She went upstairs to do her last-minute pacing on the main level. Justus saw her and came down the hall.
“I’m going in before Twenty-Six talks to him.” He waved a file folder. “I’m supposed to warm him up with some paperwork.”
The doorbell rang.
“I need to grab a pen,” said Justus. “I’ll be right down.”
Lilah walked to the door and opened it. He looked like a less sophisticated Twenty-Six with a somewhat goofier expression.
“David Lagerford, please come in.” She stood behind the door as he entered, then reached to shake his hand as she pushed it closed. “Welcome to Bump. I’m Lilah. How was your trip?”
He held her hand for too long, but she didn’t mind.
“Hi,” he said. “Fine, thanks.”
Motioning for him to follow, she led the way down the hall to the small conference room. Glancing in the hallway mirror as they walked past it, she saw him staring at her butt, his mouth open, his eyes wide.
9. Twenty-Five years old
The man bumped shoulders with Diesel as the two passed on the sidewalk. Since foot traffic was light, Diesel assumed it was deliberate. He turned to see if the guy looked back—some loser in a brown hoodie and jeans. The guy kept walking without a glance, so Diesel did, too.
He was in Worcester, Massachusetts, interviewing for a promising job with a company he’d never heard of. They’d pitched him the opportunity a week ago, and when he’d said he was interested, they arranged his travel from the West Coast. The interview started in fifteen minutes; the map on his phone said he’d be there in ten.
Quickening his pace, he turned up a side street and found himself in an upscale neighborhood. Handsome red-brick row houses on either side of the street, refurbished to maintain the original character, all had the same tiny front yard trimmed with a crabapple tree and a hedge of boxwood. The houses ran all the way to the far intersection on each side, giving the place a homey feel.
Up ahead, maybe eight houses down, a guy marched in his direction. He wore the same brown hoodie and jeans and had the same husky build as the asshole from before, so Diesel slowed and studied him, curious about his behavior and unafraid of a confrontation.
The guy continued to advance, and then two men—same general build as Diesel but bulkier in the shoulders—stepped out from a stoop and faced him. Wearing baseball caps and light blue athletic jackets in the style Diesel favored, they stood shoulder to shoulder to block the sidewalk. Attracted to the drama, Diesel wished he could stay and watch, but he’d reached number one-eighty-nine, his stop, so he hustled up the steps instead.
At the top, a brass plaque on the wall identified the place as Bump Analytics. A small sign on the door invited him to ring the bell. He did so and waited, sure he was being watched, though no cameras were in sight.
When the door swung open, he stopped thinking about cameras and looked at his idea of perfection. She was mid-twenties, with lively green eyes and a generous smile, shoulder-length flaxen hair, a trim figure, and wearing black pants and a white blouse.
“David Lagerford, please come in.” She stood behind the door as Diesel entered, then reached to shake his hand as she pushed the door closed. “Welcome to Bump. I’m Lilah. How was your trip?”
Her hand felt soft and cool, and he wondered if he’d held it for too long. “Hi. Fine, thanks.”
Motioning for him to follow, she led the way down the hall, her swaying bottom giving him a morning lift. Halfway along, she stepped into a small conference room.
“Please have a seat. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
“Maybe some water,” said Diesel, sitting where she’d indicated.
She brought him a glass and a bottle of spring water. “Justus McGowan, the office manager, will be here…oh, here he is.”
“Hi, David.” Justus grabbed Diesel’s hand and gave it a shake. “Or should I say, Diesel?”
Diesel’s cheeks flushed and he gave a quick shrug. “Diesel is from my initials, D.S.L., which is for David S. Lagerford. They started calling me Diesel in grade school, and I guess it stuck.”
“Ha, I love it.” Justus sat in the chair across from Diesel. “Lilah, we should be about ten minutes if you don’t mind telling Twenty-Six.”
She made for the door and Diesel watched her go, waiting for her to make eye contact. His interest deepened when she left the room without looking back at him.
