Outcasts: Short Stories by Nick Wisseman

by Wisseman, Nick

  Kimmel finally turned and looked at Blake directly. “What would you make of all this in my position, Mr. ‘Smith,’ keeping in mind that I’ve had nothing more from Washington than a caution to be on alert against sabotage and espionage!?! Sailor?”

  Blake stood rigidly at attention, schooling his impatient fingers not to fidget with his denim trousers’ ties as he recalled Mr. Jackson’s advice from the letter: Play on Kimmel’s insecurities; it’s your only chance of establishing credibility. “The last time you asked your superiors whether you were being fully informed, sir, did they tell you that Army and Navy cryptographers have cracked the Kaigun Ango?”

  The admiral’s face screwed up incredulously.

  “Over a year ago, sir. The diplomatic cipher, too. We’ve been intercepting the Japs’ communications to their embassy for months now.”

  “And what proof do you have, ‘Smith?’” The admiral tried his best to sound amused.

  The details I leave up to you: you know them better than I. Just be aware that I can’t foresee the actions of those who come after me. “One of the intercepting stations is actually on the island, sir, less than a hundred yards from where we’re standing now. I can show you if you’d like, but we have to hurry: Admiral Yamamato is laying his final preparations as we speak.”

  The admiral said nothing for several moments before switching on his intercom. “Charles, I’ll need a security escort as soon as possible.” Releasing the button, the old man looked back up at Blake. “What else do you think you know, sailor?”

  Suppressing a smile, Blake stared at the ceiling until the other key points from his dissertation fell into place. “Any minute now, the Japanese government will begin relaying a declaration of war to its embassy in Washington, to be used at 0700 hours Hawaii time. We’ll intercept it at the same time their ambassadors receive it, the Secretary of State will enter negotiations pretending—as usual—he doesn’t know what’s about to be said, and while the diplomats dither, the information will never reach where it’s most needed. Pearl Harbor will be left unprepared, and there will be a slaughter. Here, tomorrow, sir, unless we act quickly.”

  Noting the admiral’s reddening face, it was Blake’s turn to forestall an outburst with a gesture. “I can’t say why you’ve been kept out of the loop, sir, but it’s one of history’s graver oversights—”

  The door burst open, rebounding off the white wall and crashing back against the outstretched arm of a panting officer. Kimmel started to open his mouth for what looked liked a reprimand before deciding against it. Blake followed his lead and stayed silent. After several moments of heavy, raspy breathing, the newcomer found his voice.

  “I’m sorry, admiral…Didn’t realize how out of shape this desk job is making me…One moment…All right…Sir, I have evidence that this ‘Henry Smith’ here is in fact an anarchist attempting to provoke an international incident with the Japanese.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Hold your tongue, ‘Smith.’” Kimmel raised his hand again with a renewed sense of majesty.

  “All the recent rumors can be traced to this man, admiral. Lieutenant Jacobs is on his way with evidence, but I sprinted ahead to prevent this man’s harming of your person.”

  “Very good, Adams. ‘Smith,’ do you have anything with which to deny these charges?”

  Blake’s mouth opened and shut once before his voice resumed functioning. “If you would just accompany me to the intercept station, sir, we can prove—”

  “I think I know my island, ‘Smith.’ Lieutenant Adams, if you would.”

  The newcomer nodded and moved forward, arms tensed.

  Blake looked rapidly between the two men and began edging to his left…until a fourth man in naval attire entered the office. “You’re bringing everything that happens tomorrow down on your own head, admiral.”

  “Everything that happens here already is on my head, ‘Smith.’ Adams, Cell Block Five until further notice.”

  “Yes, admiral.”

  Adams and the summoned security moved to secure Blake’s arms, but he shook them off. “I’ll go.”

  As he left, sandwiched between his two escorts, Blake took one last look back at the admiral, searching for any flickers of doubt.

  * * *

  He’d tried, using everything he remembered in combination with the more useful elements of the mysterious Mr. Jackson’s advice. The letter would have been sci-fi whimsy a few days (weeks, months, years?) ago, but that morning it had made all too much sense.

  “Left here.”

  Blake turned as he’d been bidden, numbly letting Adams direct him from behind. In all probability, he’d failed. Pearl Harbor was still going to happen…But maybe he still had time to carry out the task that mattered most to him.

  “Right.”

  The odds of being allowed to make a phone call were slim. But he was alone with Adams now, the other guard having been dismissed due to Blake’s seeming placidity.

  “Through that door, straight ahead.”

  And not that it was any real justification, but decking this idiot would feel pretty good. Should he try to find Gramp’s number, though, or just show up at the house?

  “Sleep tight, Blake.”

  What? “The fuck—”

  Fire flashed through his head. Unconsciousness followed.

  * * *

  “…your eyes, boy. I left you alive for this: wake up and see how little effect a rookie like you really has.”

  Blake’s lids fluttered open to take in a night sky and a sneering face as pain raged at the base of his neck. “Ad…ams?”

  The face chuckled grimly, moving in blurring, jarring jumps. “Sure. Look to the East.” Something streaked behind the face, momentarily blotting out the stars. “Too little, too late.”

  “…attacking? But…still…night…”

  “1:30 AM. Things just got moved a little ahead of schedule; Kimmel’s a fool, but he tried. Just not hard or soon enough. Kind of like you.”

  His vision seemed to stabilize somewhat…And then the sneering face doubled, becoming two—equally hostile—visages, the first superimposed over the second just as Sulla’s had overlaid Philip’s. “Jackson?”

