by Michael Dodd
THE TIME CHRONICLES
BOOK ONE
THE AMULET
BY MICHAEL B. DODD
© 2017 by Michael B. Dodd
All rights reserved. Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention, Universal Copyright Convention, and Pan-American Copyright Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover art by: SelfPubBookCovers.com/Skinnert
With love:
To my wonderful wife, Lisa. She’s the bomb!
An Author’s Request
I enjoy writing in the same way a painter likes to paint or a sculptor likes to sculpt. My overriding desire for any of my works is that it be read and enjoyed by others. I’ve tried not to price my books too steeply, and while I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to become successful enough to quit my job and write full time, my great desire is simply to know that my books are being read by others.
To that end, in this modern age of electronic media, and particularly, Kindle publishing, it is paramount in any author’s career that his books be reviewed on Amazon.com. If you enjoy this book, or have constructive criticism for my edification, I’d greatly appreciate it if you could take a small amount of your time and review this book on Amazon.com. It is from these reviews that I believe most people choose their reading material.
Thank you in advance for your kind attention.
Sincerely,
Michael B. Dodd
Man ... can go up against gravitation in a balloon, and why should he not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the Time-Dimension, or even turnabout and travel the other way.
H. G. WELLS, The Time Machine
SERIES PROLOGUE
It was the morning of November 20, 1963 and President John F. Kennedy was already bored. His breakfast meeting with the Democratic congressional leaders was not interesting enough to keep him from doodling.
As various members droned on about any number of issues: from Cambodia, to the founding of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union; the President drew pictures of sail boats under the words, “20thAnniversary” and “August”. As a few congressmen voiced their concerns over his upcoming trip to Texas, Kennedy’s thoughts were wafting back to 1943 when his PT boat was cut in half by a Japanese destroyer. At the same time, he allowed his mind to venture back to an even more painful August day: the day in 1944 in which his older brother, Joe, was disintegrated when his Liberator bomber exploded.
“Mr. President,” Senator Mike Mansfield complained, “After the way Adlai Stevenson was treated in Dallas last month; I’m worried about your safety.”
The President was temporarily aroused from his musings. “Mike,” he said with his trademark smirk, “Adlai was attacked by an old woman with a picket sign. If it’ll make you feel any better, I can instruct the Secret Service to keep their eyes peeled for matronly, republican women?”
The President’s wry wit drew the laughter of the few Senators and Congressmen at the table; however, most, if not all, shared Senator Mansfield’s concern.
“Gentlemen,” the President added to ease their minds, “I realize that Texas isn’t the most hospitable state for democrats these days, particularly with the proposed civil rights bill; but that’s the whole point of the trip. We simply cannot win reelection without winning Texas.”
“Don’t worry, gentlemen,” Kennedy’s top aide, Kenny O’Donnell quipped, “Lyndon won’t let anything happen to the President; he’s afraid John Connally will take his spot on the 64’ ticket.”
Again, a smattering of laughter was met with a few disgusted grimaces; yet, all knew the President was right: it was a trip he needed to make.
Of course, JFK didn’t want to go to Texas; he had to go. He considered Texas to be “nut country”, and later remarked to his Treasury Secretary, C. Douglas Dillon— who was soon to travel to Japan—that he would very much like to trade places with him.
After the usual series of meetings with everyone from the newly appointed Ambassador of Sierra Leon, to an off the record meeting with dignitaries—including actress and singer, Lena Horne—to the US Ambassadors to Bolivia and Trinidad; the President and the First Lady were scheduled to host a reception for the Supreme Court Justices.
Of all the day’s activities, this would be the one the President most looked forward to, because it involved drinking and schmoozing: two things he was particularly good at.
That’s not to say the President was a lush: far from it. It’s just that John F. Kennedy was most in his element when he could relax and allow his natural charm to take over the room. Of course, a reception with stuffy, old Supreme Court Justices was not on the top of his “Party- Bucket List”; but, it gave him a chance to relax a bit, and it gave Jackie a chance to show off a little.
It had only been a few months —August 9th—since she had lost her newborn son, Patrick, to Hyaline Membrane Disease. While the tragedy had brought her and the President closer together, she was still a rather fragile vessel. Robert, the Attorney General and brother of the President, worried that she might not be up to traveling to Texas with her husband.
“Good Evening, Mr. Chief Justice,” the President said, “Are you enjoying the reception?”
“Absolutely, Mr. President,” Chief Justice Earl Warren responded, “It gives me a chance to wear something besides my robe.”
Kennedy sniggered, “What do you usually wear under your robe?”
“Well,” the Chief Justice joked, “Let’s just say, it gets a little chilly in the winter.”
“I hear the Republicans are going to challenge our Civil Rights Bill,” the President said, just making conversation, “Do you think they’ll have any legs to stand on?”
The Chief Justice knew the President didn’t really expect an answer; it was just his way of feeling him out. “I suppose it depends on what’s in it;” Chief Justice Warren remarked offhandedly, “However, if by some miracle you can get it through Congress, I’d say you have a better than average chance of it standing up.”
