Time Change Book One: The Jump

by Alex Myers

  “I can tell you the source,” Jack said. “There is a rational irrational reason and I would very much like to share it with you, sir.”

  “To delve into the genesis from which inspiration flows is one of my life’s goals,” the man said.

  Jack looked around, desperately searching for a quiet place to talk. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

  “I am but a visitor here, but I recall a small chamber over this way.” He pointed to the opposite side of the great auditorium and then gestured for Jack to follow.

  They entered an intimate sitting room with, nailhead-trimmed chairs covered in resplendent hunter-green velvet and a crystal end table floating on Lalique glass columns. The cut-crystal chandelier lent an inviting chocolate-amber light to the room. A large crackling fireplace occupied the room’s heart.

  Even though in his fifties, the legendary man moved with the vigor of a young man—he was in good health and color. He had abundant dark brown hair, no beard, but a slight whiskering on both cheeks. He sat in one of the chairs and offered Jack the other.

  Jack nearly had to catch his breath, just basking in the almost god-like presence of this famous man. Emerson sat in a mysterious tranquility following Jack’s every word with soul-seeing eyes. Jack began with why the Civil War would happen, how it would play out, and the devastation that would follow.

  “Mr. Riggs, I appreciate the information, but have you told me all of this so that I could ruminate over the poor choices and moral turpitude of the human condition?”

  “No, sir. The reason I’ve told you is so you can help me change it.”

  Emerson’s intense eyes never wavered. “Change what?”

  “The future.”

  “But can one change that which is the Lord’s predetermined course?”

  “Yes,” Jack said with confidence.

  “The war between free will and predestination is a struggle central to all mankind. I admire your certainty about a question I have spent my life intently excogitating. How can you be so sure?”

  “Because….” Jack took a deep breath, sure the conversation would end here. “I am from the future. I have traveled back here from the twenty-first century.”

  “I see.”

  Jack watched him closely, thinking he would stand and leave, but he sat there calmly. He didn’t stare directly at Jack, or question him, or reply, but gazed to the side as if withdrawing his mind from his physical being. He sat like this for five minutes. Jack watched him, looking for a sign of the man’s thoughts or doubts. All the while his own doubts sprung anew, not only about his far-fetched story, but in his ability to sit toe-to-toe with one of the purest minds in American history. Jack couldn’t handle the silence and blurted, “I can prove it to you.”

  "No.'" The man came back to his physical being and looked at Jack quizzically. “Why would you do something like that?”

  “So that you will believe me,” Jack said.

  “So you believe I would put more credence in a cheap parlor trick than in the weight and voracity of your own words?”

  Jack was flustered. “No, Mr. Emerson, sir, it’s not a parlor trick, it’s a piece of technology from the future. I knew you would doubt me. I doubt myself.”

  “Do you?” the older man asked.

  “Absolutely,” Jack said. “I doubt my story and a person’s ability to travel through time. Certainly, yes. But doubt the flight to perdition this country is on and the resulting pain and heartache? No, I have never been more sure.”

  “Very well spoken. I am certain of it, also.”

  “Which part?” Jack asked.

  “I am not one to judge a man’s character; that is between his own conscience and his God and I condone the precious time one would spend asking himself the question. As to your ability to transcend time and space, it is not a question that I have considered. I have always believed in man’s ability to realize almost anything. I have not forgotten the peace and joy of my first wife Lydia or longed to hold my son Waldo again, but I have never thought of traveling back to them, for I am not the same person and I fear neither would they be. This is something, however, I would like to entertain with more thought.”

  “But I could prove it to you if you only gave me the chance,” Jack said.

  “And ruin the experience? I would ask you to desist, sir. For you see, there is always the chance I would not believe you and thereby put in my mind doubt as to the veracity of the other things which you have stated, as those things I hold in my breast to be portents of events to come.”

  “You could be sure,” Jack said.

