The Continuum, page 6
part #1 of Place in Time Series
Each entryway is labeled with bold, black letters, but I don’t recognize any of the names until I see one that says “McDONALD’S.” Without the trademark golden arches towering above, the word itself seems meaningless. In fact, this whole future seems a large-scale version of that—familiar things taken so far out of context they lose all meaning.
First things first: I need to orient myself. If I can find a map, I can begin to narrow down where I’ll be most likely to find Agent Chandler. And where better to find information than a library?
For millennia, humanity has gathered their written records into libraries, and I’ve seen the best of them, from the Library of Alexandria to the Yunju Temple to the Library of Congress. They’ve helped me out on numerous occasions in scrounging up essential information and never fail to make me feel safe and contented, at least for a little while. What are the chances that in the next hundred years these gathering places of knowledge would have disappeared completely?
The blue “LIBRARY” sign greets me like an old friend, and I slide through the revolving doors, eager to inhale the familiar stacks of books and—
I stop short.
A man bumps into me, muttering a muffled “pardón” as he brushes past. I remain frozen to the spot.
I stare in disbelief, scanning every inch of the building for some sign of well-worn paperbacks or tried-and-true hard covers or even a picture book. All I see, throughout the entire domed building, are aisles and aisles of computer screens. A hundred years isn’t enough time to lose our connection to paper, is it? Even as I approach the librarian’s desk, I’m still not sure how to phrase my request.
“Excuse me,” I say quietly. “I need help finding some information.”
The librarian looks about my age, and on the lenses of my glasses, the letters MYAH—her name?—materialize above her head.
She raises her eyebrows at me and points to the computer screens with one slim finger.
“Are there any paper books here?” I ask, cutting to the chase, despite the risk that I might be exposing my ignorance.
She sighs, the heavy sigh of someone who’s exasperated and doesn’t care who knows. “You haven’t been to the library at all since we left?”
I hesitate, unsure how to answer. Left? “No. No, I haven’t. Do you have some maps or books about this place’s recent history?” I hope I’ve chosen my words carefully enough so I don’t arouse too much suspicion.
“The Continuum’s recent history?”
“Um, yes?”
“You have to sign in on a screen.” Myah sighs again and leads me to one of the computers. “You can view it on there or on your glasses for more privacy. You just need to scan to log in. Input what you want to know and the screen will display the information. I’ll be at my desk if you need any help.”
With the way she mumbles off the directions and hastily retreats to her desk, I doubt she’d be much help if I did ask. I lean forward and tip my PVD to scan my retina. It must work, because a message appears on the screen in front of me:
WELCOME TO THE CONTINUUM LIBRARY, DIPLOMAT GUEST.
Diplomat guest? I wait for something else to happen, but nothing does.
I stare blankly at the screen. I’ve never been in a situation like this before, where I’m the one behind the times, wondering how technology works and how I’m supposed to use the machines and conveniences that everyone else deems commonplace. I can use an astrolabe. I know Morse Code. Heck, I can even churn butter. But here, in this bookless library, staring at this welcome screen, I feel completely, utterly lost.
“You look lost.”
I swivel the chair around and nearly lose my balance when I see who’s spoken. The man looks exactly like his picture, and behind his own silver spectacles, his blue eyes study my features just as intently.
Agent Chandler.
Could it really be this easy? I’ve found him before I even had a chance to start looking. Or has he found me?
My hand falls to my lap, to the pocket of my suit—the suit he brought back from this time—and my fingers close around one of the Wormhole Devices. No, this place is much too public, with far too many witnesses. I can’t complete the Extraction here. I can’t risk that again. A brief glance at Chandler’s towering frame is enough to conclude that there’s no way I could catch him if he chose to run or force him into an Extraction if he fought it. I need to tread carefully. Play it smart.
“You startled me.” I try to act as casually as possible. I turn to the screen, so as not to give anything away with my expression. I release the Wormhole and pull my hand out of my pocket.
“That computer seems to be giving you a hard time. It takes a while to figure out. Personally, I don’t know how they can call it a library without any books; it’s a like a McDonald’s that doesn’t serve burgers. What were you trying to look up?”
The question catches me off guard. “Do you work here?”
“No. My name’s Chandler. I work for a branch of the Governing Committee. I’m not really allowed to discuss my work. I just happen to like libraries.” It’s a lie wrapped around the truth, a method I often employ myself.
“I’m Elise. I was just trying to do some research on recent history. About the Continuum,” I add boldly.
His look bores into my head. He suspects something. I tense, ready for what, I don’t know, but then he turns to the screen and starts waving his hands in front of it in a rapid succession of taps and sweeps.
“Here.” He hits a final spot on the screen and gestures grandly.
The screen shows a sleek, silver, M&M-like shape hovering against a backdrop of black with white, unblinking stars. I scoot my chair closer, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. It has a dark, solid-looking bottom half and a top half constructed from glass panels that arch across its circumference. A crisscrossing web of supports holds up each panel.
