by Greg Enslen
The whole thing ran on body heat and an implanted “chip” the size of a piece of rice, painlessly embedded in one of the knuckles of his left pinkie.
Ellis stood and checked on the bomb—it had been stopped at 0:52:45. He had plenty of time, but he didn’t feel like taking any chances. There was the off-chance that the pilot had not been alone or that he could somehow communicate with his superiors and clue them in to the warehouse, so he changed the bomb timer to read “0:02:00” and then went around to the computer that controlled the machine. He tapped at the computer on the table one last time, marveling at the primitive interface he’d forgotten. He triple-checked the coordinates in space and time, and then grabbed the leather satchel, started the bomb timer, and stepped into the circle.
Don was going back to August 31, 1991. It just seemed like a good day—he’d chalk up yet another arbitrary birthday and give himself an even ten years to prevent 9/11 from happening.
And this time, he’d do it all himself—trusting the government to do anything was like herding cats. No matter how much time and knowledge you had, there were always going to be ones that got away. No, this time he’d figure out a way to fix things without showing himself. He’d make sure the Ellis of that timeline didn’t lose his family, of course, but Don knew that his priority would be to mitigate the outcome of the 9/11 disaster, not compound the problem or make it worse.
If he’d learned anything, it was that things could always get worse.
The air swirled around him. He reached into his pocket and took out a small round ball that glowed blue, then put it back, smiling. The air crackled with reactor energy as the machine spun up, and the sound of ice cracking filled the new warehouse. Ellis glanced up at the machine and smiled as the world—
Part Four
4.1
Maytag
—spun out of existence and back. The warehouse wavered around him, and, for a moment, he could see both warehouses—one in Buchanan, New York, in 2003 that was partially taken up with a massive machine and support equipment, the other a warehouse in Red Hook in 1991, nearly the same size, but completely filled with other machines and equipment.
Both warehouses shared a moment of uneasy coexistence, and then everything inside the Buchanan warehouse faded from view, leaving Ellis standing on a cold concrete floor.
He’d appeared in a dark, narrow area between two large trucks in the process of being loaded—men on forklifts were driving up ramps into the backs of the trucks, loading large cardboard boxes. In this era, the warehouse was operated by Maytag, and Ellis saw boxes labeled “Refrigerator” and “Washing Machine.” Unaffected by changes in the timeline, Maytag would consolidate, and this warehouse operation would be closed in 1993, and the building would sit empty until Ellis came along to lease it.
Ellis smiled and waited, and a few seconds passed before a loud whistle blew, indicating lunchtime. He started slowly across the floor of the warehouse, weaving in and out of the trucks and machines as the other employees began filing out to take their lunches on the waterfront. Ellis grabbed a Maytag hat and pulled it on, down over his eyes, and walked to the sliding warehouse doors that fronted the loading docks that pointed toward the river. It was amazing, what a person could get used to.
Ellis put his hand on the doors and wondered, just for a moment, what he would do if the towers weren’t there? What if only one tower stood?
There was only way to be sure.
“You going out, man?”
Ellis turned and saw a big man in coveralls standing behind him. Don nodded and turned back, pushing open the doors.
Don felt a childish sense of relief at seeing them. There stood the towers of the World Trade Center, dwarfing everything else in lower Manhattan. They gleamed in the sunlight on yet another birthday.
Some part of his mind had convinced him that the towers were like him—both there and not there. He’d seen them come and go, appear and reappear, fall again and again. Every time he saw them anew, it was like a dream.
Don walked out onto the grassy lawn between the warehouse and the river—many of the men had come out here as well to take their lunches, sitting on wooden picnic tables provided by the company. He remembered these tables and benches—worn, broken-down versions of them had lurked behind the warehouse in each of the other timelines. Now they looked new, painted, and fresh.
After a moment, he looked up again at the towers. They stood against the blue sky, tall and proud. But maybe they had to fall. Maybe no matter what he did, they would fall.
