The only thing that makes war terrible is the lost of human life. The property destroyed can be repaired, the money spent can be replenished, and even the fields and forests can be developed again given enough time and technology. But the neatly stacked bodies that have culminated over the course of human history is the one factor that makes war the unholiest of mortal sins. One might even declare war a perfectly rational action without coming off as emotionally dead if it wasn’t for the seemingly endless row of funeral pyres the massacres leave in their wake.
It was such funerals that General Ellison often worried about. Not a funeral for Beckman of course, no one genuinely cared about that scoundrel, but the General was more concerned about the conflict that was to come. Both sides are putting all of their weight onto their heels, preparing to lunge at each other. It was only a matter of time before the fight started. Even if the General didn’t lose a single solider during a conflict, he would still erase untold amount of lives by destroying the Variants. Ellison has argued with himself in the past over the fact that Variants were never meant to exist in the first place, but such an excuse doesn’t cover up the fact that they are alive now and it will be the General’s job to kill them.
“How much longer?” the General asked his driver. The government had paid for a personal vehicle for the General, which was considered quite a luxury given what mass transit had become. Ellison would have wished for the promised future of flying cars and personal teleporters, but such things always seemed just beyond the horizon. Fusion power had eventually solved a great deal of energy problems, but it wasn’t the cheap fix all that scientists dreamed about. Centuries ago the General’s ancestors traded the dung of animal transportation for the noise and pollution of automobiles. And now the people of this time have traded that for radiation and overcrowded speed trains.
“Just a couple for minutes Sir,” the driver replied.
General Ellison wasn’t entirely sure why he asked his question. From his window he watched as the driver passed Delancey St., and knew they were almost there. His question was probably just impulse to fill the silence. Not that the city itself was silent. Truth was that New York City had maintained its reputation for being the loudest place on the planet Earth for centuries. But the vehicle itself was shielded against varies types of small arms fire and all types of sound detectable by the human ear. And the General grew up around the noise that this city was so famous for. Any period of prolonged silence and Ellison felt compelled to speak just to make sure his ears still worked. In many ways it made the city very endearing to him and he fell in love with the noise that most people would despise.
He wasn’t a native New Yorker in the true sense of the term. The General was born and raised in Yonkers, a relatively small city that sat in the shadow of the Bronx. Yonkers had spent the last hundred years successfully keeping itself from being absorbed by the ever expanding size and height of New York. But ever since Ellison was old enough to escape the small Jewish commune he grew up in, he had traveled into the city to find adventure and typical adolescent mischief. Such adventuring created a profound love of the city just south of his home. And not just because he lost his virginity on the Coney Island Ferris Wheel.
The vehicle turned off the crowded streets and down into an underground parking lot. A private facility for members of the Archetype force to be taken quietly up to the seemingly normal office building above. The security in and around the building seemed lax, but that was to just give the impression that nothing here was important. “Hiding in plain sight” would be the statement the General would use. Advice stolen from some ancient spy, but still relevant in any era.
The parking area was covered in concrete to give it the appearance of an old building, but the composite was reinforced with the latest in plastic polymers. The stuff wasn’t any thicker than the General’s wrinkled index finger, but was stronger than ten feet of Titanium. Ellison upgraded the building with the plastic once he assumed command. In his youth he drove a tank made of similar stuff, and knew from experience it was worth the investment.
Once the vehicle came to a stop, the young driver stepped out to open the door for the General, but Ellison had already stepped out before the driver could react. The General spent his twenty-second birthday laying in a ditch overflowing with filth somewhere in Xinjiang, and experiences like that keep people from coddling you. The driver took the hint and followed the General, always staying two steps behind.
Ellison walked up to an elevator and pushed the call button. The door opened instantly given that elevators were no longer made out of metal boxes and weak cables. They were faster, more dependably, and could even be used in the event of a fire. A person from a hundred years ago might think humanity would outgrow the need for elevators, but a person from a thousand years ago might say the same thing about the wheel.
