The 9/11 Machine

by Greg Enslen

  “What do you think?” Don asked Sarah.

  She shook her head. “It’s all too much to take in. I can’t even think of all of those people, trapped in those towers. To even imagine being in the South Tower when the plane hit—it’s all just too much.”

  Don nodded. “Yeah. I’m starting to understand why he wanted us to come out and meet with him today—it was his way of keeping us safe, I think.”

  Sarah looked over at Teague as he walked up to join them.

  “The FAA just shut down U.S. airspace,” Teague said. “They’ll be landing or forcing down every plane over the continental U.S.”

  “What about the World Trade Center?” Sarah asked, nodding at the other monitors, where both towers burned. “What did you do to mitigate the number of deaths?”

  Teague looked at the screens, and Don could see the pain on his face. “That is where the most of the casualties will happen, or at least they did in the other timelines. Do you remember the 1993 terrorist attacks on the WTC? Terrorists blew up a van in the parking structure under one of the towers, trying to knock it over?”

  Don and Sarah both nodded.

  “Again, MacMillan Architecture won the contract for the cleanup after the attacks. We upgraded their egress system—new, wider staircases, larger signs, faster evacuation routes, and improved ventilation systems. And we instituted weekly fire drills to teach residents of the building how to get out, quickly and safely.”

  “What about above the fires?” Sarah was looking at the monitors, which showed both buildings on fire.

  Teague shook his head. “It will be difficult for those people to escape. I don’t want to think about it. Those people in each building above the crash sites are likely trapped, unless they can get to a passable stairwell and out of the building.”

  “You said the buildings will collapse,” Sarah said.

  Teague nodded. “Each will burn for about an hour and then fall. Hopefully, everyone below the crash sites will be out by then. The South Tower will go first, in just a few minutes.”

  Teague turned and tapped at a computer, pulling up a plot of an airplane and some audio on the large central screen.

  “OK, this is the plane I’m worried about.”

  Don and Sarah looked up at the screen, where Teague was pointing.

  “The fourth plane,” Don said.

  “Yes. It has one less hijacker on board, thanks to Zacarias Moussaoui getting nabbed by the FBI last month. And, due to a few things this morning, the flight was delayed by over an hour. And it’s a different plane.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah asked.

  “The original plane didn’t carry air phones, but this one does. It was hijacked over Ohio—air traffic controllers in Cleveland heard it being hijacked at about the same time as the Pentagon crash. Right now, it’s flying straight toward D.C. In my timeline, it crashed into the Capitol. The New York and Pentagon crashes were disasters, certainly, but it was the destruction of the Capitol building and the virtual decapitation of the U.S. Congress that had the largest effect on the nation. In another timeline, the plane was chased by fighters and diverted to a secondary target, crashing into an NFL game at the football stadium in downtown Baltimore. I doubt the stadium is on the target list this time—there’s not a game going on. Go ahead, Stevens.”

  Mr. Stevens was at another terminal and tapped at the computer station.

  “What’s he doing?” Sarah asked.

  “He’s calling to get a wrong number—a bunch of wrong numbers. He’s instructing the computer to call all the cell phones of all the passengers on the flight, Flight 93, and then hang up. It should clue them in that their phones are operational, even in flight. A few of them will call loved ones and find out what’s happening in New York and D.C.”

  “Will that help?” Don asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Teague answered. “In my timeline, all of this happened simultaneously. All of the flights took off at nearly the same time and crashed within a half-hour of each other. I am hoping that, by delaying that flight, the passengers will find out what’s happening to the other hijacked planes and take action. Commandeer the plane, or revive the pilot, or crash it.”

  Don shook his head. “You don’t care if they live or die—”

  “Those people on the plane are dead, either way,” Teague answered. “If I hadn’t intervened, the hijackers would have already crashed it into the Capitol. By delaying the plane, I might have given the passengers a chance to fight back.”

  “A chance,” Sarah said. “Another chance to change things but still die.”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Teague said. “There are two people on board, other than the flight crew and the hijackers, who have the training to land the plane. If the passengers can get control of the plane, they have a good chance of surviving—”

  “You have a teleporter—get those people off that plane, before they die!” Sarah said, standing. “Who cares if the information gets out? You could save those people.”

  Teague shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. And I’ve done everything I can to save as many people as possible. I’ve arranged for the planes to be flying with many fewer passengers than average, but this event has to happen, or worse things will follow. Delay only makes it worse, and the attacks will force the government to finally face up to some of the decisions they’ve been making. The government, for the first time, will get serious about al Qaeda and other terrorist organizations. They’ll wipe out the Taliban.”

  Behind them, Cassie yelled out and pointed at the monitors, which showed the South Tower collapsing. The floors fell, one on top of another, pancaking down to the ground and throwing up a dust plume two hundred feet high. The dust and pulverized rock cloud washed through the streets of lower Manhattan.

  Several of the technicians had their heads down, unable to watch. Behind Teague and Don, Sarah sat at a table, crying.

  Don nodded. “So, why are we here?”

  Teague turned—he clearly hadn’t been expecting that question.