Perhaps it was simply destined.
A ludicrous argument, coming from someone with a time machine. But perhaps, for some reason, those two hulking buildings weren’t supposed to survive the winter of 2001.
A fatalistic attitude, he knew, but all evidence seemed to indicate that 9/11 was supposed to happen, or would happen, always. It seemed like a simmering pot—no matter what Ellis did, the pot would boil over at some point. It might be sooner, or later, or with different actors, or on a different stage, but the play always ended the same.
Ellis shouldered his leather bags and began working his way toward an exit. Large barbed-wire fences circled the building, and he wasn’t sure that the gates wouldn’t be guarded. And his bags were literally filled with treasure—and too heavy to get away with, if he had to run.
Don thought that he could work to save as many people as possible. He didn’t think he could stop it from happening, but maybe he could mitigate the damage. Or maybe he could try finding Atta and the others—once he had a new machine, he could teleport in and out of locations, appearing and disappearing at will. Maybe he could take out the al Qaeda leadership.
Or maybe it had to happen. If so, he could work to save as many people as possible but allow it to happen. He hated the idea of playing God, being the one to decide who would live and who would die.
As he walked past the men enjoying their lunches and their conversations, he realized that none of them knew what was coming. Of course, it was ten years away, but it was coming. It was inevitable. And warning them probably wouldn’t help.
He approached the gate and timed it to walk through the barbed-wire fence as the burly guard was speaking to a group of men around the gate. Ellis scooted quietly through and started up the street lined with warehouses, moving away, happy to be unseen.
Don was on his own.
4.2
Presents and Opportunities
Dr. Beth Higgins walked back into her shared offices after her 1:00 p.m. lecture, flipping through the essay books that had just been submitted by her students. Sometimes, she was stunned at the complete lack of effort some of these kids put into their schoolwork. A semester, or four years of semesters, at the University of New York was expensive—you’d think the kids would want their money’s worth. Of course, it wasn’t their money that was paying for school in the first place, so it probably didn’t matter. Maybe that was the problem.
She walked into her office, but before she’d even set her things down, her secretary Wendy came in from the outer office. “He’s back!” she said, her glasses hanging from the strap around her neck.
“Dr. Ellis?” Beth asked, smiling.
Wendy nodded and disappeared.
Dr. Higgins set her things down and rooted through her bookcase, finding the wrapped present and the card that went with it, and looked into Don’s office. The room was full—the offices here weren’t very big, but it was still a good turnout.
“And she’s cute?” one professor was asking Ellis as Beth scooted around a group of secretaries in the door and worked her way around to an open spot near Don’s desk.
Dr. Ellis smiled, embarrassed.
“She’s adorable,” he said, passing around pictures, and holding one up. “And smart, too—she’s already trying to roll over. That’s good, right?” he asked, looking at the women in the room for validation.
Beth finally spoke up.
“I bet she’s a smarty, judging by her p
arents. Here,” she said, handing him the gift.
Don looked at her and smiled. “Oh, you didn’t need to…” he began.
Beth cut him off. “Wendy wouldn’t let me forget, are you kidding?”
Ellis unwrapped the gift, a small pink ceramic shoe. On the side was written, “Tina Marie Ellis, born August 18, 1995.”
He looked up at her and smiled.
“Thanks, Beth.”
The next ten minutes were filled with more presents and hugs, as the faculty of his department welcomed Dr. Ellis back from two weeks of paternity leave. Soon, the room emptied out, leaving only Beth, Wendy, and Don, who looked stunned at the outpouring of friendship.
“Wow,” he said, moving the presents from his chair and sitting down. “They must’ve really missed me,” he said, smiling.
“No, not really,” Wendy teased as she left the room. “It’s just been a slow two weeks with you out.”
He nodded and looked at his desk, which was piled with an accumulation of papers, mail, university notices, and new textbooks to review.
