Myths of the Modern Man

by Jacqueline T Lynch

  They were interested in the danger, the reporters. People liked to know about things like that. The public liked success, but they loved disaster. I know. I was never so hot as I was when coping with a bad boy image. I had done press conferences, and there were plenty that did not break out in riots. I did the talk shows, and authorized an action figure in my likeness. They did not make a doll of Eleanor, or Dr. Ford, or even General English. Just me. The golden boy. The man who travels back in time. Before that, the first man to walk on Mars. What a piece of work that was. Three years of my life for nothing. Well now I’m going to get it back in spades, aren’t I? Or maybe become the first man to die before he was ever born.

  What kind of award would they give me for that? A posthumous medal? A prenatal one? God, just get me out of here. Sick to death of my hurried, harried earth with shallow minds and weak hearts, I was glad to get away. I hated it all.

  Where I traveled might be no better, probably would be far worse, but it would be a different set of circumstances. Right now, I was in the mood for a different set of circumstances.

  The chosen time and place for this mission was Britannia, in the year AD 60. I don’t know whose choice it was, except that it was perfectly outrageous and purposely vague. How could I prove that I’d been there? It’s not like I could bring back a newspaper.

  Of course, those Celtic tribes building huts, fighting with each other, and making love in AD 60 didn’t know it was AD 60. The Roman legionnaires garrisoned in this far-flung outpost of their mighty empire didn’t know it was AD 60. They thought it was the 7th year of the reign of Emperor Nero, over 800 years since the founding of Rome, if you believe that story about Romulus and Remus being suckled by a she-wolf on the banks of the Tiber. We called it anno Domini 60, or the Common Era. The Year 60. That is what would be written on their desktop calendars, if they had them. What they did have was the sun, the moon and stars, (just as long burnt out then as in my day, but they didn’t know that), learned men to explain them or rather make up suitable answers that would not get them beheaded, and emperors to decree what was what. Time, like I always said, is what you make it. When Christianity spread across Europe in the later years of the Roman Empire, its strength was such that believers became calendar makers, and began to date the world and all time as before Christ or before the Common Era, and anno Domini.

  In this year, the year 60, a terrifying and vicious rebellion against the Roman Empire would happen in Britannia. It would be led by the queen of a Celtic tribe, who was herself, another kind of she-wolf. Her name was Boudicca. I was going to watch, if I could find her, if I landed in the right place at the right time. There were never any guarantees that I might not end up in the murky mists of time in Gondwanaland, or in 1950s Paris, or last Thursday in the janitor’s closet down the hall. Maybe I would land on the seventh day when God rested.

  My thoughts stuck in my throat as the force that made all this possible sickened me, and sifted through my body like water through a screen. Did it touch my soul as well, my spirit, the thing that made me who I was? I did not know. I was afraid to ask. Eleanor could not answer such a question; she did not like such questions. Such questions made her uncomfortable.

  My body went for a ride, and my soul, I suppose, had nowhere else to go except to come along.

  CHAPTER 3

  Dr. Eleanor Roberts, after rechecking her data panels with almost lazy contentment, watching the digital scrawl an extra moment or two, eventually took a confirmatory glance at the module and at what was not there beneath the clear shield. Colonel Moore was not there anymore, and that was just fine. She took another deep breath in celebratory self-congratulations for making him go away so efficiently. The lab felt peaceful again.

  She caught another involuntary, but not unpleasant glance at herself as a reflection off the metal door to the small cabinet above the workstation. She quickly looked away, flicking her head sharply, not merely casting down her glance but ignoring with purpose what she already knew was there. An old habit, a gesture rarely noticed by others, but of which she had been quite aware and had even analyzed its meaning. Dr. Eleanor Roberts liked the absolute truth, about all things, and demanded it from herself as well as others.