  “You’re not too sure of this plan of yours,” Don asked, “or you wouldn’t have gotten us out of danger. Were you worried that something else might require our presence downtown this morning? You wanted us out of the area. And you had us bring Tina, just in case.”

  Teague nodded. “You don’t understand—I saved your family. If you could imagine—”

  “I can,” Don said, and took Teague’s hand. “Thank you.”

  The older man nodded.

  Sarah stood and came over as well, standing behind Don. She was quiet for a long moment, and then finally looked up at Teague. “Yes, thank you. I might not agree with how you’re handling this, but I don’t know how to thank you for saving Tina. And me, I guess.”

  Teague nodded. “It’s fine. And you’re right—this may not be the best solution, but it’s better than any others I’ve tried.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Oh, and thank you so much for those stories,” he said quietly.

  She looked at him.

  “I miss her so much,” Teague said, looking at Sarah. “My Sarah. You’re like a reflection of her, another facet of the same jewel. You are her and not her. But having those stories, recorded in her voice, your voice, it was like I could hear her again. Thank you.”

  She nodded, her eyes wet again. She glanced up at the monitors. “You know, I’m kind of done watching all of this—can I see Tina now? I just want to walk outside and look at the sky and hold my girl.”

  Teague nodded, smiling.

  “Absolutely.”

  He tapped at the skinputer, and Don watched as his wife began to fade—she gave him a wave and was gone.

  “Thank you, Teague,” Don said again. “So, when you got back to 1991 and starting setting all this up, why didn’t you use your name—our name?”

  “Too confusing, old boy,” Teague said. “I wanted a new identity and one that wouldn’t impact you. You know how we’ve always b
een fascinated with our Irish background?”

  Don nodded.

  “I had some genealogy work done. MacMillan is in our family tree, as was a gent named Teague. I adopted them for my own use and built MacMillan Enterprises and several other ancillary businesses. Speaking of that, I’d like to talk to you, when this is all over. I have a position in mind for you.”

  Don nodded and smiled. “I’d like that,” he said.

  They stood together for a few long minutes, looking at the screens, before Don spoke up again.

  “So, now what?”

  “I’m waiting to see what happens with that fourth plane,” Teague said. The news stations were replaying the collapse of the South Tower, again and again.

  “How many will die?” Don asked quietly.

  Teague shook his head. “I don’t know. In my original timeline, 21,502 people died during these attacks. Of course, in my timeline they hadn’t implemented the improved safety and evacuation systems that resulted from the 1993 World Trade Center bombing. Plus, there’s a primary this time, so hopefully many people stopped off to vote.”

  Don looked at him. “Don’t tell me—you got the primary moved?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Teague said. “But in my timeline it had been delayed—something with the ballots and counting signatures, I think. Anyway, this time I made sure nothing delayed it.”

  Don smiled and nodded. “Nice.”

  The two versions of Dr. Donald Ellis watched the screens and monitors and listened to the news together for the next hour. The news reported that the U.N. building in New York and the Sears Tower in Chicago were being evacuated.

  At 10:28, the North Tower fell, collapsing upon itself in the same manner as the South Tower. For a few seconds after the tower fell, a forty-story tall spire of structural support column stood, defying gravity for moments before collapsing.

  The passengers of Flight 93 evidently got word about what was going on with the other planes. At 10:37, the Associated Press began reporting a plane crash in rural Pennsylvania. The speculation was that it was Flight 93 quickly turned to confirmation. The passengers had fought back, in some capacity, and brought down the plane.

  “Now what?” Don asked as they sat. “Is that it?”

  Teague nodded. “Yes. There will be a thousand rumors flying around about other planes and other groups of hijackers that were foiled by the FAA, forcing all the planes to land. Urban legends will be spun about other hijacking teams that exit their landed planes and disappear.”

  “Urban legends and conspiracy theories, no doubt,” Don said.

  Teague nodded. “In New York, Giuliani will step up and lead, I hope. He seems like a good wartime leader—in my timeline, he was killed in the collapse of WTC 7.

  Don nodded.

  “He seems like a sturdy one—the city will need him to get through.”

  “And then the U.S. should begin combat operations against the Taliban in Afghanistan,” Teague continued. “Bush, hopefully, will have his head about him, this time. Last time, losing Laura pushed him over the edge. Cheney had him declared unfit.”

  “What about us?” Don asked.

  Teague turned and looked at him. “You and your family will be fine. And you’ll come to work for me, I hope. Let me show you.”

  Teague walked back out into the hallway, turning. Don followed him, and they reached a door that required Teague’s handprint. “Your handprint would work just as well,” the old man said with a smile and pushed open the large door.

  Beyond the door was a massive space, a carved-out chamber big enough to hold ten buildings the size of the mansion. The ceiling was dotted with stalactites—the roof of the chamber was obviously part of the original cave.

  But Don was looking at the floor of the chamber.

  In the middle of the chamber sat a large machine that looked like the ones in his drawings. A large central core, pointing downward, an open area in the middle like a CAT scanner, and miles of piping, wiring, and tubing. It was either a particle accelerator or a—

  “Time machine,” Don said quietly.

