The 9/11 Machine

by Greg Enslen

“I thought you might ask that,” the elder Ellis said, smiling. “She made quite an impression on me as well—her name was Linda. She dumped us after a couple of weeks, if I recall. I always considered her my first love. You?”

  “What do you mean, ‘you?’” the younger Ellis said, shaking his head. “There is no ‘you’ and ‘me,’ there are just two ‘me’s.”

  The older Ellis shook his head. “No, I’ve already disproven Mikel’s Theory on Non-Interaction. I’ve been in this timeline for months, setting up a new identity.

  The younger Ellis nodded and turned, walking around the chairs and sitting down in the living room. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The older Ellis joined him, sitting in the chair by the fireplace.

  “I always loved this chair,” he said, sitting down and rubbing the arms slowly. It was a wonderfully comfortable chair, dark brown leather. What had happened to it? “I don’t remember for the life of me why I got rid of it.”

  The younger Ellis looked up. “So, you built the machine,” he said slowly, looking at him. “And it actually works.”

  The older Ellis nodded. “Obviously.”

  “And you’ve entered your old timeline or created a new one. Which is it?”

  The older Ellis shrugged. “Not sure yet. Though I know this didn’t happen to me on my vacation, so—

  He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his head that doubled him over. The headache was so intense—

  “You’re getting an echo,” the younger Ellis said calmly. “Your brain is hearing what you’re saying and what I’m saying and wondering why it doesn’t remember. Theoretically, of course.

  The older Ellis rubbed his temples. “It doesn’t feel theoretical!”

  “That’s because you and I are different. As soon as you entered the timeline, you must have caused a branch off the original. We’re in a different reality than the one you’re from. But your brain is trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it.”

  The older Ellis nodded. The pain backed off a little. “Heisenberg’s theory. It’s like I’m saying something, and then for a moment I remember not hearing it before, or hearing it but not remembering it. I had hoped to be in my original timeline—it would have made things easier.” He paused. “It’s getting better.”

  The younger Ellis glanced down and realized he was still holding the iPad. “Artifacts from the future, money, and medical supplies,” he said, glancing at the table.

  The older Ellis nodded, and they sat quietly for a few moments. The younger Ellis had figured out how to turn on the iPad and was touching the screen, playing his fingers across the black surface.

  “Pretty neat.”

  The older Ellis looked at him. “Yes, it’s all touch-based. A real breakthrough. When I was leaving, they were getting ready to bring out a fifth-generation phone and a third-generation iPad. It was sweeping through the PC industry, causing a lot of disruptions.”

  The younger man nodded. “I like the responsiveness. It does feel like magic, doesn’t it? Asimov was right.”

  The trick was obvious.

  “Clarke, you mean.”

  His counterpart looked up from the iPad. “What?”

  “Arthur C. Clarke. He said that any sufficiently advanced technology would look like magic to the unskilled user. You said ‘Asimov.’”

  The young man nodded, smiling. “Just testing you. If you are from the future, who knows how far ahead you’re coming from, or what kind of technology they have. You might be an evil future me, back here to replace me.”

  Don nodded slowly. “Well, I have to say I had given the notion some thought.”

  The younger Ellis smiled. “Or you could be some kind of cyborg, right? But you are me, I think. An older version. Fifteen years?”

  “Ten. I’m from 2011.”

  “Oh,” the younger Ellis replied. “You look older than that.”

  “The years have been…difficult. And now these headaches.”

  “Headaches. Remember that paper we wrote? We called it ‘reintegration’—the period of time when your mind is adjusting to an alternate timeline, catching up to the fact that events are skewing away from your memory.”

  “I remember coming home on this day from tennis,” Don said. “I remember looking at the mail and then starting some project, something I don’t even remember.”

  “Garage,” the younger Ellis said. “Sarah wants it cleaned up before spring.”

  The older Ellis smiled, remembering.

