Category: Writing

Todd believed he had hit bottom.  The chair in which he sat felt other worldly, despite it being his familiar comfy chair in the living room.  His wineglass was real, but he had lost count of the drinks.  He noticed his shallow breathing and feared this could get worse – beyond bad health and the crushing guilt.

His daughter was dead and his wife had gone: off to relatives to grieve and Todd had not been invited.  It was Christmas Eve, about 10 PM, on a snowy Toronto night.  In the past, the snow and festive lights would have made him smile.  He had memories of snowball fights and laughter with his family.  But his home was utterly devoid of the trappings of the season.  His daughter had been dead a month and the weight on Todd’s chest was growing.

“That weight isn’t grief; it’s the start of congestive heart failure.”

Todd lurched slightly in his chair.  He was not expecting visitors and he did not recognize the teenaged boy in front of him.

“Who?” gasped Todd.

“I’ll be your ghost transitioning you to the afterlife this evening.”

Todd dropped his wine glass and managed to blurt out, “go ‘way.”

“No can do.  But I do have extra thrills for your death this evening.  First though, let’s remove your symptoms.”

Todd was abruptly sober and feeling much better.

“How?”

“It’s magic, Todd.”

“Who are you?”

“My name was John Smythe – when I was alive.  Now I’m just ‘that dead kid’ when people see me.”

Even with a clear head, Todd was hesitant.  He stood from his chair and circled around John, who seemed substantial enough, but Todd was unwilling to touch.

“If you are supposed to be taking me to the afterlife, why sober me up?”

“Christmas is a special night due to the power of all the celebrations.  It gives spirits an extra kick.  Of course Jesus wasn’t born in December, but the winter solstice is a powerful time.  The first glimmer of hope.  The first time the light starts to push back the dark.”

Todd had heard the argument that the early Christians had moved their major celebration closer to the solstice to compete with the pagans, but connecting more daylight and Christ bringing hope to the world hadn’t crossed his mind.  But this academic thought was pushed aside by the peculiarity of his situation.

“Assuming this isn’t some extraordinary hallucination, why would you cure me to tell me I’m dying?”

“It’s irony, Todd.  However, postponing your death is not all that was behind Door Number 3!”

Suddenly Todd faced a card table that groaned under the weight of a pile of comic books.  They were mostly superheroes like Superman and Spider-man.

“Hey.  Those are mine.  Aren’t they …”

“Yes they are in storage, Todd, still safe in their plastic bags and containers.  But I summoned the image of them here for you.  I have to admire a man in his mid-forties who has managed to keep his comic book collection.”

Todd passed his hand through the ghostly comics.  John nodded and the comics started moving – as if ghostly hands were sorting out the piles – enabling him to see the covers.  The X-Men, Avengers, the Justice League of America and more all passed in front of Todd’s eyes.

“And the relevance of this?”

“Superhero for the night, Todd.  Well, until sunrise at 7:50 AM.”

Todd laughed; it felt unfamiliar.  “Right.  I get to be Superman and run around in tights and get arrested or locked in the nuthouse.”

“No, no Todd.  You will receive real superpowers; tights are optional.  There are of course a few limitations.  Funny you should mention Superman.  All the faster than the speed of light crap that he does in the comics, I can’t give you.  Time travel, I can’t give you.  Teleportation, I can’t give you.  These are just not possible.  Oh, and interstellar space travel is possible, but you won’t get anywhere interesting before morning.”

“No time travel?  What kind of Christmas ghost are you?”  Todd was using a teasing voice and John new it.

“That’s the spirit, Todd, if you’ll pardon the pun.  I am bound by some essential laws of physics.  However, depending on the hero, you could be highly manoeuvrable.”

Todd was looking at the comic books and he decided to play along with this fantasy.  He knew what he’d do, were he a superhero, but his favourite ones weren’t powerful enough.  “John, what if I asked for some specific powers of a couple of heroes?”

“You mean make your own superhero?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A Green Lantern style power ring, but without the stupid weakness against the colour yellow …”

“They took that silly bit away in later years of the comic,” said John.

“Oh, good,” Todd continued, “and if the ring goes off, or runs out of power or something, I want to have Superman invulnerability, strength and speed.”

“Sounds like a plan, but you can only move up to 1100 km/h, a little under the speed of sound.  Here’s the agreement,” said John.  “You get to do whatever you want until morning.  I accompany you as your spirit guide, at the end of the time, you revert to your drunken state to die.”

“OK, but I don’t see the point of this,” said Todd.

“The point is what you make it.”  John made a gesture with his hand and said, “Take a look in the mirror.”

Todd walked into the hallway and looked in the mirrors on the sliding closet door.  He inhaled abruptly.  He barely recognized himself.  He had never been that buff.  He lifted up his t-shirt and saw a six pack of muscles on his stomach.  On his the ring finger of his right hand was a red glowing ring.  It was a simple platinum band without any markings.

“I rigged up the ring so that it takes your verbal or silent commands.  Basically it is an ultra compact artificial intelligence computer with pretty much unlimited energy to deploy.”  John looked at Todd.

Todd simply stared at the ring.

“Tell it to do something, Todd.”  John rolled his eyes as if to say get on with it.

“Ring, can you make me fly?” asked Todd.

The ring’s response was a voice in Todd’s head: Yes.

Todd lived in a large two bedroom condo with a deck looking out at Toronto’s Bloor West Village.  He slid the door open and stepped out into the cold air of the snowy night.  With an unspoken voice, he asked the ring to erect a force field to keep him warm and to float him slightly above the deck’s surface.  “Ring, when I’m flying about, please cloak me or something.  I don’t want to be seen.”

Done.

Flying was trickier than Todd imagined.  It took time to be comfortable sending quick course corrections to the ring as he flew to his destination, namely 22 Division of the Toronto Police on Bloor Street West.  With it being Christmas Eve, all the streets he could see were lit with holiday lights.  It almost made him feel Christmassy.

He stood, invisible, in front of the police station.  “Ring,” Todd whispered, “can you adjust our molecules so that we can slip in unnoticed?”

Proceeding.

Todd literally walked through the door, through the reception area and searched for the desk of Officer Russo, who was responsible for Todd’s daughter’s case.  The building was nearly empty.

“What are you doing?”  John appeared at Todd’s side as he sat down at Officer Russo’s desk.

“I assume you know about my daughter.”

“Yes, so?”

“The thing that has been consuming me is how she got the bad Ecstasy in the first place.  Even had I been the most out-to-lunch dad and missed a drug problem, the Ecstasy she took was made with Crystal Meth in it.  Even if she hadn’t had the allergic reaction, she’d have been addicted to Meth pretty quickly.  I want to know what the cop knows.”

“Batman was the detective superhero you know.”

“When you were alive, and gave people Christmas presents, did you criticize them for how they used them?”

“Ha ha. Ha ha.  Get on with it.  I was hoping you would do something fun, like interrupt George W. Bush’s Christmas Eve.”

“The night is young.  Ring, can you access Officer Russo’s files on the computer?”  Of course.  “I need all files pertaining to my daughter.”

The ring projected a screen in front of Todd and started showing him files, emails, and database entries.  Todd started reading.

“Can you go into the police files and show me all drug related deaths of teens going back ten years?”  Proceeding.

Todd started reading case files.

Time passed.  John started pacing and shaking his head in exasperation.  “Todd.  What are you doing?  I haven’t been this bored since my funeral.  By the way, Merry Christmas.”

Todd looked at the clock on the desk.  It was closing in on 1 AM.  “Bah, humbug.  Somebody has been supplying drugs into the Bloor West neighbourhood and has been doing it surreptitiously.  This makes me think it’s someone local and long term.”

Todd had the ring organize information by home address, school attended, age and gender.  When divided by neighbourhood, the Bloor West area had a slightly higher rate than North Toronto, Rosedale, Forest Hill and even The Annex.

“Ring, let’s go back another ten years.”  Proceeding.

A name in the now long and depressing list of children who’d died from illegal drug use jumped out at Todd.  He took an over-the-shoulder glimpse at the ghost and thought, he did say his name was John Smythe, right?  The ring responded: yes.

Todd looked closer at the record: 1985.  Cocaine overdose.  Same school as his daughter.  This made Todd think.  “Ring, can you do a geographic profile like they do for theft and sexual assaults?  An analysis of where the lab the bad guy operates would be?”

Of course.

Todd had the impression that the ring was feeling under utilized.

The ring displayed a map of the area and Russell Collegiate was the hot spot on the analysis.  Same school as his daughter.

Apart from boring a ghost to tears, Todd achieved nothing more than proving the obvious.  The drug that had killed his daughter came from her school.  A ‘what’ but no ‘who.’  The computer data that the ring had magically accessed and collated was inorganic.  He needed a hunch.  Which made Todd wonder aloud, “don’t cops keep written notes?”

“They’re locked in his desk,” said John.  “Officer Russo didn’t want to take them home on Christmas.  If I had a body, Todd, it would be slumped over his desk in boredom.”

Ring? asked Todd.  The desk drawer glowed slightly and then opened.

Todd flipped through the bound notebooks.  He admired Officer Russo’s neat and deliberate handwriting while skimming, looking for related dates and pages.  Suddenly a passage jumped out at him.

“Carl Jenkins, 25 year teacher on staff, was helpful – almost obsequious – and in a way that kind of creeped me out.  It was as if he were enjoying the attention.  I will have to check his background.”

Mr. Jenkins was a chemistry teacher and had taught Todd’s daughter the year before.  There were no further references to him in Officer Russo’s notes.  Then, in the way you remember a first kiss – or your first heartbreak – Todd had a blinding memory.  About a year and half ago, his daughter was heading out to school saying she would be home late because she had to help Carl with setting up a class project.  Todd recalled raising an eyebrow as to say, “Carl who?”

“Oh,” she said, “Mr. Jenkins … my chemistry teacher.  See ya Dad.”

Todd didn’t really like the thoughts going through his head.  Russell Collegiate was fairly formal and he didn’t remember hearing teachers being called by their first name very often.  What had he missed?  Chemistry teacher.  Drugs.

“You look like you just ate a cat sideways,” said John.

“Let’s you and me go back to school,” Todd said.

***

Russell Collegiate was over 125 years old and the basement, where Todd and the ring started the search, was eerily quiet and dimly lit in the wee Christmas hours.  The ring was using an imaging ray to let Todd see behind the walls.  The effect reminded Todd of Superman’s x-ray vision.  It didn’t take too long to find a locked door hidden behind a false wall.  The ring provided more detail of the lab hidden behind the door.  It was an amazing amount of reclaimed space.  What once had been a shooting range (long ago it had been part of a lad’s education to learn to shoot a rifle) had been converted into a drug lab.  Clever hacks into the school’s furnace, plumbing and ventilation systems made for a very clean disposal of the evidence of illegal drug manufacture.  Almost as if to flaunt the chemist’s audacity, everything was neatly labelled and instruction folders, with batch history, were in an old filing cabinet.  No direct hint of the identity of the ‘cook’ was apparent.

“You knew this was here, didn’t you?” asked Todd.

John shrugged and smiled.

Thooom.

“What was that?” asked Todd.

It was John’s turn to look like he’d eaten something revolting.

Todd was going to ask what, but the ring said, proximity aler …

And then it hit.  Todd caught the movement in the periphery, but by then an orange force field came up around him and he was knocked off his feet and through the basement ceiling.

Todd came to rest in the drama classroom on the far end of the third and topmost floor of Russell Collegiate.  He was unhurt, but there was a visible hole in the floor from where he had emerged.  Wood, drywall and other building debris surrounded him.

Ring is now powering down for repair cycle.

“What?  Ring?  Ring?”

John Smythe formed into existence beside Todd.  “Hey Todd … yeah man, the ring has to recharge.”

“But you said …”

“I know, but I didn’t think you’d encounter a super bad guy.”

“What?”

“I have what you’d call a nemesis … another ghost who likes to mess up what I’m doing.  The ring just saved you from literally being put into orbit.”

“Orbit?”

“Yeah.  The monster coming up the stairs right now is a drug wholesaler to whom the other ghost gave the powers of The Hulk.”

“Oh shit.”

Thooom.

“Remember, you still have Superman’s invulnerability, strength and speed.  Just like you requested.”

As a test, Todd grabbed one of those metal desk-chair combos that everyone hated in school and crushed it barehanded.  The creature that broke through the door was not green, but grey, eight feet high and made the comic drawings of The Hulk look like a beautiful woman.  The face was contorted and the skin pock-marked, dry and flaking.

“Get ready to die, shit head,” growled the monster.

As fast and as hard as he could, Todd threw thirty desks at the hulk-creature in rapid succession.  It made little difference; soon Todd was dodging punches at close quarters.  Despite being unable to be hurt, Todd did not want to be knocked half way around the planet.  He elbowed the creature in the ear and tried to shift it off balance.

“So, want to tell me what we’re fighting about?” asked Todd.

“Just hold still a minute and I’ll tell you.”

Todd tucked and rolled and toppled the monster.

“You one of Carl’s customers?”  Todd decided a shot in the dark was better than nothing.

“You fuckin’ moron … he’s my supplier.”  Todd lost a microsecond thinking about this bit of information and was smacked through the wall of the drama classroom, across the hall and through one wall of the physics classroom.  The drug lab in the basement belonged to Carl Jenkins and this monster was protecting his drug supply.

The hulk-creature pushed aside more of the wall and entered the classroom.  The monster swung and Todd caught his massive hand and held.  The other monster arm was raised to strike and Todd grabbed that one by the wrist with his comparatively miniscule hand.  They were in a deadlock.

“So you are part of the process of murdering children.”

“The ghost said you were some kind of dipshit.”  The monster spoke through gritted teeth.  Each of them dug in with their feet; the floor under them groaned with the strain.  “A man’s gotta make a livin’.  If it weren’t me, someone else would sell it.”

Todd gasped, “I guess if the Waffen-SS set up a recruiting centre, you’d line up to get a job exterminating enemies of the state.”

“Whatever.  I’m a part of Darwin.  Hopefully the stupid kids who buy Jenkin’s high quality junk won’t reproduce.  Besides, I’m the middleman.  The moron junkie dealers I sell to pick their clients.”

Their deadlock continued.  They were both sweating now, unable to speak, unwilling to give ground.

Todd saw John materialize.  Soon another boy materialized, leaning nonchalantly against a lab bench.  “John lad, this interesting battle has come to a standstill.”

“Todd,” said John, “this Irish scumbag you see is the other ghost.  He gave your opponent his powers.  His name was Jimmy Gallagher.”

“You see Todd,” said Jimmy, “when John called on the powers beyond to equip you with your strength, he gave me the chance to do the same.  Equal and opposite reactions and all.”

Todd dearly wished he could make them shut up.  Maintaining the deadlock required concentration and a means of breaking the deadlock was elusive.

“Jimmy was on the list,” said John.

List? List?  Give me a break, thought Todd.  But then he remembered.  John Smythe was on a drug overdose list from the 80s.  So was a James Gallagher.  Same date.

Ring is now back.  How may I assist?

Two high energy blasts to the eyes of this monster please.

The hulk-creature roared in pain.  The deadlock was broken.

Ring, please put a force field around him and contain him.

      This will hold for only four minutes.

The monster pounded against the invisible barrier.

“OK, boy-ghosts, it’s time to tell the story.  Your story.”

“Screw you,” said Jimmy.

“Todd, we’re ghosts.  We’re not supposed to talk much.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Todd was again going to be wrestling with an eight-foot monster if he didn’t do something.  He needed time to think.  “Ring, can you generate the equivalent of a medical beam that will dissolve tissue?” Yes.  “OK, please dissolve the monster’s cartilage and ligaments in his knees and elbows.”

“What?” bellowed the hulk-creature.

In thirty seconds he collapsed in a heap, screaming in pain, with his limbs splayed in awkward and unnatural directions.  “Ring, maintain the force field.  He’s likely to repair himself.  How long?”

The creature will regenerate in approximately fifteen minutes.

“Please have the force field cancel out his yells.”

Done.

“Ahhh, that’s better.  OK ghosties, I need to know things.”

“Sod off,” said Jimmy.

“John, if I were communicating with you via a medium or something like a Ouija board, you’d be able to answer yes/no questions fairly easily, right?”

“Yes.”

“OK, did Carl Jenkins kill you?”

The ghost hesitated.

“He provided the drugs that killed you.”

“Yes.”

“Did you and Jimmy die at the same time?”

“Yes.”

“Did Jimmy know he was going to die?

“No.”

Todd was stumped.  He just stared at these two teenaged ghosts from the 80s.  What would motivate one to protect the man who gave him the drugs that killed him?  Why kill both boys at once?  Had Carl Jenkins really been cooking and dealing drugs for over twenty years?

“John, were you going to blow the whistle on Carl Jenkins?”

“Yes.”

“You fuckin’ ijit,” said Jimmy.  “We could have had it all … money, girls, cars.  Instead we’re stuck forever and get to watch damn fools like him [Jimmy pointed at the hulk-creature] screw it up.”

“Not forever,” said John.

“Do you think,” asked Todd, “that if Carl is stopped, you two will be set free?”

“Yes,” said John.

Todd started to cry.  Twenty years of torture.  Watching a teacher you likely once trusted go on to create more drugs, poison more children and kill them.  Like his daughter.

“Did you ever meet her … you know … after?”

“No.”

Todd stiffened his back and resolved not to cry in front of a psycho kid ghost, who has visions of being a rich and sexy drug dealer, and a monster – especially one whose limbs looked like they were getting better.

Sirens in the distance.  Russell Collegiate was right in the middle of a residential area.  It was not surprising that neighbours were concerned by the ruckus.  Todd looked at the clock on the wall.  It was just after 4 AM.

“Do hulk-creature’s powers expire when mine do?”

“Yes.”

“Ring, can you calculate a decaying orbit around the planet so that a few minutes before the powers wear off, he’ll land somewhere remote … like Easter Island?”

Yes.

“Let ‘er rip,” said Todd.  Wrapped in a force field the hulk-creature shot through the ceiling, through the roof and into the sky.  “I hope he takes in the view.”

“Ya dirty bastard.”  Jimmy vanished.

“And before the cops get here, we’ve got to do some redecorating downstairs.”

***

In the basement, Todd used the ring to cut large sections of drywall away to reveal the drug lab.  There seemed to be no self destruct mechanism or booby trap.  He hoped that the police would find the handwritten notes and make a solid connection to Jenkins.

“Ring, I assume you can send a text message.”

Of course.

