by Alan Seeger
Hours passed. Then at about 4 PM, he ate again, and soon the two Time Team members were quite surprised to see his head gradually nod forward until his chin was resting on his chest; the mighty warrior had fallen asleep. It had, after all, been a long day, reasoned Samuel.
Sam argued for taking him then, while he was clearly off his guard, but Calliope insisted that they follow their orders, which stated that he was to be taken immediately before the act that he was suspected of perpetrating.
It was 7:03 PM by the large clock on the church across the way when Wilkerson awoke with a start. He glanced at the clock and seemed to realize that he was already late for his appointment with destiny.
He hurried to the Cooper Union building, attempting to move as quickly as possible without drawing too much attention to himself from the people on the street.
More than fifteen hundred people had come into the Cooper Union building to hear a former Congressman speak on the topic of how the Federal government had a certain responsibility to regulate certain types of social behavior. It was not an unusual thing for politicians to speak in any major city in America during this period of time, but it was interesting that several prominent Republicans had worked together to bring this obscure ex-Congressman from Illinois to speak to what was considered a highbrow New York crowd.
As Wilkerson started to enter, he discovered that the place was too crowded for him to easily find a seat. He stood for a moment, looking, trying to decide where he could squeeze in near the front — near his objective.
The speaker was already in the middle of his presentation. The tall man — extremely tall, a head taller than anyone else on the platform, in fact — had a high, nasal voice that carried well. The people in the back, where Wilkerson was standing as he sought to find a place to be seated, could hear him as well as those on the front row.
“…under all these circumstances, do you really feel yourselves justified to break up this Government unless such a court decision as yours is, shall be at once submitted to as a conclusive and final rule of political action? But you will not abide the election of a Republican president! In that supposed event, you say, you will destroy the Union; and then, you say, the great crime of having destroyed it will be upon us!” He shook his head sadly.
Just then, Wilkerson found himself held by the arms by two figures. He glanced to his right and then to his left. Calliope looked him in the eye. “You’re not gonna do what you came here for tonight,” she whispered. “You’re not.”
“You’re coming back with us,” said Samuel in a low, threatening growl.
They began to steer him toward the door. They took two steps, swinging Wilkerson around in a half-circle. A man danced backwards, trying to avoid colliding with them. He looked at Samuel quizzically. Sam smiled and said, “Too much whiskey.” The man nodded in understanding and stepped out of the way.
As Sam and Callie were about to walk Wilkerson out of the front door, the soldier managed to get one arm loose and pulled his sidearm free of its holster. He began to turn back toward the man on the platform, crying out, “For the preservation of the South!” As if in slow motion, Samuel saw the weapon start to swing up in an arc and instinctively sent his elbow jabbing into the man’s chest in an all-out effort to prevent him from firing the 9mm pistol.
Wilkerson howled as Sam’s elbow struck his sternum, catching him off guard. Then his military training kicked in and he began to fight back. On his other side, the petite blonde fireball that was Calliope Sullivan began to twist his other arm as hard as she could, attempting to wrestle him to the floor. Alone, she’d have had no chance against Wilkerson. Even paired with Samuel Denver, they were barely a match. But Samuel called out, “He’s got a gun!” and two or three of the men nearby turned, becoming aware of the gravity of the situation. One huge Irishman bent and plowed into Wilkerson like a bull. The fight lasted only a few moments; the massive red-haired man’s fist connected with Wilkerson’s jaw and laid him out flat. Samuel once again made the excuse that Wilkerson was a friend of theirs who had imbibed a bit too much.
Afterward, at Samuel’s request, the Irishman carried the unconscious Wilkerson into a nearby alley, supposedly (according to Samuel, at least) to sleep off the drunkenness that had made him belligerent in the first place. Callie and Samuel thanked him profusely and promised that they would see that the man was transported as far away as possible. You have no idea, thought Samuel.
When the area was clear of onlookers, Callie brought out her GATER device and opened a portal back to their own time — 2802. They hustled the semi-conscious Wilkerson through and closed the Gate.
Within the Coopers Union Hall, the tall, beardless man finished his speech. The actions of Time Team Epsilon had added about five years to his life. He would now live to become President of the United States and lead the Union through the American Civil War. He would, however, pass on in the early morning hours of April 15, 1865, after being shot in the back of the head the night before by John Wilkes Booth while watching a performance of the play Our American Cousin at Ford’s Theatre in Washington, D.C.
Upon their arrival back in 2802, Samuel and Calliope secured Wilkerson’s wrists to a security bar in the transit chamber while they went to report in to Nigel. However, they discovered their boss’s office empty, because he was in 1960 with Terry and Sarah.
CHAPTER 61
2020
Stepping through the emerald-colored swirl of the gate, Terry glanced back to see what their two betrayers were up to. Geoffrey Charles Hyde-Stephens and the raven-haired Janelle Wilson were watching them as they stepped into the verdant swirl of the Gate, then the transition of the Gatespace took over and the two figures and the world of 1960 that they occupied seemed to blur into a rusty orange swirl — only momentarily. Then the three found themselves standing on a city street, and the GPS devices that were embedded in their Gate controllers showed that it was 29 OCT 2020, the very day that the Pan-Asian Alliance had launched its attack on the West. The time was 8:56 AM. Their location was 34.204189 N, -118.173301 W.