  In mind-scrubbing sessions with herself, usually while in the bathtub, for she found outside professional psychiatric help superfluous, she had come to realize that her difficulty over looking at her own reflection had to do with her perfectionist overbearing mother and an older sister whose quick wit and iron resentfulness over Eleanor’s early accomplishments turned every moment of pride or satisfaction into an obstacle course of clever ridicule. Though these childhood episodes had always left a much younger Eleanor temporarily stung and mute, eventually she became strong because of them, determined, willing to take anything she had to take on to prove her own strength. She wondered for a moment what kind of woman she would have grown up to be if she could have sent her mother and sister away in the literal flash of an instant, as she had with Colonel Moore. However, unintentionally and ironically, her childhood experiences also left her with the inability to look at her own face for more than the moment it took to apply her very red lipstick. Her philosophy was discipline, and she knew everything came with side effects.

  She briefly reapplied her very red lipstick now. Her chic sense of fashion, elegant in its very simplicity, had evolved from her keen sense analytical judgment. She knew what was best for her. She clipped the cap back on the lipstick with a snap, dropped it into the pocket of her lab coat, her vanity assuaged. Though she disdained looking at herself, she did not mind being looked at by others. She was pretty and she knew it. Her mother and sister were in a trailer park on the other side of the country, so it was okay to show a little pride.

  Dr. Roberts looked at the digital countdown clock. It told the time here, now, in the lab, and knew nothing about what time it was where Colonel Moore had landed. She did not know, either. On paper, it would work out, of course.

  On paper. She almost smiled. Nobody did anything on paper anymore.

  The lab gleamed clean and white under pure, bleached lighting. Ordinarily, there would have been no sound.

  Then Dr. Roberts heard the click of the door behind her opening, but did not turn around. She had pressed the button to release the door lock of the lab moments after Colonel Moore’s body had vanished from beneath the transporter shield. Anybody could come in now, but she knew it would not be just anybody.

  She briefly glanced towards the shiny metal cabinet in front of her, which told her all she needed to know. A slight smile played on her very red lips. Dr. Ford closed the door with enough force to let her know he was there. He hated surprises of all kinds, and supposed that others did too. He did not know Eleanor had already identified him by his reflection in the cabinet door. After a moment of looking busy at her work, she turned and gave him the gift of her full attention. He hurried to her side of the lab.

  Without a word, he kissed her.

  He snaked his arms under her lab coat. She left visible traces of herself on him in lipstick, as if marking her territory with each kiss, on his lips, his cheek, his neck.

  A sharp rap on the door preceded its brisk opening, and Milly, Eleanor’s administrative assistant, stepped smartly inside leading Dr. L’Esperance like they were a subject and predicate of a sentence.

  Dr. Ford pulled away with a sharp twitch that seemed to indicate revulsion, as if discovering Eleanor was diseased. Dr. L’Esperance beamed at Milly with affable innocence, and Milly wordlessly excused herself, rolling her eyes to the ceiling lights, less innocently.

  “Is there something you want, Dr. L’Esperance?” Eleanor asked, barely concealing her irritation. Concealing irritation was something she always found difficult to do though she had seen it done before by others. Dr. L’Esperance seemed either unmoved or unaware of her curtness. Dr. L’Esperance smiled affectionately, like her best chum, with a slight and charming tilt to her head, and with unaccountable cheerfulness, pu
lled her flat monitor out from under her arm and flipped it open on the painfully clean, reflective steel counter. She perched on one of the stools and began to enter data on the small device.

  “Now is a good time to demonstrate for you some relative patterns I think you will be interested to see,” Dr. L’Esperance said, slapping in a microdisk from her pocket. Dr. Ford warily caught Eleanor’s eye for a brief moment, then smiled with his trademark pleasantness at Dr. L’Esperance. She returned his affable demeanor.

  “I can see Dr. Roberts has been kissing you,” Dr. L’Esperance said, acknowledging the obvious traces of lipstick on his face, but without an ounce of coyness; rather sounding as childishly delighted as if she had discovered presents under a Christmas tree with her name on them. Dr. Roberts colored, as someone with such clear, pale skin will do in moments of excitement, and glared at her, appalled, while Dr. Ford quickly rubbed his cheek with a lint-free cloth swiped from the counter and meant for swiping dust off the monitors.