  “I am sure of the statements you have made; the time travel question is the most inconsequential. A truth is always the truth, no matter from what source it’s culled.” He stood and walked slowly to the darkened window in the small room. “Destiny?”

  Jack remained seated. “I think it must be.”

  “Events you have already set into motion could already be ripping through the future. One man, a group of men, with a unified vision, in a world where light always prevails over darkness, can make a difference. If I were to help, and I don’t know how I could not, how could one be sure that the changes would be for the better?”

  “We cannot,” Jack said, as much to himself as to Emerson.

  “Destiny.” This time it was a statement. “I am still not sure how much man controls and how much is preordained, but it is the duty of a man with a heart in his chest to try. Do you have a plan?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Think is what I do best.” The older man smiled.

  Jack spent the next hour laying out his plan to Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  CHAPTER 46

  February 1857

  Three Unwelcome Visitors

  One morning Jack was sitting in his office in the Sanger Building in New York doing mundane paperwork between interviews, wishing he was at the complex in Virginia, when his temporary secretary Randy Potter knocked on his door and announced that there were some men to see him.

  “Are they on the schedule?”

  Jack came around the corner and nearly ran into Winston Creed, Abner Adkins, and Miles the giant.

  “No, and they refused to give me their names,” Potter said.

  “That’s OK, Randy. I’ll deal with this.”

  “Ah, Mr. Riggs,” Winston Creed said, hissing the words like a snake. “Could we have a few moments of your time?” He hobbled forward, the glass eye in the lion’s head of his cane catching the glint of the sun.

  "Abner Adkins,” Jack said.

  "Jack, I told you my name is Abbey. You’re going to hurt my feelings. I would like to introduce you to my employer, Winston Creed."

  Abner, Creed, and Miles were all well-dressed. Adkins and Creed wore tall, stovepipe hats and Miles wore a black bowler. Despite the fact that it was February in New York, all three were tanned.

  “May I ask what this is concerning?”

  Creed eyed the secretary warily. “I think it’s a matter we ought to discuss in private.”

  Both Abner and Creed had an air of arrogance about them and sat in the chairs in front of Jack’s desk without being invited. Miles stood, arms behind his back, off to the side. Creed sat calmly, his hat in his lap. Abbey kept his hat on. Both looked impatient. The big man kept his hat on his head and looked as if at any minute he would need to jump in and break up some furniture. It was easy to see he didn't like Jack and Jack assumed he blamed him for not saving his brother the day the quartz-glass wall gave way.

  “I represent a group of Confederate landowners that happens to be dabbling in manufacturing,” Winston Creed said.

  This was the first time that Jack had heard the word “Confederate” used in place of “Southern.” He already didn’t like the men, but he sat quietly and listened.

  “We have done a pretty thorough investigation of you, Mr. Riggs, and we can’t seem to come up with anything on you before a year ago when you showed up in Norfolk. Are you a Vir
ginian?”

  “I was born in Norfolk,” Jack said, not sure why he volunteered the information.

  “I knew there was a certain kinship I felt toward you. I, myself, am from Roanoke. Our manufacturing facility is in Williamsburg and our research facility is in Virginia Beach. It’s sounding like a match made in heaven. Still have kin there?”

  “No, it’s just me.”

  “Then, I think you might find my offer especially interesting. Mr. Riggs, your reputation as an innovator and inventor is growing. We—the group I represent, that is—would, how would you say, like to be your sponsor.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “We would like to help you in your future endeavors. Our political influence is very substantial, as well as our financial backing. We would like y’all to join our research team; you’ll have whatever you need.”

  “I already have a complex—“

  “In Norfolk on Broad Creek. Yes, we are aware of it, and are quite impressed. What I’m saying is that we would be willing to double or triple its size. Hire more workers, maybe even free you up from some of this tedious paperwork,” he said gesturing to the stack on Jack’s desktop.

  “And what would I have to do for all these wonderful things you’re offering?”