Sarah was the first to recognize the significance of the date and time.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “They’ve sent us — we have to get to shelter, now! We’re on the outskirts of Pasadena, California, and it’s about to be nuked!”
Terry and Nigel saw the buildings of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in the distance. They knew that when the PAA had launched its attack, every scientific installation along with every defense-related facility had been targeted. Undoubtedly, JPL was on the short list of those places. They looked around frantically, searching for access to a basement, a storm shelter, something. There was nothing obvious.
“We’ve got to get undercover,” Terry shouted. “The attack is less than five minutes away!”
The three ran with all their strength, and found a rock outcropping that they hoped would do the trick. There was enough of a protrusion for Terry and Sarah to crawl under, but there was no room for Nigel.
“I’ll try the building down the lane,” he shouted gruffly, and ran for it.
Terry and Sarah watched him run down the road as it sloped down to a small wooden building with the words “California Institute of Technology” stenciled on its side. He pulled on the door handle but it wouldn’t budge. “NIGEL!” Sarah screamed. He pulled at the door again, braced his foot and tried yet again. Suddenly the door flew open and Nigel dove inside the doorway.
Then a white flash filled their eyes and the world seemed to disappear.
CHAPTER 62
2020
A haze of dust filled the air, and the world smelled like it was ablaze.
Terry opened his eyes, uncertain of how long they had been closed, unsure whether he was alive, uncertain of anything. He looked around and saw the billowing dust and smoke. Much of the vegetation was on fire, as was a nearby wooden privacy fence and other wood construction. The immediate area where they were concealed, however, seemed to be safe; the rock outcropping
seemed to have blocked most of the shock wave and the radiant heat.
“Sarah?” Terry whispered. His heart was pounding as though it would beat its way out of his very chest. He was filled with fear for what he would find when he turned to his wife. She can’t be dead. She can’t be. But there was no reply.
He finally dared to turn his head and look at her. He had shoved her beneath the rock overhang and crawled in after her, intending to shelter her with his own body. He’d done it a little too well. She was lying there, her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face red, sobbing.
Terry supposed that was probably a natural reaction after having survived a nearby nuclear attack.
He rolled out from under the outcropping and helped Sarah crawl out. Ten minutes or more had gone by, but the air was still thick with acrid grey smoke and fumes. Terry was certain that they were getting a high dose of radiation. They would have to get out of this area — preferably out of this time — as quickly as possible. Neither he nor Sarah had a Gate device, but he knew that Nigel did.
Nigel!
They ran down the road toward the building where Nigel had taken refuge, coughing as they struggled to breathe. Terry pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and mouth and told Sarah to do the same.
They stopped, stunned, as they got close enough to see the little wooden building where Nigel had taken shelter. It had not fared well. The shockwave from the blast had ripped it to shreds. The roof structure lay a dozen yards from the foundation, and the walls looked like a gigantic toddler had torn them to pieces during a tantrum.
Nigel lay in the rubble of the ravaged building. His body was twisted in a startlingly unnatural fashion, and a piece of reinforcing steel — which obviously had not been part of this building, but must have been propelled by the blast from some other structure — protruded from his lower abdomen. His breathing was rough and uneven, and his face was pale on one side, while the other was seared a bright red where it had clearly been exposed to the flash of the bomb going off. It was clear that he was in shock. There was surprisingly little blood, considering the devastating nature of his abdominal wound, yet it was clear that the injury was mortal.
Terry and Sarah crouched next to him, trying to find a way to save him, but coming up empty. The only other people that were nearby were half a mile or so down the road, and were wandering aimlessly as they dealt with their own injuries. Sarah felt sure that the local medical facilities and ambulance services were overwhelmed. She knelt, holding Nigel’s hand, bawling. In the time that she and Terry had been part of the Time Service organization — nearly three years — Nigel had become like a father to her.
“This is the part where you are supposed to say, ‘Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.’” Nigel said, his voice scarcely more than a whisper. He looked up at Terry. “Go ahead, please. Humor me.”
Terry’s face was grim, but he knew there was nothing left to do for the man that had come from eight hundred years in the future to recruit him and Sarah to the Time Service and then become his friend. “Courage, man,” he said in a soft voice, “The hurt cannot be much.”
“Nay, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.” Nigel gave them a sad, slow smile. In a weak whisper, he said, “I always wanted to play Mercutio.”
Terry and Sarah held his hands, not knowing what else to do, until he shuddered and went still.
They sat in silence for a while, then agreed that Nigel’s body needed to have some sort of resolution. Together they carried Nigel’s body to the rock outcropping where the two of them had hidden and gathered some large stones and piled them atop his corpse to create a sort of barrow or tumulus.
Sarah looked over at her husband. “What are we going to do now?”
Terry shook his head slightly. “I don’t know,” he muttered.
They sat mourning over their fallen colleague for a time. Then Sarah looked at Terry and said, “I do.”