The General rode the elevator alone up to the top floor upon which he entered a dark room with three bright white lines circling around the edges of the wall every few feet. Each circle was a scanner to confirm the General’s identity and to make sure he wasn’t carrying anything he wasn’t supposed to. He had already been scanned by six different types of devices once the vehicle he was riding in entered the parking lot, but those had been far more discrete. The final three were designed to be so intrusive that even the General’s own mother would be a poorer means of identification. Ellison called the series of scanners “The Viper”. The Crotalinae, commonly known as pit vipers, have nine senses that make them near perfect ambush predators. At least that is what the doctors told Ellison in Burma after one bit him in the leg.
After the scanners had finished with the General, the door in front of him opened and allowed him access to the building. Ellison made several turns down a few hallways on a direct course for the briefing room. He passed a few guards on patrol and the encounters were accompanied with the standard salutes. Some of the high ranking members of the Archetypes questioned the need for tightened internal security, but it’s something the General insisted on since his arrival. Fortress Syndrome is the belief that internal defenses are unimportant if you have a secured perimeter. But the problem Ellison realized was that the enemy can always see your outer defenses, and find a way past them.
The doors to the briefing room opened automatically to the General’s approach and swiftly sealed themselves behind him. Out of the dozen people who had encircled the room, only a couple of them were actually military and quickly saluted Ellison. The rest were civilians who only gave Ellison a kind glance. However there was one person sitting in the far corner that didn’t even look up from her portable display. She was the only person who had authority over the General outside of God. The overseer of all things Archetype, Director Ayesha Singh.
“Do you know what I was doing this morning General?” Director Singh asked, being completely rhetorical and a complete bitch at the same time. “I was taking the day off to stay in bed. Not sleeping mind you. I had my hands over this beautiful blonde about half my age. She had that pale smooth skin that I really like with beautiful taught breasts. And she only charged a hundred an hour.”
The Indian Director then took her eyes off her display and stood from her seat. The small mass of people that had gathered in the room moved out of her way as she slowly strutted towards the General.
Despite her having to rush on the General’s call for an emergency meeting, she still managed to dress in her usual unprofessional manner. Her long black hair was tied in a spiral lying horizontal along her skull. It started just above her forehead and flowed back before it started to become braided as it trailed downward and finally stopped at the small of her back. She wore dress pants that were custom made out of some black material only someone of her high salary could afford and they perfected fitted her curved form. The business jacket that accompanied it was made out of the same fabric and was equally expensive and figure fitting. Under her jacket was a skin tight shirt that was only buttoned half way up her chest and purposely opened at the top to display her breasts covered in the fanciest of push up bras. For extra enticement she also wore a black tie that laid between her cleavage and was tucked into her open shirt.
The General was old enough to see through what her outfit was designed to do, but he had little authority over the Director’s appearance. Plus, such was the fashion of the time and the sultry.
“My apologies,” Ellison replied as Director Singh stood in front of him. “But this couldn’t wait.”
“I’ve read the summary you posted for this meeting about five times,” Singh spoke, turning around and returning to her seat. “And I still don’t understand what was so important about this Beckman character. The Variants didn’t break any rules. And if this guy was so kamabakhta important, why didn’t you place him under our protection?”
“The man himself was unimportant,” the General explained. “If you turn to your personal displays you’ll find that I sent you several files on Beckman. In truth, he was a two timer who had it coming.”
In 2167 everyone, rich, poor, and all the in betweens, had some kind of personal display that kept them fed with a constant stream of information. Some would have a projector wrapped around their wrist that would beam up a holographic interface. Others would wear glasses that could react to their surroundings and eye movement. And the truly eccentric would have implants to feed it directly into their brains. Most opted out of the last option because it required major surgery every two to three years to update and maintain the implants. The Director used many external interfaces to streamline her work, but General Ellison was able to send out the meeting alert with a literal blink of the eye. But the General didn’t really choose to go the implant route. Such procedures were required of combat soldiers.
“Then why are we here General?” Singh asked impatiently.
“Because,” Ellison explained. “Within forty eight hours, we’ll be engaged in open war with the Variants.”