  “Oh, not much different from what you’re doing now. The influx of your inventions into the Confederate economy would be greatly noticed and appreciated, I might add.”

  “And that’s all? Quit trying to bullshit me. There’s got to be more to it than that!”

  Abner Adkins nearly rose to his feet, but a dismissive wave of Winston’s hand sat him back down. “There is a little more, Mr. Riggs. We’d like to guide you on your inventive path.”

  “Let me guess. Agriculture? No, that wouldn’t be it, would it, Mr. Creed?”

  “No, it would not.”

  “Medicine and health care? No, that probably wouldn’t be it either, would it?”

  “Weapons, Mr. Riggs, weapons—among a few other things.”

  “Mr. Creed, that’s quite an offer, and I want you to know just how offended I am. It’s people like you who have brought this country to the brink of war in the first place.”

  “We’re just trying to protect what’s ours. Northern aggression has to be stopped.”

  “Right, and while I’m trying to do all I can to put out this fire, it’s son of bitches like you two that are throwing gasoline on it.”

  “Pardon me? Gasoline?”

  “You’re fanning the fire, OK?” Jack yelled.

  Creed wielded his cane like a sword and brought it down on Jack’s desk, just missing his fingers. Before he could raise it again or pull it away, Jack snatched the solid silver-tipped shaft and held it tight. Creed tried to pull it away.

  Miles, the giant, exploded and reached across the desk and wrapped his monstrous hand around Jack’s wrist. He tried to yank Jack over the desk. Despite the man’s strength and size advantage, he had no effect on Jack, other than a barely perceptible gritting of his teeth.

  Jack looked Creed directly in the eye, totally ignoring Miles, and said, “It’s small minds like yours that so easily resort to senseless violence. It almost doesn’t matter if violence will achieve your desired goals or not.” With adrenaline-fueled fury, like a power surge when all the needles swing to overload, Jack pulled the cane out of Creed’s hand and tossed it aside. Then he grabbed Miles’s mallet-sized hand and squeezed hard between his thumb and forefinger. Without breaking eye contact with Creed, he squeezed until Miles let go with a moan. With both hands, Jack dug into the big man’s tendons and bones, slowly bending his hand backwards. Miles fell to his knees, disbelief in his eyes.

  “Never underestimate your opponent, gentlemen, because you can see how quickly the tables can turn.” Jack gave the hand one final push and the man’s hand bent back to his forearm. There was a loud snap as Jack let go and Miles writhed in agony.

  “Excuse me, Jack?” Abner said. In the confusion he had made his way around to Jack’s side and, as Jack turned, Abner hit him across the back with Creed’s cane.

  Jack fell forward on his desk.

  “Get up, you nuisance,” Creed said, rising to his feet. Abner handed Creed back his cane. “You will work for us or against us and if it’s against us, people will die.”

  Jack pulled it together enough to sit back into his chair. The pain in his back was white-hot. Jack had a pistol in his desk and if he pulled it out he knew he would use it. “Fine. This is not over.”

  “That, Mr. Riggs, is an understatement.”

  “Don’t ever threaten me or anyone I know again, no matter how veiled you try to make your threats.”

  “We will give you one more opportunity to come around. You have two weeks. I will be at our facility in Williamsburg, right up the James River from you. It’s the least we could do for a Southern brother.”

  Miles got to his feet hiding his injured hand; he was seething. Jack kept a hand near his desk drawer and the revolver inside. The big man didn’t seem the type for another frontal attack, but then bullies never did.

  Miles followed Creed and Adkins to the door, then turned and growled, “Next time you won’t be so lucky.” He seemed more pathetic than terrifying. His small, round bowler hat lay crushed on the floor; he snatched it up and glared once more at Jack. "I still blame you for my brother, for not helping him."

  "It wouldn't make any difference if I told you it wasn't my fault. If he’d listened to me about the wall giving way, no one would have died."