  The younger Ellis stood, walking back over to the dining room table. “Money, lots of it. You’ve been planning this for a while. Are those the plans?” he asked, pointing at the CDs.

  “Yes,” the older man said. He picked up the CDs and handed them to a younger version of himself when, suddenly, his nose started bleeding. He stepped hurriedly around the younger man and went into the kitchen for a paper towel.

  “Damn, that’s a lot of blood. Let’s get you horizontal. Come on.”

  The younger Dr. Ellis led his older self down into the basement to a large office. Every flat surface in the room was covered with electronic equipment—it looked like a smaller version of the warehouse. Don dropped down onto the couch and held the wad of paper towels to his nose.

  The two men sat quietly for a moment.

  “Something terrible is going to happen,” the older man said, his voice strange. “You have to stop it. “

  The younger man looked briefly at Ellis and then walked back upstairs. He returned with the CD case. He opened the case and pulled the first one out, labeled “Machine,” and popped it into the computer.

  “Bad enough to motivate you to finish the machine,” the younger Ellis said quietly, looking at monitor. “And faster than it should’ve taken. You’re using the machine for personal gain? If you are...”

  “Shut up,” Don said gruffly. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”

  The younger man was quiet for a moment, thinking. “But you—we can’t use the machine to benefit ourselves. It’s only for research. Plus, it doesn’t matter. You can’t change your original timeline anyway—only make new ones.”

  “I know, I know. Just look at the CDs. I’m tired. Look at the CDs and then tell me what you think of my… er, our ‘research.’” The older man reached over, pulling open a cabinet drawer and taking out a bottle of Advil—he knew where the bottle was without asking. He downed several dry and nodded at the screen.

  “The password is ‘Buttercup.’”

  Don sat back on the couch and watched as the younger man pored over the schematics on the computer screen of a machine that was, even now, being built again at a quiet and familiar warehouse in Red Hook. There were blueprints, photographs, testing information, even a section on the explosive device Don had used to destroy it.

  Then the younger man put in the second CD, labeled “Incident.” Don watched as he pulled up a series of images and headlines from September 11, 2001—the destruction of the World Trade Center, the U.S. Capitol building collapsed in on itself, the Pentagon in flames. Headlines flashed up—21,502 dead in attacks on Washington and New York City. Congress wiped out. Bush declares unilateral powers to fight terrorism. New York and Washington brought to knees.

  Tens of thousands dead—and the elder Ellis didn’t need to see the images again. He’d seen them all, too many times. And the Houston incident dwarfed these tragedies—the final casualty estimates were upwards of 100,000 people—men and women and children. The numbers were too staggering to even comprehend. And North Korea was being bombed back into the Stone Age as President Cheney exacted his pound of flesh.

  The younger Ellis looked through the files on the CD slowly, eventually getting to the final one—a picture of the plaque that hung in Ellis’ living room. Not the living room above their heads, but another version of the same room in the future.

  The plaque read “The City of New York wishes to express our sincerest condolences at the death of Sarah Ellis and
Tina Ellis, lost in the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.”

  “Oh, Christ.” the younger Ellis said quietly. “No.”

  2.3

  Coffee Break

  The Starbucks at the corner of K and 16th streets bustled with activity—life on Capitol Hill seemed to be fueled in equal parts by caffeine and power and attitude. Baristas shouted orders for pick-up, and customers jostled for position in the long line that reached to the doors. Every table was taken, and no one wanted to be outside; a June heat wave was baking the Washington, D.C., area.

  Dr. John Marburger walked into the Starbucks and saw the long line, but he didn’t turn around and leave. He could only shake his head and get in line. One of the things he’d learned in academia was just how bad office coffee could be. He’d developed a taste for more expensive stuff after too many late nights doing research.

  But he hated standing in lines.

  “Dr. Marburger?” a voice called from behind him. He turned to see a tall man, dressed nicely, sitting at a table for two. He was indicating the open chair across from him.

