Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series

by McWilson, Randy

  Her name is Martha Tomlin. She is 64 years old and jumped from near my own time zone—1989. She lived in Nashville with her daughter Caroline, she is a widow, and her late husband Calvin died of a heart attack in 1978. She is proper, stately, well-educated, and absolutely terrified. I have to go into town and buy her some things.

  Just in case you were wondering, she is a size four and just adores the color blue.

  MEMO July 12, 1947

  SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

  FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

  FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

  SUBJECT: Roswell Complication

  We have uncovered that Ms. Pamela Hendrickson, WAC nurse with the 509th, witnessed both of the recovered specimens, and was privy to direct information concerning temporal displacement. She has repeatedly denied exposure to the information, but two independent witnesses provided identical details implicating her knowledge.

  She has rank among the remainder of the flight nursing staff, could leak information to them, and may have already revealed information. We have debriefed all medical personnel, and I am in the process of separating and relocating all nursing staff. To prevent future access to their information, the personnel records of the 509th will be modified.

  Per your authorization, Nurse Hendrickson will be transferred to Edgewood Arsenal for memory therapy, and if that proves unsuccessful, her termination. Her eye-witness testimony and level of access could undermine Project SATURN.

  END

  DCI/PS

  CHAPTER 34

  I’m over thirty-five years old.

  I think I’m past my prime when it comes to school.

  Denver located a set of doors near the back of the factory. Ellen said last door on the left. He took a deep breath. Regardless of his misgivings about returning to school, he imagined that it certainly had to be safer than the reactor room. He grabbed the handle and walked in.

  A voice greeted him. “You’re tardy.”

  Denver looked up and caught the hard stare of Leah Swan from across the classroom. She was seated at a small, metal desk and Tori Wilkinson was mesmerized with a book nearby.

  One teacher and one underclassman. Great.

  He blushed at her complaint and walked up to his new taskmaster. The walls of the classroom were lined with vibrant and expressive paintings of landscapes of all types. There was a large sign just above and behind the desk that read: REMEMBER THE ACCORDS.

  Leah repeated herself. “I said, Mr. Collins: you’re late.”

  He reached her desk and donned a mischievous grin. “On the contrary, Miss Swan, considering the fact that I won't even be born until 1979, I would say that I'm at least twenty-three years early.”

  She broke out in a sweet smile and rose to greet him. “Touche, Mr. Collins.” She turned to her left. “Tori, what do we do when someone walks into a room?”

  The dark-haired teen set her book down and stood. She rotated toward Denver. “Hello.”

  He nodded. “Uh, good morning, Tori.”

  The contrived exchange was now over and Tori returned to her book. Leah folded her arms and studied her. “Tori and I are working on basic social skills. It's baby steps.”

  Denver nodded, then strolled over to the wall on his right and examined the paintings, each completely different, but all sharing the same signature: TW. He gazed down at the withdrawn girl, and then back to the colorful artwork. The apparent contradiction was fascinating.

  Leah interrupted his musings. “Anyway, how are you feeling? You’re looking better, only a few bandages. You looked like the mummy last time I saw you.”

  He spun about and shrugged. “How am I? Honestly?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” he started, “since I've been in Normal, I've been shot with a tranquilizer gun, incarcerated, apprehended at gun point, I've been both killed and resuscitated by electricity, and now, ten years after I left the military, I'm returning to school in the back of a window factory in 1956. You tell me.”

  She played along. “Oh, that's all we ever get around here, day in, day out.” They both chuckled and she motioned for him to have a seat. “Did the Chief or Ellen brief you about TOC, our little school here, Denver?”

  “’Brief’ is a good word. How about very brief? Ellen told me that all the new arrivals have to be educated, or is it re-educated?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, it was decided years ago that we needed a formal initiation process, a structured curriculum to prepare Jumpers for the culture shock of life here in Normal.”

  He raised his hands. “Well, just to be upfront, I'm a terrible test-taker.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That won’t be a problem. I see that Shep has finally given you an ID badge, Mr. Collins.”

  He looked down and pushed out his chest. “Correction, that’s Mr. Jackson.” He pointed.

  She peered closer. “Aha, I see, Mr. Jackson. But I’m a bit confused, why the name change?”

  He was puzzled. “Don’t you remember about my wallet? Oh wait, you left before all that.”

  She was lost. “All what?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She didn’t press the matter. “Well, okay, Mr. Collins, or should I say, Mr. Jackson, my job is to prepare you to interact with a small-town population from the mid-1950s. Even the slightest error in language, or in the discussion of politics or technology, could destroy our efforts to remain below the radar.” She smiled at him. “Speaking of being a bad test-taker, Mr. Jackson, interacting with Locals is one test we simply cannot afford to fail. Even once.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But we also have to be concerned about how we interact with each other as well.”

  She rose and relocated to the front of her desk, leaning against it. She tilted her own name badge. “If you will look at your ID number—”

  He finished her thought. “The last four digits indicate that person’s jump year.”

  “Well done, Mr. Jackson.”