  “We can discuss that report another time, Dr. Roberts,” Dr. Ford said, and would have bowed a quick and neat goodbye to Dr. L’Esperance, but she would not dismiss him. She grasped his forearm and pulled him closer to her.

  “You must stay, Dr. Ford, for this concerns cyclical patterns which are missing from Dr. Roberts’ master profile. Her errors will have grave consequences for this mission, and your opinion….”

  “My what?!” Dr. Roberts interjected, with a shrillness that startled both Dr. Ford and Dr. L’Esperance. “There are no errors, I didn’t make any errors!”

  “Let me show you….”

  “Let me show you the door.”

  “Eleanor…” Dr. Ford muttered in a vague manner his quite pointed discomfort.

  “I sense your discomfort.…”

  “Cassius, get this nutcase out of here.”

  “Eleanor!” Dr. Ford raised his voice, as unusual for him as it was for Eleanor. In spite of his attempt at blocking a verbal altercation, he found himself stepping cautiously backwards, away from the two women and toward the door.

  “Dr. Roberts, perhaps if I spoke instead of how great a danger Colonel Moore is in. Perhaps in light of that, you would be interested to hear of my conclusions.”

  “Your arrogance matches your audacity, Dr. L’Esperance, and if I may say, even exceeds your weirdness.”

  Dr. Ford quickly slipped out the door, without any kind of goodbye. They both heard the decided click of the door and turned their heads to it, and realized they were alone.

  “Why has Dr. Ford left? Was he unable to stay?”

  “Dr. L’Esperance, I…” Eleanor stopped short and shook her head. Emotional attitudes were clearly going to get her nowhere. She had worked long and hard to hammer them from her thinking and her actions, but felt inevitably betrayed each time her blood rose to the surface. Emotion, she reminded herself again, made her vulnerable to losing her dignity, losing the argument, or just made her vulnerable. She took a deep breath and braved eye contact with Dr. L’Esperance again. There was no trace of victory or mocking in her warm, hazel-green eyes, or any disingenuous indication of clever ruse.

  It was like looking into Bambi’s eyes. When Eleanor noticed this, it triggered an even deeper suspicion. Nobody ever got to the level of academia, authority or power that Dr. L’Esperance had by being naïve or kind. She was no Bambi. Clearly, Dr. L’Esperance was in a league of her own when it came to power plays, head games, and deception.

  “Forgive me for being suspicious,” Eleanor said in a tone that implied cordiality but nothing of asking for forgiveness, “this current mission has required a great deal of my time and concentration. Obviously, I have taken a great deal of care in my projections and I am quite confident they are accurate. However,” Eleanor continued, intending to make Dr. L’Esperance force her hand, “if you have doubts about this mission, perhaps you should take them right to General English.”

  “I would much rather speak to you.”

  “I’m sure you would,” she said. Eleanor, to her dismay, could not now comfortably switch to her smile of superiority, because it suddenly drew an oddly affectionate grin in return from Dr. L’Esperance.

  “Then you understand this mission is in peril?”

  Eleanor’s wrath rose to her pulsating eardrums again, but she held herself in check this time and between deep breaths of filtered laboratory air, she only stated the facts with none of the emotion.

  “No, I do not. Now, if you will leave me to my work, please.”

  Dr. L’Esperance looked bewildered, but Eleanor dared not smile again.

  “You must change your master profile, Dr. Roberts. I will help you. But, you must change it.”

  “Go see General English if you have a problem.”

  “I anticipated some resistance, but not like this. You are implacable.” Dr. L’Esperance said, just short of a whine.

  “I have work to do. Take your accusations and...just take them out of here.” Once again, Eleanor mentally congratulated herself on the new-found power in self discipline.

  “I will think about my next approach, yes,” Dr. L’Esperance said with a troubled expression, “In the meantime, can you tell me how much hope can be placed in Colonel Moore’s abilities and his resolve?”

  “Why, what are you talking about?”

