The Continuum, page 5
part #1 of Place in Time Series
The next papers contain descriptions of electronic retina scanners that allow people of the future to access everything from libraries to healthcare to transportation to bank accounts and specs for some eyeglasses that function as personal computers. I skim over the technical jargon. What I really need is to figure out how to access food and shelter while I’m there.
Fortunately, it seems Chandler has already found a loophole. According to his report, the system operates on credit, but there’s a lag in the bureaucratic system that enables invalid retina scan to go unnoticed for seven to ten days.
It seems like a pretty major flaw to me, but at least it takes care of one concern. I hope a week is enough time to hunt down Agent Chandler and that they don’t change to a more efficient system in the meantime.
The final page is blank, save for the handwritten words: The choices you make dictate the life you’ll lead. A lot of good that does me.
I throw the folder down in frustration. TUB’s reports contain none of the information I really need: where Agent Chandler is lodging, what he’s researching, any motives he might have for missing his scheduled Extraction. I need to know where to find food, shelter, and other supplies in this unfamiliar time. I need maps, transportation schedules, information about cultural differences. I’m about to flip through the files again when my music cuts out in the middle of a fantastic guitar solo.
“Hey!” My protest echoes in the sparsely-furnished room. I check the MP3 player, but it still has battery. In fact, according to the display screen, “The Beginning is the End is the Beginning” is still playing.
“Elise,” a familiar voice speaks into my ear. “I apologize for my destruction of this file. I have an important message, but TUB can’t know I’ve told you.”
It’s Dr. Wells. I stare down at the papers, trying to hide my surprise, in case my room is being monitored.
“I have to keep this short, but you need to know what’s at stake. You were not the first Retriever assigned this mission. Mike Jumped to the future and returned a few weeks ago. Apparently, Agent Chandler became upset and smashed the extra Wormhole Mike brought for the Extraction. Mike had to return for a replacement, and TUB insisted on holding him overnight. The next morning—” Dr. Wells’ voice chokes up, and he clears his throat.
“The next morning he was gone. I tracked his watch’s GPS, and two days ago we uncovered his remains.”
I shuffle the papers in my lap to cover the trembling of my hands.
“There are things about the mission that TUB doesn’t want you to know,” Dr. Wells’ voice says, “things they don’t want anyone to know. Please, promise me that if anything goes wrong, you’ll run. Remain in the future, if you must, but unless you bring Agent Chandler with you, it won’t be safe to return.”
CHAPTER TEN:
April 13, 2012
The next morning the guard leads me to a different room, one that mimics our time lab back at PITTA. Standing in the center is a DeLorean Box. Until yesterday, I thought the only one in existence was at our headquarters. Finding out there’s another hidden away in some secret bunker is disconcerting, and there’s something about it, sitting here in this strange place, that makes it seem like an evil doppelganger.
I approach it reverently, its hum drawing me in like a mythical siren’s song. I brush my fingers over its smooth, silver metal and flawless glass surfaces. It resembles its namesake in its coloring and its sharp, modern angles but is more like the TARDIS than Marty McFly’s car—except for the “bigger on the inside” part. The rectangular prism really is only about seven feet tall and three feet in width and depth, whether you’re standing inside or out. The door swings open like a shower stall, and opposite that, a string of dials are already set to coordinate the Jump time and location.
Below the panel, a larger dial and digital display indicate the destination year. In our DeLorean Box, that number doesn’t go any higher than 1980, but in this one, the dial already indicates the year 2112. The number looks unnatural, an abomination that’s too large and strangely intimidating.
“Are you ready?”
I note the silent question hidden beneath Dr. Wells’ spoken one.
“It’ll be okay,” I say. “It’s a Retrieval like any other. I’ll Jump there and bring this Agent Chandler back where he belongs. Easy-peasy.”
My words seem to reassure him, but my own emotions are still a nauseating mix of excitement and trepidation. On impulse, I reach out and grab his hand. In a way, he’s become like family to me—like a grandfather, uncle, or that one crazy relative who shows up at Thanksgiving, whose exact place on the family tree is fuzzy, but who’s always there, familiar and consistent.
Hearing twin footsteps enter the room, I pull away and use every ounce of mind over matter to put on a brave face.
Butcher holds out an androgynous, flowing, one-piece suit and some matching socks and boots. I raise my eyebrows, but he simply points to an adjoining room.
The suit’s inner layer is breathable like cotton, with a soft, cloud-like texture. The outer layer, however, is some sort of synthetic—slightly sticky and rubbery, but with a metallic sheen. It has amazing elasticity but still hangs on my frame like a drape. The boots hug my feet, creating a perfect fit. Though the outfit is comfortable, it’s too foreign to me. Frankly, I’d rather wear a corset.
There’s no mirror, but I’m certain I look ridiculous walking back into the time lab. The suit’s legs and sleeves have been hemmed, but I can’t imagine a world where a costume like this would help me blend in. For one irrational second I wonder if this is an elaborate prank. If so, now would be the time for someone to jump out and laugh. “Oh, boy! We really had you going, huh?”
The stern faces that greet me confirm none of these three men have any sense of humor right now.