  As Creed reached the door, he turned to Jack and hissed, “I am sure an intelligent man like you will make the right decision—the only decision. It’s the side of righteousness—God’s side.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I think you are all a bunch of freaks. Now get the hell out of here and don’t ever come back!”

  That was the second time he’d dealt with the SAC and both times he’d gotten his ass handed to him. Still, he knew they were capable of much worse. Next time he might not be so lucky.

  Jack watched the men leave. Before he saw Winston Creed or Abner Adkins again, he would do a little investigating of his own. Meanwhile, despite what he had told them, he took their threat seriously.

  CHAPTER 47

  Saturday February 1857

  Dinner and More

  “And what is this?” Jack asked as the green soup was placed before him.

  “Potage a la Puree de Pois.” Frances’s French was perfect.

  “And you made this all by yourself.” He stirred the green liquid with his spoon. The smell caressed his nostrils. “This smells really good. Pois? Pois? This is pea soup?”

  “Very good. Parlez vous français?”

  “No, though I’ve been to France five or six times, I think I understand better than I speak, but I can say this: J’aime le vin français,” Jack said. He tasted his soup.

  “Perfect. I have a couple of bottles for us. My father left me quite a collection in our wine cellar.” Frances pulled a bottle out of Jack’s refrigerated icebox and held it out for inspection.

  Jack dropped his spoon into his bowl. “That’s a bottle of Chateau d’Yquem!”

  “Yes, and your point is what?”

  “Ay caramba! This is from 1811!“

  “And now you’re speaking Spanish. Why are you acting this way? It’s only a fifty-year-old bottle of wine.”

  “This is said to be the greatest white wine in the history of Bordeaux and the most supreme vintage ever produced. I remember in my other life reading that a bottle of it sold for $117,000.”

  “We can both quit working then, because I have two cases of this at home.”

  “Man, this soup is great. If this is all we’re having, I’ll take some more.”

  “Of course it’s not all we’re having. Save room for the other courses. Why don’t you make yourself useful and pour us a glass of wine?”

  “At over a hundred grand a bottle, that’s like twenty thousand a glass.”


  She playfully ran her finger underneath his chin and said, “Maybe I think you’re worth it. Besides at today’s prices it’s only about $2 a bottle.” She gathered up the soup bowls and whisked them off to the kitchen.

  It was after eight, and Frances had been at Jack’s house since two in the afternoon preparing the meal. Out of the blue, two weeks before, she’d offered to cook a dinner for Jack, Kaz, Sam, and Murphy. Just as Jack was set to invite everyone to the feast, she changed her mind and said the dinner would be only for him.

  “Let me test it out on you,” she said, “before I embarrass myself in front of all your friends.” Jack hadn’t minded the change; he was looking forward to spending some time alone with her.

  Jack opened and poured the wine and spoke to Frances in the other room. “What’s the story? I thought you said you didn’t know how to cook.”

  “I didn’t,” Frances called from the kitchen. Jack heard the sounds of pans rustling and the icebox opening and closing. “I saw the amazing effect that food had on people, first at Thanksgiving and then at Christmas, and it struck a chord with me. When I was growing up, meals were just something the hired help prepared. I never saw the caring and mindfulness that went into the preparation. So I decided to learn how to cook. Are you complaining?”

  “No. So far, so good. Where have you been learning to cook?”

  “Clarissa Goodyear. I’ve been cooking with her for Charles, Ellen, Cynthia, Chuck, Amelia and little Ann.”

  “Those are the Goodyear children?”

  “Yes. We’ve been making all of Charles’s favorite meals for him. He thinks he’s died and gone to heaven.”

  “You know, in my past, this is about when he did die. He died penniless, sickly and with a broken heart.”

  “That couldn’t be further from the truth. He looks as healthy and happy as he could be.”

  “You’ve been getting cooking advice from Clarissa?”

  “More than just cooking advice….” Frances entered the room with a steaming plate. She set it down in front of Jack and asked, “What do you think?”