of mature trees that delineate one farmstead from the next. On a neighboring hill are pastures of sheep, though from this distance they look like little more than puffs of cotton.
Then there's the village itself, old and humble. It's not even a mile away, a cute little hamlet surrounded by a sea of green. I pull my knees up to my chest. I could sit here all day, maybe forever, admiring the honesty of this beautiful place, a place where time seems to stand still, where I'm offered a quiet respite from the unforgiving march of modernity.
And yet, modernity is coming.
I'm like the witch's muse, blessed with unnatural foreknowledge and prophecy. Is this how Careena feels each time she slips into the past? Admiring the calm, yet knowing that change is just there on the horizon, threatening to throw it all into chaos?
I can feel it even now. Destiny. Fate. Inevitability. It's perched up in the hills and waiting. Does it see me here? Does it know me to be an outsider, an interloper, a threat to its best-laid schemes?
Because, like it or not, I do know what's coming. The dark tide of history. And it will consume this land before me as surely as a wildfire. This fiery tempest will have no mercy; it will sweep over the
face of the entire Earth before it's extinguished, leaving no corner unscathed.
If humanity had ever known innocence before, she was about to lose it in a few short months. And once your innocence is gone, I don't think you ever get it back. I certainly can never reclaim mine.
I choose instead to focus on the beauty all around me. The village of Brampton below is quaint, as if pulled from the pages of an old fable. Or maybe that's just the American in me talking.
I've always hated the commercial highways and suburban sprawl that consumes the American countryside like a cancer, that grows without restraint year after year, choking communities like a noose, robbing future generations of their open lands, their local farms, their connections to nature. My friends believe this simply to be an inevitable product of progress, as if destiny demands that the landscape be cluttered with garish, over-sized billboards, tawdry big-box stores, generic-looking houses, and seas of asphalt. Sitting here, seeing the alternative, well, I hate it even more.
But that's not why I chose this place.
We met in Brampton, on the summer solstice of 1939.
That's what my grandmother told me, about my grandfather. It was the sort of fairy tale with just enough magic weaved in to its fabric to have made a lasting impression on a little New Jersey girl. There were darker parts in the story too, of course—darker still because I'd always sensed my grandmother withheld the worst elements, that she had buried them deep in her mind and confronted them privately and alone. I didn't understand why she would do that at the time.
But now maybe I do.
She'd been born in Vienna, to a decent family of entrepreneurs. One night men with sledgehammers came through the streets, smashing windows and burning buildings. They even went into the cemeteries with those sledgehammers.
That's the part that always terrified me most as a child. I imagined these men as faceless shadows, as dark specters smashing everything they saw with their great hammers while the police watched idle. In my imagination, as quickly as they had appeared, the men vanished back into the darkness, leaving behind nothing but rivers of broken glass flowing down the streets.