“Agent Chandler brought that suit back from his last Jump,” Butcher says. “You should be able to wear it without drawing attention. You’ll need these as well.”
He hands me a pair of eyeglasses with silver rims. “They’re already configured to your retina scan, so you can use them right away. They’re called PVDs—personal visual devices.”
I consider asking how they obtained a scan of my retinas, but does it really matter? They probably know more about me than I do.
“You’ve studied Agent Chandler’s files?” Baker asks.
I try to respond, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I can’t pry my teeth apart, so I just nod.
“We’ve entered the coordinates of his last known location.” Butcher’s face twitches slightly, a momentary fracture of his stoic demeanor, brought on by what? Anger? Irritation? Something else?
He hands me two Wormhole Devices. I almost protest. I always use the same Wormhole each time I Jump. It’s kind of like a bowler always using the same bowling ball—part superstition, part comfort in the familiar. Mine has a small, but distinct scratch below the thumbprint scanner, but these two are identical, with no distinguishing marks at all. When I look up at the agent, at his stony features and his commanding stance, I swallow my objection.
“You’ll need to use TUB’s devices for this Retrieval, since you’re leaving from their DeLorean Box,” Dr. Wells says quietly. “Also, their Wormholes utilize some new technology to make Extractions safer.”
“What do you mean? What does it do?”
“Instead of the Wormhole Extracting you to your current location as you’re used to, our devices are programmed to transport you back to a predetermined location: TUB headquarters. We can’t take any chances,” Butcher says. I catch his drift; they want to be the first to know when we Extract back.
“This one is yours.” Dr. Wells points to the one in my right hand. “The other is for Agent Chandler.”
“Got it,” I say, tucking them into separate pockets so I’ll be able to keep them straight.
“The DeLorean Box is programmed for you to arrive on April 13, 2112,” Butcher says. “We’d have preferred to send you to February of that year, when our agent first went missing, but—”
“I know how the annual interval works.” Their insistence on sending a Retriever now, instead of simply waiting until next February is curious, but I don’t dare question it.
Butcher glowers at me. “We expect you back within a week’s time.”
I’d already figured on a week, based on Agent Chandler’s notes about the retina scan, but the deadline still makes me nervous. With my limited knowledge, having only seven days to track him down and complete the Extraction might prove difficult.
I nod again to appease the agents and step gingerly into the DeLorean Box. I clench the handrails’ heavy-duty rubber grips, carefully testing out the Box to see if feels like the one I’m used to. The numbers “2112” glare up at me menacingly.
Standing there, frozen in anticipation in my silvery one-piece suit as the countdown continues, I feel like an astronaut being launched into space.
“Five… four… three…”
Has man made it back to the moon by 2112?
“Two…”
Do astronauts ever get this same ache in their lungs during lift-off, fearful they’ll never find their way back through the darkness?
“One…”
Jumping is an entirely different experience than Extraction. While the Wormhole spins and twists the traveler around like a fish on a line, fighting what Dr. Wells describes as “time resistance,” the DeLorean Box provides a smoother ride, like the gut-wrenching drop of a rollercoaster.
Without even opening my eyes, I know the DeLorean Box has vanished around me. I’ve grown used to the way that, throughout the Jump, I can still feel the handrails, but if I were to look down at my hands (which I don’t recommend; it’s a surefire way to lose your lunch), I would only see brilliant lights flashing around my body and my fingers gripping thin air as I speed toward the future.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
April 15, 2012
ALLEN
Brine flooded his throat, filling his airways as the bright light assailed him. For one frantic moment, Allen wondered if heaven really ought to be so wet. Then his head broke the water’s surface, and his frenzied sputtering gave way to bursts of crisp, clean air and blinding daylight. The water was chilly, but not the ice-filled terror he’d anticipated. All that remained of that nightmarish scene was the ocean itself, now an innocent blanket spread out before him. He grabbed for the edges of his bulky floatation vest.
It was then he realized that he still clutched the miraculous device in his hand. He blinked at it as he treaded water, shocked at what had occurred. Throwing his head back, he let out a triumphant cry and reveled in the wonders of science. And all he’d had to do was disable the lock.
“Hey! Someone’s down there!”
Allen twisted to look over his shoulder. A boat! By some miracle, there was a massive ship not twenty strokes from where he’d landed. What marvelous luck!
“Man overboard!”
Allen floundered in the vessel’s choppy wake, his vest thumping against his chin. Though this boat was similar in size to the leviathan he’d just left, its silhouette was sleeker without the four giant funnels perched atop. Obviously, it was not steam-powered. The name BALMORAL was stenciled in black letters near the bow.
Someone aboard tossed him a white and orange ring that bobbed across the water’s surface. With numb fingers, he wedged the dark orb into his jacket, where it crumpled the now-drenched letter already folded there. Hand over hand, he pulled himself to the lifeline. His teeth chattered. How could anyone have survived that horrific night he’d left behind? Even here, the ocean’s chill would have quickly dulled his mind and numbed his body into submission had it not been for the Balmoral’s rescue.