“Let me take you through some paperwork so we can reimburse your expenses for today’s visit,” said Justus as the door closed. Shuffling through a folder, he pulled out a few sheets. “So, first, happy birthday. I see you turn twenty-five today. That’s a good age.”
The exchange prompted Diesel to give Justus a closer look—a fortyish black man who, while dressed in business casual clothes, had the weathered face and strong hands of an outdoorsman. He was a little shorter and a little lighter than Diesel, but had a solid build.
“You just graduated with a degree in computer programming from Berkeley.” Justus looked up. “Congrats on that.” Then back down to his stack. “How do you feel about moving to the East Coast?”
“Great. I was born here in Worcester, and my mom still lives here, so I’m more easterner than westerner.”
“And if today goes well, when would you be available to start?”
“Immediately. I’d need a few days to close out my apartment in Berkeley and arrange to get my stuff moved. But my lease runs through the end of next month, so I can do that anytime.” He decided to test the waters. “And should it all work out, I’d hope to be reimbursed for the cost of moving back here.”
Justus nodded, set three pages out on the table, and pointed to a spot on the last page. “Is this your social security number?”
Diesel looked at the number as he signed his name. “That’s right.” He toyed with the idea of reading all the fine print, but a tap on the door caused him to lift his head. In stepped a tall man with broad shoulders sloping to a narrow waist. Short brown hair topped a pleasing face, and a rakish grin showed his dimples.
“Ah, Twenty-Six,” said Justus, standing and gathering the sheets. “That’s it for the paperwork. I’ll leave you to it.”
The door shut behind Justus, and the two men shook hands. The physical contact put Diesel on edge.
“Happy birthday to us,” said Twenty-Six as he sat across from Diesel.
“Let me guess. You turned twenty-six today.”
“I did.” He nodded, then leaned forward and studied Diesel the way a scientist might examine a lab specimen.
Diesel’s initial discomfort grew as he looked back. The man’s appearance, demeanor, and manner of speaking all connected with Diesel at an emotional level. “Have we met? Sorry, but I’m having this weird sense of déjà vu.”
“This is our first meeting,” said Twenty-Six, “but we do have something in common.” Twenty-Six stood, motioned for Diesel to stand, then moved next to him and pointed to a mirror hanging on the wall. “Have a look.”
In the mirror, Diesel stood next to his duplicate. “Holy shit.” He turned his head, looked at Twenty-Six in person, and saw a man with familiar features. But when he turned back and looked in the mirror—when he saw Twenty-Six the way he was used to seeing himself—he saw his twin.
“We have to be cousins or something,” Diesel babbled, struck by the coincidence. “Where are you from? My mom has a sister and nephew from Nashville. Are you from Tennessee?”
“No,” said Twenty-Six. “I’m from Worcester and my mom has a sister and nephew in Nashville.”
“You know the odds of that? Granddad must have been out sowing his wild oats like some sort of crazy man.”
“Look,” said Twenty-Six, sitting down and motioning for Diesel to do the same. “I’m just going to say it all at once. Rip off the Band-Aid, as it were. I don’t know a better way.”
Diesel waited.
“I am a version of you at age twenty-six. I’m here from your future.”
Twenty-Six slumped back in his chair. “This morning you jerked off to memories of Helena Costas. She danced naked on your balcony on the Fourth of July. You could just make out her silhouette in the gloom, and then a firework would explode and flash light across her body. It’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.”
Diesel felt nauseous. “Do you have cameras in my hotel room?” Standing, he pointed at Twenty-Six and lashed out to cover his embarrassment. “You’re sick.”
“Stop being such a tool. This is why the older brothers dismiss us.”
Diesel rocked in place, acting like he was going to leave but not taking any steps.
“Cameras can’t see inside your head. I told you what you were thinking.”
“Were you watching back in Berkeley? How can you know this?”