  “Please join me—I’ve already ordered for you.”

  Marburger frowned.

  “I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else,” John said, turning back to the line.

  “Has the president made up his mind yet about the nomination?” the tall man asked loudly.

  Marburger quickly stepped from the line and walked over to the man.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said, trying to keep his voice down. “I just want to get a coffee and be on my way.”

  The seated man nodded, smiling.

  “Triple venti extra-vanilla latte, right?” he said, nodding at the barista behind the counter. “I’ve already ordered for you. Do you find it pretentious, sometimes, that they insist on your ordering their drinks in such a specific manner? It reminds me of that Seinfeld episode about the Soup Nazi. Do you remember that one?”

  Marburger stared.

  “Sorry about the intrigue, Dr. Marburger. I’ve been waiting to meet with you, and I thought you might enjoy a drink while we chatted. Nothing mysterious in that, right?”

  Marburger wasn’t sure, but he nodded and slowly sat down, setting his briefcase between his feet.

  The tall man sat and sipped from his cup. There was a manila folder on the table. “I’m Dr. Donald Ellis—I’m a researcher at the University of New York. Particle physics and applied fourth-dimensional field space, mostly. I won the Sakurai Prize in 1999 for my work on fourth-dimensional field theory.”

  Marburger leaned back, waiting for the pitch.

  “Well, you have your meeting, Dr. Ellis. How can I help you?”

  John got twenty of these a month now, ever since the president had called. None of the others had been so out of the blue like this, or in a coffee shop with his drink preordered, but they were all similar in intent. Researchers, applied science guys, nut jobs—everyone wanted ten minutes of his time to pitch some new idea or new experiment that they insisted should be funded by the U.S. government. A friend from his days at Brookhaven had called him up only days ago to pitch an alternate use for the National Ignition Facility, a high-energy laser being built at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratories (LLNL).

  Another guy last week had launched into a long and detailed proposal for capturing icebergs as they calved off of glacial sheets in Antarctica. He wanted to attach motors to them, pilot them into warm-water harbors, and sell the melting fresh water. John had been intrigued, until he’d done ten minutes of Internet research and found out that the idea had been lifted from an ‘80’s movie called Brewster’s Millions.

  But some of the ideas he’d been getting were interesting. At least this guy was buying him a coffee.

  Dr. Ellis smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” Marburger asked, curious.

  “Oh, just the look on your face,” Ellis answered, smiling. “I know you’ve been getting a lot of bad ideas thrown at you since the president asked you to be National Science Advisor. I assure you, Dr. Marburger, this is not one of those meetings.”

  John wasn’t sure what to say. The presidential appointment wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t public knowledge yet, either. “How do you know about that?”

  Dr. Ellis smiled again and slowly opened the manila folder, handing two sheets of paper to Marburger. John took them slowly and glanced at them, then started reading.

  “Triple venti extra vanilla latte!” the woman at the counter announced.

  Ellis stood. “I’ll get it—you read. It’s good stuff.”

  The first sheet of paper was incredible—it was the entire text of the president’s announcement that would come next Monday, June 25. Marburger hadn’t read what the president was planning to say, but it sounded like him—his cadence, tone, and delivery.

  Ellis sat back down, offering Marburger coffee. “I know that you’ll be nominated—Bush will be announcing it this week. Rumors are already out there, which is why people are starting to pitch you ideas.”

  John stopped reading and looked up.

  “I don’t know how you know this, but anyone could get this information off the Internet if they looked hard enough. And a good writer could fabricate a speech by the president—”

  Ellis nodded.

  “That’s right—it’s not hard to create a speech. But the nomination isn’t fabricated—you will be nominated to be the president’s science advisor. He’ll make the announcement on Friday—there’s a copy of the announcement that he’ll read, along with the second page, which are photos of the nominating ceremony. See, there you are with the president.”