  He adopted a smug look. “I need to make a confession—I was the head of my class in pre-school.” They both laughed.

  She moved on. “Yeah, we have to be very careful. We have a rule about not sharing future information with another Jumper from an earlier time. The first few months I was here, the Second Accord used to really give me a headache, always having to pause and filter everything I would say or hear. But trust me—it gets easier.”

  Denver cocked his head. “So, lemme get this straight, I'm not supposed to tell you that the war of the sexes ended in the year 2012 and that the men won?”

  “Both a student and a comedian?” She looked to her left. “Looks like we found ourselves a funny one, Tori!” If Tori heard her, she didn’t acknowledge it. “You know, we laugh about this, but even seemingly insignificant and trivial information about future events or technology to a Prior could jeopardize all of our futures.”

  He decided that it was time to get all the lingo straight. “A Prior?”

  “Oh, sorry, a Prior: that means someone who is from an earlier time than you. Prior, as in time.”

  “Shouldn't I be writing all of this down somewhere?”

  She waved her hand. “Nah, it'll come naturally. Now you, Mr. Jackson, are a Trailer. At least to me. Actually, to everyone currently.”

  He nodded. “I've heard that a few times—it was kinda lost on me.”

  She leaned in. “Someone from a later time is a Trailer. You see, you follow after a Prior, so you are a Trailer. To give a Prior any information they shouldn't know could cause time ripples once we all get home. Remember—filter—then speak. It’s the Second Accord.”

  He frowned. “Second Accord?”

  Leah hesitated and gazed at the ceiling. “I know it seems so overwhelming at first. All the new terms and rules and such.” She glanced back at him. “But it’s all for our own good, it was put in place by our founder.”

  Denver looked past her and spotted a picture of Leah w
ith an older gentleman. He pointed. “Is that him?”

  She turned and retrieved it. “Yeah. Good ole Nellie,” she said with a growing smile. “He was something else. Smart. Kind. I miss him. Every day.”

  “I'm sorry for asking, but, uh, what happened?”

  She handed him the photo and looked away for awhile, blinking hard. She stared down at Tori who had just finished one book and was trading it for another.

  Leah lowered her voice. “It, uh—was—he, um, killed himself.” She nodded. “About three years ago. Three years ago last month actually. Feels more like three weeks ago.”

  She took a deep breath, long and full. Denver regretted resurrecting such strong, painful memories, but a part of him knew that talking could also be very therapeutic. He was thankful for the many friends that sat up for some late night confession sessions in the months following his last tour of duty in Afghanistan.

  It didn’t change the past, but it made the present almost bearable.

  Regardless of the benefits, he apologized to her. “Look, I didn't mean to start—”

  “Hey, no, really. It's okay. I'm a big girl, and, well,” she paused, “you need to know.”

  He peered into her eyes. There’s more. There’s way more. She’s holding something back.

  He pointed at the photo. “Mr. Nelson was only briefly mentioned the other day when I was touring the factory.”

  Leah rolled her eyes. “Briefly mentioned? Really? Well, I’m shocked he was even mentioned at all.”

  Denver thought for a moment. “It seemed to be an uncomfortable topic.”

  “Oh, I’m not surprised. It really isn't talked about...ever,” she said, and rather bluntly. Leah leaned up from the desk and walked off. “You know, a lot of what has happened to all of us, with time jumping, and why did we all jump to Normal of all places, and everything, it's just so confusing.”

  She stopped and turned to him, her voice a bit lower. “But in many ways, Phil's suicide makes even less sense than any of that.”

  Denver wasn’t sure what to do or what to say, so he did nothing.

  Leah began walking back to the desk. “There were so many questions when it happened, and everything was just—you know—swept under the rug all neat and tidy.”

  Denver grew concerned. “Suicides aren’t usually described as neat and tidy.”

  “See, that’s what I mean! It was like, one day everything was fine, or as fine as our crazy situation can be, and then the next,” she swallowed, “and then the next, Phil is dead, and no one talks about it. And there were so many things that just didn’t add up. It’s like the powers that be don’t want anyone talking about it.”

  “Powers?”

  She leaned in. “Look, he’s a nice guy and all. But, uh...” The distraught teacher stopped. “No. I’m not gonna go there. It’s all just supposition.” Leah looked over at the photo in his hands. “None of us really had closure…well, at least I didn’t.”

  She looked back at him and spoke just above an emotional whisper. “It, uh, it was a closed casket. That made it even harder. You know, it’s really hard to say goodbye to a pretty wooden box with pretty flowers all over it.”

  Denver gazed at the floor. “I, uh, I know. I’ve been there.” He paused, reflecting back. “I’ve stood beside more red, white, and blue caskets than I care to count. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I can’t look at the flag without seeing young widows and little kids without dads. It haunts me.”

  His thoughts turned to Jasmine (not that she was ever very far from his mind) and he paused.

  Leah gazed into his misting eyes and patted his hand. “Hey, look, I didn’t mean for this to spiral down into a morbid trip down memory lane—”

  He met Leah’s compassionate stare and sighed. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I started it. But, it’s okay, talking’s good. It’s good. So, when was the last time that you saw him?”

