by Jason Ford
Y E S T E R D A Y ’ S
F U T U R E
J a s o n F o r d
Yesterday’s Future
Copyright © 2018 by Jason Ford. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Editor: Lisa Cerasoli
Interior Design: Lauren Michelle
Cover: Claire Moore
To Sarah, the best wife a guy could ever hope for.
“Even if it turns out that time travel is impossible, it is important that we understand why it is impossible.”
—Stephen Hawking
“To quote Mr. Spock: ‘There are always possibilities.’”
—Keith Beckett
PROLOGUE
September 2137
My great-great-great-great-grandfather, Keith Beckett, claimed that he saw Halley’s Comet three times in his lifetime. It’s true. I sit near the observation window of the James Lovell, the second stardrive-capable ship of the Space Alliance Company. We are in a parallel orbit right beside it, a week from perihelion. My grandfather received a book for his tenth birthday—the strangest book he had ever read. It was already a family heirloom, being almost seventy—
This is the Mauna Kea Observatory in Hawaii. The James Lovell just disappeared! I repeat, the James Lovell starship orbiting Halley’s Comet has just disappeared!
ONE
December 2014
It was dark outside. That was all Keith knew as he slapped his hand down to stop the shrill beeping of the alarm clock. Whoever created the damn thing should have been shot. The large, red numbers glowed angrily at him. 0430, he mentally corrected, still thinking in 24-hour time, even though he hadn’t been in the Army since 1999. His mother’s voice berated him: Why couldn’t you have stayed in and done something with your life instead of working as a pump jockey?
Because sometimes shit just happens.
As he showered, he thought about the strange dream he had last night. He was an old man standing in front of a mirror, muttering to himself that he wished he could go back in time and fix his life. Morning routine completed, he sat at the kitchen table of his single-wide trailer, drinking coffee from his favorite Star Wars mug. He would have eaten something, but the only food he had was a case of beef stew that was probably out of date, stale bread, and a half-gallon of milk that was so old it had solidified. He sure as hell couldn’t afford breakfast at the Slash X Cafe, even though it was less than a mile from him. His father’s voice echoed in his head: You gotta make do with what you got, son. Sound advice coming from a frequently unemployed alcoholic who drank himself into an early grave. Keith wished he could forget that day: his father, drunk since early morning, deciding that he wasn’t quite finished drinking, staggered to his car and peeled out, almost hitting several parked cars in the process. Keith saw the mangled heap of a vehicle afterward. The police report stated that Jim Beckett had been pulled over for a DUI and had failed both the field sobriety and breathalyzer test (having a 0.24 BAC), and then fled from the arresting officer when he tried to put the cuffs on him. It would have made an episode of Cops had it not been so tragic. At the time of the accident, Jim had been traveling at 110 through a posted work zone. He swerved to get around a flatbed truck and collided with a three-foot-high section of concrete that crumpled the front bumper, drove the engine block into the passenger compartment, and flipped his car so that the roof slammed into the partially completed section of the new bridge the DOT was putting up. He died instantly. Martha Beckett was only slightly perturbed at the news. She had gotten divorced from Jim when Keith was still in elementary school, and the only comment she made was that she was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Keith shivered in the kitchen, partly from the memory, and partly from the fact that the landlord, the greedy son-of-a-bitch Ron Reedy, hadn’t fixed the heat like he had promised to do a million times before. Greedy Reedy owned most of the apartment buildings and residential properties in town and was not afraid to let everyone know it. He had the sheriff on speed dial, and it was not uncommon to see an eviction notice on your door if your rent was more than three days late. For the luxury of living in this rundown, paper-thin-walled cracker box, rent was $1,500. He shrugged into his jacket, zipping it up against the desert cold as he locked up, and headed to his car. The rusted Honda Accord hatchback he got after scraping together the money from his first job was showing its age. He wished he could afford something better, but what was he going to do? He’d celebrated turning forty in June with some of the guys from work, but that was the last time he had really gotten trashed. He could still remember the voice of the Uber driver at the end of the night of bar hopping: If you’re gonna puke, do it out the window, not in my car! So now, he was banned from using Uber. As he pulled into the Shell station on Barstow Road fifteen minutes later, he spotted the nightshift cashier flirting with a customer, Carlos the Cop. Changing into his work shirt and grabbing another cup of coffee, Keith asked Cynthia how the night had been. “Not bad, except for the meth heads that came in at one in the morning. Oh, and the usual rush of people right before 2:00 a.m. like always.”
“They have all day from 6:00 a.m. until 2:00 a.m.….”
“Hey, buddy, is it too early to buy beer yet?”
Keith could smell the old wino before he even opened his mouth, a mixture of sweat, Steel Reserve 211, and general body funk. He wasn’t sure, but he could swear the man had shit his pants recently. “We still got five minutes until we can sell.”
“Come on! Nobody will know you sold it to me early!” he slurred, swaying.
At this point, Carlos stepped in. “The man says you gotta wait. Besides, if I wanted to I could run you in for being drunk in public!”
“You ain’t got the balls!”