Once on deck, a crowd had gathered, and Allen scowled at this unseemly entrance. A sailor draped a heavy blanket over his shoulders. “Don’t want you to get hypothermia. Lucky it’s been such a warm spring.”
Allen straightened up, grateful for his height. Towering over the crowd restored some of his self-assurance. Most of the passengers were well-dressed—the men in suits and top hats, the women in lavish gowns—but there was something about their hairstyles, their shoes, the smallest of details that just seemed peculiar.
“Thank you all for your assistance. Now, if I might—” Allen threw his arm out to steady himself, suddenly overcome with dizziness and fatigue.
“Get him down to the infirmary,” the captain ordered, shaking his head. He turned to the crowd. “Excitement’s over, folks. Poor guy must’ve had too much champagne. Please remember to drink responsibly.”
The crowd tittered with laughter and turned back to their deck chairs and shuffleboard.
Two sailors—one supporting each arm—guided Allen into the depths of the ship. “We’ll have the ship’s doctor check at you. The memorial service will be starting in about ten minutes, but you might be able to catch the end if he gives you the okay.”
“Memorial service?”
One of the sailors shot an amused look at his shipmate. “How much champagne do you suppose he had?”
Allen didn’t respond, for something in a room they’d just passed had caught his eye. The double-doors stood propped open, and beyond them was an elegant dining room set for dinner. Beyond the tables, however, was a life-sized reproduction of the Titanic’s very own Grand Staircase, adorned with a banner declaring, “Titanic 100th Anniversary Commemoration Cruise.” A pair of heavyset women posed before a photographer with wide smiles on their faces, and Allen stared in shock at the trousers the female photographer wore. Before he could even decide which part of the scene he found more distasteful, the sailors had urged him onward.
The infirmary was a sterile, white room with harsh lighting across the ceiling that illuminated the space with the flick of a switch. Beside the cot was a cabinet with the most fascinating instruments Allen had ever seen. Perhaps he’d just feign illness for the rest of the trip so he could study them at his leisure.
The sailors helped him with his life preserver and shoes, but Allen protested when they reached for his jacket, insisting he remove it himself.
“The doctor will be right in,” one of them said, shrugging.
Allen nodded, eager for them to leave so he could investigate his surroundings. As soon as they did, he got up and looked around. Beside a large box with an opaque glass front, he found a ballpoint pen and a sheet of paper with the ship’s letterhead on top. It reminded him that, as a man of science, he ought to be documenting his experience.
With painstaking care, he unfolded the saturated letter from his jacket pocket and lovingly smoothed it out on his lap. Many words had bled away, but Allen copied them one by one onto a dry page. When he finished, he palmed the glorious, miraculous sphere in one hand and added a second note to the same page, describing his newest adventures and reassuring his beloved darling that nothing could stop him now. No matter what, he would find her.
THE FUTURE
CHAPTER TWELVE:
April 13, 2112
My body jerks to a halt.
Something’s wrong. The light piercing my closed lids is too intense. I try to squint but am forced to squeeze my eyes shut again. The sun feels warmer and brighter than it should. I throw one arm out in front of me and step forward. My stomach lurches, gurgles. Feeling around blindly, I find a wall directly behind me, as slick as glass. I lean against it and slide to the ground, clutching my middle.
From the safety of my crouched position, I focus on my other senses. I take in the hurried chatter and steady footsteps but catch no discernible smells, even when I inhale deeply. Someone stops and asks, “Hey, are you okay?” I nod and wave them away.
Through squinted eyes, I can see white-booted feet rushing past me, some balancing expertly on silver-white discs. These cheerfully humming machines are shaped like the saucers I used to slide down Grandpa’s sledding hill on every winter, just slightly smaller. Some people stand on them, carefully bracing themselves with one foot in front of the other, hovering over the ground as if by magic. Other discs float further from the ground with seated riders leaning back in ease as they zoom around the city. They look so silly, so ridiculously sci-fi that I nearly laugh aloud at the absurdity.
Slowly, my eyes adjust to a world of bright silver and white, reflecting off rows of domed buildings. They all look identical to me, with shiny, reflective glass that makes me feel like I’m trapped in a funhouse of soap bubbles.
Where am I?
The sky is so blindingly bright I can barely lift my gaze above the heads of the passers-by, even when I shield my eyes with my hand. Fortunately, though, the people themselves seem refreshingly normal, except that each wears a pair of silver-rimmed glasses. No cyborg limbs. No bizarre mutations. They even seem to be speaking in languages I can understand.
I push myself to my feet and pull the glasses from my pocket. Rows of miniscule buttons line the edges of the frames, but as much as I press and turn them, I can’t get them to do anything. Without knowing how to use them, they’re pretty useless, but when in Rome… I set them on my face.
I can do this.
Styles may have changed and transportation may be different, but the ground beneath my feet is still the same Earth I’ve been exploring for the past twenty-five years. I wiggle my toes, testing the future’s solidity. The pavement here reminds me of a ceramic vase: hard, glazed, and pale.
I slowly begin my surveillance. Each building has a revolving door, and I remember reading somewhere that they are the most energy-efficient entryway. I guess our collective descendants finally got serious about conservation.