  The faces snorted. “Cyrus. Jackson’s a moron; it’s mostly his mistakes that are being erased here. Days of Infamy have to happen. Fools like you two don’t deserve to be shifters if you can’t see that.” Three more dark blurs shot by in the background, seeming to speed in one set of Cyrus’s ears and out the other. “There’s no stopping it now.” The faces withdrew as another plane whipped overhead, leaving a dot behind in its wake, a pinpoint that began to expand as it hurtled groundwards. “Did they tell you the rules yet?” Cyrus’s voice seemed further away. “You can break number one if you’re indirect. But number two…Well, that one’s a bitch.”

  Blake struggled to stand up, then to crawl, then to roll over, and finally just to shut his eyes. Failing even at that, he watched helplessly as the dot became an oblong monstrosity which rapidly eclipsed everything but itself.

  An explosion rocked the world, and he was gone.

  * * *

  Log, third entry:

  My body’s…gone…Disintegrated…Reforming…Motes of flesh—my flesh—swirling back together…That was Cyrus? Then who was Jackson?…And—

  Gramps.

  Shut this shit off. Stop recording. Now.

  * * *

  “Leave me alone, Galen.”

  “I would if we had time, sonny, but now I’m the one who’s short on it.” The old man’s form finishes coalescing, his black robe barely distinguishable from the void around him. “Now stop acting like—”

  “No.” Blake finally looks up, raising his head from his lap, dried tears streaking both cheeks. “I’m through.”

  Pulling up short, Galen studies him for a moment before continuing in a softer tone. “I know it can be hard sometimes, Blake. Incredibly hard…But—”

  “I gave up history four years ago, Galen.�
�� Blake lowers his head again. “Did these damn logs tell you that?”

  “I don’t know anything about you, sonny. Barred from any point after my first death, just as you are.”

  “It took over my life…” Rocking back on the conjured stool, Blake pauses over the irony of that last statement.

  Galen’s left hand wanders to the tip of his beard, tugging it lightly as he seems to wage an internal debate before sighing softly.

  “Possessed my thoughts, consumed my days, destroyed my marriage…” Blake looks Galen in the eye. “The day I quit grad school, I didn’t want to go any further back than yesterday’s news. That’s faded some, but…I’ve died four times in the span of a few days. I’m done. If you want to do any more mentoring, just tell me how I can end it.”

  “In a few minutes now I’ll show you.” Galen’s lips betray a slight, sad smile as Blake’s expression morphs from bitter to confused. “But until then I need you to listen. This’ll be a bit of a lecture. No help for it, though.”

  Blake’s eyes turn wary again, but his mouth stays shut.

  “How to keep this short?…Dive in, I suppose: you’re my successor, Blake. I was Philip’s. He was Thomas’s. And so on. Down the whole course of human history, there’s always been one of us. Which means, in a sense, there’s always been all of us: only ever a single shifter in the void, you see, but the whole lot of us are forever muddling through time.” Galen begins pacing rapidly, gesticulating with each stride. “What’s more, you have access to the files of every shifter that came before you. Their logs, their briefs, their Shift dates: everything. Study them so you can use them, because rest assured others will read yours. It’s best to be prepared: the nature of our job makes interaction inevitable. And messy—it’s rare that two of us agree exactly on how matters of import should be allowed to unfold.”

  His eyes bulging suddenly, Galen freezes for a moment before shuddering and taking a seat on a newly appeared folding chair. “It’s coming fast, sonny…” Shaking his head once, he squares up with Blake’s eyes and begins rapidly ticking off points on his fingers. “The rules you don’t know: Number three, your lower limit for jumps is man’s first consciousness. Four, your upper limit is your first death. Five, you can’t overlap with any point of your prior jumps.”

  Blake’s eyes betray a hint of panic at this last rule.

  “But if you have mistakes to fix…” Galen starts to tremble. “Blast…Never knew it would hurt…If you have mistakes to fix, contact another shifter. Use the files…Strike a deal…I’m sorry, Blake, but I’m being called.”

  Galen’s robe merges with the void, and his exposed skin begins to erode, smudging away to nothing.

  Blake leaps up and sprints after Galen’s receding form. “Galen? Wait, dammit! When does it end? What am I supposed to do? What can I do?…You can’t leave yet, old man!”

  A sketch of a hand waves a farewell. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, sonny?”

  “Figured WHAT out?”

  Galen’s disembodied voice sounds from the emptiness, fading further with each word. “You, me, us: we’re the powers that shape history, channel it as it should have flowed. We, collectively, are God. Or what remains of him…Goodbye.”

  “Galen!” Blake stumbles to a stop, not expecting an answer but still distraught when he doesn’t receive one.

  Turning slowly, he stands still for several minutes before sitting cross-legged on the dark. After a long while, he shakes his head, sighs, and opens himself to the files. From the beginning.

  Another length of time passes, and then he looks up and embraces a growing swirl. The void blurs; his mind divides.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  Fourth jump, and you’re on your own now. Be objective, be vigilant, be as wise as you’re able.

  I didn’t ask for this…

  Be careful with my legacy. Our legacy.

  …and I’m not ready.

  Good luck.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Thanks for reading Outcasts. If you liked it, would you mind leaving a review? Even just a few words would be awesome—it really helps.

  Looking for something else to read? Check out The Red Wraith, my historical fantasy set in Early America. The protagonist is a Native American who becomes the focus for magic’s reentry into the world.

  Or, to get a free short story and updates about new releases, subscribe to my newsletter. I promise not do anything nefarious with your email address.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nick Wisseman lives in Bear Lake, Michigan with his wife, daughter, forty cats, and thirty horses. (Okay, so there are actually ten times less pets, but most days it feels like more.) He’s not quite sure why he loves writing twisted fiction, but there’s no stopping the weirdness once he’s in front of a computer. You can find the complete list of his oddities on his website:

  www.nickwisseman.com