“I think Officer Russo should be told, ‘Drug lab at Russell Collegiate.  Extensive damage.  Insecure scene.’

Done.

***

Todd sat on the exterior of the observation deck of the CN Tower.  The ring protected him from the elements and kept him in place.  The view was terrific: snow, festive lights and wonderfully quiet at 5 AM.

He kind of hoped a sleigh with Santa would fly by.

Time was running out.  Sunrise was less than three hours away.  According to the ghost he would revert to his original condition and die.  Todd had a lot of last wishes.

He flew to London, Ontario in ten minutes, normally a two and a half hour drive.  He passed through the window of the room in which his wife was sleeping.  Her parents had not done much with her room.  Old posters from the 80s.  Simon Le Bon.  Gawd.  All Todd did was sit on a chair in the room and look at her sleeping form.  It was the only time he’d seen her face without worry in a long time.  He carefully leaned over, pushed her hair back and kissed her on the temple.  Then he whispered, “Merry Christmas.”

“Todd?” she muttered, but he was gone and she returned to sleep.

***

Another ten minute flight back to Toronto led to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Carl Jenkins.  That appellation was what was on their return address labels for their Christmas cards.  Todd continued to snoop around the house.  The trappings of normalcy abounded.  A Christmas tree, pictures of the almost grown up two boys on the fridge, various cards from friends and relations.  Creepy.

Todd moved upstairs to the master bedroom and pulled up a chair.  The Jenkinses were asleep.  Todd reviewed his options.

1.  Kill him.  Problems:  Bad karma.  He didn’t like the sound of ‘Todd the vigilante.’

2.  Maim him.  See 1.

3.  Expose him.  Unless the police totally screw up the investigation at the school, that should be done.

4.  Force him to confess.

As he looked at the grey-bearded man sleeping in front of him, he felt that talking to him for any reason was a bad idea.  What would the bastard say?  And Todd worried Jenkins would tell half-truths about Todd’s daughter that would break what was left of his heart.

His impending heart failure was the real worry.  For the first time he really wanted to live.  He wanted to see the son of a bitch in jail.

Mrs Jenkins startled Todd by waking and sitting up.  “Who?”

Ring, put her back to sleep.  A power beam knocked her back onto her pillow.

“Who are you?” asked Jenkins, sitting up.

Todd used a raspy voice, asked the ring to put a red glow around him and said, “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Present.”

“Really.”

“Really.  And I’ve got one thing to tell you.  You are going down.  And I recommend that you don’t hold back when you confess.  Now go back to sleep.”  A quick blast from the ring put him back on his pillow.  “No wakey-wakey for you until after the cops do their thing at your school.”

Todd flew out of the house and saw a shed in the back yard.  It was big.  Todd pivoted in the air and shined an imaging ray on the shed.  It had a basement.  Odd thing for a shed.  He changed course and flew into the twenty foot long building.  He found a false floor.  Under it was a padlock.  He had the ring make his molecules pass through into the cellar.  There he was faced with a gallery of laminated newspaper articles.  Each one covered a death of a student, dating back to 1980.  All drug overdoses.  John Smythe and James ‘Jimmy’ Gallagher shared an article.  The most recent one was Todd’s daughter.  There were cases of amphetamines, which Todd assumed were on their way to the lab.  There was also a strongbox full of cash.

“I should have vapourized the bastard.”

The urge to throw up was fairly intense.

“Ring, get me out of here.”

Once Todd had flown high above the house, he said, “Ring, please text message Officer Russo with the message ‘Anonymous tip: Carl Jenkins has a basement hidden in his shed.  Drug lab supply and money.’

Done.

***

It was 6:05 AM.  Less than two hours left.  He had flown to Niagara Falls and had been staring at the water, snow and ice for some time.

“Here you are!” said John.

“Where have you been?”

“Nearby.”

“Do you know about Jenkins’ shed?”

“Yes.”

“How’s Jimmy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do ghosts always tell the truth?”

“No.”

“Then I have to go home.  Now.  By way of Shoppers Drug Mart.”

***

Todd was invisible while he stole Nitroglycerin and aspirin from the drug shelves.

***

Back in his condo, Todd asked the ring to remove his Superman style powers.

Done.

John Smythe appeared.  “What are you doing?  You have more than an hour left.”

Todd went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water and started taking pills.  He tried to drink as much water as he could stomach.

“I want to live long enough to send hate mail to Jenkins in his jail cell.”

Todd picked up his phone and punched in 911.  The automated machine answered.  It took a couple of seconds to reach a real person.  “I think I’m having a heart attack.”  Todd tried to sound as ill as he soon expected to feel.

He sat back in his comfy chair with the portable phone in his hand.  If possible, he wanted to be able to buzz the paramedics in.  The effect of the ring was masking both his symptoms and the possible effect of his self-prescribed drug cocktail.  He waited ten minutes and hoped help would soon arrive.

Todd took the ring off and said, “Ring, please shut off and cease all superpower effects for me.”

Done.

Todd felt horrible.

John crouched and looked into Todd’s face.  “Trying to cheat death?”

“You bet.”

December 23, 2004  

My routine had been uninterrupted for weeks.

It was 5:35 p.m. and I was returning from the gym.  Nothing was different when I keyed my security code into the door of my apartment.  (Yes, I had a special reinforced door with a dual code and key lock that the Strata council hated because it would make emergency access tougher.  But my job and job history made this a requirement.)

As always, I pulled out the sweaty clothes from my gym bag and put it in its place in the hall closet.  The clothes went into the basket inside the bathroom.  I never used a T-shirt more than once for a workout without washing.  (I have about a million T-shirts from charity runs and other events so why not use them all?) I consider myself organized, my friends find me a bit fussy and the ex-wife grew to find me an unbearable control freak.

After my shower I walked out into the living room and a man was standing in the living room looking at my trophy case.

As an ex-cop, I don’t scare easily, but this guy surprised me.  I have three guns hidden in the apartment and I was standing near none of them.  Since I was wearing nothing but a towel and a concerned look on my face, I was hardly in a position for aggressive action.

“Hi Brad; I’m Clive.  Sorry for the unexpected visit.”

“Who are you?  Why are you here and how the hell did you get in?”

“How open-minded are you feeling today?”

After that seemingly irrelevant and banal question, I realized that this guy was slightly transparent.  He looked like a white guy professor in his 50s, with a real need for a haircut, but I could faintly see my furniture through his body.  Since I couldn’t tell if I was losing it or if he was real, I put aside my urge to run for my cell phone, and played along.

“I’m much more open to intellectual conversations,” I said, “when I’m dressed.”

“Of course; go ahead.  I’ll be in your office.”

Clive walked into my office, which was adjacent to the living room, and I ran into the bedroom, threw on some clothes, grabbed my gun from under the bed – which I stuck in the back of my jeans – and headed back out.  I was hoping he’d be gone, that I’d been hallucinating or my water bottle at the gym had been spiked with something.  But sure enough, he was standing in front of one of my computers; I could see Windows Media Player loading a large file.

“What are you doing?”

“I am loading a file onto your computer.”

I really don’t like people messing with my machines.  As an independent security analyst I have a couple of bait servers hooked to the Internet that attract hackers who are trying to breach security.  This allows me to test my security set ups as well giving me a chance to catch some of the bastards.  It takes a lot of work to set these up so I get testy when people come and load media files on the system.

“Why?  Who are you?”

“As I said, my name is Clive and I’m from the future.  As you can see I’m a holographic projection.”

“And you are expecting me to believe this?”

“I am hoping so; I’m a recruiter of sorts – we need your help.”

An urge to end this discussion prevailed and I pulled my gun.

“If you shoot at me, you will put a hole in your wall,” Clive said.  “Touch me.”

“What?”

“Touch my arm; you’ll see I’m harmless.”

I reached out and when my fingers touched his jacket sleeve it felt as if I had encountered air resistance – it reminded me of the feeling when you try to push two magnets together and the magnetic fields are resisting each other.  My fingers were able to pass right through him.

“OK, I’m listening.”  I put the gun back down on a table in easy reach.

“A history lesson about my past and your future would help,” said Clive.

My computer started playing the video file.  The clip started with what was obviously a rerun of Friends and cut in with “we interrupt this broadcast for a special news bulletin.”

I didn’t recognize the broadcaster as the video was from the States somewhere, but the date on the screen was September 11, 2007.

“ABC News has just been told that about half an hour ago, three nuclear blasts were detonated in Israel.  Information is very sketchy, but the bombs went off within minutes of each other and have affected Tel Aviv, Nazareth and Beersheba.  We are now switching to our National News Center for additional coverage.”

The video cut to a different footage, later in that day.  George W. Bush was giving a speech from the Manhattan 9/11 site where he was taking part in remembrance ceremonies.

“The war on terror has taken a dramatic turn.  America is horrified and shocked at the devastation in Israel.  For this administration there can be no doubt that, in choosing this day to attack one of America’s allies, it is as if these weapons of mass destruction had been deployed on our own soil.  We will use all means available to find those responsible and bring them to justice.”

Of course I haven’t seen this video since; I am trying to recall the words as best I can.

I was starting to get pretty rattled at this point because the ability to forge or fake this kind of material would require a lot of resources and technology that just seemed too much to be wasted on a nobody ex-cop like me.  This started to make me believe Clive, which wasn’t good because I’m the suspicious type.

Clive fortunately didn’t dwell on the video footage of the relief efforts in the region and the horror and hazards faced by aide workers.  With around 600,000 dead due to the blasts and lord knows how many from radiation, it was an all around gruesome situation.  The video file finished, having only covered the highlights of the first few days following the blasts.

“To make this faster, I’ll tell you the ‘highlights’ of what followed.  The Israeli foreign minister set up a remote government in London; he happened to be away when the blasts occurred.  His Prime Minister was killed in the bombings.  What really started the trouble, and inspired my group’s work, was George W. Bush’s suspension of the US elections for 2008.”

“He did what?”

“He used a war time legal manoeuvre around the 22^nd Amendment.  He simply decided to sit as President until such time as the crisis was over.  He didn’t even have to run again; he simply indefinitely extended his second term.”

“I suppose the point that the war on terror has no predefined end didn’t come up that often, eh?”

“Correct.  Our group of scientists was against Bush from practically his first day in office.  The utter self-denial on global warming and the support for intelligent design in schools caused us to band together as an informal international group of scientists and try to bring some sense to the US administration.”

“What’s intelligent design?”

“Oh yes; it’s a euphemism for creationism.  Some religious scientists – when confronted with highly complicated or amazingly elegant systems (such as our blood-clotting system) – prefer to imagine that something like that had to have a God-like person behind it; they can’t accept that it was natural selection.”

I had to think about that.  I always was amazed at some things in the world and thought they were too cool to be accidents.  But to think that God took the time to figure out blood-clotting when the entire universe needed looking after seemed unlikely.  “Go on.”

“Well, after the bombs fell, we put all our efforts into one scientist’s time theories.  We felt there was no way out but to go back and fix it.”

“Wow,” I said while thinking this was all so much horse manure.  I truly felt like I was being sold snake oil or a new investment scheme in the stock market.  But, here was a nutty professor type in front of me – semi transparent – who showed me videos of the future and talked about time travel with more calm than I possess when considering taking the bus.

“Clive, to move forward with this delusion, I am forced to ask, ‘why me?’  If you have to go time travelling and save the world, carry on.  Good luck.  Fill your boots.  Get out of my apartment, etc.”

“As I said before, we need your help.”

“I hardly see what an Vancouver ex-cop from 2004 can do for you.  Wouldn’t need someone senior in government?  Or an assassin?”

“First of all, the mathematics of time travel are extremely complex and when we ran simulations that attempted overt changes, things always turned for the worse.  The obvious example is to shoot George W. Bush, but who takes over?  Cheney?  It all just comes apart.  The solution seems to be in subtle nudging and allowing the ripples to take effect.”

“So, what kind of ‘nudging’ did you have in mind?”

“Simple stuff, but not in 2004; we need you to go back to 1984.”

§

OK, I hadn’t expected that.  My initial response was somewhat blunt.  “Are you nuts?”  Followed by, “why don’t you go yourself?”

“This is as far back as we can go.  There are engineering limitations.  We can project light and sound back quite a ways; matter is, well, a different matter.  But, we can chain the effect together.  Once you agree, we will put our avatar into 2004 and it can take you to 1984, where the machine will act as a guide and historical database.”

I grabbed my temples.  What the hell was an avatar anyway? Why didn’t this guy just go poof and vanish and then I could go to a doctor and upgrade my anti-depressants to something better, like anti-psychotics.

“Even if I believed you, which fundamentally I don’t; and even if you could send me back in time, which seems unlikely, why the hell are you bugging me?”

“Our calculations led us to three people in 2004 who had the right attributes to help us.  From what I can gather from reviewing your file, you are ethical and focused and genuinely want to do the right thing.  Your police training and experience allows you to handle stress and unexpected situations.”

“How could mathematics tell you that?”

“It doesn’t … the results look more like complex differential equations than a resume, so I’m forced to draw conclusions.  Besides, I think you’d find the experience interesting.  Did you have anything better planned for tonight?”

“Very funny.  You want to start right now?”

“Then you agree?”

“What the hell. I’m still hoping this is a delusion.”

It occurred to me after this that Clive was starting to fade.  I found myself hoping he was going away for good.

But Clive said, “I would like to introduce you to the avatar.”

I whirled around because the avatar had appeared literally out of nowhere.  She – and I do mean she – was wearing a black jump suit, had dark hair and very dark eyes.  And wasn’t moving at all.

Clive was becoming more transparent.  “Your avatar’s a girl,” I said.

“It needs to be human shaped to blend in and the team didn’t want something unattractive.  I find it gratuitous, but I was voted down.  My signal strength is fading.  The avatar will activate now.  Many thanks for your help.  It was a privilege meeting you.”  Clive was gone.

The avatar spoke, “Hello Brad Ehnes.  I am the avatar.  Are you ready for our assignment?”

Her voice was like a CBC classical station announcer, precisely modulated without being unfriendly.  “No.  I have questions.  What’s an avatar?”

“The word was chosen because I am the embodiment of the time travel system.”

“How helpful.  What’s your name?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Where are we going in 1984?”

“The first stop is Toronto.  December 22, 1984.”

“I better get dressed for that, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Does time travel hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt me.”

“What about humans?”

“Those that have attempted it have reported disorientation.”

“Great.”  With that I proceeded into my room to dress for a Toronto winter.  1984?  What was I wearing back then?  Black.  Lots of black.  It took me a minute to find my black jeans.  The avatar had followed me making no noise.  This was going to be fun – a human-shaped time travel machine with no manners or sense of decorum.  I just kept it firm in my mind that changing in front of her was like changing in front of a computer.  I found as much black clothing as possible and strapped on my Glock, a snub 38 on my ankle and a hunting knife on the other leg.  I made sure that the clothes had no 21^st century labels on them.  I was assuming that incognito would be best.

“Why the firearms?” asked the avatar.

“I think you should be called Eva.  Can I call you Eva?”

“It doesn’t matter.  Why the firearms?”

“Well, Eva, I don’t go to strange places with strange people without tools for self-defence.”

“The calculations indicate that there is no need to use them.”

“I didn’t make those calculations.  The guns go or I don’t.”

Eva stared at me.  Normally I would have interpreted that as a hostile glare.  However, I thought she was computing something.

“You may take them, but you must not use them unless you are under section 5 (1) (a) of the British Columbia Police Firearm Regulation which states that use of the firearm is necessary for protecting your life or the life of another person.  I am excluded from this as I am not a person and I have my own means of self defence.”

I wondered if she realized that my Glock was a full automatic and not a semi, as restricted in the Police Act.  I decided not to bring that subject up.  Once I had grabbed my warm coat from the closet and visited the can, I said, “I’m ready.  What happens now?”

§

The next thing I knew I was outside, it was very cold, and I was barfing against the side of a building.  I never throw up, so this was pretty alarming.

Eva was standing beside me and once my nausea had subsided, she asked, “Are you all right?”

“‘Disorientation?’ This is what you call ‘disorientation?’  Jesus.”  I spat on the ground.

“Not all test subjects reported stomach disorders.”

“Great.  Where are we exactly?”

“One block west of Bathurst Street and one block south of Bloor Street West.  It is December 22, 1984.  Saturday morning.”

I looked around and it didn’t really look any different from the Toronto I remembered.  Of course I hadn’t been there since the mid-90s and I’d not spent much time at Bathurst and Bloor.  As I leaned against the building letting my body adjust to the cool air and the after effects of the trip, I posed the logical first question.”

“Eva, what’s our objective here anyway?”

“Sarah Dalbello lost her husband a few months ago.  For financial reasons, she cannot place her son Tony into preschool.  This schooling would have detected some learning disabilities early.  The mathematics indicate he would be influential had he been helped in preschool.”

“How?  What would he do?”

“It is unclear.  The mathematics don’t show a full path as it’s all based on probabilities as well as the interaction with other changes we need to make.”

“What do you want to do about this?”

“This is why you are here.  Creative thinking.  Better local knowledge.”

“I assume our Ms Dalbello” (an 80s song started playing in my head) “lives near here.”

“Yes.”

“Show me,” I said and we started walking.  Eva was still wearing the same black jump suit as when we left.  “Look,” I said, “you may not feel cold, but you are not blending in.  The lack of footwear is particularly off putting.”

It was like watching a plant grow in fast motion.  Eva literally grew a leather jacket, a red maple leaf scarf and warm but stylish boots from her body.  “Is this acceptable?”

“Looks great.”

My mind had leaped ahead to the problem of the widow and her child, which kind of annoyed me because there were more central issues I hadn’t tackled.  For example, why did Eva, a walking time machine, seem to be in a rush?  I felt like it was a deliberate effort to keep me off balance and running on instinct instead of thinking this through.  So I switched gears and asked the big question, “Who is our opposition?”

“Elaborate,” Eva ordered.

“It seems unlikely that you guys would have developed the technology to mess with history and there not be people trying to stop you.”

“I am unaware of opposition.”

“OK, well, I have another question.  Who took responsibility for the bombs in Israel?”

“No one.  All terrorist groups denied it.  Al-Qaeda was blamed.”

This conversation made me think that probably no one in 1984 Toronto knew the name of any Islamic terrorist groups – other than maybe the PLO, which by this time was a fairly legitimate organization … if you weren’t Jewish.

“What year are you and Clive from, exactly?”

“I am not permitted to release that information.”

“Why?”

“For your own safety we restrict future knowledge.”

“OK, my question is this … has George W been in power continuously since the bombings?”