* * *
“Gravity is God,” said Professor Jackson Hammer to his class of freshmen. He wasn’t trying to be philosophical, it’s just how he always introduces the subject of temporal physics to the new meat. “This is not because it is one of the four fundamental forces of nature. Not because it governs the motion of inertial objects. Not because modern science can manipulate it to the point we put a human into almost any point of the past like a badly placed bet. It is because gravity is the ruling conundrum of the universe. Despite all that the human race has achieved by the latter half of the twenty-second century, we still don’t know gravity as well as we should. We have people living on Mars, traveling through time, and walking around with cybernetic implants. Yet every time science answers a question about gravity, three more take its place. It is the force that moves and molds the universe and we are no closer to truly understanding its complete purpose than we were when Newton watched apples fall from their trees.”
Professor Hammer, a rather scrawny pastel man by most male standards, took a moment to catch his breath. The ciliary muscle in his eye adjusted the plastic layering over his cornea that corrected his nearsightedness. The action was useful to observe whether or not the students in his lecture hall took in what he just said.
As the producer of a recently released play might say, “The reviews were mixed”.
Some students were hanging on to every word as if the philosophical state of gravity was somehow going to be on the test. Others were completely lost either by boredom or inadequate brain capacity. A few seemed to process what he said as it was intended. If anything, it was a good gauge of who would pass, fail, and barely get by.
“But before we get into the deeper issues of temporal physics,” Dr. Hammer continued. “We’ll begin our first lecture on a subject everyone here should be familiar with. The present.”
The professor activated his personal holographic interface and began to inscribe words that would appear behind him on the large display that replaced blackboards uncountable decades ago. And the two words that became highlighted in front of the students was “The Current”.
“Does anyone know what the Current is?” Dr. Hammer asked.
There was one raised hand among the students. The hand belonged to a girl that was young even by freshmen standards. Tested as a genius, she had violet eyes and white hair that was shaved into a mohawk but was grown fairly long and draped over some of the right side of her head. This female student took medicine to increase the amount of melanin in her system, but only enough to walk out into the sun and not a drop more. Much like her brain, she considered her albinism to be a trait, not a weakness.
“Someone besides the genius?” the professor remarked.
Dr. Hammer panned over the lecture hall several times and only the young girl’s arm remained raised. Her stance was strong and unwavering, and no one dared challenge her dominance in this arena. She would answer this question or none at all. The professor could only sigh and resign himself to what was almost certainly would be her correct answer.
“Yes Ms. Kompan?”
“It is the forward flow of time across all timelines that we consider the present,” she answered.
“Yes. And why is the Current so important in terms of time travel?”
“Because time continues on regardless. If someone uses time travel to go into the past, the present he comes from is still moving forward. For example, if you spend five hours in the past you have to return to the point five hours after you left. If you return to the moment you left, you would still technically be in the past.”
“Repeatedly doing that is also a very good way to age quickly,” the professor added. “The first time travelers found that their exhibitions to the past caused an increasing lag between their age and what they assumed was the present. They knew that going into the future was impossible so they thought they had to return to the time when they left. Spending a few days in the past every month or so really adds up after a while. Some of the very first travelers died in their early fifties even though their bodies had aged well into their hundreds. It wasn’t until scientists learned that the present is always pushing forward that time travelers stopped simply returning to the moment they left.”
One student raised his hand to ask a question, and Professor Hammer quickly acknowledged him.
“Why is it impossible to go the future?” the student asked.
“Because the future doesn’t exist yet,” the genius answered for the professor.
The questioning student then turned to Ms. Kompan to begin a conversation, “But then how can things from the future be smuggled here to our time. Every other week there is a story on the feed about the rising use of future contraband.”
“People from the future can visit us, but we can’t visit them,” she explained.
“But why? The future obviously exists, then why can’t we go there?”
“It doesn’t exist for us,” she continued. “The first thing you need to learn about time travel is that it isn’t about logic, it’s about physics. We can’t go to the future because it doesn’t exist from our point in time. It doesn’t matter if you can logically deduce that the future will become reality someday.”
“But we’re not here to learn about time travel,” the professor interrupted. “We’re here to learn the basics of the physical laws that make time travel possible. Though it would seem some of us are exceedingly overqualified for this class.”