“Sigh,” Twenty-Six said aloud. “Okay, more secret stuff you’ve never told anyone. You broke the kitchen window that Thomas got blamed for in seventh grade. You plagiarized your history paper in eleventh grade and still worry about getting caught. Your landlord reimbursed your security deposit twice last year and you kept the money.”
“He’s an asshole.”
“I agree. I kept it, too.”
“So if you are me, you know I’m not buying any of this.” Diesel started wiggling his foot under the able in a subconscious display of unease.
“I’m not you. I’m me and you’re you. You will be sitting here a year from now after having lived through the same experiences I did. But we are different people. That’s an important lesson to learn.”
“So when you were me, how long did it take you before you started believing?”
“I was never you, but when I was in your position, I started to believe in the probability of it all by the end of the day. It will be about three weeks before you’re at one hundred percent. You’ll test me and try to trick me. At some point acceptance happens because there’s no alternative to the truth.”
One of Diesel’s favorite movies was about time travel, and he drew on a scene from the film as inspiration to expose the fraud. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a small multitool that included a knife blade. Placing his left hand flat on the conference table, he said, “Put your hand down next to mine.”
“I’m not going to let you cut me.”
“I’m going to cut myself. But if you’re really me, the scar will appear on your hand when I cut mine.”
“Sure. Let’s do this,” said Twenty-Six. He positioned his left hand flat on the table next to Diesel’s.
“Hey, you already have a scar.”
“Let’s do the other hand, then.” He switched to his right hand.
Diesel followed suit. Then, positioning his knife, he stared at Twenty-Six’s hand while he cut a small, deep gash into the back of his own. “Ow, damn that hurts.”
He looked around for something to stem the bleeding. Twenty-Six pushed a box of tissues in his direction, and Diesel pressed several against his wound. Then he leaned over to look at Twenty-Six’s hand.
“Ha, no scar,” he said in triumph.
“I am humiliated knowing someone as dumb as you is a version of me.”
Diesel took more tissue and pressed it on his wound.
“I was pretty clear that we have different experiences. What you do to yourself doesn’t impact me or the brothers up the line.” He shook his head. “One year from now, you’ll be sitting here as Twenty-Six, and unlike me, you will have that scar on your right hand.”
“That’s not how time travel works,” said Diesel. “I watch a lot of science fiction and you’re busted. So how are you doing it? How do you know those things about me?”
“No way I was this pathetic.”
“You didn’t cut yourself when you were sitting here?”
“Yes, you idiot.” He held up his scarred left hand. “What do you think this is from?”
“Wait. When you were in my position, did your Twenty-Six have a scar?”
Twenty-Six nodded. “Yup, this year, anyone with a scar on their left hand is an even age, and a scar on the right hand means an odd age. Next year it flips; you become Twenty-Six and all left-hand scarred become odds. It can be useful information. If you aren’t sure if you’re talking with Thirty-Five or Thirty-Six, check his scar hand.”
“And next year I watch the new guy cut his left hand?”
“Yup.”
“So is there even a job?”
Twenty-Six tilted his head back and groaned. “Stop being so stupid. I just told you I’m back from the future, and you’re concerned about a job?”
Diesel did feel a little sheepish when Twenty-Six phrased it that way, but since he wasn’t buying the whole time-travel thing, he didn’t feel too bad. Then he pushed back. “Talk about dumb, I would never start calling myself a number. It’s so lame it hurts your case.”
“You’re Twenty-Five, I’m Twenty-Six, there’s also a Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, and every number up to Fifty-Nine. That makes thirty-five of us in all. Maybe we should all call ourselves Diesel. Wouldn’t that make for fun meetings?”
“You have meetings?”
Twenty-Six nodded.
“How come Sixty doesn’t come?”
“There is no Sixty, or he doesn’t come if there is.”
“Whoa. You just told me I die at sixty! You have the worst recruiting strategy. What happens?”
“I didn’t say you die. I said Sixty doesn’t show up.”