  She looked up, tears forming. “Oh, it was at church earlier that day. It—the suicide—happened on a Sunday night, pretty late. It was the day after Independence Day actually. Ever since, the sound and smell of fireworks makes me ill.”

  She stared over at Tori and raised her voice back up. “But, whoa, there are way more important things for you to worry about right now. No amount of talking will bring ole Nellie back now, anyway.”

  Denver pulled the frame closer and studied it. “What’s this here, on his neck?” He pointed to a dark smudge.

  She leaned over and nodded. “Ah, the famous Nelson Personal Portal.” She retrieved the photo and set it back on her desk. “It’s a birthmark.”

  He wondered if she had misspoken. “A Personal Portal?”

  Leah chuckled. “Oh, it was a joke with all us Jumpers. It’s hard to see from this picture, but Phil’s birthmark was roughly triangular. Kinda shaped like our Jump Portal. It was quite large.”

  She faced him and took a deep breath. “Well, anyway, we have to get down to business, Trailer Jackson. We need to cover politics, money, technology, language, laws, social etiquette, and even relationships.”

  She glanced up at her overwhelmed student. He smiled back at her. “When’s the most important subject of the day?” he asked.

  She scrunched her nose. “And just what subject is that?”

  His face lit up. “Recess.”

  She wadded a small piece of paper and hurled it at him. “There’s no downtime, Mr. Jackson. Too much to know, too much to do, too much to learn and too much to unlearn.” She leaned across her desk.

  “You must think, feel, and act like a man from 1956. It's my job to get you there.”

  Journal entry number 207

  Wednesday, November 12, 1947

  Martha is doing better by degrees. She shakes a bit, but I’m not sure if maybe she was like that before she jumped. Her appetite is getting better (she can’t afford to lose much weight!). She was very leery of X at first, but that is also on the mend. Her maiden name was Wallingford, and she grew up on a huge farm in Eastern Tennessee (old money).

  The one PLUS with Mrs. Tomlin (I feel strange calling her by her first name, she is almost like a grandmother, a matriarchal figure) is that she has already lived through the 1950s. She was born in the 1920s. She won’t require too much cultural and temporal orientation. Heck—she could probably teach me a thing or two.

  We just achieved a significant anniversary—X has been with us/me for one year now. I’m still shocked that he didn’t leave after the Roswell incident.

  Another unforeseen difficulty (at least unforeseen at first) arising from the loss of Ken Miller is our sport’s gambling income. Without Ken’s extensive knowledge of sports, the ability to raise large sums of money quickly is currently stalled. We have plenty, but we have had to replace ALL of the equipment lost in the Roswell explosion. Mrs. Tomlin will gradually move into Ken’s place eventually, but there will be more Jumpers needing homes. Expenses, expenses.

  I have made some safe investments, but the stock market is not a quick-turnaround profit center. We will have to be wise.

  I did tell Mrs. Tomlin that there have been other Jumpers, but I haven’t told Mrs. Tomlin about Ken and Larry’s deaths. I’m not looking forward to that conversation.

  Ever.

  MEMO July 14, 1947

  SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

  FOR: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

  FROM: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

  SUBJECT: Roswell Event

  Per your concern and at my specific direction, the Roswell Event materials at Los Alamos have been quarantined under additional security. No one will have access to the materials until your arrival or per your authorization.

  I have taken your new facility draft proposals to HST. I feel confident that I was successful in convincing the White House of the utmost necessity of this expenditure. I anticipate a green light by week's end, more than likely the Groom Lake, NV site. Moving forward, the designation will be Dreamland.

 
Submit an estimate of lab, office, and staff spaces, as well as equipment and vehicle requirements. Include a layout for a long-term incarceration center and an airfield diagram.

  I understand your concern about debriefing of military and law enforcement, but do not neglect the greater pursuit of temporally displaced individuals. As we move forward in time, the leads generated by the Roswell Event will grow, of necessity, exponentially colder.

  You have authorization regarding Nurse Pamela Hendrickson, including termination.

  END

  DCI/PS

  CHAPTER 35

  It may have only been a few ounces of metal.

  But it wasn’t just any badge. Some men struggled for decades to gain the privilege of even carrying the iconic symbol of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  But not this man.

  In fact, once he left Chicago, he had every intention of flipping the concave piece of gold-plated copper-alloy and turning it into an expensive ashtray.

  Howard Ross lingered just outside the noisy auditorium as several suits navigated around him, rushing inside. They were oblivious of the true identity and power of the man they had just brushed past like a homeless stranger.

  He glanced down at his fabricated FBI badge, and though it served a useful intelligence purpose in disguising his identity, it mainly served to infuriate him.

  It was difficult for an ego-driven leader like Ross to flourish within the invisible confines of the world’s most secretive of agencies. For a CIA operative, it was critical that few outsiders knew who you were, and yet the power you wielded oftentimes demanded just the opposite. The psychological contradiction weeded out lesser men, but Ross endured.