“Yes.”

“And you would consider that a long time?”

“Yes.”

“OK, how were the bombs deployed?”

“The best evidence indicates they were brought in from Lebanon, Syria and Egypt by truck.

“Who made the bombs?”

“Unknown.”

“Was there easy access to data kept by the US Department of Homeland Security?”

“No.”

“Did you ever get access to what you would consider full and complete data?”

“No.”

“And they never charged anyone or found out who did the job?”

“No.”

We had reached Palmerston Avenue.  Eva stopped and pointed across the street.  “She lives in the basement apartment of that house.”

My mind went back to Sarah Dalbello’s money problems.  Assuming I could even put my hands on money in this era, it might upset other balances.  I asked Eva a variety of questions and it turned out that the husband had died without a life insurance policy – he had been youngish – and there was no rich relative to help out.  I’d hoped there’d be some uncle we could phone and put ideas in his head.  “I am assuming,” I said to Eva, “that robbing a bank or counterfeiting money or robbing a person is out of the question.”

“Such an approach would have too many ripple effects.”

“Do we have any money at all?”  The paper money in my wallet would be useless.  I stuck my hand in my pocket and fished out a loonie, a twonie and a few other coins.  “Is the loonie in circulation yet?”

“No.  1987.”

“How about lotteries?  Do you have the 6/49 numbers?  Tell me they had Lotto 6/49 in 1984.”

“Yes, it had started by now and I have all winning numbers on file.”

“OK, this is easy.  You pick a number that wins, but not too big, but enough for her to fund her kid’s school.  We buy the ticket and a Christmas card.  I write something pithy about hard times and wanting to support the family, blah blah, and she gets the right amount of cash.  All you have to do is calculate the impact so that it doesn’t screw up your plans.”

“Stand by.”

Eva stood stock-still and stared into space.  A couple of people walked by, looked at her, and seemed confused by her.  Maybe they thought she was a mime.

“I have the number,” she finally said.

“OK.  We need about five dollars.  Got any money?”

“No.”

“We could panhandle.  Busking might work, but we don’t have a guitar.”

“To avoid creating ripples, we need to obtain the money carefully.”

“How?” I asked.

She started walking the couple of blocks to Bloor Street and I followed.  “The money must be taken from an individual for whom the amount’s presence or absence would not alter his or her behaviour.”

Once on Bloor Street, I noticed the morning was starting to get busy.  It was the last Saturday before Christmas and people were getting out to prepare for the holiday.

“Frankly,” I said, “the best way to get someone to give us five bucks is to ask them.  Nicely.  Which would be easier for you.  Do you have enough programming to imitate a modern damsel in distress?”

“Elaborate.”

“First of all, you don’t use words as formal as ‘elaborate.’”  It took me a few minutes, but I explained how men prefer beautiful intelligent women to ask them for things.  Eva, being a machine, had no qualms.  After I explained, I retreated a few storefronts away and watched Eva scrutinize people on the street.  There was one conservative looking guy in his forties who was just coming out of a shop, clearly doing last minute shopping.  I was out of earshot, but it didn’t take five minutes for Eva to ask and obtain money and the fellow’s business card.  Once he had moved along, Eva and I met on the street.

“So,” I asked, “do you have a date?”

“He did seem insistent that I telephone him at his office,” said Eva.  She handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

We proceeded to the nearest convenience store and I showed Eva the form to fill in for the 6/49 ticket.  I picked a nice Christmas card and filled it in saying I was an anonymous neighbour who had heard about the loss of her husband.  I wrote, “I can’t afford much, but I hope this will buy you some luck for you and your child.”  We paid for the ticket and walked back to Sarah’s apartment and delivered it.

“How will we know any of this worked?”

“I will lose connection with my home base.”

“You mean you are able to transmit to Clive from here?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him he’s a bastard for not warning me about the whoopsies you get when you time travel.”

“It’s not that kind of link.  It’s more like a beacon.  We must proceed to our next location.”

“Hey, wait.  I was wondering if we could just walk over to Yonge Street and be tourists for a half-hour.  It doesn’t seem likely to me that anything will change until she wins that prize, right?  Plus, I likely won’t get a chance to experience this again.”

Eva stood still and processed.  “Forty-five minutes,” she said.

We started walking.

§

People who are or who have been cops get good at lying because they meet so many experts in the field.  I did want to look around, but I also wanted something else, which I left unstated.  My theory was that Eva likely had a built-in lie detector, so anything other than the most subtle moves would make her suspicious.

This part of the story is the hardest part for me to tell.  I am an ex-cop for a good reason.  He is a child molester and murderer and I burned out catching the scumbag.

After that monster was convicted, I went home and cried for about an hour straight.  His case was about twenty years in the making and I worked on three different forces to do it.  By the end I could not do the job anymore.  I had used myself up.  And the guilt.  There were a lot of chances I had missed through bad luck and stupidity that led to children being horribly murdered.  Of course it wasn’t just me.  Jurisdictional issues, which that monster used to his benefit, and other institutional level screw-ups were also helping him and not the police.

Part of why I stuck with the case was that I had an odd mixture of Criminology with a Computer Science minor.  I started out in computers, but found it repetitive and dull and then switched to Criminology.  I was one of the first detectives to use computers effectively to help model criminal activity and behaviour.  This is how I got the first lead on the monster.  When the Internet became big, I was doing public early warning about how pedophiles would use the technology.  As the monster kept changing jurisdictions, so did I.  Often I had worn out my welcome with the various police departments, so seeing me go wasn’t a big deal.

The challenge with Eva was how to slip away from her.  As we approached Yonge Street, I noticed that things were getting pretty busy.  My memory of what the corner was like was starting to come back.  There were a few TTC entrances and a lot of doorways into malls that led underground.  I still had more than fifteen usable dollars in my pocket.

A bunch of kids dressed up in punk clothes approached and I let them get in between Eva and me and then I slipped into a door that led into The Bay.  At that point I criss-crossed floors and headed to the men’s wear on the lowest level, which I knew had an exit to the mall at the east end.  I found myself at an entry way to the street.  I couldn’t see her, which didn’t mean much, but it was a start.  There was a bus stop for a route that snaked through Rosedale and I saw the bus in the distance.  I waited until it had done most of its unloading and then I ran and jumped on the bus.  It eventually connected with a Subway station and I took a train north to Eglinton Avenue, took a bus east and then another bus down to the Danforth.

It took about an hour but I eventually found myself in front of the monster’s house wondering just what I thought I was going to do.  By this time in 1984 he had committed at least six child murders and was not even on police radar yet.  I thought about the twenty-five children that had yet to be victims.  I reached into my jacket and undid the clasp on the holster for my Glock, a gun that hadn’t been manufactured yet.

Just as I was going to walk up the steps I heard, “You should not do this.”  She had caught up to me.

“Why the hell not?”

“It’s unethical,” Eva said.

I snorted a laugh.  “You must be kidding.”

“No.  You spent a lot of your life chasing Joe Clemens, obeying the law, respecting the institutions you worked for.  The knowledge you have of the future is unique and should not to be abused.  It is an unfair advantage.”

“And just what the hell do you think you’re doing?  The same thing!”

“Not exactly.  There is more you need to know about this mission.  Can we agree that we should move away from this street to discuss it?”

I had the urge to pull my gun on her and try to make her feel the helpless rage I felt.  What good would shooting an android do?  “OK, you have one truckload of explaining to do.  We’re near the Danforth; I hope we can find someone who’ll make a decent latte.”

§

No Starbucks coffee shops were due in Toronto for about ten years, but an authentic Greek restaurant made me a good Americano.  It was cheap too.  “I’m in no position to complain about deceptions, but from what you are telling me, there is an opposing force.”

“We deduced that someone before us has made modifications to history.  It took a lot of work to determine where these were made and how to counteract them.  For example, Sarah’s husband, we think, was the victim of foul play precipitated by other time travellers.  We don’t know who these people are or from where or when they come.  In other words, we are the opposition.”

“Are we likely to bump into these people?”

“There is no way to know.  We are not intersecting with when we think they changed history.”

“You detected them; why can’t they detect us?”

“A good question for which I do not have an answer.”

“Have you completely disclosed why I was chosen?”

“The calculations did lead to you.  We were looking for someone who could function under pressure.  Plus, we saved a lot of work by selecting someone not from our own time period.”

“You answered a yes or no question with two statements.”

“The answer is no.  I am absolutely forbidden from discussing details of the future.  Therefore I cannot say yes to the question.”

“All right, let’s get this over with.  Where to next?”

“New York City.  We have to prevent Jason Kleinberger from having a car accident.”

“I want lots of warning and to finish this drink before going.”

§

My innards held together better during that transition.  I was mentally ready and activating every stomach muscle probably helped.

Eva told me it was Sunday December 23, 1984.  We had jumped ahead a day.

Midtown Manhattan was dirtier than I recalled.  But I realized this was before the big clean up.  Times Square was probably still home to all forms of the sex trade.  I remembered seeing it in 2000 and being stunned at how clean it was compared to its reputation.

Eva had the specifics of the car down to the colour and vehicle serial number.  Apparently the vehicle had suffered from brake failure on the Saw Mill River Parkway and crashed.  Mr. Kleinberger lived in an apartment on 71^st Street near 1^st Avenue.  A search of a nearby parking garage, two levels down, yielded the red BMW.

“So,” I asked, “what were you thinking?  We take it out and give it a brake job?”

“I have been looking at this car both inside and out …”

“You have x-ray vision?”

“Something like that … The point is that there is nothing wrong with this car’s brakes.”

“The options are,” I said, “that we have the wrong car, the accident records you have are wrong, or someone sabotaged this vehicle and we are too early to have seen it.”

That’s when someone kicked me in the chest.  As I hit the ground, a woman with a ghastly smoker’s cough, said, “Who the hell are you?”

I hoped she wasn’t expecting an answer; I was winded and couldn’t talk.  There was a guy with her who was the size of a serious linebacker.  He and Eva were facing off, staring at each other the way only machines can.

My wind came back.  “Since you came out of nowhere and decided to kick me, I think you should tell me who you are first.”

“Machine,” the smoker said, “what is she?”

“An avatar,” replied the linebacker in what sounded like an English accent.

I charged her and pushed her into the BMW.  She grabbed me by the jacket and swung me around and tossed me away.  I wondered if she was a machine herself.  She had red hair – dyed – and lines on her face that one associates with really serious smokers.

Eva and the linebacker were fighting in a stilted martial arts style.  They looked pretty evenly matched.  Each hit was blocked and size seemed to be no advantage for the linebacker.

I pulled myself away from the red beemer and pulled the Glock.  “Stand away from the car and put your hands up.”

“You’re a cop,” said the smoker.  She definitely had an American accent.  The look on her face was not one of fear and respect of the police.  Her body language hinted that she wasn’t going to step away from the car and was more likely to try to jump me.  I shot her once in the thigh.  She screamed loudly and, inside the confined parking garage, it was deafening.  Her linebacker paused.  Eva pushed him so hard he flew across the garage and crashed into another car, crumpling its hood.

“Move away from the damn car,” I said to the smoker.  She slid herself away.  It was risky, but I still didn’t have a good feeling about how this conflict would end.  The objective was to prevent this car from being in an accident.  I took a few steps backward, shot the gas tank, and ran.

§

Like any good paranoid cop, I had scoped out the exits to the garage prior to going in, so I had an exit route planned.  I was happy to see the sprinklers come on, but my coat was singed and I was dirty and wet by the time I got out.

I doubt the New York Fire Department was going to be happy with me.  I ran down an alley a couple of blocks away and waited.  It was about fifteen minutes later that Eva showed up looking none the worse for wear.  Her expression was inscrutable as always.  I couldn’t escape the sense that I was due for a scolding.

“I’m glad you aren’t hurt.  You aren’t hurt, are you?” I asked.

“No.  I am wondering why you thought such a dramatic solution to the problem was needed.”

“They were the other time travellers that you suspected had manipulated the past, weren’t they?  Both those characters had abilities I couldn’t guess.  That woman is from your era, right?  She was way too strong.  I figured that we needed to definitively prevent that vehicle from participating in the accident and escape unseen.”

“I now have to do some significant recalculations.”

“Are you still connected with your base?”

“Yes.  But we now will likely have a different third objective.”

“I don’t want to rain on your parade, but I’m wet, cold and singed.  And it won’t take even the most junior street cop more than ten seconds to conclude I was involved in the fire.”  There were always sirens blaring in New York City, but there seemed to be a new, growing intensity.  Eva was staring into space again; I associated this with her doing the math for the next transition.  The impact of what I had done and the where-and-when of this situation was hitting me with a shock reaction.  It was about 4 degrees Celsius, I reckoned but, with being wet, I started to shiver and was unable to stop.

“You are right,” Eva said suddenly.  “We have to go.  I have the general geography of our next jump, but still have work to do to determine the exact adjustment to make.”

Her timing was good; a police cruiser passed the alley.  I heard the brakes screech and the engine shift into reverse.

“Whatever you are going to do …”

§

“Sydney, Australia, December 25, 1984.”  That’s what I heard her say as I was heaving my guts onto the grass of some park.  Eva seemed unworried about my gastric distress.  It was unbelievably hot.  Sitting on the ground I peeled my coat and sweater off.  It took a few minutes to adjust to the environment.

When I finally looked up, the Harbour Bridge was looming over me and I could see the Sydney Opera House across the water.  I recognized them from travel shows.  I’d never left North America before now.  As I looked around, I had no idea if what seemed to be light traffic was normal or not for a Christmas Day.  The strangeness of it being high summer and Christmas was beginning to dawn on me.  Eva was staring into space again, which was fine by me; I was in no rush.  A couple walked through the park and waved at us, hollering Merry Christmas.  When they had had a closer look at us, they frowned.  I weakly waved back and said nothing.  My shoulder holster with the Glock was in plain view.

“Eva, when you get a chance, you might want to change from your winter wear to something more consistent with the environment.”

She didn’t stop staring into space, but her body seemed to absorb the coat, scarf and boots and then output a sundress and sandals.  Saves on laundry, I thought.

“In about four hours George Henderson is going to drown himself in the harbour near the Opera House.  We are to dissuade him,” Eva announced.

“That’s nice.  When are you going to come clean with me?  Who the hell were the smoker’s cough woman and the linebacker machine in the garage?”

“I don’t know.  The linebacker, as you call him, is definitely an avatar, but of different manufacture.  I do not have a file on the woman.”

“What does that mean?”

“Either her DNA was never put into a database, or she is from a time further in the future from me.”

So, we knew nothing about our adversaries.  I was going along with this on faith.  If it hadn’t been for the pictures Clive had shown me, I wouldn’t have had any belief at all.  Did I believe Clive, Eva and I were the good guys because the smoker who kicked my ass looked like a ‘bad guy’?  There was only one thing that was certain.

“Eva, you do know that the other two will try to stop us, right?”

“It is improbable, but worth anticipating.”

“Improbable?  How did they know where we were in New York?”

“I don’t think they were expecting us.”

“Even if that’s true, they are likely expecting us now.  If I were them and afraid we were messing up their plans, I’d be working really hard to track us down.  Plus I’m sure that smoker woman is a little annoyed that I shot her through the leg.”

“I assume that is painful,” said Eva.

“Quite.  The other assumption I want to make is that this guy didn’t commit suicide, he was murdered.  Maybe he was depressed and so forth, but I think they encouraged him.”

“There is no evidence of that.”

“But there is a pattern.  From what you know, Sarah’s husband died because of them.  They weren’t at the garage in New York to look at used cars.  And I can’t imagine they won’t try to achieve the opposite of our objective.”

Eva stared at me again.  I waited.  And I wished I had brought sunglasses with me.

“It would be prudent to assume that you are correct,” she finally said.  “I don’t know what to do,” she added.

“I have a couple of ideas … but we’ll have to hurry.  One thing, how much can you change your appearance?”

§

Three hours later, I could see a fairly drunk man, who I assumed was our target George, walking with a wobble in his gait.  I was out in a speedboat in the harbour – one that we had kind of borrowed – and I was pretending to have engine trouble.  I had found a change of clothes – Eva had gently broken into a car for it – and a hat.

George sat down by the water’s edge and a man who looked remarkably like me, approached George, sat beside him and took a swig from a whiskey bottle.

I later had Eva recount this conversation.

“Are you here to drink your sorrows away?”

George was surprised that someone was talking to him.  He had no clue that the man he was talking to was Eva.  “Uh, yeah.  I suppose.”

“As you may have guessed, I’m not from here.”

“American?”

“Canadian.”

“Not having a Merry Christmas either?”

“She left me.  Spend thousands of dollars to see my sweetie and when I got here and she said she can’t do it anymore.”

“Bugger.”

“Some Christmas present, eh?”

From my vantage point in the harbour I saw them coming, pretending to be a couple.  But the linebacker was too big to miss and the smoker’s red hair was just too obvious.  She was not limping or favouring the leg, which was oddly disappointing.  I started the boat motor.  The big risk was the linebacker recognizing Eva regardless of her change of shape.  To further the bluff, I had insisted that she wear my clothes.  The ruse did not have to last long.

“Hey cop,” said the smoker, “long time no see.”

Eva, still looking like me, feigned surprise and said “Hey.  How’s the leg?”

“Good as new.  Where’s your girlfriend?”

At this point I let the outboard motor go as hard as possible.  Once in range I unloaded the remaining bullets from the Glock into the linebacker’s centre of mass.  I was hoping he’d look surprised, but he did pause.  I quickly switched to my spare clip and started firing single rounds.

The smoker uttered a profanity, confused by seeing me double.  Eva had my snub .38 and shot the smoker once in the leg – the other leg – which evoked yet another scream.

By this time, George was running as fast as a drunk man could away from the battle.  That was the last I saw of him.  I realized I was going to hit the concrete jetty with the boat.  I cut the engine and wrenched the wheel and messed up one side of the boat.

Eva changed back to her regular shape and tackled the linebacker to the ground.  I jumped off the boat onto the jetty, scraping my leg rather badly in the process.  The smoker had pulled a gun from a thigh holster, even though she could not stand.

“Drop it,” I said.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked.

“Drop it!”

She raised the gun and pointed it at me.

It wasn’t much of a decision.  Apart from the fact my gun was full auto, it would have been ruled a clean shooting.  But it was the first time I’d shot someone dead. … I hardly expected that it would have occurred twenty years in the past in Australia.

“No!” said the linebacker.

Eva ran toward me.  “Our connections to home base are breaking.”  She grabbed my arm.