Professor Hammer gave Anastasia Kompan a snarky glance and continued on with the lecture. She leaned back in her chair with a slight grin of superiority. The other students ignored her posturing, but mentally stroking one’s ego is for their own benefit and not of others. Intelligent adults are capable of being aware of their own skills and limits, but there is something emotionally satisfying of having your excellence in a ability quantified. The white haired girl’s satisfaction didn’t expand her smugness to the extent that she was insufferable, but it was close.
The professor didn’t interrupt his own lecture again with a question to the class because he already knew the outcome. He just proceeded to teach the fundamentals of temporal physics and how gravity effects time. Kompan already know much of this from her real life experiences but paid attention to the lecture nonetheless. Being a genius was no excuse to be lazy.
After a couple of hours, the lecture ran its course and everyone was dismissed for the day. Anastasia, along with everyone else, quickly left the hall to forage the nearby area for food. Regardless of the level of someone’s intelligence, everyone is a slave to the needs of their body.
The university grounds had a large courtyard just outside the main lecture halls where students, especially couples, would study or eat in the sunlight filtered by the dome overhead. Kompan walked the sidewalk that outlined the courtyard under the cover of shade that was held up by a row of pillars. Even filtered sunlight would pester her skin if exposed for too long. She preferred the indoor cafeteria that always had a diverse menu of well processed food that was cheap and easy.
As she was walking along, her wrist display alerted her to an incoming call. She quickly glanced at her wrist to see who was calling her to make sure it wasn’t another male admirer looking to take up her valuable time. The caller was male, but one would hardly call him a suitor. Without even stopping her stride, she activated her display and a holographic image of Michael Donovan appeared.
“Anastasia,” Donovan greeted, but didn’t wait for a response. “I have a few things I would like to discuss with you. Do you have some time to talk?”
“If you don’t mind the sound of me chewing with my mouth open,” she replied and punctuated her statement with a giggle.
Donovan sighed but continued with his proposal, “I was thinking about taking you to lunch. Somewhere quiet and serves food humans were meant to process.”
“Physically take me to lunch?” Anastasia asked. “Where are you anyway?”
“You just passed me.”
Kompan suddenly stopped walking and turned around. To her left, leaning against one of the pillars, was Michael Donovan looking just over the frame of his display at Anastasia. He was wearing a long trench coat and the suit he always wore underneath. Hardly the style to fit in among the young adults of the university, but he was not really trying to do so. Trying to blend in at his age would only make himself look foolish. Besides, even when he was their age, he wasn’t up to date on what the current style was anyway.
“Uncle Mike!” Anastasia cheered and ran to embrace him. Being almost half a meter shorter than him, she had to reach up to hug his neck. Michael made it easier on her by bending down slightly. Then after several moments she let go of her uncle.
“How is my favorite niece?” he asked, trying to be endearing.
“I’m your only niece.”
“I know. That’s how I can say you’re my favorite without anyone else feeling jealous.”
Anastasia shook her head at her uncle being so delightfully old before speaking again, “To answer your question, I’m bored. I’m already above everyone at this school. It’s nothing like the days of secretly working for you.”
“Things were getting dangerous,” Donovan recalled. “Like it or not, you’re my sister’s kid. That’s why I had to distance you from the organization I work for.”
“And is that why we never see you at family gatherings?” Anastasia asked accusingly.
“I visited last Christmas,” Michael rebutted.
“You visited last Christmas two years ago,” Anastasia said, then giving him a hurtful stare.
“I’m sorry. Saying that I was busy would under quantify how hellish my life can be. But such regret is a distraction to why I’m here. I have a job offer.”
“What about my schooling?” Anastasia asked. “And what about things getting ‘dangerous’?”
“The job is strictly short term. You’ll be back embarrassing your professors before any emotional scars can heal,” Donovan said, but then taking a second before continuing. “As for the situation being dangerous… In truth it’s getting dangerous for everyone. Even for the innocents on the sidelines. Not being a part of what we do isn’t going to make anyone safe if war breaks out.”