Words fly across the screen, each a label for a particular section:
“WATER TREATMENT AND STORAGE”
“OXYGEN STORAGE”
“LABORATORIES”
“RECYCLING”
The image spins and twirls in the virtual sky, and I grab the edge of the desk to steady myself. Suddenly, the ground beneath my feet doesn’t feel so firm after all. TUB’s “improved technology” and their insistence that I use a Wormhole that Extracts directly back to their headquarters makes far more sense now. An image flashes through my head: myself, with Chandler in tow, Extracting out into the vacuum of space. I shiver.
“A beauty, isn’t she?” Chandler grins, looking over my shoulder. “So, you wanted to know more about our history?”
He hits a few more buttons and reaches for my ear. I flinch.
“Whoa, relax! I was just going to flip on your PVD’s speakers. They look new; have you figured out how to use the speakers yet?”
“I’m technologically illiterate,” I say, which is true enough.
He presses a tiny button on the rim of the glasses. My head vibrates with the sound of light, tinny music, like the kind they use in Discovery Channel documentaries. A bold voice interrupts my thoughts.
“In response to increased pressure from environmentalists in the mid-21st century, the United States led the charge on a monumental project, with significant financial backing from national, private, and corporate investors from around the world. It was the most extensive worldwide project ever attempted, with over 85% of nations involved on some level. During the late part of that century, the people of the world worked together to construct a miracle. In April 2110, the Continuum was completed: the world’s first self-sustaining space colony.
“This colony is home to 20,000 citizens from around the world who have volunteered to participate in this multi-quadrillion dollar experiment. After rigorous screening, these individuals and families were chosen by lottery in what immediately became the world’s most-viewed video feed. For the next fifty years, these everyday people will live and work onboard the Continuum, surviving off the power of the sun and the food they grow themselves, along with a limited number of provisions brought with them in the shuttles that delivered them to their new home.”
The screen becomes fuzzy in my unfocused vision as I try to imagine what would make someone want to leave Earth, to completely desert everything and everyone they knew, and agree to join such an insane venture.
“We’re kind of crazy, aren’t we?”
I start, so caught up in my own thoughts that I’d forgotten all about Chandler.
“Yeah.” I pull my wandering thoughts into check. “So, how’d you end up here, anyway?”
“Luck of the draw, just like everyone else. I’ve wanted to live on the Continuum since I first heard about it. How amazing is it to be the next step in humanity? Did you hear they finally decided on names for the next colonies?”
“No, I must’ve missed that.”
“The Independence and the Vitality. A little unoriginal, if you ask me, but, hey, that’s democracy. Apparently the lotteries for citizenship have already reached three times the number of applicants the Continuum had.”
“People must be pretty excited.”
“Why wouldn’t they be? It’s like our own little planet: self-sustaining, eco-friendly, low crime rate. It could be the solution to the world’s overpopulation problems.”
I hadn’t expected him to be so passionate about the topic, but then again, he’d probably known what he was getting into, unlike me. I hadn’t even known I’d be in space. But why not? Was I really supposed to believe TUB had just happened to overlook that detail?
“What about you?” he asks. “How’d you end up here?”
“My boss encouraged me to volunteer.” We’re both skilled in this truth-in-the-lies dance.
He nods and clears his throat. “Hey, it was nice meeting you. Do you think you could maybe give me your phone number or email address and we could go out for a cup of joe sometime?”
I hesitate, mentally panicking. This is not how a Retrieval is supposed to go. On the other hand, if I lose him now, it might be difficult to find him again. Maybe a coffee date isn’t such a bad idea. Granted, I don’t have a phone number or email address in this era. “Actually, can I have yours? I, ah…”
“Don’t have one?” He leans and drops his voice. “Since phone numbers have been defunct since the 2060s and email hasn’t been used since the 2080s? And, by the way, no one—at least not around here—has used the word ‘joe’ for coffee in the past forty years.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
April 13, 2112
“How did you know?” I ask as we head out the door into the blinding light, all pretenses instantly dropped.
“The blank look on your face when you pulled up the screen, for one.” He laughs. “Secondly, you don’t exactly strike me as the diplomat type. And, third, let’s just say I’ve seen a watch like yours before.”
I grab my PITTA-issued watch, a mixture of terror and fury rising within me before I can take a deep breath and calm myself. After all, Chandler hadn’t known TUB would kill Mike for failing to Retrieve him. Or had he?
Chandler strides along, perfectly at ease in this strange city. He points out the sights but keeps his voice soft and low, as if conscious of all the people around us.
“Did you notice the panels? Oh, here, let me fix your PVD.” He reaches over to tap a few places on my glasses. “Better?”
“Thanks.” Whatever he’d hit had tinted the lenses so that now I can look directly upward toward the structure’s crisscrossing panels.
“The panels work on a timer,” he says, “blocking more light at night and less during the day. They have to keep it like a sauna in here for the crops in the agricultural district to grow, which is—of course—essential for oxygen and food production. But since everyone wears their PVDs all the time anyway, the light’s intensity isn’t an issue.