Keith and Cynthia watched, amused, as the old wino tried to fight Carlos, and was summarily cuffed and put into the back of the squad car.
“Well, that was exciting. Call me when the boss comes in to drop off the paychecks later.”
Keith promised to do so as he got the morning coffee going in those huge, aluminum gallon dispensers. This was probably his favorite part of the day—interacting with his regulars, trying to keep little kids from stealing candy bars, telling the sixteen-year-old kid with the fake military ID that no, he couldn’t sell him cigarettes. He actually had to chuckle at that one, confiscating the ID because it had “Services” spelled as “Surfaces.” This kid would be getting a house call from Carlos. The day wore on until the boss came in around two to hand out the weekly paychecks. Mario was the franchise owner. He’d hired Keith for the weekend shift when he came to Barstow as a computer repairer for the Army, then promoted him to manager the day after his discharge went through. Glancing at his paycheck, Keith noticed something was off. “Mario, how long have we known each other?”
“Since you were a no-striper twenty-two years ago.”
“Notice anything wrong with this?” Keith pointed at the check.
“Keith Bucket, 292 Angus Road, Barstow,” Mario said.
“The shitty trailer I call home is at 92 Angus Road. And you spelled my name wrong!”
“Oops, I’ll reprint this for you.”
Glancing at the California Mega Millions Jackpot sign, he noticed it was up to $30 million. What the hell, he
thought as he bought two tickets.
Now home after going to the bank on Armory, and Walmart for some much-needed groceries, he came home to see a thick, ominous-looking envelope poking out of his mailbox. Balancing it on top of his bags as he unlocked the door, he put away all of the groceries before slitting the envelope open with his knife. Pulling out the letter, he had to sit down.
From the Law Offices of Dewey, Cheetam, & Howe
December 8, 2014
Dear Mr. Beckett,
According to our records, Theresa Callahan, your ex-wife, has been deported back to the United Kingdom after her multiple felony convictions and subsequent prison sentence. Because she has not been able to find gainful employment since her release, we have been retained by her parents, Robert and Julia Callahan. Due to the nature of the divorce and the subsequent criminal trials, our clients feel that they should be compensated for the hardship they have had to endure for assuming their daughter’s financial responsibilities.
You have 30 days from the date of this letter to respond. Failure to do so could result in more financial penalties. Have a nice day.
Sincerely,
Nathan Dewey
Keith couldn’t believe it. What the actual fuck! This was rich. Considering she was caught with over $10,000 of counterfeit checks and about $500 of stolen property, she got what she deserved. Storming over to his desk, he checked to see if his lawyer’s number was still on his phone. He would give him a call Monday morning, but for now, he needed to let off steam. Sitting down at the computer that he had built from parts bought at the Post Exchange at Fort Irwin, he booted it up and waited. Dinner was microwave burritos and a couple of Bud Lights. As he loaded his flight simulator game, he wished he could have had a less lonely existence. Soon, he was parked at the gate at JFK in an Airbus A380. As he began the startup procedure, he mentally ran through the checklist: Master APU bleed ON, engine ignition switch set to START, wait a few seconds, move engine start switches 1 and 2 to ON and then wait for engines 1 and 2 to reach 20 percent N2, move engine start switches 3 and 4 to ON. As he got ready to taxi, he grabbed the Saitek X52 flight stick and throttle and taxied towards runway 31L. After waiting for the arriving jet to clear the runway, he taxied on to it and lined up, ready to go. Advancing the throttle to FLEX thrust, he waited for the virtual copilot call outs. “Flex thrust set.” He started accelerating down the runway centerline. “100 knots.” He checked to make sure the left side of his Primary Flight Display read 100. “V1.” His hand came off the throttle.
“Rotate.” He pitched the nose up to ten degrees and waited for the aircraft to leave the runway.
“Positive climb. Gear up. Turn.” As he started the climb, the landing gear went up and he banked left in the famous Canarsie climb. His cellphone pinged. Shit.
He paused the game and checked the blinking notification light: Mom Cell: Call me when you get a chance. He decided he might as well get it over with. He knew what it was going to be: rapid-fire bitching about not having any grandchildren, wanting him to live closer, not going to his high school reunion, not doing more with his life. After calling his mother and telling her he loved her but that his life was his to live, and that she should worry about herself, he hung up and put the ringtone on mute so he could get a peaceful night’s sleep. The morning sunlight woke him up. 0800. I haven’t slept this late in a while. Grabbing a cup of coffee, he flipped on the TV and channel surfed until he got to the news. He remembered the lottery tickets from last night and decided to check the numbers.