“Remind me,” the President jested, “to send a bottle of whatever Justice Harlan is drinking these days to his chamber.” (John Harlan II was the leader of the
conservative wing of Chief Justice Warren’s court.)
The President noticed Kenny O’Donnell trying to get his attention. He quickly excused himself from the Chief Justice who would soon preside over the Warren Commission.
“Jack,” Kenny said when he got the President’s ear, “Jackie wants me to remind you that you’ve got to sign a bunch of Christmas cards tonight.”
Kennedy rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Kenny; can’t I do that when I get back from Texas? Christmas is a month away, for God’s sake.”
“Well, you know Jackie,” Kenny said, “Why put off till tomorrow…?”
“…what you can put off indefinitely,” Kennedy said, finishing Kenny’s statement with a joke.
“Hey,” Kenny asked, “Are you going to Bobby’s surprise birthday party tonight? He’s 38 today, you know?”
“Surprise party?” Kennedy said with sarcasm, “He’s known about that party for weeks.” In answer to his question, he said, “No, Jackie and I are going to spend a quiet night together before we leave for Texas. Hopefully, we won’t spend it all signing Christmas cards.”
Pierre Salinger, Kennedy’s Press Secretary, approached the two with a confused look on his face. He was holding what looked like a white business envelope. “Mr. President,” Pierre said softly, “The Secret Service just bro
ught this envelope,” he held it up for the President to see, “and it’s marked ‘Urgent’ and ‘For the President’s eyes only’. It doesn’t have a return address and I don’t know who it’s from.” He handed the envelope to the President.
Kennedy took the envelope, all the time looking at his Press Secretary as if he was wearing a Nixon campaign button. “What the hell is this?” he said. “Are you kidding me, Pierre?”
Pierre Salinger was a trusted and loyal friend and advisor; yet, he was a little scatterbrained. If you wanted the whole world to know about something, you’d only have to tell Pierre. He would be sure to spread it around. “Mr. President,” he said, demurely, “It looked important. I just thought you’d want to take a look at it.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Pierre,” the President said, then, “Okay, I’ll look at it.”
The President harrumphed and walked into an adjoining room, just to the side of the White House Grand Staircase, to have some privacy. He sat at a secretary’s desk and ogled the odd writing on the envelope. He could see now why Pierre was so impressed with the message on the front.
The word“Urgent” and the words “For the
President’s eyes only” were in a very unusual form of
type. He’d never seen anything like it before. The letters were in a bold-face type, and were at least three-times larger than that of a typewriter.
The President didn’t know much about typewriters; but he couldn’t remember seeing anything like this coming off of one. So, he tore open the envelope and pulled out the single, white piece of stationary paper. When he opened it, he was again struck by the typewriter’s letter form. It almost resembled handwriting; yet, it was obviously applied by some type of mechanical device. The human hand could not be so precise and symmetrical.
He began to read:
“Dear President Kennedy,” it began, “It is a great honor for me that you would take the time out of your busy schedule to read this message. I hope you’ll forgive me for being blunt. “As you can see, this letter was written on a device with which you are wholly unfamiliar. It is called a personal computer, and it will not be in general use until many years from now. In fact, the computer I used to write this message was purchased in the year 2035.
Now, before you throw this letter in the trash, I urge you to continue reading. Your life depends on it!” These
last three sentences were written in larger type and bold.
“Mr. President, my name is Gates Devaney. I am 65 years old. I was born in the year 2070 and then traveled back in time to 2020, where I lived for fifty-five years before making the trip back to 1963. It is urgent that I meet with you before you leave on your trip to Texas. As I said: your very life depends on it! “What I am now about to relate to you will shock you, Mr. President, but please do not disregard what I am about to say.” Kennedy
assumed the letter was some kind of joke. Pierre wouldn’t have the balls, but Kenny or Bobby might. Nevertheless, he continued to read, if only to get the full flavor.
“Mr. President,” it went on, “I have come here from the year 2075 to stop you from going to Texas, because it is there, Mr. President, that you will be assassinated while you travel through Dallas in a motorcade. “I’m sure right now you are considering this to be a joke. I can assure you, it is not. As proof, I will tell you a few things of which I am aware, simply because they are written in my history books. “You had an affair with Marylyn Monroe. As a matter of fact, you’ve had sexual relations with scores of women in and out of the White House while the Secret Service ran interference for you. (Forgive me, Mr. President, but it was important that you know I understand things about you that no one else could.) “I know of Dr. Max Jacobson, i.e. Dr. Feelgood, who gives you and Jackie amphetamine and steroid shots. For you, it is for your back pain; for Jackie, it is to keep her from her many mood swings. “I can tell you things about your Administration that even you do not know about. Did you know that during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Russians had ‘Battlefield Nuclear Weapons’ and the authority to use them in case of an invasion? Had you not resolved the situation, and been forced to invade Cuba, as many in your Cabinet urged you to do (I’ve heard all the recordings from the tape system you have in your office), the Russians would have used their battlefield nuclear weapons and we would have had a general nuclear war.”