“Why not?”
“It’s one of the mysteries we’re chasing.”
“Does everyone time travel in your world?”
“If by ‘everyone’ you mean all thirty-five of us, yes, we all time travel. If you’re asking about all of humanity, then no, it’s just us.”
“Wow, you just told me I time travel! You said I’m one of the thirty-five, and you said we all do it.” Diesel stood up. “Now this is good recruiting. Show me how to go ahead a hundred years. No, let’s do ten years. I want to practice first.”
The conference room door burst open, and two huge guys in light blue athletic jackets, their baseball caps pulled low, entered, shouting, “Happy birthday!”
“Happy birthday,” said Twenty-Six as he stood. “Forty, Forty-One, this is Twenty-Five.”
One of the newcomers held up his hand and showed the scar on his left hand. “I’m Forty-Two.” Then he turned to Diesel. “Kiss my ass, Twenty-Five. You suck.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Forty. He leaned forward and motioned Diesel to come closer. Diesel obliged, and the man whispered in his ear, “Kiss my ass.”
Forty and Forty-Two laughed as if they’d heard the funniest joke. When the laughter died, one of them said, “Kiss my ass!” and it started all over again.
“How did it go out there?” asked Twenty-Six.
“The Brown showed up as scheduled and we sent him packing,” said Forty.
“They’re showing up more and more, and it’s too much,” Forty-Two said with a detectable whine. He looked at Forty. “Let’s head back. I got stuff to do.”
“Show him before you go,” said Twenty-Six. “C’mon. Give him a thrill at the start of his journey.”
Forty and Forty-Two looked at each other, shrugged, and then removed their caps with a dramatic flourish. With a clear view of their faces, Diesel saw two hard-chiseled, older versions of himself. Twirling in a circle, they peeled off their jackets and lifted their arms as they spun. Bulging muscles rippled through their tight shirts.
“Is it wrong for me to think they’re hot?” Twenty-Six asked Diesel.
“Okay,” said Forty-Two, concluding his spin. “That’s it. Gotta go.”
Forty followed him out. “Welcome aboard, Twenty-Five. Oh, and kiss my ass.”
Diesel hea
rd them chuckling as the door shut.
“That was good old-fashioned hazing,” said Twenty-Six. “You’re the new guy and they’re just having fun. It’ll happen a bunch of times until the Big Meeting in three weeks, then it ends. Try to have fun with it because you don’t have a choice.”
“So what’s with them? Is that supposed to be us?”
“It turns out that at every age, we have a role to fulfill. At age forty, our job is to be lead muscle for the rest of us. It takes a few years to build up to that, and then they stay buff for a few years after. Usually Thirty-Nine, Forty, and Forty-One can handle the demand between them. It’s rare to see Forty-Two out working the calls.”
“They get in fights?” Diesel had been in his share of scrapes in the past, but he sought to avoid physical confrontation as a general rule.
Twenty-Six shook his head. “No. The point of the muscle and teamwork is to make it so the opponent chooses to walk away. And just so you know, that dance routine you just saw, though weird, is to get us psyched up. You don’t just wake up at forty years old and suddenly you’re all muscles. It takes three years to get bulked like that, which means you and I will have to start working hard at thirty-seven and keep it up for years.”
“Isn’t forty on the old side to be a tough?”
“Why don’t you bring that up at the Big Meeting?”
Diesel heard the sarcasm and ignored it. “What’s a Brown?”
“You ask too many questions. Let’s get you ready to interview with Lilah.”
“So there is a job?”
Twenty-Six groaned again. “Every time you talk I feel worse about myself.”
10. Twenty-Five and a few hours
Diesel watched as Twenty-Six put a small cloth bag on the conference room table.
“Before you meet with Lilah, let’s go through this.” Twenty-Six opened the bag and removed a shiny black credit card. Diesel saw that it had “David S. Lagerford” printed on the front.
Bump Time Origin Page 7