§

December 23, 2004  

I was back in my apartment.  For some reason the return trip did not make me as ill.  But, the apartment was different.  Eva was standing next to me, wearing my clothes, and staring into space again.  I realized that the apartment was bigger than when we left and that some pieces of furniture were familiar, but the couch, for example, was new.  I went to the window.  We weren’t even in the same building.  The view included a partial view of False Creek.  As best as I could figure I was in Yaletown.

“Eva … what happened?”

“I am working on that now.  I am doing a comparative analysis of history as I have it recorded and data that I can access from immediately accessible sources.”

“I take it you have a wireless connection to the Internet.”

“That and other repositories.”

“Cool.  I’m going to wash.  If you want to ditch my clothes, feel free.”

It was a nice bathroom.  From looking around, it seemed like I lived alone.  And was making good money.  In the shower I tried to imagine that none of this had happened.  That it was a dream.  Of course, when the water hit my scraped leg it woke me up in a hurry.  By the time I found some clothes – things were still organized, but just organized differently – I knew that a time travelling android was still going to be standing in my living room and I was not going to know what the hell was going on.

I was right.  Eva was still standing there.  “So, what’s new?”

“Do you want the world history update or what information I have about you?”

“World History for a thousand, Alex.”

“The plane that struck the Pentagon on September 11, 2001 landed short in this new reality.  The casualties were far fewer.  George W. Bush was still elected in both 2000 and 2004.  But his second win was far from the landslide victory that it had been.  It was a split vote.  There are some leadership differences in a few countries.  Yassir Arafat recently died in a French hospital.  You will recall his health was in question, but he was not hospitalized.”

“Stop,” I said.  “What about 2007?  Do you have any sense that we averted the bombings Clive showed in Israel?”

“It is too early to tell, but the odds are better.”

“OK, give the highlights on me.”

“You are single and never married.”

“Really.  Where does she live?”

“The woman you would consider your ex-wife is married with two children in Toronto.  You have been running your private security firm for four years.  Before that you were a detective with the Vancouver Police Department.  Possibly more significant is the fact that Joe Clemens was arrested in 1988 by you and your team.”

“You’re kidding me.”  The monster had not touched about twenty kids.  And I could see all their faces in front of me – both normal shots and crime scene photos.  Knowing some of those ghastly pictures had never happened made my eyes wet.  Now that was a Christmas present.

Suddenly I was fatigued.  Things were better, apparently, but I realized that I was out of sync.  Even if I read every Globe and Mail since Christmas 1984, I’d never be caught up.  If I had holidays planned, I knew I’d be in the library.

“So, Eva, when do you go home?”

“I don’t.  Without connection to my base, I am not going anywhere.”

“Why?  That doesn’t make sense; this isn’t your point of origin.”

“Before we started out together I reset my point of origin to 2004.  This was to add confusion in case there were other time travellers.  It would have been inconceivable to them that an opposing force would be from 2004.”

“Got any plans?  You’d be great on Oprah.  Oprah’s still got a show, right?”

“Yes of course, but general knowledge of my existence would likely cause problems.”

“You’ll have to stay with me.  And maybe we can just be doubly sure George W doesn’t mess around.  Think of it.  You don’t have to worry about the future since you don’t have the knowledge of what it should be.  Your mind is free.”

She stared at me.

§

And that pretty much takes me to now.  I can’t really tell people what happened because they’d think I’m insane.  It is good to tell this to someone.  It seems weird to have a fully-grown android in one’s closet.  But she prefers being shut down if there is not a specific task at hand.  She is great at helping with detective work.  Her shape shifting skills let her sneak in places and record things just by looking at them.  I can’t use the evidence directly, but it sure speeds things up.  And she can hack any computer system on the planet that she can access.

Eva is still a great help with reconciling what I remember with what is real.  I did read a lot of “years in review” books and back issue newspapers.  Some things still shock me … like the Red Sox beating the Yankees in 2004.  But perhaps the worst of it is waiting for 2007.  My theory is – and Eva thinks I’m paranoid –that George W Bush had those bombs set off in Israel so that he could stay in power.  We’ll just have to wait and see.

February 10, 2003

CBC News presented footage of George W. Bush giving a press conference.  The camera followed the President of the United States as he walked to the podium.  In the background a brown-skinned man – not African, not Arab, not Indian, but clearly not white – was conferring with Donald Rumsfeld.

Karl’s stomach formed a knot.  Shortly the camera focussed in on George W. as he started talking about how to win in Iraq.  Karl’s pulse rate increased and he experienced the flight/fight reflex.  He was sure the guy with Rumsfeld was causing the feelings.

Karl sat on his couch; he was midway through tying his tie, but still wanting to catch the news.  His second dating service date was less than an hour away and he sure didn’t want to arrive nauseous and sweating.  In a couple of minutes the panic-attack passed and he continued to prepare.  He made a mental note to watch the late news.

|–|

The dating service was expensive and thorough.  The staff of the service had psychology degrees and performed background checks, Myers-Briggs personality tests, detailed surveys of interests and conducted intense interviews with the clients.  Men paid more than women did.  The dating service scarcely needed to put the ubiquitous “serious applicants only please” on their marketing materials.

Karl had not been on a date in three years and concluded the free bachelor lifestyle was not agreeable.  He was a professional engineer and had done well financially, but sucked on the personal front.  His family was small and school connections had not led him toward a partner.  Early in his work experience he had dated within company ranks.  All disasters.  And now he never considered it an option because, as a manager, workplace politics and ethics induced permanent shyness.

|–|

The date with Angie was great.  She was pretty, fun, of a totally different background – Belizian mother and English father – and worked in PR.  She seemed to have had a good time, but Karl wasn’t sure.  He hoped that the dating service would advise him.  He left a voice mail with the service’s consultant saying he had had a great time.

But at home, he surfed the TV stations looking for panic-attack guy.  CBC had shortened the footage and had edited him out.  He jumped about the channels until the CTV 24-hour news station showed what he was looking for.  The flight/fight reflex happened again.  Who the hell was that guy?

|–|

That night, Karl dreamed he was fighting panic-attack guy with a sword.  They were evenly matched and ended up inflicting mutually fatal blows.  Karl dreamed that he had died, which he thought wasn’t possible, and then he saw people prepare his dead body, place it into a burial urn and put it in the ocean.

He sat up in bed screaming.  His heart was pounding so hard he took his own pulse with the clock on his nightstand.  172 bpm.  In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and forced himself to breathe slowly.  Who the hell was that guy?

|–|

The next morning, at work, his mind was distracted by Angie and panic-attack guy.  Karl wanted to know more, so he spent time on the Internet trying to figure out how to put his hands on the video footage.  It was a tedious process, partly because the CBC wanted him to download RealPlayerÔ, which his PC at work was not keen on letting him do.  He called a couple of friends and his Dad back east, none of whom had seen the broadcast.

Later that morning the dating service called him.  Angie was indeed happy with the date and wanted to meet again.  Karl was given Angie’s work phone number.

“You mean I have to call her?”

“That’s what dating’s all about Karl.  I am not going to set up every date, you know,” replied the consultant.

“Right, right.”

“Don’t procrastinate.”

“No problem.”

“I mean it.”

“So I should do it now.”

“Yes, Karl, that would be good.”

“Right, right.”

“Bye Karl.”

Karl took a deep breath and picked up the phone.  He kind of hoped he’d get her voice mail, but Angie answered.

“Hi!”

“Hi.  I had a great time last night and I was wondering what you were doing this weekend.  Friday night.”

“I’m free Friday.”

“Let’s meet at the restaurant again and then we can decide what to do.  I’ll try to think up some ideas.  You too.”

“You are so silly.”

“That too.  Can I call you later in the week?”

“Of course.”

|–|

At lunch break, Karl saw himself reflected in the glass of the lobby windows.  His body was large, white and out of shape.  It was wrong and almost unfamiliar.  There was a gym in his building.  He went in, asked for his company’s discount and joined.  In the cafeteria, he ordered two steak dinners, which came with mashed potatoes and peas.  He took the trays to the garbage and dumped all the potatoes and peas off the plates and combined the steaks on one plate.

If I am going to fight this guy again, I’ll need to be strong.

Karl looked around the cafeteria, knowing full well that the thought had come from his own head; he was just hoping someone else had said it out loud.

On the way home, he walked past the Japanese Martial Arts Studio.  He walked in and asked who was teaching the classes.  A six-foot, young white kid said, “I am.  I’ve had my black belt for five years.”

“Do you have a jiu-jitsu master associated with your business?”

“Oh yeah.  But he does private lessons only,” said the kid.

“Good.  When can I have an appointment?”

|–|

That night Karl again dreamed he had died.  This time he was in deep jungle terrain, chasing panic-attack guy through the vines and underbrush.  Ahead, his quarry tripped and fell.  Nearly upon him, Karl raised a scimitar to split panic-attack guy’s head.  But panic-attack guy’s legs came up and pushed him backward into a tiger trap.  The stakes at the bottom of the pit pierced Karl’s body in four places.  Karl woke up screaming.

|–|

The next day, Karl went to work early, visited the gym and did cardio, weights and flexibility.  He was unhappy with his range of motion.  But what he was even more unhappy with was his seeming split personality.  One conscious thread in his mind rationalized his abrupt change in habits by not wanting to look bad if Angie ever saw him naked. Another line of thinking believed all the fitness was needed to prepare to fight panic-attack guy.

Although the dreams were ghastly, he sure as shit wasn’t going to tell anyone about them.  It would be really helpful to learn panic-attack guy’s name.  He had not heard back from any of the news outlets.  Who could help?

Back at his desk, Karl picked up the phone and called Angie.

“Hi!”

“Hi.  I was trying to discipline myself and not phone until later, but two things happened.  I wanted to talk to you again and I thought of a something you might be able to help me with, being a PR person and all.”

“What’s that?”

Karl explained that he had seen someone who looked really familiar at the Bush press conference and it had been bugging him since.

“Oooo, a challenge,” said Angie.  “Let me see what I can find out.  I have a contact at CTV who might be able to help.  If I learn anything before Friday, I’ll call you.”

|–|

His appointment with Eichiro was on Thursday.  Karl truly wondered why he had asked for an appointment with a master, but the impulse had been strong.

“Why are you here?” asked Eichiro.

“I need to test myself.  I think I have buried talents.”

“Let us begin.”

For Karl, it was like transferring control of his body to another person.  The session started with Eichiro using some common opening moves and Karl responding quickly and aggressively. Eichiro, for a moment, was on the defensive and switched to a more classical style of jiu-jitsu.  Karl’s lack of good fitness soon left him weak and unstable, which led to an incorrect foot position and a twisted knee. Karl’s subconscious, which provided all the jiu-jitsu maneuvers, called a halt.  Tearing cartilage will not help the mission.

“What mission?” muttered Karl to himself.

“You are talented; you know techniques that are not normally taught to westerners.  How did you learn this and be in such poor shape?” asked the master.

“I wish I knew.”

“You had best return.  You should have these talents awoken with a guide.”

“I agree.”

“Put ice on the knee.”

|–|

Karl had not heard from Angie by Friday. He limped into the restaurant, afraid that she might not show.

She was there with a bright smile.  Angie had dressed conservatively on their last date.  She now wore a red dress that highlighted her small shape and made her exotic colouring more alluring to Karl.  He limped to the table.

“What have you done to yourself?”

“Joined a gym.”

“How sweet.”

“You were one of the major inspirations.”

“Who were the other inspirations?” she said, using a flighty voice and fluttering her eyes.

“The statistics relating to how often fat white guys get diabetes and heart disease.”  Karl lied because giving panic-attack guy as a reason might not inspire trust and confidence.

Angie laughed.  “I have a present for you.”  She handed Karl a folder.

He opened it and found a picture of panic-attack guy.  His name was Basil Wilson.  Karl’s stomach started to go funny again and his pulse rate increased.  That’s not his real name.  In the folder were articles about him from various online newspapers from the States.

“Does this help?”

“You are amazing,” Karl suppressed his panic.  “What’s odd is that this fellow is familiar, yet I don’t know him.  It’s like déjà-vu.”

“He wasn’t easy to find information on.  Since the beginning, George W. Bush has surrounded himself with his daddy’s men.  This guy is the second ‘Shadow Advisor to the President’.  It’s not a real position; The New York Times coined the phrase a couple of years ago to refer to the first one, Kenneth Lay.  He used to be the CEO of Enron, but retired from that job about a year before the collapse.  Even George W. could not rationalize being seen to take advice from the ex-head of Enron, who was subpoenaed for documents this fall, which he refused to produce based on Fifth Amendment rights.  Anyway, the President switched over to this Basil Wilson guy around the time of Gulf War II.  He holds degrees from Harvard, Princeton and the usual hoity-toity places.  But there isn’t a lot of info about his personal background.  However, he’s in the thick of the Bush administration.”

“This is amazing.  I didn’t want you to go to this much work.”

“Are you kidding?  This stuff is fun.  I found the most about Enron on the SEC site.”

“Well, I’ll have to look at this later,” Karl said, putting the folder aside.  “I don’t have the answer to my déjà-vu, but I’d rather be concentrating on other things.”  Karl smiled at Angie and imagined that he was pushing the panic into his shoes.

“And they say engineers have no charm.”

|–|

In the end they decided on a movie.  Karl took Angie home and they kissed, but neither were rushing.  One of the reasons that the dating service matched them was because they wanted things to flow calmly.

Karl’s skin tingled from her kiss for most of his drive home.  He hadn’t felt that way in a long time.  Hundreds of years, said his mind.

The ongoing commentary from his subconscious was something Karl was trying to suppress.  But it reminded him of the folder Angie had given him so he sat at his kitchen table and opened it.

He took a deep breath and read all the material that Angie had provided and still wondered how and why he continued to feel as if he not only knew Basil Wilson, but had also known him forever.

That night the dreams returned.  This time he was dressed as an American officer during World War II.  He was in the middle of a battle and was advancing with his battalion toward an enemy position.  He saw blown out tanks and other wreckage of the German military.  Shortly they were at the command post taking prisoners.

“Charley!  We hit the mother lode,” said a corporal who was leading the prisoners out of the post.

Brought in front of Karl, who was currently a lieutenant named Charles, was Basil Wilson, in the uniform of an SS General.  Karl immediately drew his sidearm and took aim.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Wilson.

“What the hell are you doing, sir?”  The corporal pushed Karl’s arm aside and the bullet tore into the ground.  Wilson took the opportunity to grab the corporal’s gun and shoot both of them.  As he ran into the nearby woods, other soldiers fired shots at him.  They seemed to make their marks, but nothing stopped Wilson from running.

Charley lay on the ground bleeding to death.

Karl woke from the dream with a painful stomach and burning eyes.  It took him an hour to return to sleep.

|–|

In the next few days he redoubled his workout effort.  Eichiro was pleased at the progress and was amazed at the number of classical moves Karl had, without knowing how or why he had them.  After work, Karl sat in his office and researched the SS, trying to see if he could find photos or other records of SS generals.

Although not one for flights of fancy (he was more comfortable with f = ma and PV = nRT) Karl was coming to believe that his was a case of reincarnation.  Quite a few actually.  What was bothering him was the fact that Basil Wilson seemed to not be reincarnating; he seemed to be always the same.  In the dreams, Karl always felt like a different person, but Wilson was static.  The disheartening aspect of his research was that he could spend ages trying to find Wilson in an SS photograph, fail, and not know the cause.  The photo might never have existed or, had existed but was destroyed.  What he did know was that he was going to need help.  These records weren’t exactly posted on the Internet.  He picked up the phone and called an old friend, a history professor from UBC.

|–|

Later that week Karl went on another date with Angie.  He took  flowers because the time he spent working out, researching Basil Wilson and trying not to neglect his job had eaten into his social time.

She kissed him in thanks for the flowers and asked, “What are you doing to yourself?”

“What do you mean?” They sat down in the café.

“Well, you’re dropping weight and looking, well, fitter.”

“I’m still taking jiu-jitsu and going to the gym.”

“The agency told me that you were kind of … sedentary.”

Karl laughed.  “I was, and believe me, I wasn’t expecting to go on such a health kick.”  You are training.

Then suddenly she frowned.  “Are you wearing contacts?”

“No.”

“Your eyes weren’t blue before.”

“They aren’t, they’re … just a minute,” Karl took out his wallet and produced his drivers license.  “Brown.”

Angie took a mirror from her purse and said, “Take a look.”

Karl looking into the tiny mirror and inspected each eye.  “Son of a bitch.”

|–|

Two weeks later, Karl still had blue eyes.  He had made an appointment with his doctor and the blood work came up with nothing that could explain the change.  The only known ways that eye colour can change in adults are from tumors and reactions to some medications.  Neither was the case here.  He called Angie to tell her and arrange another date.  As they saw more of each other, he started to have trouble keeping his hands to himself.  It might be time to ask her over.

Shortly after he finished the call, his friend from UBC phoned and said, “We have to meet.”

At a nearby Starbucks, Professor Jane Dennis showed two photos of the same man, one print black and white and the other colour.  “Wow,” said Karl, “Basil Wilson.”

“Basil Wilson and SS Oberstgruppen-Fuhrer Helmut Lehrmann.  One alive; one dead – well, presumed dead in late 1945 when an American infantry unit reported his capture and later shot while escaping.  But no body was reported recovered.  So,” asked Jane, “how do you know about these doppelgangers?”

“That’s a good question.  I saw Basil on TV a while ago and he gave me the willies so much that I started researching.  Maybe I have seen this SS photo before but forgot.”

“Unlikely.  This is a scan of the only print in existence, which a friend of mine in Germany created for me.  It showed up only recently, when a stash of files belonging to the Stasi – the East German secret police – was uncovered.  And this guy, for a general, was really photo shy.”

“Wow.  The more I dig into this, the stranger it gets.”

“I’m glad to be of help.  So tell me, how’s the girlfriend?”

“How did you know?”

“About Angie?  I’m a researcher, Karl.  Plus the old school gang have been rooting for you.  And you look great.  I’m sure you’ve lost weight or been working out or something.”

“My life has taken quite a turn.”

“But lose the blue contact lenses; they’re just not you.”

|–|

Angie and Karl had a great all night date.  She was amazed at the passion this engineer had.  What she didn’t enjoy so much was his sitting up in the night and screaming in a language neither she nor he recognized.

|–|

April 2, 2003

Karl became progressively less sociable.  He and Angie saw each other and Angie enjoyed the hard body Karl was creating for himself, but he was at the same time becoming less like himself.