Anastasia didn’t verbalize a reply. She just spent a moment to think about the situation. It was hard to gauge her reaction however. Her face couldn’t get any paler.
“But to the job in question,” Donovan continued. “It’s going to require you to work with one of my agents. You might remember him. His name is Jonathan Snyder.”
“Oh yes, I do remember him. Black hair. Always brooding. He was… cute.”
Anastasia then giggled. And it prompted Donovan to roll his eyes.
“Even if he was in a less violent form of employment,” Donovan said, objecting to his niece’s infatuation. “He is still a good deal older than you. Your mother wouldn’t approve to be sure.”
“It’s the twenty-second century Uncle Mike. All the girls my age have at least one older gentleman to buy things for us.”
Anastasia then give the girlish smile she has been displaying since she was three. In all the time he has known her, Donovan has never able to tell if that smile meant she was kidding or not.
“Regardless if you think he is cute or not, this job will require you to behave like an adult,” Donovan said, starting to wonder if this was a bad idea.
“Of course,” Anastasia said gleefully. Then she paused for a moment and used her hand to examine her hair, as if she was thinking about its condition in-depth before her violet eyes went back to her uncle. “Do you think Jonathan likes girls with mohawks?”
* * *
Mark H. Banner, the first man to travel through time and live to tell about it, said that the process was the single most painful experience of his life. Barbara Simone, the first woman to travel through time and live to tell about it, said the process was slightly less painful than child birth.
The anecdote crossed Jonathan Snyder’s mind as he waited in the dilapidated Thai safe house. The story didn’t cause any alarm in him though. Technology had improved enough by his time that traveling through it did not surge the senses. It was still an unsettling experience, but no longer simulates the feeling of being crushed to death. For Snyder, being pulled back to the present will just feel like being hugged warmly by a complete stranger.
Though, Snyder would probably prefer the sensation of a trash compactor.
Jonathan took another look at his watch and sighed when he only six minutes had pasted since he sent the TIM. A TIM, or Time Impulse Message, is how time agents in the past send messages into the future. The first Variants and Archetypes use to place coded ads in the newspapers of that time, but such a technique proved unreliable. It limited you to only time periods with newspapers and messages had been known to be intercepted on more than one occasion. Using a small nuclear fueled device carrying a data chip was far more advantageous.
Everyone, quite literally, lives in the past. The time dilation between something happening and a person perceiving it is about sixty milliseconds. So the physical present is always slightly behind of what we perceive as the present. The TIM device pushes into the future by sixty milliseconds and continues doing so until it reaches its programmed destination. The gravity force bubble that allows it to stay out of the observation of reality not only transports it the physical location it needs to be, but also keep the device safe in a type of temporal stasis. And the device carries with it a data chip that acknowledges the success of Snyder’s mission, and the coordinates of when and where he can be plucked from the past. The only problem was that retrieval wasn’t an exact science. The lag between the message and actual pick up averaged out to be about ten minutes. Hence the waiting.
In a vain attempt to pass what few remaining moments Snyder had left in the backwards time period of 2013, he started to flip a quarter he always kept in his pocket. Solid currency was a rarity in 2167, but there was always some from the discontinued system lying about. Tossing the coin into the air right before retrieval was the closest thing to a game Jonathan ever played. If he was pulled back into the present while the coin was in the air, it would stay in the past. If Snyder was still touching it during retrieval, then it would travel with him. He would even count to himself to make sure the time the coin spent in the air was equal to the time it spent in his hand. There was no real point to it though. In Jonathan’s mind, it’s what passed for fun.
After using his thumb to toss the coin into the air over two dozen times, the pressure of time travel started to affect Snyder. There is a slight slowing of time right as the gravity field forms. Jonathan watched the quarter spin in midair, reaching its apex, but then just floating in midair instead of coming back down. The tranquil moment of all sight and sound slowing to its most minuet movements, lasts for only fractions of a second. There is then an even briefer moment where everything stops cold in a silence that only the dead could possibly know.
Jonathan Snyder then disappeared without a trace from the year 2013. Only his coin remained to land on the floor. The relic of hard currency fell to its side and spun several times before friction brought it to a stop.