“So, did I miss anything?” he asked, glancing up at Beth, who had settled into his comfiest chair.
“No, not much,” she said, not looking at him. “Anderson thinks that he’s made some kind of breakthrough on string theory.”
“Again?” Ellis asked, smiling.
Beth nodded.
“Yeah, again. He’s doing another paper on it. And Wilkins got invited to something next year, a ten-years-later thing in Chernobyl. Well, not in Chernobyl, but you know what I mean.”
“I hope not in Chernobyl,” Ellis answered, smiling. “He’ll come back glowing in the dark. What’s this?” he asked, holding up a thick envelope marked “Grant Opportunity.”
“Oh, we all got those,” Beth answered. “It’s from the Dean—he’s encouraging professors to help out MacMillan Enterprises. You know MacMillanSoft? They’re branching out into physics, supposedly. They’re paying lots of money for advanced work.”
“Why? Who are they?” Ellis asked.
She shrugged. “Not sure, but they pay well, and you can still publish. They want first dibs on commercialization opportunities, but you keep the rights to anything you develop. It’s a good deal—I finally wrote up that dark matter theory I was talking about, and they paid $8,000. I finally got that new car.”
Beth watched as Ellis pulled open his envelope and skimmed the first few pages.
“So, everything is good with Tina?” she asked.
“Yes, she’s perfect,” Ellis said. “I can’t believe how fast she’s growing.” Don tapped on the grant application. “It says here that they’re interested in funding work on four-dimensional mechanism theory.”
Beth nodded, impressed. “That’s right up your alley. If you can work that whole mess out, you’d win the Sakurai Prize, no doubt.”
Ellis set the thick envelope down.
“Beth, I haven’t even asked. I’m sorry—how are you doing?”
She looked down for a moment, then back at Don. “Good. I’m good. He’s moved out completely now. I got the keys back, finally.”
Don nodded, frowning. “So the counseling didn’t work out?” he asked.
Beth shook her head.
“No. I didn’t think it really would, but…” she trailed off, not wanting to talk about it. She stood, composing herself, and took his hands. “Anyway, never mind that. Today is about you, and Sarah, and little Tina,” Beth said, smiling. “You’re so lucky, Don. Hold onto them both, okay?”
Ellis nodded and smiled as Beth turned and left. She hurried back to her office and almost got the door closed before she started crying.
4.3
A Dinner
“Tina!”
Don hated shouting, but it seemed no one could hear him unless he was shouting. Now that Tina was four, it seemed like he spent an inordinate amount of time raising his voice to be heard.
After a long moment that made him want to roll his eyes, he finally heard a “Coming, Daddy!” from the far end of the house.
Ellis looked around—the living room was a complete mess. Toys were everywhere; the TV was on with no one watching it. For some reason, there was a half-eaten bologna sandwich sitting on the arm of the couch.
Tina ran around the corner from the hallway and up to Don, smiling.
“Yes, Daddy?”
He pointed at the room. “Bethany will be here any minute, and that room is a wreck. You need to clean it up, or I’ll tell Bethany no hairdos.”
Tina put her hands on her hips, a move that she knew almost always reduced her father to smiles. “No problem, Daddy. And I like the hairdos—Bethany knows all the good ways to fix my hair. And they last a long time.”
Don nodded. “And what’s with the sandwich?”
She turned and looked at it, then back to him. “I was hungry.”
“Not hungry enough to eat it all?”
Tina shook her head. “I didn’t want to spoil my apple-tite. Bethany is going to get pizza—she always does.”
He nodded, smiling. “OK, well, clean it up. And it’s ‘appetite,’ not ‘apple-tite.’”
“OK,” she said, smiling, and scooted off.
Outside, the limousine honked again.
“Sarah?” he called again, straightening his tie. He was nervous, and the limousine that the university had sent for them was making him even more nervous.
“I’m coming,” his wife called from upstairs. At the same moment, the doorbell rang, and Tina squealed as only a four-year old girl could and ran for the door, throwing it open.