He continued jiu-jitsu with a passion.  However, against the wishes of Eichiro, he was becoming increasingly aggressive.  This culminated in their last session when the master broke Karl’s ankle and told him never to come back.  “I am not here to create a monster.”

In hospital, while they set the ankle, Karl was given pain killers that made him delirious.  Malachi emerged.  This first incarnation was clear in Karl’s mind.  Malachi had been a farmer in what is now known as Lebanon.  A band of marauding soldiers from the south attacked his farm, killing his wife, son and daughter.  He escaped, but memorized the face of the leader of the troop.  Karl recognized the face as Basil Wilson.

I became a killer.  Before Shadrach, I was a farmer; I created life but when he came along I was changed forever.  I tracked down all his kind, killing them, looking for him and when I found him I drove my sword through his stomach.  But Death cheated us both.

|–|

Karl surmised that somehow Shadrach, a.k.a. Basil Wilson, was immortal and was likely wreaking havoc on the world.  Being close to George W. Bush during this time of utter insanity in Iraq was suspicious, as well as having been a Nazi.  Perhaps Malachi kept coming back in order to try to stop this menace.

Karl took time to document all the dreams that he could remember and started a dream journal so that he might be able to put the pieces together.

|–|

September 25, 2003

When Angie came home and checked her mailbox, she found a letter from Karl.  It was hand written and had been posted a couple of days earlier.  The script was most odd, as if Karl had learned to write ancient characters and was now using them.

Angie,

I hope you will forgive me for not speaking to you in person, but you have become so special to Karl that it would just be too hard to say goodbye in person.  He has gone on a mission of incredible importance.  He cannot discuss it here for security reasons but he would not let me proceed without telling you that he loves you and wishes things were different.  There really has been no one else as beautiful, joyful and loving as you.

M.

“Well, that’s weird.”  Angie hadn’t heard from Karl in days and she had assumed they were on the outs, but this prompted her to call.  However his phones were out of service.  His emails bounced back.  She checked at his work.  Some two weeks earlier he had called in sick.  His family had filed a missing persons report the previous day.

|–|

December 21, 2003

Basil Wilson looked out onto a cold, wet Washington DC cityscape and worked hard not to scratch the old wound under his shirt.

It only itched in that special way on the winter solstice and when Malachi was near.

He punched a single number on his cell phone.  “Go to level Red.”

Basil walked through his residence, filled with antiques from ages gone past.  Few beyond his key team ever saw the inside of his various residences.  Anyone with antiquities training would have been quite amazed at some of the pieces.

He pondered having to kill Malachi again and hoped that a different conclusion could be reached this time.

|–|

Karl had spent weeks watching all of the complicated movements of Basil Wilson and his staff.  He wished his Malachi personality were a little more forthcoming with information.  Basil’s pattern of movement seemed familiar, the guards alert and mature beyond that of rent-a-cops or ex-military.

As he made his first movements to take the optimal position near Basil Wilson’s residence, he killed without hesitation, using blades and breaking necks.  Karl’s personality hid from it all, letting Malachi do what he’d been doing for centuries.

Just as he was thinking that it was too easy, he felt the dart in his neck.  The paralyzing agent worked too fast for Karl to hit the switch.

|–|

“You know Malachi … I wonder if you wanted to get caught.  A good terrorist like you, occupying an engineer’s body, would have rigged the explosives to go off if your vital signs changed radically.”

It was the first sentence that Karl heard since being sedated.  He looked up to see Basil Wilson’s face smiling at him.

“Ahhh, those baby blue eyes.  How they initially got into the gene pool in Lebanon I’m not sure, but I’d recognize them anywhere.”

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

Karl realized that he was bound tightly to a chair and he was wearing only underwear.  He was connected to equipment that monitored his vital signs.

“Please, as you may or may not recall, it’s been 4,765 years since our first disastrous meeting on the battlefield.  I have killed you 158 times, so I’m not in much of a rush.”

“What do you want, Shadrach?”

“An excellent question.” Basil Wilson motioned to someone in the background.  A man with a lab coat approached.  “What I really want for Christmas this year is an answer to the long standing mystery of my wound.”

“What the hell are you talking about?  Who’s he?” Karl gestured to the man in the lab coat.

“Your two questions are uniquely related.  You see, you don’t remember because Malachi doesn’t let vital information reach your brain.  So, to help things along, Dr. Ashford here has some drugs and some excellent hypnosis techniques to loosen you up.”

“Don’t.”

“Malachi, or should I call you Karl?  Yes, yes, I ran your prints while you were snoozing and discovered the Canadian connection.  A novel starting point I must say.”  Basil ripped open his shirt, pulled back a thick wide bandage from his stomach and said: “Surely you remember this?”

The smell from the wound was both repellant and familiar to Karl.  Dr. Ashford stood back slightly.

“Yes indeed, Malachi, this is the wound you gave me those millennia ago.  They were just about to prepare me for burial when I woke up.  Gave everyone a bit of a start.  Every part of me healed except this.  Somehow or another you managed to give me a wound that regenerated my dead or dying tissues, but left this forever festering souvenir.  Imagine my surprise when I outlived everyone.  Of course when I turned eighty, you came back the first time; even for me it took a long time to heal from that attack.  But here’s the thing: the current theory is that there was something on your sword the first time that gave me my gift of longevity.  Any idea what it was?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“OK, Dr. Ashford, please proceed.  You do recall that this could take a while …”

“Of course sir.”

|–|

“Mr. Wilson?” asked Dr. Ashford.

“Call me Basil.”

“We’ve regressed through a large number of personalities, sir.”  They had reached times and places of dead languages.  Only Basil understood any of the noises coming from Karl.  “Do you attribute this all to reincarnation?”

“That’s a good question.  I am leaning toward some sort of genetic parasite or virus that somehow recurs every twenty to thirty years.  One of the consistent features is that it alters the host’s eye colour as well as the personality.  But how does it move from host to host?”

“Are we getting closer to where you need to be?  He seems to be moving to another personality now.”

“Pretty close now.”

|–|

Basil had to take over the regression at this crucial stage because he was the only one able to speak the language.  In the softest, most sensible tones, he said, “Malachi, I want you to think back to the battle, but imagine you are not in it; you are observing from a safe distance and you are watching yourself.”

“I’m tired.”

“It’s OK; we’re almost done.  Just before you attacked Shadrach, what was on the sword?  Had you done anything special with it?”

“Blood.”

“It had blood on it from other combatants?”

“Yes.  And mine.”

“Really.”

“I put my blood, my spit and my shit on it.  So that Shadrach would rot with me inside him forever.”

“Great.  I guess that explains the smell.”

|–|

December 24, 2003

Karl was in a bare room wearing a hospital gown.  There were no windows; the walls were padded; and the bed was a mattress on the floor.  Karl had no strength to do harm to himself or anyone else.  A simple toilet and sink was in one corner.

He was just starting to feel less drugged and more normal when three men, whose size made Karl look dwarfish, entered the room.

“You have been invited to dinner by Mr. Wilson.  To talk.  Will you accept?”

Anything to be out of this room.  “Yes.”

One of the men dropped a bundle.  A door slid open at the end of the room, revealing a full bathroom.  “You are requested to wash and dress.  We will remain to ensure your comfort.”

|–|

Karl was led to a small dining area that was tastefully decorated for the Christmas season in a Victorian style.  Basil rose and greeted him, but did not shake his hand.  “Sit, Malachi, sit.  It’s Christmas Eve.  Your host is Christian, isn’t he?”

“Raised that way.”

“So, we’ve some meal choices tonight,” Basil slid a menu to Karl.  “You’ll want to make it a good choice.  Here’s the wine list – a really good selection.”

“Why?”

“I’ll get to that in a minute.  First I want to say that the regression we did yielded some interesting results.  It seems that all the genetic material you, ah, skewered me with all those centuries ago led to some interesting theories that will take time to prove.  But in essence the way it goes is that you mixed some foreign material in me that somehow kept my cells from degrading the way normal ones do.  My lovely wound keeps producing replacements.  But it also produces you, the virus.  Every few decades some of you drops out of me and infects some poor soul.  You start rewriting their genes and go on your mission of revenge.”

“Revenge and trying to save the world from you.  The SS.  Shadow Advisor to the President, the papers call you.  You probably had access to Tony Blair too.”

“Oh please.  Me?  Look I’ve spent all my life trying to talk sense to these clowns or, in some cases like Hitler, talk nonsense.  For example, let’s say in 1940 that someone who actually wasn’t insane was Chancellor of Germany.  How do you think the war would have ended?  We would have all been one big unhappy Reich.  The only way to get close to Hitler and keep him making bonehead decisions was to join the SS and move up the ranks.”

“To beat them, you joined them?” asked Karl.

“Yes, sadly, what a bunch psychos.  Had I been smarter, I would have knocked some sense into the idiots who wrote the treaty after World War I.  That document made the next war inevitable.”

“What about now?”

“After 9/11, who do you think was in the chorus telling Mr. Bush not to nuke Afghanistan?  This whole Iraq thing was a hard-on for him that just would not go away, but at least it wasn’t a nuclear obsession.”

“What about our respective homelands?”

“Don’t get me started about the Middle East.  The number of times I’ve managed to weasel people into simply having a nice cup of tea and putting their feet up for a minute, some fucking nutter starts killing Arabs or Jews again.  Just don’t go there.  Only the Middle East could produce two individuals who have been fighting for over 4000 years.”  Basil took a sip of wine and exhaled slowly.  “But, our battle is going to go on a hiatus.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was going to tell you after dinner, but what the heck.  I am going to induce in you a long-term coma and lock you up and keep you alive as long as possible.  The plan is to see if there can only be one infected host with Malachi’s delightful personality in it.  If in twenty or thirty years another Malachi shows up, I’m no worse off than I am now.  If, however, there can only be one Malachi at a time, then I have at least spared some other poor sod the experience of being infected.”

“If you destroyed yourself – in a furnace or something – wouldn’t that stop this whole cycle too?” For the first time in a while, it was Karl himself speaking.

“Karl, I hear you.  You are likely correct, but I feel that my work in this world is not yet done.  You are one of many innocent victims and, for what it’s worth, I feel bad about that.  Unfortunately, the best I can suggest is to enjoy your last solid meal and make sure to try the Shiraz.”

 

Timothy McFarrell walked briskly down an alley north of Broadway in Vancouver.  It was his custom on Christmas Eve – bordering on a tradition – to do last minute shopping.  The lane provided a quicker way to London Drugs than the crowded street.  He hoped to find some favourable “stinky stuff” for his mother in the cosmetics section of the all-purpose drug store.

A back door to a bank burst open and two men with ski masks emerged; one literally bumped into Timothy.  His Irish mother’s hot temper mixed with his anglo-Canadian father’s moral rectitude helped Timothy feel violently appalled that these men had the gall to rob a bank on Christmas Eve.  This foolishly moved him to action and Timothy pushed one of the robbers over.  He could hear his mother’s voice in his mind.  “You’re a friggin’ ijit, Timmy.”

The other robber shot him.

The bullet passed through Timothy’s chest.

He slid down the wall of the building and landed on his butt with a thump. Timothy was suitably amazed that not only he had been shot, but he was also in incredible pain.

The world became a blurry place.

 

“Let me help you.”

Timothy looked at the man, who wore a business suit and seemed to be in his late forties.  The man held out his hand and pulled Timothy up.

He inspected himself and noticed that there was no wound on his chest.  Seeing his confusion, his helper pointed downward.  Timothy saw his own body sitting by the wall, breathing very slightly, in a pool of his own blood.

“What the f-“

“You are having a near death experience.  My name is Chuck.  I’m a ghost.”

“What do I do?  We should call someone.”

“We can’t; we aren’t substantial enough.  I’m here to ask a favour.”

“A favour….” Timothy couldn’t stop looking at his wounded body.

“But we shouldn’t talk here.”

“I can’t just leave … myself there.”

“You can hear the sirens can’t you?  Won’t be more than two minutes before help arrives.”

“Um, where do you want to go?”

Chuck waved an arm and they were suddenly on Kits Beach.  “Let’s sit on a log and look at the ocean.”

They sat down and Timothy felt calmed by the water and the mountains.

“Can anyone see us?”

“No.  See the people on those logs over there who have shimmering light around them?”

“Yeah.”

“Ghosts.  We all have to watch out that the living don’t try to sit on us.”

“Do you talk to the other ghosts?”

“Not often.  They are usually sitting beside loved ones hoping their presence will help.  Which kind of relates to why I’m asking for your help.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, you see, I have no loved ones.  This is because in life I was a total bastard.  I died seven years ago and it has taken me this long to realize that I can help my former business partner, a guy who is now such a prick it would have made me look good when I was alive.”

“This sounds familiar,” said Timothy.

“It should.  Charles Dickens somehow learned about this post mortem spiritual activity – while he was alive – and wrote down a variation on what we dead folks can do.  No one knows how old Charles did it and he’s not telling, even now.”

“So how do I fit into your plan?”

“I need you to be the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“What?”

“I am recruiting three spirits.  I picked you because having one foot in the real world and one in the spirit world is very helpful.  You can travel in time more easily than other spirits.  And you aren’t as, well, bummed out as so many ghosts I meet.”

“You want me to show some guy highlights of his life and try to make him see the light?”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t even know who you’re talking about.  How would I do this?  Why would I do this?  This is crazy.”

“Hold your horses!” said Chuck.  “I’ll explain.  Besides, trust me, this is going to be more fun that sitting in your body as they try to patch you up.”

“Am I going to die?”

“Obviously, eventually, but I can’t tell you if you survive your gunshot wound.  Try not to dwell on it.  Do you want to know about Miles?”

“Your business partner?”

“Yes.  Miles Coulson was my business partner.”

“Miles Coulson of Global Tech?”

“You read the business section.  Yes, that’s him.”

“A little wealthy isn’t he?  That company has components in almost every computer in the world.”

“Yep.  I helped him get that rich but don’t worry, he’s not enjoying his wealth.  Get this: this morning he was sitting on the can reading the newspaper and overheard two guys in the washroom.  They were talking about another co-worker (someone named Parsons) who they had seen the night before leaving a gay bar with a totally flaming man.  Neither they nor Miles knew the guy played net for the other league.

“So, Miles – when he’s finished and the other guys have left the washroom – goes up to his HR director and tells her to fire the guy.  She asks ‘Why Parsons?’  Miles says he’s learned something unpleasant about the employee; she knows the code and reminds Miles that the severance package will have to be really good.  Miles says, ‘I don’t care; I don’t want people like that in the building.’  By noon on Christmas Eve, this poor guy has a cheque and has been shown the door by Security.”

“Jesus.”

“Miles’ management style might as well have been conceived after reading the biographies of Hitler and Stalin and declaring them wimps.”

“I have no idea how to take this guy on that trip down memory lane, though.”

“Here, take this.”

From nowhere, Chuck produced a photo of Miles Coulson.  Timothy didn’t quite realize it at first, but it wasn’t a physical photograph.  As soon as he touched it, all of Miles’ memories flooded into his head.  By the time Timothy’s vision cleared, the photo was gone.

“I have far more detail about this guy than a third party should.”

“Sorry about that, but you’ll need it all,” said Chuck.  “Better yet, you have knowledge of events that happened involving Miles when he wasn’t present in the room.”

“I mean, really,” said Timothy, “this is just too much detail.”

“Don’t worry; you’ll get used to it.  As for taking Miles wherever and whenever you want, all you have to do is have him touch you once and then think about exactly where you want to be.  I have to recruit a couple more spirits, so I’d better get a move on.  You can jump Miles to five different scenes in his life.  Think about what would be best.  I’ll be back to show you where you come in.”

And Chuck vanished.

With so much information about Miles Coulson in his head, Timothy couldn’t help but think about the man scheduled for attempted redemption.  But Timothy was curious … was he really a spirit?  Was this some kind of gunshot wound hallucination?

He began strolling around the beach and the adjacent park.  He tried talking to people but to no avail.  While looking at some kids on the swings he saw a child that shimmered in the way Chuck had pointed out.  Maybe this little boy would talk to him.

“Hi.  I’m Timothy.  Who are you?”

The child, who had been intently looking at a family as they played in the park said, “Go away; you aren’t really dead and you shouldn’t be talking to me.”  And the child vanished.

Timothy decided that he was indeed in some odd state and it would be best to just try to focus on the job Chuck had given him.  There was so much in Miles’ life that it was going to be tough to pick only five events.

***

Before Timothy knew it, it was dark and Chuck was standing by his side.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.  Any tips?”

“His problem is obvious, but not to him.  I’d say show, don’t tell.  You can change your own outward appearance to be pretty much anything you want.  And create props like I did with his photograph.”

“Wow.  Have you warmed him up for me already?”

“I scared the shit out him – he’s about as ready for three more hauntings as he’s going to be.  To practise your time and space manoeuvres, imagine that you’re in his apartment and take us there.”

Timothy closed his eyes and when he opened them, he and Chuck were in Miles’ living room.

“Good work.  I have to go now.  I want to thank you in advance.  I’d say knock him dead, but that’s just too bad a pun.”

And Timothy was alone in the room.  Because of his recently acquired in-depth knowledge of Miles, he felt quite familiar with the apartment.  It was a penthouse with a huge view of Coal Harbour.  The apartment was expensive, but unlived in.  The only piece of furniture with any character was an overstuffed chair from the 50s.  Otherwise the place was emotionally barren – too tidy, neatness produced by maids, not by pride in one’s home.

It was coming onto midnight and he moved into Miles’ bedroom, where he found the forty-eight year old man asleep in bed with a distinct frown on his face.  When the alarm clock in the room struck midnight, Timothy touched it and the alarm went off.

Miles sat bolt upright and swore.  He struck the clock to shut off the alarm and stared at Timothy.

“You’re the ghost.”

“I prefer the term ‘spirit’,” replied Timothy.

“Is there a way out of this?”

“Do you mean to avoid me taking you on a trip through your own memories?  Hmm.  If you suddenly killed yourself, that would make the matter moot.”

“Great.”

“Put on a robe or something.  This is a parental guidance rated haunting.”

Miles quickly made his way from his bed to the closet and put on a bathrobe.  He was fitter than many men twenty years younger.  Timothy speculated that when you have no friends, you must have a lot of time to go to the gym.  Despite having all of Miles’ memories in his head, Timothy had to fight a feeling of being looked down upon.  Timothy was twenty-six years old and had worked for men like Miles.  Older.  Stern.  A full head of hair.  An air of generally being pissed off.  Timothy made himself feel better by remembering what power he held over Miles at this moment.