  Teague smiled and patted Don on the back.

  “Yup, that was the first one, started when I arrived in 1991. I’ve built so many of them that I can practically do it in my sleep, but I was constrained by 1991-era equipment and electronics. Had to ‘invent’ a few new materials and electronic components along the way, and that’s how MacMillan Enterprises got going, and MacMillan Software, and MacMillan Materials, and all the other companies.”

  “You said ‘the first one,’” Don said.

  “Yes.” Teague kept walking. Near the large machine was a row of identical eighteen wheelers, each parked side by side in the cavern. There were seven. Each said Wal-Mart on the side—they were apparently delivery trucks for the retail behemoth.

  “These are the portable ones,” Teague said. “We resized them and built them inside these trucks, so we could take them on the road without anyone knowing. We’re working on some smaller versions, now—I’d love to get one down to a backpack size, someday. And they all have teleport capability, as well, so they can move each other, if needed. We’ve got more machines, in other locations, but I wanted to show you these first. And to offer you a job—I’m going to need help in the future.”

  Don looked at the trucks—they looked exactly like the eighteen wheelers he saw every day on the highway. He thought about portable time machines and a job offer, out of the blue. “You’re joking me.”

  Teague smiled. “No, I’m not. I’ll need your help.”

  Don nodded. “I’ll have to talk to Sarah.”

  “Of course,” Teague said. “Didn’t your Tina say that when she was little, around two? ‘You’re joking me?’”

  Don thought about it for a moment and realized that the old man was right—Tina had picked that phrase up from somewhere. He remembered that she had repeated it often, always at the cutest possible times.

  “Yeah, I forgot about that,” Don said, smiling.

  Teague looked at Don looked for a long moment and then smiled.

  “Never forget, Don,” Teague said, his eyes sparkling. “I’ve learned that it’s all precious, like water through your hands. Hold on to every bit of it you can.”

  Epilogue

  “—and their technology was incredible,” Teague MacMillan said, smiling.

  They were enjoying a small reception in a beautiful restaurant downtown. The event outside had already started, and most of the guests at the reception had already been called out.

  Since that day ten years ago, when Don and Sarah and Tina had taken a trip to Teague’s Montauk headquarters, Don had wondered about the skinputer. Even after all the incredible things that he’d been told and seen, Don had always wondered about that particular piece of technology. It just didn’t seem possible within the range of times Teague had talked about.

  “You were in Seattle?”

  Teague nodded.

  “Near the University of Washington Hospital. Of course, it wasn’t called that anymore—it was named after a President Roslin, whoever that was, or will be. Anyway, they had a triage booth in the main lobby—it was like an old phone booth, but it scanned me, and immediately I was being wheeled to the appropriate ward.”

  “Wheeled?” Don asked, sipping from his cup of coffee. He was a bear in the morning if he didn’t get his coffee. “I’m surprised the gurneys didn’t float.”

  “Yeah, right? I still wonder what happened to my jetpack and flying car,” Teague said, smiling. “Anyway, the burns and radiation poisoning were treated in minutes. Gone, just like that. And I was inoculated against future exposure.”

  “Magic,” Don said, smiling. “Just like Asimov said.”

  “Clarke, you mean.”

  Don smiled. “What?”

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

  “Ah, that’s righ
t.”

  Teague looked at him across the table. “You still don’t believe me?”

  Don shook his head. “You went sixty years into the future for medical treatment and came back cured, with a computer implanted in your skin and some kind of glowing blue power source?”

  “Well, when you say it all together like that, it sounds crazy.”

  Don smiled. “So how did you get the skinputer?”

  Teague leaned forward and sipped his coffee. “Well, this is funny. They fixed me up, right, and then they wanted payment.”

  “This I gotta hear. They use money in the future?”

  “So I don’t have a clue what to do, and the payment guy, or whatever he was called there, leans over and taps my arm, trying to turn on my skinputer. I’d seen others using theirs, so I knew what he was doing, and I guess he could use it for payment, like an electronic wallet. I said that mine had been damaged by the radiation burns. The guy reaches into his desk and pulls out a little nozzle-looking thingy and jabs my pinkie knuckle. I SEE the little thingy go in—it didn’t hurt—and then the skin on my arm just starts changing. It was like a tattoo, but under the skin, and a hundred times more colorful. And it boots up, and guess what it says?”

  Don had no clue. “What?”

  “It says ‘Microsoft.’ Can you believe that?”

  Don smiled. “I need to buy more stock, I think. We should corner that market with MacMillanSoft as soon as it starts coming around. So, what happened after the guy wanted payment?”

  “Well, the skinputer booted up, and then it blanked out, like it had no information on me or my identity, so he took me to what would be the equivalent of their library and left me there. He gave me a bill—not a paper bill, but it was on some kind of clear material. I spent days in that library, downloading everything I could into the skinputer.”

  Don sipped at his coffee and saw a man approaching their table. He had the nervous look of an underpaid underling.

  “Excuse me, sirs, but we’ll be ready for you in a moment. Would you follow me?”

  Don Ellis and Teague MacMillan stood, putting their cloth napkins on the table, and followed the young man.