“BETHANY!”
The teenager smiled and picked up Tina, hugging her. “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Ellis. I’ve got it from here—just go,” the young woman said. She lugged a large purse that seemed to be brimming with textbooks and papers.
Don nodded. “It’s fine,” he lied. “We just finished getting ready.” He walked over and held the door open, waving at the limo driver again. It was the first time he’d ever ridden in a limo, and he was a little overwhelmed.
“Just put her down whenever you want,” Don heard his wife saying from behind him, and he turned to look at her.
She was a vision, her hair up off her neck and tied back with a little barrette. She was wearing a slinky black dress that he’d never seen before—he suddenly realized that she’d bought a special dress for this event, and that made him smile. He felt like an idiot in his rented tux, but all eyes would be on her anyway, so it wouldn’t matter.
“So,” she asked, smiling. “What do you think?”
“You look amazing!” Tina yelled, running over to hug her, but Sarah was looking at Don. He smiled.
“I think they’ll give you the prize, looking like that,” he said.
Sarah picked up her clutch and walked past him, out to the limo. Don nodded at Bethany.
“Call us if there is a problem, right?”
Bethany nodded. “Go! I’ve never ridden in a limo before—you must be excited!”
Don walked out to the car and climbed in the door that the driver was holding open for him. The door closed solidly behind him as he slid in next to Sarah.
“Nervous?” she asked him.
He nodded. “I’ve got my speech ready,” he said, tapping his chest. There was a small stack of cards in his breast pocket. Don leaned back against the seat as the car drove away from their house.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, just looking out the window and enjoying the quiet. One thing he’d noticed about having a child was just how quiet silence sounded—it was like a blanket that smothered everything. Sometimes he liked the quiet, and sometimes he didn’t.
Sarah helped herself to the stocked bar and mixed up a couple of quick cocktails, handing one to him.
“Now, this is the life,” she said, sipping at the drink. “You should win this prize every year.”
He downed the cocktail in one gulp—it was sweet, like he liked them—and handed her back the empty glass.
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“I think I’d run out of speeches.”
She looked at the glass, her eyes wide.
“Are you okay? I’ve never seen you drink like that.”
Don tapped his chest. “Just nervous, I guess,” he said, looking out the window again. He was dreading the speech, dreading being up there in front of people. He hated speeches—listening to them or giving them—and always empathized with the people speaking.
He rubbed his palms together—he was starting to sweat. And it was warmer in the limo, suddenly—or was that the alcohol?
“Look,” Sarah said, sliding closer to him. “You’ll do fine. It’s a bunch of scientist types, and your research has pushed forward the field. They want to hear what you have to say,” she said quietly. “Do you think Mr. MacMillan will be there?”
Don shook his head. The owner of MacMillan Enterprises rarely attended social events, even if they were for prestigious prizes won by scientists on his payroll.
“That’s too bad,” she said. “What kind of name is Teague?”
He looked at her. “Irish. And are you nuts? Having him there would make it twenty times worse.”
She nodded. “I know—I just wanted to meet him. First those grants that helped you to accelerate your research, and then that thing last year, remember? His software department was working on that oral history of Texas and wanted recordings of all my dorky Texas stories.”
“Yeah, that was interesting,” he said. “It’s a technology company—why would they need those stories?”
“Oh, he wrote me back and explained,” she answered.
“What? You never told me that.”
“Yes, I did. He signed it ‘Teague,’ remember? You’ve just forgotten,” she said, smiling. She took his head in her hands. “Sometimes, I think you’re too smart for your own good. They were putting out their new operation system, and they wanted a non-threatening way to teach people to use the voice-recognition system. They had a user read the stories, and the software listened and learned the individual’s voice patterns. It’s cool, knowing that Aunt Ginny and Mom and Uncle Peter—that all their stories are out there, floating around the world.”