“Let’s get this over with,” ordered Miles.

“This isn’t a dental appointment.”

“Christ.  Chuck didn’t say I had to deal with attitude on top of being haunted.”

“Attitude?  You’re in no position to talk.  Here, take this.”  Timothy handed Miles a photograph of him and his brother Stan when they were children.  They were playing in the snow.  Timothy didn’t let go of the photograph.

***

Both Timothy and Miles were now standing in a playground in snow up to their knees, but neither man felt cold or wet.  Miles found it odd that he was aware that it was cold, but he was not actually cold.  He was trying to remember exactly when and where this was.

“Christmas Eve 1964,” said Timothy.

They watched the ten-year-old Miles play with his brother Stan, who was eight.  They were having a friendly snowball fight.  This was the first snowfall of the year and it was very exciting for the young boys.  But soon they tired and walked the few short blocks home.  They lived in Scarborough, Ontario, in a new subdivision.  In the distance you could see the partly built homes of their subdivision looking like wintry skeletons.  But these boys had no interest in them.  Their house was brightly lit and festive and soon it would be dinner time!

Wordlessly, Miles and Timothy watched the entire evening’s festivities from the opening of one present each, to eating ham and scalloped potatoes, to being read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ and then being tucked into bed.

Afterwards, Miles’ parents sat in the living room and opened up the scotch.

“Do you remember being that young and full of energy?” asked Mother.

“No,” replied Dad.  “I was born over the hill and slow.”

“Jesus Dad, you’re thirty-two.”  Miles had spoken aloud for the first time and was irrationally worried the past would hear him.

“Not even hockey players are over the hill at that age anymore,” said Timothy.

“Why are we listening to this?”

“Just you wait.”

“I still worry about Stan,” said Dad.  Miles suddenly focused.

“What about?” asked Mother.

“Well … face it honey, he likes stuffed animals a lot more than trucks.”

“So?” said Mother.  “He’s sensitive.”

“It’s not that.  I’m afraid he’d be happier if I gave him a damn Barbie doll for Christmas rather than the building blocks we got.”

“Heavens!  What a thing to say.  Let the boy be.”

“They fucking knew,” said Miles.

“So?”

“I wasted my time protecting Stan from Dad when he knew all along.  I thought for sure he’d have thrashed Stan for it.”

“But you didn’t protect Stan all the time.”

***

Abruptly they were leaving a schoolyard.  Miles was walking home from high school with a friend.  The route home took them past Stan’s junior high school.  They could see the doors to the junior high about half a block distant.  The spectres and the boys saw Stan running out of the school, being chased by two other boys.  They quickly caught up with the slower, younger boy and started hitting him with their satchels of books.  Stan covered his head and started to cry.

“Miles, isn’t that your brother?” asked the friend.

Miles at age sixteen looked over as if it were a huge inconvenience.  “Yeah.”

“C’mon.  Let’s go help.”

“No.  Stan has to learn to fend for himself.”

And they walked on.

“I did not say that.”  Miles at forty-eight screamed and ran toward his brother Stan.  But it was futile.  All he could do was watch and see his helpless little brother take a pummelling from the bigger boys.  And be incessantly called ‘fag boy’.  As Stan cried, Miles cried.  A teacher eventually saw what was going on and chased the boys off.  Stan thanked the teacher but refused the offer to have the other boys disciplined.  In the school office he’d have to explain why they were attacking him and when his attackers found out he’d gone to the principal, they’d increase their harassment.

Timothy manufactured a facial tissue out of nothing and handed it to Miles.  “So, why the tears?”

“What do you mean?  Didn’t you see what happened?”

“Apart from the fact you didn’t beat that Parsons guy you fired today with a bag full of textbooks, how does what you did differ from what happened to Stan?”

“How dare you compare me to those shitheads!”

“Gosh Miles, just because you wear a suit when you apply prejudice doesn’t mean it’s any different.”

“You lousy son of a …”

“Hey,” said Timothy.  “Don’t shoot the messenger.  It’s futile in my case.  Someone already did.”

***

“Why are we in a doctor’s office?”

“Ah, this isn’t just any doctor’s office.  It’s your doctor’s office.  You see one of my theories about you is that you never got enough of the right sex.  You know the type – where people doing it actually care about each other.”

“Mr. Coulson, the doctor will see you now.”

Miles the elder hadn’t seen his nineteen-year-old self in the corner.  “Oh crap.  Oh please.  Not this.”

“C’mon Miles, let’s see what the doctor has to say.”

Miles’ doctor was an older man, a couple years from retirement, who had been a medic in World War II.  This meant that some young idiot contracting the clap did not worry him much, regardless of how big a deal it was to the young idiot in question.

As Miles and Miles were entering the room, the doctor said, “Non-specific Urethritis.”

“What?” said Miles Jr.

“You have either gonorrhoea or chlamydia but the lab can’t grow either in a petrie dish.  So we call it non-specific.”

“But it’s still VD.”

“Oh yes.  Not to worry.  I’ve got a prescription for you.  Make sure to drink about a gallon of water a day and take lots of hot baths.”

“This is a disaster.”

“Look, Mr. Coulson, in my day most men thought of getting a dose as a badge of honour or the cost of doing business.  The only reason the army didn’t like it is that it got in the way of being good soldiers.  If you are worried about your family, don’t tell ’em.  Your girlfriend on the other hand … you need to tell her.  With this type, women often don’t know they have it.”

“Tell her.”  Miles Jr. was neither asking a question nor making a statement.  “She’s not my girlfriend.  Not anymore.”

Even Miles Sr. was taken aback by the anguish on the young man’s face.

Timothy hoped that he could slide around this time period without using up another jump.  And it worked.  They were in Miles’ room in college where he was writing a letter to Jenny – his one and only true love.  It wasn’t a nice letter.

“Nice penmanship,” said Timothy.

“No, no,” said Miles.

Then Timothy slid them forward two days to the house that Jenny shared with a couple of other girls.

“Wow.  These chicks were real hippies.”  Timothy was admiring the beads, the incense, the Beatles posters, the prints of the Maharishi and all the other hippie accoutrements.  It was 1973 and the 60s were alive and well.

Jenny was twenty-two and, although older than Miles, much more young at heart.  After she had picked up the day’s post and read the mail, she did not look so young.  Miles had wanted to look away as she read the letter, but Timothy wouldn’t let him.  Jenny ran upstairs to her room and would not come out for days.

“I hate to tell you this, but it’s not advisable to use Canada Post to break up with someone and tell them she gave you an STD.  You were chicken-shit not to do that face-to-face.”

“I was nineteen; she was the first girl I ever loved.  What do you want?”

“I’m glad you asked.  I’d like you to make some connections.  Between your brother being gay and your lover putting you off sex, don’t you see that you may have overreacted in past years?  You have not come even close to loving someone since.  You’ve had sex on one-night stands only – or with escorts – ever since.  And don’t give me the ‘it’s safer’ excuse.  It’s not physically safer; it’s emotionally safer.  Sex became a chemical requirement for you, not something to enjoy.  You let these experiences harden your heart.”

“Look, even if all this is true, so what?  What’s wrong with being the way I am?  I don’t hurt people.  I fired Parsons this morning with something like a year’s pay.  It’s my company; I get to do what I like as long as it’s legal.”

“You mean so long as you don’t get caught.  You could have given him seven years pay and it would still be wrongful dismissal.”

“What am I supposed to do?  Suddenly see the light and say ‘jaysus ahm saved!’  Start giving money to charities run by looney hippies like Jenny who are so naïve that they don’t know they’re infected with VD?”

“I’m not here to tell you what to do.”

***

They were in a corridor of a hospital.  It wasn’t evident that they were no longer in Ontario until a hospital worker walked by with VGH written on her coveralls.

“No.  No.  I won’t.”

“Sure you will.  His room is right this way.”

They walked into a private room, which was being paid for by Miles, aged thirty.  A last generous act for his brother.  The younger Miles was sitting in a chair looking morose.  A gay friend of Stan’s was holding the withered man’s hand.  Stan was on a respirator.

“1984,” said Timothy.  “Echo and the Bunnymen, Prince – lots of silly music and AIDS, your brand new disease.”

“This is torture.  Why do I have to see him die again?”

“Ah, but you didn’t, did you?”

The younger Miles stood up and moved over to the bed.  He stared down at his brother with a cold, calculating look.  He then looked at the friend and said, “I have to get to work.  Call me if there is any change.  You have my pager?”  The friend nodded.

Just after the younger Miles left, Stan stirred.  “Miles?” a tiny voice uttered.  “Miles?  Are you there?  Do you forgive me?”  Stan spoke no further and after a couple of minutes the heart monitor alarms sounded.

If he could have puked, Miles would have.  He sat on the floor and curled up in a foetal position.  Timothy kneeled down beside him and whispered, “I’m sure your charitable donations budget has room for an AIDS hospice or two, eh?”

Miles was still on the floor dry-heaving.

“Pull yourself together, Miles.  We have one more stop.”

***

Boxing Day, 1995, found Miles Coulson in his office.  Chuck had been in hospital for a number of weeks and Miles was starting to get used to the idea that he’d be running the company by himself.  It was a statutory holiday, but that never stopped Miles from working.  It was nice to do some work with the office totally quiet and relatively free of interruption.

His cell phone went off.  Miles looked at it and sighed.

“Yes?  Can’t wait until later?”  Miles sighed.  “OK, I’m on my way.”

Timothy and Miles watched 1995 Miles grab his jacket and leave the office.

“Chuck was your only friend.  Did you see how you felt personally inconvenienced by his illness?”

Miles said nothing.

Timothy took them to the hospital.  He wondered how Miles was going to cope with another deathbed scene so soon after the last one.

In the room was Chuck, who looked ashen and thin.  By his side was his ex-wife.  When Miles came into the room, she was working hard, and unsuccessfully, to hide her dislike of him.  But he didn’t notice and if he had, he wouldn’t have cared.  1995 Miles thought that Chuck’s wife was a bitch and was only there to make sure she didn’t get cut out of the will.

“Chuck, how are you?”

“Nice of you to come by Miles.  How the fuck do you think I am?”

“Dying, according to those overpaid doctors.”

“Yes.  That’s what they say.  Unlikely to live the night.”

“They’ve given you something for the pain?”

“Too much.  I’ve been thinking.  Do you think we should have been such total pricks all these years?”

Miles was caught off guard by the question.  “This is no time to second guess yourself.  If we hadn’t been the pricks we were, we’d have had to work for some.”

Chuck tried to laugh, but couldn’t.  When his voice came back, he said, “Miles, with testicular cancer, they cut your balls off.”

“And …”  1995 Miles didn’t like the sound of this question.

“Make sure you get me buried with them.  I want all of me in one place.”

“I’ll make sure.  I’m going to go now Chuck; hospitals aren’t my thing.  I’ll see you later.”

“I guarantee it,” said Chuck.

Miles and Timothy lingered in the room and watched Chuck slowly fade away in a cloud of painkillers.

“I’m out of tears,” said Miles.

“No problem.  You never got his real parts, did you?”

“No of course not.  They had disposed of them months before.  But Chuck does have with him in the coffin a nice set of brass balls I bought for cheap in Chinatown.”

“And they say you have no sense of humour,” said Timothy.

They were in the hallway of the hospital now and for the first time, Miles took time to actually look at Timothy.  “You don’t look so well.”

“My time is ending.”  Timothy was becoming afraid.  He waved his arm and took them back to Miles’ apartment.  Timothy’s ghostly self was becoming pale and slowly fading.

“Who are you really?” asked Miles.  “I can tell that you aren’t an old ghost; you’re contemporary.”

The bullet wound appeared on Timothy; Miles stepped back and Timothy said with a rasp in his voice, “Check out the bank on Broadway that had the robbery.”

“Why?”

“I hope you saw new things in your past.  Good luck.”

Timothy felt like he was falling over, but Chuck’s ghost was there to catch him.  They were back at the site of the shooting.  Chuck helped Timothy sit back in his wounded body.

“You were wonderful.  See you later.”

Timothy’s last clear vision was that of a paramedic running toward him.

***

On December 28, Timothy woke up.  His mother was by his side, crying.  “Mum.”  There was more he wanted to say like, “Am I dead?” but there wasn’t enough strength in his body.  With incredible difficulty he turned his head toward the sound of laughter.  Miles Coulson was sitting in front of him with a shit-eating grin and a light in his eyes that had certainly not been there on Christmas Eve.

“You.”

“Don’t try to talk, Timothy; you gave us all a scare.”

“Mr Coulson has been … well Timmy … embarrassingly generous.”

“Nonsense.  Mrs McFarrell, if you want to have the pleasure of telling the doctors your son is awake, please carry on.  I can keep him company.”

Timothy’s mother left the room, still weeping.

“How?” whispered Timothy.

“I think I made it through Chuck’s little hauntings.  Did you ever meet the other two ghosts?”

Timothy shook his head.

“Good.  You don’t want to.  Particularly the last one.  Anyway, on Christmas Day, I remembered what you said about the shooting.   And when I saw your picture I knew.  I knew it hadn’t all been a dream.  But you were dying, so I took the liberty of bringing in a gunshot specialist from the States.  Man, were the local doctors ticked off, but once I gave a sensible sized donation to one of their favourite foundations, things loosened up.”

Timothy just stared at Miles.

“Look,” continued Miles, “when you are on your feet and can talk, we’ll compare notes.  For now just accept that, given how you helped me, it seemed only reasonable to bring in an American doctor who by himself has more gunshot wound experience than all the doctors in Canada combined.”

“Parsons,” whispered Timothy.

“Oh yeah.  I didn’t hire him back, but I did force a management recruiter to place him at a new job with a big promotion.”  Miles started laughing again and if it hadn’t hurt so much, Timothy would have too.

December 23, 2001

Renihan admired the lights on the houses as the limousine passed through the Arlington neighbourhood.  Across from him, the serious young man who had been sent to collect him was not looking outward.  Since they had left San Francisco that morning, Renihan had tried to engage his chaperon in conversation but had given up somewhere over Idaho.

It was all a little cloak-and-dagger even for a man who was a card-carrying member of the CIA, NSA, Secret Service and The Planetary Society.

“How much longer?”

“Once we’re in DC, sir, you will be at your meeting.

***

At The Willard, Colleen Soroka was seated at the bar in their Ballroom.  It was an ornate hotel with high ceilings and chandeliers everywhere.  Somewhere in her head was stored the trivia that this was the lobby in which Lobbyists were created.  The President of the day was often influenced in the lobby of this hotel.  She hadn’t finished her thought when she was not lobbied so much as approached.

“Ms Soroka?”

She eyed the two suited gentlemen carefully.  Presidents Men.  Secret Service.  “What can I do for you boys?”

“We’re sorry to do this, but we have orders to take you to a meeting in town here.  Top secret.  High priority.”

Soroka, like Renihan, was affiliated with a number of the United States finest intelligence agencies, and had picked this high tech vendor party to attend because of an absolutely scrumptious systems analyst she’d met at the company’s offices some months earlier.  He was even single.

“Dressed like this?” she said coyly.  Her black dress was just the right size small.

“Ma’am, just be pleased we didn’t catch you in your dirty PJs.

***

Renihan had never been in the White House.  The meeting room was small but the coffee was good.  The door opened and a beautiful, tall and somewhat frighteningly fit woman entered.  Exactly the type of woman Renihan had never, ever asked out.  Over her shoulder, she thanked whoever had helped her in.  She wasn’t pleased.  “James Renihan,” I presume.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Colleen Soroka.”

“The Colleen Soroka?  I’m honoured to be brought to a clandestine meeting in the White House with you.  I take it from your attire that you weren’t given much notice.”

“None.”

“I was Christmas shopping this morning … in San Francisco.”

The Director of the NSA, Michael Hayden, walked in.

“Sir.”

“Sir.”

“Please, sit down.”  He shook their hands.  “We have one more attendee and then we can begin the briefing.  Sorry for the short notice, but as you have likely guessed, this is urgent.”

“Any hints?” asked Renihan.

“You don’t have to go to any Muslim countries.”

“That narrows it down.”

The President of the United States entered the room.

Everyone stood.

“Sit down please,” said the President.  “I’m here to listen to the Lieutenant General tell us the same bad news.  Michael, please proceed.  I have to go light some more candles somewhere in a few minutes.”

“As you agents likely know, we have a top secret set of labs in Virginia that allow us to experiment with advanced techniques in physics and engineering.  One lab was broken into under incredibly unlikely circumstances.”

Michael took out a disk and put it into a player that was built into the meeting room wall.  The images showed a speeded up security camera with a time read out.  It was six hours earlier and showed an empty corridor for a couple of minutes.  Then, literally out of nowhere, three armed men appeared.  They ran down the corridor out of view.  The film cut to a gun battle between the three unexpected visitors and some heavily armed security people.  One of the intruders went down and the remaining two retreated.  Back in front of the original camera, the two vanished.  Michael shut off the machine.

“That occurred in our advanced physics lab outside of Richmond.  We lost two good people in that attack.  The problem is obvious; who were they and how did they get in?  Renihan and Soroka, that’s your job.  You have been chosen because Renihan has the background in the necessary esoteric subjects and Soroka you are the best security analyst and operative we’ve got.”

“What’s the lab working on right now?” asked Renihan.

“Some shit in quantum mechanics I don’t understand.”

“Ah.”

“Soroka you are the commanding officer on this case.  You can recruit resources as necessary, but you cannot disclose the mission.  I believe the President has a couple of words.”

“Thanks Michael.  Renihan and Soroka, I need you to help the nation out.  We are already up to our eyeballs with trying to bring the operation overseas to a successful conclusion.  The thought that possible terrorists could break into a secure lab that almost no one knows about is unacceptable.  You have my support to take measures necessary to solve this mystery.  Quickly.”

“Yes sir,” Renihan and Soroka said in unison.

“And sorry for the interruption of your Christmas.  I send your best to your families.  Michael, if you don’t need me.”

“Thanks Mr. President.”

And thus George W. Bush ended his brief encounter with Renihan and Soroka.

“That was weird,” said Renihan.  “Sir, is there anything else you can tell us?  Is that guy they took down alive?  Are you sure the camera just wasn’t broken?”

“He’s alive – due to his injuries, he had to be taken off site to Richmond General for surgery.  The cameras check out.  What you saw was real.”  Michael handed Soroka a dossier and travel documents.  “There’s a helicopter waiting for you.  The secret service agent will show you the way.  My number is in the dossier.  I want regular updates.  We need this solved.”