  John looked at the second sheet—there were indeed photos of him, standing behind the president in the Rose Garden along with a few other people, some of whom he did not recognize.”

  “How do you have these photos?”

  Ellis nodded. “Well, any good journalist could have those created, along with the president’s speech.”

  John nodded, sipping at his coffee. It was excellent.

  “But why?” he asked. “Why go to all that trouble?”

  Ellis nodded. “Quite right. One only needs to buy you a cup of coffee to get your attention—this is something more.” The man leaned forward, speaking again in a low voice. “Something will happen this fall that will change this country forever,” Dr. Ellis said quietly. “Something that will shake this country to its very foundation.”

  Marburger looked at the man slowly, sizing him up. He appeared completely serious.

  “So, this is how you know about the appointment—you know the future?” John said quietly, smiling. It was funny, hearing himself say the words. “Really?”

  Ellis nodded slowly. He rested his hands on the manila folder.

  “And you know something ‘bad’ is going to happen?” John asked, incredulous. “How do I know you’re not the one planning something bad?”

  The man across from him nodded.

  “Dr. Marburger. As hard as it is for you to believe, I have foreknowledge of what is to come. Just as I have this information,” he said, taking another item out of the manila folder and handing it to him. “The top is a copy of your statement to Congress, which I’m sure you’ve already started formulating. Under that is the congressional report.”

  John took the bound report, disappointed. This had started to get interesting, and then it had suddenly devolved into a bad episode of Star Trek. The man had intrigued him, but now he’d gone completely off the rails. For a moment, John was glad he was in a public place. He glanced at the paper—it was his speech.

  “The good news is, you’ll be confirmed,” Ellis said, smiling. He took a sip from his coffee cup and sat back, waiting.

  The president’s chief of staff had explained the entire process to Marburger two weeks ago—first, there would be the president’s official nomination, and then three months later there would be a congressional hearing. Marburger would appear on Capitol H
ill, and a group of legislators would ask him to present his credentials and answer questions. Chief of Staff Andrew Card had said that the questions might be challenging—the congressmen liked to look like they knew what they were talking about for the cameras.

  John had taken the words to heart and started formulating his speech, but this sheet had the entire finished speech, something that he would have needed another week or two to complete. The speech included a nice part at the end about science promoting democracy and freedom—he’d been thinking about going into that topic, but here it was, finished.

  The speech sounded great. Stranger still, it sounded like him.

  There were also several mentions of “the events of September 11,” a date that held no particular meaning to him.

  Behind the speech was the bound congressional hearing report, which read, “Nomination of Philip Bond to be Under Secretary for Technology at the Department of Commerce and John Marburger to be Director of the Office of Science and Technology Policy, Tuesday, October 9, 2001.”

  “October?” John looked up at the man, frowning. “You got this part wrong. This is supposed to happen sooner than that. Early September, I heard.”

  Ellis nodded. “Yes, that’s when it should have happened. But then 9/11 happens.”

  John looked at the speech again.

  “Is this ‘9/11’ the ‘bad’ thing you’re talking about? With your foreknowledge?” he asks, his voice laced with sarcasm.

  Ellis’ face darkened, and John wondered if he’d made a mistake, indulging this man.

  “Yes, Dr. Marburger, it is,” Ellis said as he leaned forward, his voice low, insistent. “9/11 will bring this nation to its knees. 21,502 people will die, half of Congress will be wiped out, and both buildings of the World Trade Center in New York will fall. The Pentagon will burn. It will be the worst day in our nation’s history. It will be remembered along with Pearl Harbor and the assassination of Lincoln.”

  John sat back slowly—this man was serious. And, incredibly, he seemed to really believe what he was saying.

  “And I will lose my family,” Ellis said, looking down at the table. “My wife and daughter will die in the South Tower. Many people will lose their families, Mr. Marburger. Of course, now that I know what’s coming, I’ve taken steps to protect my family.”