Kennedy’s eyes grew wide. There was no way for anyone to know these things. Even those who did would not repeat them, and they certainly wouldn’t use them in some kind of puerile joke. He read the last part of the letter.
“Mr. President, I need to see you personally. I have devices that are known only to those in my timeline; however, I cannot risk people in your time knowing the future. It is important that I see you wwith my devices, and that NNo One, not even the Secret Service, inspect them. “I will arrive at the White House tomorrow morning at 8am. I will have a small valise with me, in which are my devices. I will allow the Secret Service to open the valise and take a cursory look at my devices to assure themselves that I have no weapons or explosive mechanisms. If you do not believe me, or if you should decide to have me arrested, it will be the biggest mistake of your life. It will also insure that the most tragic event in American history will reoccur. I put my life in your hands, Mr. President, and ask that you put yours in mine. I will not let you down.”
The letter was signed,
“Sincerely, Gates Devaney.”
THE AMULET
CHAPTER ONE
2125 AD
Officially, he didn’t have a name; at least, not in the traditional sense. Though his friends called him Xylon—a nickname of his own choosing—his actual designation was 55BXD0314. The use of historical representations like Paul, John or William was long a part of the past. Likewise, surnames such as Smith, Johnson or McGillicutty were relegated to the jurisdiction of children’s trivia games.
His two-bedroom apartment rested on the second floor of a seventy-story building in the heart of what used to be called, Chicago. In and around the building were hundreds of structures with the exact-same specifications. A hundred years ago, they would have been called cookie-cutter apartments; today, they are simply called…units.
Xylon’ s apartment was decorated with his own unique color tones, which, in his case, were blue, brown and green. In other of the thousands of nearby apartments of the exactsame dimensions; yellow, gray or red might be found. Everyone was given the choice of a combination of any of these six colors. All other aspects of the apartments were virtually identical.
At 0545 on this third Monday of July, Xylon’s eyes opened to pitch black. His bedroom windows were sealed with an inner version of two-way glass, allowing him to see out when he wished, or, to completely block the sun’s rays for a more restful sleep. He could hear and feel Juno’s slow and steady breathing as she lay sleeping beside him. It was a sound that pleased him very much.
In fifteen minutes, the two would be awakened, as they were every morning, except Sunday, by IQ, his apartment’s Artificial Intelligence Monitor—he called it, Victoria. Victoria monitored the apartment on a continual basis: raising and lowering the temperature; monitoring human bodily functions; turning lights off and on; reminding Xylon and Juno of appointments; waking them up in the morning; and keeping a watchful ear for any disloyal or rebellious remarks by anyone in residence. While most IQ units were equipped with a rather banal male voice, Xylon had managed to reprogram his with that of a lovely, Australian female. She soothed him. She also obeyed his every command.
It was not unusual for Xylon to wake up a few minutes early. In fact, he almost always awakened at 0545, giving him fifteen minutes to ponder his day. This morning, however, his pondering had an added bit of angst: the Statistical Manager at work would decide today if he merited a raise in compensation. As a Systems Analyst for a rather important company, Xylon was already better compensated than three-quarters of the working public; however, with him it was more of a status thing.
“Good morning, Xylon,” Victoria said in her sexy, Australian accent. “Good morning, Juno,” the IQ added for the lesser important of the two slumbering humans. “It is 0600, July 23, 2125,” she continued, “The temperature outside is 72 degrees with 65 percent humidity. Xylon’s breakfast is in the furnace (modern slang for the oven) and Juno’s is in the cooler (slang for the fridge). The automobiles are fully charged and projected traffic patterns suggest that Xylon leave the apartment at 0715, while Juno should leave at 0730.”
“Thanks, Victoria,” Xylon said, “Give us another five minutes, will ya? No need for further announcements.” He then rolled over and put his arm over a slowly awakening Juno. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Is it morning, already?” Juno asked, rubbing her right eye, “Didn’t we just go to bed?”
Juno was a beautiful woman. She was about 5’ 6”, 105 pounds, long, brunette hair and piercingly-bright, green eyes. The two had known each other from their earliest childhood. They were raised together in one of the area’s community residences.
(In Omni —the new name for earth—all procreation is done by the state. Young women are “hired” to act as surrogate mothers for genetically enhanced embryos. Once these children are born, they are placed in a community residence for rearing until the age of sixteen, at which time they are given employment by the state. Juno currently works at the facility in which the two had been raised.)
Since marriage was outlawed at the turn of the century, neither Xylon nor Juno had ever considered a formal union; it simply wasn’t done. In fact, neither one knew their “father” or “mother”, since each had been among the first to be creatively engineered; neither were they informed as to the identity of the women who bore them. These “Vestal Virgins”, as they were euphemistically known, were simply volunteers. They were all virgins, between the ages of 16 and 26. If they “carried” three children to term within that 10 year window, they were given special consideration in apartment choices, employment choices and high-tech gadgetry. It was considered a great honor.