“Yes sir,” they said in unison.

***

The helicopter was loud and due to the fact the pilot could overhear their conversation, Renihan and Soroka decided not to talk at all.

The security director greeted them at The Science Lab main gate in Virginia.  He had a bundle of fresh clothes for each of them.  They proceeded into the nearby washrooms and changed.

Renihan emerged ostensibly the same – denim jacket and dress pants whereas Soroka emerged looking unglamorous, but no less beautiful, in jeans, blouse and pullover sweater.  She was snapping in a small firearm to a belt that hid the gun under her sweater.  Renihan estimated that Soroka has at least three pieces on her.

She stared at him.  “You don’t wear a gun, do you?”

“Nah, my tailor says the look doesn’t suit me.”

“If I ordered you to wear one, would you?”

“Yes, but please don’t.  I bet you have enough guns for both of us.”

“Let’s get to work.”

The director of security led them through two more security checkpoints.  Soroka and Renihan alone entered an elevator that took them thirty floors underground.  The security director didn’t have clearance for this section of the lab.

“I just want to know,” said Renihan, “where they took all the dirt and rock they dug up and how did they do it without the neighbours noticing.”

“This assignment is nuts.  We don’t even know who we’re meeting down here.”

“Maybe we’ll find out what happened to Elvis.”

“If someone starts talking to me about aliens, I’m just going to start shooting.”

The elevator opened and a caricature of a mad scientist met them.  “Hello, I’m Dr. Unger.  Welcome to The Science Lab.  You must be Agent Colleen Soroka.  Renihan, it’s good to see you again.”

Soroka shook the doctor’s hand.

Renihan said, “Doc, you look great for a dead guy.”

***

In the meeting room, Dr. Unger explained that to improve the secrecy of the project, the government had decided to fake the deaths of some key scientists.  Renihan learned that two of his profs from MIT had not died when he had thought.  One of them had, apparently for real, died since.

“But this is not our key problem.”  Dr. Unger played the tape again.

“Did you see any of this battle yourself?” asked Soroka.

“I saw our guards shoot the man who is now in the hospital.”

“Did he look familiar to you?”

“No.”

“Any ideas as to where these people came from?  Motive?”

“This project, were it know about, would cause worry in many quarters, but the agencies you work for set up all this elaborate subterfuge and security arrangements.”

“Doc, what is it that this project does?” asked Renihan.  “When you were at MIT you were dealing in applied quantum mechanics; I assumed for the benefit of computer industry.”

“At first that was the case, but we discovered some interesting properties about sub-atomic particles.  In essence as we were working to eliminate quantum effects on next generation microprocessors – basically if you get too many wires too close in too small a space their interference with each becomes hard to predict.  In the process we discovered that we could map the probable location of particles with respect to the galactic core, but also their position in time.  How far from the big bang they had gone.  Interestingly there are a lot of particles floating around that have different, er, timestamps.  If we observe any group of particles, there are some from the past and some from the future.”

“You didn’t find a way to manipulate these timestamps?” asked Renihan.

“Yes, that’s the point of the project.”

“Oh god.”

“What?” asked Soroka.

“They are trying to invent a time machine.”

***

Outside the meeting room, Soroka had made some decisions.  “Renihan I want you to go to the Capitol Medical Center, check this guy out and determine if he can be moved to a more secure location.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I am going to review security protocols here and try to determine how the intruders got in.”

“Colleen, you seem, er, agitated.”

“Come on Renihan.  Time machines?  I thought this assignment was for real, not some bogus physics lab for the self-indulgence of old professors.”

“They spent a lot of money and kept it secret.  Seems excessive for a boondoggle.”

“Best snow job in American history in my opinion.”

“It’s not my job to tell you how to think, but you may want to consider that the intruders came from the future.  From what I saw their firearms were not familiar.”

“Which doesn’t prove time travel.  Get out of here.”

***

Renihan went directly to Intensive Care, but couldn’t find the intruder or any of the agents that brought him in.  Conversations with the hospital’s staff led him to a low risk recovery wing.

Outside a room was a secret service agent.

“Hi.  I’m Agent Renihan.”  Renihan displayed his NSA ID.

“I’m Agent Chad.  We just got notice that you fellows had taken on the case.”

“Did you inform someone that you had moved him from ICU to here?”

“We just called it in.  The hospital made the change in the last half hour.”

“Why the move?”

“He was getting better.”

“From a punctured lung, ruptured spleen and internal bleeding.  In a seven hours?”

“Ask the doctor.”

“I will.  See you later.  Where are this guy’s possessions?”

“Locked up in the hospital administrator’s office.  Agent Chang is guarding it.”

A conversation with the attending physician revealed that indeed the patient had healed abnormally quickly.  The injuries listed on the chart had been real; the patient was truly well shot-up.  In addition, there was no obvious explanation for the recovery, but the hospital couldn’t justify keeping him in Intensive Care.  Besides, it was less of a burden for the hospital to guard him on a normal floor.

In the administrator’s office, the personal effects of the intruder were simple.  His clothes were nondescript; they were unlabelled combat fatigues that could have been sewn up anywhere.  The only other two items were a plastic card – about credit card size but three times as thick – with nothing written on it and a small gun of an unfamiliar design.  Renihan could make out the obvious trigger, safety and clip, but the shells were square.  The gun seemed to be made of metal, but seemed too light.  Renihan put the items in his pocket in case he had an opportunity to use them in an interview with the heal-so-fast intruder.

A hospital worker stuck his head into the room.  “Agent Renihan?  Agent Chad wanted you to know that the patient is stirring.  The doctor thinks he might be coming out of it.”

Renihan hurried back to the room.

In the room, the doctor was finishing taking the intruder’s blood pressure.

“Unbelievable recovery.”

“Is he awake yet, doc?”

“No, but it shouldn’t be long.”

“I’ll just sit with him.”

“OK.”

Renihan stared at the patient and wondered where he came from.  A fit tall Caucasian man with no markings whatsoever.  In fact he almost looked generic – a soldier from a magazine.

Suddenly he wondered if he was faking it.

“Hi.  I’m Renihan.  You are in the <<>> hospital.  You wouldn’t want to tell me your name would you?”

Silence.

“OK, so who do you figure in the Stanley Cup?”

The patient gave a small grunt.

“Never the Leafs.  OK, what’s your birthday?  Please include the year just for laughs.”

The foot twitched.

Renihan pulled the plastic card that had been recovered from the intruder’s clothes.  “What about this.  Pretty boring looking credit card.”

The patient reached up and grabbed Renihan’s forearm.  The intruder’s eyes were wide open.  “Shit!”  Renihan tried to pull away.  The intruder was rising from the bed and his other hand was going for the card.  Renihan blocked the hand with his other arm.  “Chad!  Help!”

Agent Chad entered the room and grabbed the intruder’s flailing arm.  He picked the agent up and threw him across the room.  Chad crashed into a rolling table and chair.

Renihan head-butted his attacker and hit the button on the bed so that the bed tilted the legs up.  He punched the intruder in the head and the grip finally loosened.  Chad was groaning on the other side of the room.

Renihan did not look like much of a fighter – Soroka had thought upon meeting him that he needed to work out more – but when he had trained he always placed in the top five of his classes.  Thus when the intruder finally made it out of the bed and lunged at him, Renihan was able to deflect the weight of his attacker and send him crashing into the floor.  In the process, however, the card was knocked out of Renihan’s grasp.  The intruder should have been winded more than he was and thus was diving across the room toward the card.  Chad had risen, but was elbowed in the face and went down again.  The intruder had his hand on the card.  Renihan, not one to stand on good form, kicked for the intruder’s genitals but, before contacting, Renihan’s foot was intercepted and he was bowled over.  The intruder started urgently tapping on the card.  Renihan withdrew the gun and aimed.  The card started emitting bright light that filled the room.  Renihan fired two rounds into the intruder’s leg.  The lit area expanded to engulf Renihan.

When Chad awoke, he was the only person in the room.

***

Renihan found himself in what looked like an airlock.  The man who he had shot was writhing on the floor, injured in the leg as planned.  Before Renihan could think further, someone from the right knocked the gun from his hand; he was struck from behind.

***

When he awoke, Renihan found himself in a meeting room, restrained to a chair by tight, but not uncomfortable leather straps.  Across from him were two women and the man who he had shot.

One woman spoke in a language he did not recognize, but in his ears he heard an English translation.  Specifically, “Please tell us your name.”

“My name is James Renihan.  What’s yours?”

“Our names are not important.”

“Not even the one of the guy I shot?”

“You are very flippant for a prisoner.”  That statement came from the man.

“I try to be trying.”

“Who do you work for?” From the woman again.

“Classified.”

“What is your mission?”

“Classified.”

“Do you have any inklings as to where you are or how you got here?”

“I have a really, really bad feeling that I’m in the future.”

And in the end he wasn’t exactly in the future.  These were the people who had mounted the attack on The Science Lab.  They were born in the distant future, but the facility he was in was temporally neutral.  They had found matter that had no time signature at all and this room was within such a structure.  It was possible to monitor events throughout time.  They told Renihan that they were looking for points in time where time machines were being made and to stop them.

“But surely, for you to exist you need someone to have invented one once.”

He was told that the case of making the first one had occurred and the repercussions of being able to manipulate time had led to disaster.  Their group formed to try to make the world free of time travellers.  It was their dream, so they said, to simply reemerge into the world with no temporal technology.

“What do you want from me?” asked Renihan.

“We have to stop Dr. Unger’s project.”

“Surely there was a more subtle way of doing it than shooting people.”

“We didn’t know how well defended the lab was.”

“Why don’t you just put me back and let me sabotage the computer the data is on.  You must have some cool device to do it so that I don’t get caught.  If it’s bad enough, they’ll never re-approve the budget.”

“You’d have to kill Dr. Unger.”

“He’s dead anyway … at least on paper.”

It took an additional four hours to convince them that he was serious.

***

Renihan decided that time travel was like opening your front door, stepping out and unexpectedly ending up somewhere other than the front yard.

In this case it was The Science Lab on the sub 30 level.  He walked to the meeting room where Soroka was setting up a situation room.

“Hi.”

“That was quick.”

“I didn’t take a direct route.  Where’s Unger?”

“In his office.  What happened at the …”

But Renihan walked out quickly.

In Unger’s office the doctor was sitting at his desk.  Renihan reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic card.  “Doc, can you scan an item and determine how many particles are not from our current timestamp?”

“Certainly.”

“We have to do it now.  Let’s go to your lab.”

Soroka entered the office.  “Renihan; what the hell is going on?”

“Come with us quickly.”

In the main lab, Dr Unger put the plastic card in a special box that looked like a steel strongbox.  At a console, he tapped in some commands in a keyboard.  He looked shocked.

“The readings are off the scale.  What is it?  Where did you get it?”

Renihan took the card out of the box.

“Soroka, I was wondering if you would call Agent Chad and just ask him if I’ve arrived at the hospital yet.”

“What for?  How did you know Chad was working there?  I just found out myself that he and Chang were on duty.”

“I need to prove something to you.  Please.”

Soroka pulled out her cell phone and plugged it into a wall adapter so it would work on the land line.  “Chad.  It’s Soroka.  Has Renihan arrived yet?”

“Yes ma’am; he just checked in.  Want me to get him?”

“No.  Don’t bother.  Thanks.”

Soroka stared at Renihan.  “What’s going on?  Is this a prank?”

“In a little while, the intruder at the hospital will revive, he and I will fight and I’ll be transported into what amounts to the future.  I will negotiate with the group that attacked this facility and come to the conclusion I need to destroy this facility and kill Dr. Unger.  My new time travelling allies a few minutes ago dropped me off here.”

“You time travelled?  What was it like?” asked Dr. Unger.

“Doctor, you’d think you’d be more interested in your own life.  Renihan, you are either insane of a security risk.”

“Or a very good liar.  What I told our temporal friends was complete bullshit.  What I’m afraid of is another attack once these bozos figure out I was not exactly on the up and up.”

Soroka grabbed her cellphone and punched in a number.  “Wallace?  Get Da Silva and yourself to the main meeting room right now.  Renihan, let’s go to the meeting room.  Dr Unger, would you please join us?”

In the meeting room, Soroka pulled attached a small scanner to her laptop, which was already running.  “I am not believing much of this, but I have to allow for the fact that we are working on a case that involves quantum physics and time travel and thus oddness could happen.”  The laptop had powered up.  “Place your hand on the scanner please.”

Renihan complied.

“What was that plastic card for?” she continued.

“It creates an electromagnetic pulse that will trash all computers in a wide area.  Or so they said.”

The scan on his hand was complete.  She passed the file to the ID software and it confirmed that she was dealing with Renihan.

“Were you going to use it?”

“No.  I’m still trying to think of how to get out of this mess.  As far as I’m concerned, these future people are just either deranged or on some other mission they didn’t tell me about.  Commando missions like what occurred here are usually last ditch efforts.  Surely there are more subtle ways of influencing the past.  Wouldn’t you think doc?”

“Yes of course.  If I had a time machine, I would be inclined to watch only.  Interacting would create causality loops.”

“Like me being in two places at once?” asked Renihan.

“Exactly.”

Wallace and Da Silva walked in.

“Renihan,” said Soroka, “How much time do we have before you have your little incident.”

“Less than an hour.”

“Wallace and Da Silva.  Get to the Richmond hospital.  Locate the man there who is impersonating Renihan.  He will seem identical.  Terminate him and the intruder in the hospital.  Bring the bodies here.”

“Um,” said Renihan, “is that actually necessary?  Dr. Unger, is this actually possible?”

“It’s one way to solve a causality loop,” said Dr. Unger.

“If we want to mess up the opposition, it’s crucial,” said Soroka.  “I want them to get the message we are taking steps to protect ourselves.”

“Ma’am,” said Wallace.  “Can we get your clearance sent in for this operation?”

“Of course.”  Wallace and Da Silva looked over her shoulder as she logged into the correct system and authorized an Extreme Prejudice action.  “Now get going.  Take a ‘copter.”

“Third floor of the recovery wing,” called Renihan after the two large soldiers.  “Try to be nice.  Soroka, you do realize that I’m at risk of ceasing to exist.”

“I doubt it; you’re way too tenacious.”

“Dr. Unger, what were these time travellers really here to do?” asked Renihan.

“What do you mean?”

“They gave me a bunch of nonsense about being on a mission to stop the invention of time travel everywhere.  But I don’t believe them.  There is something you’ve done that is a threat.”

“I agree with Renihan,” said Soroka.  “It might be subtle; something that has future ramifications.”

“Or not so subtle,” said Renihan.  He grabbed Dr. Unger’s right hand and dragged him over to the laptop scanner.

“What are you doing?”

“A routine identity check.”

The scanner did its work.  The computer said, “No match in the system.”

“So, you’re a rogue time traveller they’re trying to stop, aren’t you?”

Dr. Unger pushed Renihan to one side and was reaching inside his lab coat.

Soroka shot him in the shoulder.  As he writhed on the ground, she reached into his coat and pulled out a second plastic card, equally without markings, and handed it to Renihan.

He picked up the phone and called for a medic.

Soroka was applying pressure to Unger’s wound.  “So, who are you?”

“My name would be meaningless.  Mr. Renihan is correct however.”  He suddenly moved his foot onto Soroka’s chest and pushed her across the room.  Renihan dove at Unger, but was deftly pushed aside.  He strode over to Soroka, grabbed his plastic card and started tapping it.  There was a flash of light and he was gone.

Renihan moved over to Soroka, who was standing up.  “Uh, Colleen, you wouldn’t want to cancel that order to kill my other self would you?  It looks like my made up story to the other time travellers was not as far off the mark as I thought.”

She pulled out her cell phone and plugged it into the land line.  “This is Soroka.  Abort mission.  Return to base.  Confirm.”  She waited and provided another password and hung up.  “Don’t worry Renihan; they were just getting to the hospital when I called.”

“I guess this mission’s over then.”

“Why?”

“If the bad guy who just left was their target, there’s no reason for them to visit any longer.”

“What do I put in the report?  Is the real Unger around anywhere?”

“That’ll take some work to figure out when he was replaced.”

“Well, Renihan, you can help me write it up.  Can I take you out somewhere for some Christmas cheer?”

“My mother always told me never to accept drink invitations from women who can order your death.”

“Make an exception.”

“OK.”

“This climb had better prove worthwhile,” said The King.

The Wizard pulled his cloak tight around him to help keep out the mountain wind.  “Of course; it’s just another few steps away.”

They plodded through snow and kicked aside rock.  The Wizard was unaided; The King had Protection, a veritable giant standing more than a head taller than anyone else.  Protection looked unhappy to be on a cold mountainside.  With Protection were six other members of The King’s Guard who were carrying supplies.  The trail they were on led to a clearing that was the start of another valley.  A piece of metal lay at The Wizard’s feet; he picked it up and handed it to The King, saying, “Have you ever seen metal like this before?”

The King looked at it, removed his hand from his thick woollen mitten and touched it.  “Very good craftsmanship, but I don’t think it’s familiar.”

“Think again my Liege.”  The Wizard took a ten by fifteen centimetre metal plate from his pocket.  “Remember the Valask you took down yourself?”

“Yes.  A lucky thrust through the chest plates.”

“Your Guard gave you this chest plate fragment as a trophy.”

“Yes I thought that the smoothness was the result of magic; this is the same.”  The King hoped his statement would be disproved.

“As far as I can tell,” said The Wizard.  “Do you see that cut in the mountain?  Where it looks as if something tore a wedge out of the mountainside?

“Yes … “

“From the point of view of these ancient mountains, it’s a fresh cut.  Come over to the tents where my apprentice and some helpers are.  Perhaps they have some warm tea.  I’ll explain more there.”

The King wondered how the armour for the Valasks came to be on the mountain.  Or if Lord Mondalac had managed to find this occurrence of the metal and harvested it himself.  But the metal had been treated – either by some kind of forge or magic; such material needed to be mined and melded.

At the tent, The King was offered tea, which he gratefully accepted.  Protection declined the drink, which meant that he did not think that the area was secure.  The Wizard’s apprentice and helpers did not mind.

“Let my helper show you some clever drawings he has made, your Highness.”

The King nodded and the helper, who was just a boy really, showed The King a drawing of the mountainside as it was now, with the new cut in it.  “This is a representation of the mountain as it is now.  My master has reconstructed how this cut came to be and I have drawn it!”  The King smiled at the lad’s enthusiasm.