She had retrieved Nigel’s Gate device from his belt earlier. Now she took it and punched in a string of characters on its tiny keypad, aimed it at a spot a few feet in front of them, and powered it up. A Gate opened, and they stepped through…
CHAPTER 63
2016
…to 2016. What Sarah was planning was risky, but it was the only thing she could think of to do.
~~~~~
At a table in the banquet room of an excellent Chinese restaurant in the University City area of St. Louis was Terry Cambridge. He was not the Terry Cambridge that had experienced a close encounter with a nuclear weapon; not yet. He was a few years younger and would have considered the fact that the nuke was of Chinese manufacture to be quite ironic as he stood there waiting to feast on chow mein and egg rolls.
“I heard a theory once about why life seems to go by faster and faster as we get older,” said this Terry. There were thirty-seven employees of ChroNova, Inc. gathered there to wish Rick Harper and Stefanie Padgett well on their marriage, which had taken place the day before at the local courthouse. Stef was sporting a small but luminous diamond on her left ring finger.
They were just a mile from ChroNova’s offices, located on Delmar Boulevard in St. Louis. Terry continued by explaining his theory of why life seems to pass more quickly as the years go by, which he found, many years after he originally came up with it, was a concept that others including Arthur C. Clarke, had: the idea that when a person is an infant, the first year of that person’s life is one hundred percent of their life experience, everything they’ve ever known, and therefore seems to take ages to go by; the second year is only fifty per cent of that little human’s life experience, and therefore seems to go by a little faster, and so on.
“By the time you are, say, twenty years old, a year is only five percent of what you have experienced, so it seems to go by fairly quickly,” he explained.
Terry continued to explain this, and related the idea to the fact that time seemed to pass at a variable pace when someone visited another time through the Harper-Orwell Temporal Unit-6, or “HOT6,” (which they pronounced ‘Hot Sex’ as a joke). He called this effect “the weight of history.” He lifted his glass and toasted Rick and Stefanie, saying, “To Rick and Stefanie; may the weight of your history give you many, many happy years together with lots and lots of hot — ”
“Terry!” Sarah interrupted with a laugh.
Just then, there was a crack of thunder within the room, and an emerald glow. A familiar green swirl appeared at one side of the room.
All of the ChroNova staff were shocked. They had only ever witnessed the portals into the Gatespace as produced by their HOT6 unit, which was back at the ChroNova facilities, more than a mile from here.
A man stepped out of the Gate. Tall, with short brown hair and a beard, he was dressed in a sort of green jumpsuit. He gazed from table to table and intoned, “Terry and Sarah Cambridge?” in a British accent.
Terry looked at his wife, then at Randall and Rick. He stood up. “Yes, I’m Terry.”
“I need for you and Sarah to —”
Suddenly there was another great peal of thunder, and a second Gate opened on the far side of the room.
Everyone in the room, including the man who had come out of the first Gate, stared incredulously as a second Terry and a second Sarah stepped out of the newly opened Gate.
“Nigel!” said Terry-2. “We’re not too late!”
Nigel Cummins looked at them, his eyebrows knit up in consternation.
“Oh, bollocks,” he said. “Tell me you didn’t do what I think you just did.”
CHAPTER 64
2020
Keith McCandless sat in the worn green recliner that he occupied during most of his waking hours and wondered what was going to become of him — or, more accurately, how long he had to live. He pretty much knew where this was heading.
He was 57 years old, and lived in a two-bedroom wo
od frame house in Skiatook, Oklahoma, on the outskirts of Tulsa. He’d grown up in this little town, playing with his friends, riding bicycles, doing the things kids do; he’d been seven years old in 1970 when he’d had a wreck on his bike right at the end of this very street and broken his left forearm. He’d healed up fine and had gone on to do the typical teenage shit with his buddies; smoking cigarettes, pouring small amounts of his father’s Jack Daniels or Jim Beam into a glass and filling the bottle back up with water — did they really think his dad wouldn’t have noticed the difference? — and then going out into the back yard to drink it, with hideous grimaces on their faces… how did people drink enough of this nasty stuff to get drunk, anyway? But before long, he’d developed a taste for it. He’d had to find a way to start getting his own booze after his father died in 1980, the victim of an accident at the construction site where he was working.
After that it was just Keith and his mother Melba, the two of them against the world. His Uncle Jake came to visit now and then, but he lived in Oklahoma City and didn’t make it up to T-town all that often.
In 1995, Keith’s world was shattered when his mother passed away from an undiagnosed ovarian cancer that had eaten up her insides like a dark, insidious Pac-Man. Keith disappeared into a very large bottle of Jack and didn’t surface for days. His life became reduced to a dichotomy of work and drink; somehow, he managed to keep the two mutually exclusive. He would arrive home from a hard day driving a bulldozer for City Construction, eat a morsel, and dive into a tumbler of whiskey. As often as not, he’d plop down in the same green chair he’d had for twenty years, managing to pass out before Jimmy Fallon even came on. He’d wake up at about 5 AM with his head pounding, pop four Tylenols, and do it all again.