“The buildings,” he continues, pointing now at the domed structures, “are constructed with the same plastic material as the roofing panels, and are tinted to reflect light so that it’s dimmer and cooler indoors.”
I nod, interested in the topic, but uncomfortable at how he’s taken complete control of the situation. I hadn’t expected to run into him so soon, and I certainly hadn’t expected him to volunteer as my personal tour guide. I’d anticipated a few days to get my feet underneath me, survey my surroundings, and come up with an actual plan.
“Here we are.” He motions to a building with a black sign indicating “COFFEE.” “This place isn’t too bad; their coffee is the closest to what we’re used to. Some of the newer places have some crazy flavors. I tried a cheeseburger macchiato once; it’s not nearly as good as it sounds.”
He guides me into the revolving doors, and I brace myself, not sure what to expect. A soothing ambiance of warm earth tones greets me, and my shoulders drop in relief. This could easily be a coffee shop in my present-day New York, except for the computerized order screens and the names floating above each barista’s head—courtesy of my PVD.
“Retro coffee shops are in style,” Chandler says. Smooth jazz wafts from the speakers. I think it’s Kenny G, which is a bit anachronistic with the rest of the décor, but besides that, they’ve done a fine job making it feel very “early 21st century.”
“I come here when I get nostalgic.” Chandler gestures to a round, wooden table in a quiet corner. “I’ll buy.”
His behavior is curious, but I don’t feel threatened, so I sit. At the front counter, Chandler places the order, leaving me to rein in my thoughts. There are a million questions I need to ask, and they all bombard my mind at the same time. He returns with our coffee—hot steam rising lazily from the cups—before I can even prioritize them.
“I’ve decided to stay here,” he says abruptly, taking his seat.
“Excuse me?” My train of thought has now been entirely derailed.
“That was what you were wondering, wasn’t it?”
I cock my head to one side, studying him. “Why?”
“Oh, I have my reasons right here.” He tugs the corner of a piece of paper from his pocket.
“What is it?”
Chandler gulps down his coffee like he’s taking a shot. “It’s a message from a friend, containing information about my future—or what will be my future if I go back. Frankly, I don’t like how things turn out, so I’m staying here instead.”
“You can’t do that. It’s against the Rules.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve broken every time travel rule and probably created a dozen paradoxes, but what can I say?” He shrugs nonchalantly, as if destroying the time-space continuum were only as reproachable as breaking his grandma’s favorite vase. “Here, I can start over, make a new life for myself, and enjoy myself a bit. Plus, the Punch-In is excellent.”
“Punch-In?”
“Yup. Punch-In is one of my favorite things about the future. Restaurants send out electronically coded menus, so whenever you want to order something, you just punch the buttons. Bam, it shows up on your doorstep ten minutes later. It’s like take-out, but a million times better.”
That makes me laugh despite myself. Of all the things in this amazing future, the improvements to take-out are what impress him the most. Figures.
“I suppose once you get over the disappointment that a hundred years into the future, they still haven’t manufactured flying cars, an improved method of takeout might seem pretty exciting,” I say.
“Well of course they don’t have flying cars here.” Before I can figure out if he’s joking, he continues. “The point is, I don’t want to live in a world where I already know my own future, or the world’s future. It’s boring knowing how everything turns out.”
“So this is, what, some sort of existential crisis?”
“Something like that.” He looks over my shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face. “Of course, maybe it’s all inevitable anyway. You PITTA Retrievers know quite a bit about time travel, right?”
I nod. The strap of my watch suddenly seems too tight. I twist it around on my wrist.
“You tell me. How many times have you changed the past? Or your clients—how many times have they really, truly done something to alter history? Killed their own grandmother, or whatever?” His joking demeanor has taken a sudden, serious tone that makes me nervous. “Is it even possible?”
“We try not to change the past. We don’t know how it might affect things. That’s why the Rules are in place. We take them very seriously and insist our clients do as well. They’re a safeguard, in case something like the Butterfly Effect or paradoxes or chaos theory actually do exist, you know?”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about. How often have things like that happened in the time you’ve been at PITTA?”
The question makes me pause. My entire job revolves around making sure the Rules are followed, and our pre-Jump screening usually does a decent job of weeding out anyone who intends to purposely break them. My mind fixates on my last Retrieval—could our interference in 1912 have changed the past?
“I think that even if the past can change,” I say with a slight tremble in my voice, “it would have to be an incredibly large action to create an incredibly large effect in our time. Maybe our clients are making small, insignificant changes, but if they are, history would find some way of explaining the discrepancies in a logical way.”
“What do you mean?”
I search my memories for an example. Only one comes to mind. “Like The Wreck of the Titan.”
“Which is?”
“A book.” I roll my eyes, but seeing the serious look on Chandler’s face, quickly avert my gaze back to the holographic green logo on my coffee cup. “A man named Morgan Robertson wrote Futility: The Wreck of the Titan, a novella about an ‘unsinkable’ ocean liner that, one April, hits an iceberg in the North Atlantic and—due to an insufficient number of lifeboats—causes the death of over half of its 2500 passengers.”