  “Is he likely to manage for a certain length of time when he realizes the window of opportunity has passed for you to retrieve him? Or will he panic or despair? What is his expected percentage rate for survival skills?”

  “Dr. L’Esperance, I am growing tired of your sarcasm and your insults. We both know Colonel Moore will return and that the mission will be a success. I realize I can’t prevent whatever back-stabbing you’ve done or intend to do regarding my work and my mission, but I promise you, if I catch you scuttling my project, I will rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Colonel John Moore’s narrative:

  I could feel the cooling sensation lessen on my tingling skin. The invisible fist that was clenching my stomach into a hard knot released its grip and let me go. Still, I did not open my eyes until I was sure of the sun on my face, and the dampness of the grass around my legs, and shoulders, and neck. I felt ground beneath me. I felt the embrace of the Earth on my body. I felt a rock in my ribs.

  I opened my eyes to a broad blue sky, heard the echo of sea waves and smelled the cool salt air on a buffeting breeze. I was not on Mars, thank heaven, nor in the janitor’s closet back at the agency.

  I sat up. High on a bluff overlooking an ocean, I shakily stood on momentarily weak legs and looked around. The clear horizon stretched to infinity over the sea, and the land was a rumpled green blanket of rolling hills. It smelled fresh and clean, and cool. I did not, frankly, know where I was. I could be anywhere, but this wasn’t bad. It was pleasant. It was okay with me.

  Difficulties in time travel were manifold, though Dr. Roberts liked to call them challenges. She was positive to the point of being unreal, like one of those annoying can-do people who will not see obviously apparent obstacles, or admit the existence of hunger and poverty in the world because it would ruin their day at the mall, or like an aunt of mine who refused to acknowledge the crudely obvious alcoholism of her husband, because such would be an acknowledgment of failure, hers and his. People like that need to be slapped, at least once.

  I didn’t fear failure. Failure is an omnipresent fact of life, and an option that should never be discounted, a force on which we should never turn our backs. Possibly even make offerings to it, as to ancient gods. However, I was in no position to slap Eleanor; I could not reach her from this distance. All I could do was shrug and smile, and shake my fist at the long burnt-out sun above me. One of the most basic problems, and therefore uninteresting to Eleanor Roberts, is that Rand McNally was not publishing atlases in the year 60. So, even if I had landed in the right year, I still had no idea where geographically I was, or when I would officially be where I was going, wh
ich was the kingdom of the Iceni.

  The Iceni were a tribe of Celts living in the eastern haunches of Britannia. Their neighbors were the Trinovantes, Brigantes, Catuvellaunis and many other tribes whose Roman-bestowed Latin names are long lost to us, as were their own names for themselves. They knew each other intimately, fighting constantly with each other for dominance in a warrior’s world. If I met the Iceni, I would face the second of my problems. Communication.

  The language of the ancient Celts was a patchwork of dialects, a Brythonic and Goidelic tapestry embroidered with illusions, hopes, dreams and epithets unfathomable to the modern man. Also, even in its many forms, the ancient Celtic language was lost a long time ago. My archeologist and anthropologist pals in the lab recreated an alphabet from every stone rune and marker that could be found, but since nobody ever heard the language spoken, we were doubtful as to how I would speak and what I would sound like to them. To be safe, I learned the fragments they threw at me, plus Latin. I was good with languages. I don’t know why. I doubt I ever learned more than the colors and how to count to ten in sophomore French class, and yet as an adult I developed an amazing ear for them. To think the only places I ever traveled before the Time Dimension study were space, where I did not need a Fodor’s guidebook with glossary of the native lingo, and my old days in the Navy, when I learned only “You are beautiful,” and “I will always remember you” and various forms of sexual invitations in seven assorted languages. Now, as a time traveler, I suddenly had the gift of eloquence.

  The story on this mission was that I was to be a former Celtic tribesman, back from nearly twenty years in slavery under the Romans, and therefore my lingo was naturally a little off from living among another culture all these years. Fine. So much for plot exposition.