Well, he didn’t get all the numbers, but he did win $8,000! Yeah, and the taxman is gonna get almost half. And I gotta drive an hour to San Bernardino! He called his boss and explained the situation. Mario agreed to let him have Monday off if he would cover Ricardo’s shift next Saturday so that he could attend his kid’s birthday party. The rest of the morning was spent cleaning the house and planning what to do with the money. He knew he desperately needed to put some in savings. Even on the Army’s Permanently Disabled Retired List, he only got $968 a month. His job at the gas station only paid $400 a week. And to top it all off, Greedy Reedy was talking about raising the rent another $100 a month. Hell, Keith didn’t even know if his car would make it to San Bernardino and back. Checking his watch, he decided to head to the Post Exchange on base. The forty-five-minute drive was made more interesting by a flat tire he got on Fort Irwin Rd. The sentry at the gate smirked at the donut on his car as he glanced at Keith’s blue ID card and waved him through. Heading over to the Penske tire place, he was able to find a discounted tire to replace the donut. The guy tried to sell him four new tires, but Keith wasn’t going for it. Wandering over to GameStop, he saw all the new games and gaming systems that he knew he couldn’t afford right now. He wandered outside to the parking lot and saw that several people were selling their cars before they went on deployment. He wrote down half a dozen names and numbers from the windshields of the ones he was interested in. He just hoped they would still be there in a week.
Picking up his car, new tire on and oil changed, he headed back toward town. Hearing his stomach rumbling, he pulled into Casa Jimenez parking lot and killed the engine. He spotted the owner, Hector Jimenez, tending bar and waved at him. Hector and Keith went through basic training together, and while Keith was only in for seven years, Hector retired two years ago after his twenty were up. He saved up all his reenlistment bonuses and was able to buy the restaurant when it was still Señor Tacos. Plus, it helped he didn’t have a greedy ex-wife either. Hector came over to his table with two giant frosty mugs of Dos Equis Amber, sitting down with him while the waitress, Hector’s daughter Consuela, took his order of fish tacos. Hector leaned over.
“Hey, cabroncito, how’s life out in the sticks?”
“Not bad, since I had to kick your mother out of my bed this morning.”
They both chuckled and talked about old times, how much funding the DOD was losing because of that bastard in the White House, plans for Christmas, the remote possibility of Keith getting married again.
“Come on, man, it’s been like what, fifteen years? And you ain’t getting any younger.”
“Forget it. You know what happened last time.”
“Hey, I didn’t know she was a guy.”
“Well, when her voice is deeper than mine, that’s clue number one.”
He signaled for the check, and Hector waved it away.
“On the house, old friend.”
Keith tipped Consuela $20 anyway.
Sunday morning, Keith squinted against the sunlight as it poured into the bedroom. Who pissed off the sun god? He tried to remember what he had done last night to earn this kind of hangover. After lunch Saturday, he drove over to Rimrock Liquor and bought a bottle of whiskey and some sour mix. Then, he stopped by Red Baron Pizza on Armory and got a medium with everything on it. With dinner taken care of, he headed home and continued the saved flight from New York to Germany. As he neared the top of the descent point from the Frankfurt airport, he logged into VATSIM to get some realistic ATC for his approach. After making a smooth landing and parking the aircraft, he went to put the pizza in the oven. He sat down at the keyboard after making himself a whiskey sour, and that’s when the night started to get interesting. After listening to the VATSIM fliers talk smack about some competition they were going to have later that night, he decided to join in. After eating and having another two drinks, the night pretty much devolved into a drinking game to see who could fly the drunkest. Keith won, but not by much. He beat the guy to the runway by coming in at 250 knots and 100 feet altitude, and deploying spoilers, half flaps, and reverse thrust twenty feet above the runway. He stopped the airplane with three feet to spare.
He always had the weirdest dreams when he went to sleep drunk: he was standing in front of a mirrored door and saw an old, tired man staring back at him. The door swung open, revealing a swirling, blue mist. In the distance, he saw another door lit by a single flickering incandescent bulb. Stepping into the
swirling vortex he hoped beyond hope that something would change. As he approached the door, the light above blazed. The face staring back at him was his younger self. Keith woke with a start. He promised himself he would never get that drunk again. He looked at the clock: 0800. I might as well cook myself some breakfast while I have a chance. As the bacon and eggs were sizzling, he started on the coffee. The rest of the morning and afternoon was spent cleaning the trailer from top to bottom, then he got caught up on laundry, and other household duties. Monday morning saw him on I-15 South, heading to San Bernardino to the lottery commission offices to pick up his winnings. Ironically, today would have been his nineteenth wedding anniversary, and it was spent finally putting that chapter of his life behind him. The rest of the week went by in a blur until it was Friday night. Keith dreaded having to work Saturday, but a promise was a promise. Saturday morning, he was at work early, already on his third cup of coffee. The boss called around ten, with the news that Mark, the second shift cashier, called out. You better be on your deathbed, Mark! He did the cleaning routine, stocked the cooler, filled up the ice machine, and got everything ready for the night shift cashier. By the time he got home at eleven, he was so tired he just had enough energy to stumble in the house, lock up, kick off his shoes, and collapse on the bed.
TWO
The big kids called them swirlies. Keith only knew that they were bigger and stronger than him, and he turned into a very fast runner. Being a genius had its drawbacks. He begged his mother to let him skip ahead, but she insisted he have a normal childhood. All that running turned into a position on the track team. He turned sixteen on the day he graduated high school, got a job, and saved up for a car. After two years at that horrible fast food job, he met with the Army recruiter a month after he turned eighteen. His mother didn’t understand why he would be throwing his life away like that.