The boy flipped through the pages quickly showing the rocks returning to their original location and from the rubble a boat of some sort was formed.  By the time a dozen pages had been flipped through, there was a picture of a natural looking mountain with a boat floating above it.

“Show his Highness the images in the forward direction,” said The Wizard

The boy again flipped through the pages and it showed a boat falling from the sky and destroying the mountainside.

“What are you telling me?” asked The King

“A large boat, about the size of a house, fell from the sky and destroyed this mountainside, leaving refined metals lying about, very much like that found in the chests of Valasks.”  The Wizard tried to say this as if he were talking about planting bulbs in spring.

“I’ve known you all my short life,” said The King, “but this is the worst practical joke you have ever pulled.”

“I anticipated this reaction, my Liege and friend.  But I can prove that this sky boat was real and that it smashed into the mountain.  Please come with me.”

The Wizard moved to leave the tent.  Both Protection and his King followed.   They walked not one hundred metres and found a man partly buried under rock.  His head and some of his shoulders were visible, but the rest was covered.  The King peered at the man and listened.  “What’s that buzzing noise?”

“I believe it is his spell of protection.”  The Wizard picked up a small rock and gently lobbed it at the rock-bound man.  The stone bounced off an invisible barrier.  The King saw the slight blue shimmer as the rock hit.

“I can’t feel the spell,” said The King.

“No one can, it seems,” said The Wizard.  “Its source seems to be from that man himself.”

“Any ideas as to who he is; where he came from?”

“I believe he was in the sky boat.”

The King slapped his forehead.  “Surely there can be a more reasonable explanation?”

“Once you explain the presence of all this unusual metal and how it came to be in the chests of the Valasks, I’ll think of a more reasonable explanation for a man covered mostly in rock with a spell of protection that evades our senses.”

The King sighed.  “What do we do now, apart from freeze on the side of this mountain?”

“A spell of protection is normally in effect until the danger that originally activated it is gone.  My belief is that this spell is gradually working this man out of the rock.  Notice where the rock ends, there are small stones spinning.  If you look closely, they eventually vanish.  He is like a mole coming out from the ground.”

“I suggest we dig him out to speed up the process and perhaps he will wake up.”

Protection leaned over and whispered into The King’s ear.  “I am told to ask why you think that is a safe idea.  What if he is in league with Lord Mondalac?”

The Wizard wished that members of The King’s Guard would just speak up when they had a concern.  “If he comes from where I think he does, he is not in league with the enemy.  If he is, it would be best to wake him up now, find out that he is the enemy and kill him now, instead of waiting until he does wake up – at which time he can take his revenge on us unawares.  Plus, he may have knowledge about the strange metal.”

“Very well,” said The King.  “What do we do?”

“Let’s all start moving rock.  I suggest we set up camp around him.”

≈

It was approaching dark when they finally finished.  A large tent was erected.  The guest of honour rested at one end.   A circle of stone was left around him.  They had moved as much rock as possible; The Wizard now said that they should just leave him.

The King and The Wizard slept.  Protection maintained a trance-like doze.  He was trained not to need sleep while The King was under his care.  Understandably it was Protection who heard the buzzing noise stop.  He stood and drew his sword.

≈

♦ External conditions within acceptable parameters. ♦ Begin revival process. ♦ Six organic entities detected.  Recommend level 2 force field upon revival. ♦ Confirmed.

≈

Linus sat up.  Stasis never left you stiff, regardless of how long you were out, but disorientation was an issue.  What focused him was prayer.  He put himself in a kneeling position.  “Dear Lord, thank you for my deliverance from danger.  May I always be of service to You in these dark times.  Amen.”

Linus paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.  He slowly moved his head to one side; he could make out sleeping forms in the firelight.  And one large person standing a discreet distance away – holding a sword.  Linus understood that the computer had left him with a level two force field.  A sword would not cause him harm.

“Computer, how long have I been under?  Respond in silent mode please.”

120 years, 3 months, two days.

The last thing Linus recalled was the ship ordering him to an escape pod.  He could only assume that he had crash-landed on the planet.  “Why so long?”

You were buried under 32 metres of rock.  I had to ration power during the digging out process.

The large man with the sword spoke in a loud, unrecognizable language.  Others stirred.

“Computer, any idea who these people are?”

None.  They did, however, finish digging you out.

Linus rose slowly.  He did not want an altercation.

The Wizard and The King quickly made it to standing and approached Linus.

“We are glad to meet you,” said The Wizard, “and are happy that you have awoken with no harm.”

Linus couldn’t make out a word of what was said.  “Computer,” Linus silently asked, “do you recognize the language?”

No.  Please use standard procedures for capturing linguistic parameters.

“My name is Linus.  I thank you for your peaceful greeting.”

The Wizard looked puzzled.  He switched to a different language.  The computer could not analyze that one either.  Four other languages were tried to no effect.

In the dim light of the tent, it was little use trying to use hand gesture communications.  Linus decided that the best use of his time was to wait for morning and try to figure out what had happened.  He went to a corner of the tent and sat down.  The Wizard and The King discussed the matter and returned to their bundles for further rest.  Protection stood guard.

Linus asked the computer what had happened to Maddy, his spaceship.

The ship cannot be detected on any frequency.  It is highly probable that she crashed on the planet just as we have.

“That’s absurd!”  Maddy had been built in space with never a thought of being planet bound.  “What caused the system failures?”

This entire solar system has unusual gravity and magnetic fields.  Nothing was on file to compensate for the forces exerted on the ship.  The energy fields of this planet require that you always have a level 1 force field active.

“These people seem human.  Are they one of the lost colonies?”

Scans indicate a human genetic base for these people.  However, they each have unusual cell structure that has bound with an energy field.  Sometime in the distant past they either developed or engineered their energy fields.

“Can you identify which of the colonies this was supposed to be?”

No.  Detailed DNA sampling is required.

During his quest, Linus had encountered a number of The Missing Colonies – humans who had set out over a thousand years ago in spaceships to find new homes on planets orbiting alien stars.  A planet with this kind of properties was an unlikely place for such a discovery.

Linus decided to sleep for real, not in stasis, until the dawn came.

≈

In the morning, after his prayers, Linus walked about the debris field.  The computer confirmed that there was little left of the escape pod that would be useful.  He had hoped a communications beacon would have survived.  No chance of sending distress signals from the surface, not with the odd properties of the solar system.  The King and The Wizard and their entire company kept a discreet distance from the alien. This was natural considering they had never seen armour like that which Linus wore.  It was in fact machinery integrated into the upper half of his body that held the computer, the force field generator, communications systems and so forth.  He wore simple pants below that seemed ill suited for the weather.

Linus decided it was time to recruit help in finding Maddy.  He had doubts, given the scruffy appearance of his rescuers, that they had the technology to help him pinpoint Maddy‘s crash site.  But, such a huge event could not have gone without some record.  It was time to solve the language barrier.

He approached the man who first spoke to him.  The computer had produced a small card on which was a pictograph of a man.  The reverse side was a woman.  “Man,” said Linus and after flipping it over he said, “Woman.”  Linus gestured to The Wizard, beckoning him to speak.  The Wizard replied, saying the words in his own language.  Linus smiled broadly and produced another card with another pictogram of a cloud in the sky.  On the reverse the same sky, but with no cloud.  The Wizard picked this up quickly, but then interrupted by putting up his hands.  One of his helpers, a young boy, appeared with a piece of cloth paper.  On it The Wizard drew a map going down the mountain.  He indicated half way another night of camping and then at the bottom he quickly sketched a castle.

Linus nodded.  They wanted to go.  The helper, however, had another bundle of paper; the boy looked impatient and didn’t go away when told.  The Wizard smiled and let the boy show off his drawings of the crash, flipping through the pages quickly to give the animation effects.  Linus looked on intently.  Eerily close to what must have happened.  He nodded to the boy, agreeing with his assessment.

The Wizard raised an eyebrow very high.  The King would not be pleased.  He walked away from Linus and approached The King.  “My Liege, our visitor has acknowledged the veracity of our drawings of the sky boat.”

“As if life wasn’t sufficiently complicated.”

“In addition, he has made a start at learning our language.  I will pursue this in order to find out more.  I assume this meets with your approval.”

“You are being awfully deferential, my friend, which means you are either scared or out of your depth.”

“A good measure of both, my friend and King.”

“Proceed with the communication.  I am a King and statesman and hate it when I cannot talk a visitor’s ear off.  And let’s remove ourselves from this blasted mountain before we freeze.”

≈

On the hike down the mountain, The Wizard did not know which was worse, the endless energy that Linus had – their language lessons had sorted out the names – or the incessant request for additional vocabulary and sample sentences.

Suddenly the voice coming from the vicinity of Linus’ shoulder started speaking in The Wizard’s language, D’Lanté.  “Please do not be disrupted.  First time mechanical use language yours.  Please help by correcting with vocals.”

“By the Spirits.  The sentence should be, ‘Please do not worry.  This is the first time an engine (?) has used my language.  Please help by verbally correcting.’”

“Thank you.  Analyzing.”

It took twenty exchanges before Linus’ translator was speaking coherent sentences.

It did not take long for Linus to discover that The King of a small nation had rescued him.  He immediately requested a brief mountainside audience.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” said The Wizard, “before darkness falls.  Let’s wait until we stop.”

“OK,” said Linus.  The computer had been translating a number of things in unexpected ways.  For example, The Wizard seemed to have no other name than his title.  Wizard was an odd choice for the translation program to make.  Linus was curious as to why the choice had been made.  “Let me ask this … what does a Wizard do?  How do you become one?”

“I suppose in your society you don’t have them.”

“Not really.”

“A King has a Wizard who advises him on issues of magic.”

Linus silently asked for a confirmation that the computer had correctly translated the word magic.  It had.  “And how would you describe magic?”

“You truly come from a strange place.  Magic is in all and binds all together.  It can be manipulated to achieve desired ends – for example if I wished to make a person do something that went against their nature, I would be at risk of unleashing a magic counterbalance.  What form it would take depends on the person I’m manipulating.  Regardless, a Wizard is the master of the art of magic.  Wizards can see the magic within all things and encourage the natural power of an entity to arise.”

Certainly this was meaningless to Linus.  Magic had been defined in terms of itself.  His suspicion was that the odd energy fields that all these people had were the source of the magic The Wizard referenced.

“Do you see magic in me?”

“Honestly, no,” said The Wizard.  “You must have magic of some kind because you seem never to tire nor take heed of the cold.  Can you explain your magic?”

“The magic of my people is called science.  And when it is put into practice, it’s called engineering.”  Linus then wanted to explain the principles behind force fields and molecular engineering, but realized that he didn’t have the words or the knowledge himself.  He knew that force equals mass times acceleration and energy equals mass times the speed of light squared, but it didn’t mean he could explain the mechanics behind his force fields.  He too would be explaining any subject using its own terminology.

“I don’t know how to explain them; we don’t yet have the common words to use.”

“Can you explain then how you learned my language so quickly and why it’s not coming from your own mouth, which I know to be working?”

Linus laughed and attempted to explain a computer, pattern matching, trial and error and linguistics.

≈

At the beginning of dusk, they set up the tents.  Now Linus had his chance.  He kneeled in front of The King and said:

“Your Highness.  My name is Linus.  Please accept my gratitude for assisting in extricating me from the rocks of this mountain.  If there is anything I can do for you or your subjects, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Please rise.  And tell me why you are talking out of your shoulder.”

Linus smiled and explained that he had a kind of magic that allowed a machine in his body to learn language faster than he himself could.

“Where are you from?” asked The King.

“From a distant star, your Highness.  My sky boat had an accident and I landed on your world.  If it is clear when it gets dark I can show you my home in the sky.”

The King looked shocked; Protection looked skeptical; and The Wizard enjoyed his King’s amazement.

“In the morning, I wish to speak more on this with you.  I have much to think about and questions to ask.  But it is getting dark and we do not want to be exposed at night during these evil times.”

Linus nodded and left, accompanied by The Wizard.  “What evil was he talking about?”

“Another simple question with a complicated answer.  The concise answer is that we are at war.  It’s time to retire.  More tomorrow; you have exhausted me.”

≈

Once everyone was settled, Linus knelt to pray.  He asked God for guidance to find Maddy and the grace to better understand the people he was with.  The thought of landing on a strange planet in the middle of a war distressed him and he prayed for peace for this unusual planet.

Linus decided that sleep was probably a good idea.  He set his computer to a high security watch.

But it was Protection who felt the danger first.  Linus had not heard him speak before.  It wasn’t much, but it was clear:  “Dakars coming!”

Linus was instantly awake.  He had no idea what a Dakar was, but if Protection was yelling about it, it couldn’t be good.  Everyone in the tent was up, putting on clothes and reaching for swords.  He moved toward The Wizard, who in the dim firelight looked concerned.

“What’s a Dakar?”

“An animal manipulated by Lord Mondalac that acts as his assassin.  He must have used great magic to bring them through The Barricade and up this high.”

Linus was wondering what barricade The Wizard was talking about when the first Dakar tore through the tent.  It was a five-foot long wolverine or badger.  The hissing and squealing it made caused Linus to grit his teeth.  One of The Wizard’s apprentices went at the creature with a sword.  The noise grew to a din and more tearing of the tent was heard.

They were fast.  Before Linus knew it, one of the Dakars was chewing on the thigh of one of the youngest of The Wizard’s helpers.  The boy’s scream was also deafening.

“Computer!  Level three force field now.”

Engaged.

Linus ran to the boy and raised a fist, landing it hard on the head of the Dakar.  As his energy field hit the Dakar, its coarse fur ignited, but the animal did not let go.  With the protection of the force field, Linus grabbed the top and bottom of the Dakar’s mouth and pried it apart so the boy could escape; the hair still burned and flesh incinerated.  He hurled the creature outside.

“Computer, please explain why the animal did not die in the first strike.”

Unknown at this time.  Processing.

There were at least six of the creatures in the tent.  Swords flailed about, taking pieces from the Dakars, but not yet killing them.  The Wizard raised his hands and from them fire erupted.  Streams of heat struck two Dakars, which promptly burst into flames and crumpled into burnt husks.

I guess they won’t mind if I do some pyrotechnics of my own, thought Linus.

“Computer, please arm one hand held energy pistol.  Set to maximum.  Infrared and motion sighting systems, please.”

Done.

A small handgun popped out of Linus’ forearm and slide down into his hand.  He fired at the first Dakar he saw.  The creature started to writhe in pain.  Linus turned and saw one coming directly for him.  He fired again and the Dakar howled in agony.  Linus looked back at the first animal he had shot and saw that it was on the ground twitching in its death throes.  This was all wrong.  The animals should have turned into a cloud of disassociated molecules.

“Computer, please explain the failure of the weapons systems.”

Unknown at this time.  Processing.

“Computer, please change the weapon to fire shells with half-second delayed explosive tips.”

Done.

Linus took aim at another Dakar and fired.  The shell hit the animal; it screamed and one half second later exploded into many burning chunks.

Hard ammunition.  How primitive, thought Linus.

In one corner, The King and Protection had taken out three of the Dakars with their swords alone.  They fought back to back so that nothing could catch them unawares.  Linus admired their ability to fight in almost complete darkness.  Clearly other senses were at work.

“Computer, how many of the animals remain within scanning radius?”

Seven animals remain within two kilometres.

“Let’s get this cleaned up.”

≈

The next morning at first light, the party continued down the mountainside.

“You fought well and have my thanks,” said The King.  “Your magic is remarkable.”

“As is yours,” replied Linus, “I would hesitate to ever take on you and your Protection.”

The King laughed and started the hike down, followed by Protection.

Linus walked with The Wizard.  The Wizard was stern-faced.  He had lost two of his young apprentices in the attack, including the lad who had drawn the diagrams of the sky boat crashing.  “Wizard, I know this is a difficult time but, what’s going on?”

“You deserve an explanation, certainly.  Last night we were attacked by Dakars, creatures imbued with Lord Mondalac’s magic.  My King is at war with Lord Mondalac.  It was he who came out of the dark region of the world and tried to impose his rule on us all.  This conflict has been ongoing since before written records.  Lord Mondalac’s predecessors have tried to control the whole world and my King’s descendants and their allies have always repelled the menace.  In the last year, events took a particularly bad direction. Valasks, which are little more than walking corpses, became more difficult to defeat at border skirmishes.  Normally, a knife, sword or crossbow bolt to the chest would re-kill them.  Many of them, however, had metal like this inside their chests.”  The Wizard pulled The King’s Valask chest plate trophy from his pocket.  “It is remarkably like the metal that made up your sky boat.”

Linus took the plate from The Wizard.  He held it carefully.  It was very much like his escape pod.  “Computer, please determine the origin of this hull fragment.”

Processing.  This fragment belongs to the outer hull of Maddy.

“It is not part of the escape pod?”

No.

“Wizard, I crashed in a type of sky boat that is a part of a larger sky boat.”

“Goodness,” said The Wizard.  “How large is the other sky boat?”

“About one hundred times the size.”

“Astounding.”

“More astounding is that this plate came from that ship.  It seems that Maddy – that’s the name of my ship – has crashed somewhere where your Lord Mondalac has been able to utilize some of the debris to help his battle against you.”

“I don’t want to distress you Linus, but the Dark One’s access to this material has been very costly to us.”

“No one regrets the crash of my sky boat and escape pod more than I, Wizard.  Please, tell me, how bad is it.”

“The King and I are the youngest Wizard and monarch to be seated in The Kingdom of Ellian.  This is because both our fathers just three months ago sacrificed themselves to create The Barricade, a magic barrier to keep the powers of Lord Mondalac out of Ellian.  The Barricade has holes, which allowed the Dark One to send the Dakars in.  What’s more upsetting is that he knew where to look.  I must find a way to help The King stop Lord Mondalac.  This is naturally why we came up this mountainside after hunters, who roamed farther afield than usual this winter, and came upon the remains of your crash.  The King and I were hoping to learn something of value.  Are you that something?”

Linus was silent.  Dear Lord, what are You doing to me?  Can it be that my very presence has caused such pain?  Please, give me the wisdom to understand the tests You have put before me.

They walked in silence for a time.

“Wizard, do you believe in God?”

“I don’t understand.  Which one?”

Linus sighed.  This was another of The Missing Colonies that, over the millennia of being away from Earth, had lost their monotheism.  Linus struggled with how much to divulge.  These people clearly had no idea that they did not originate on this planet.  To simply bark such a statement out would either upset a culture already under fire or reduce Linus’ own credibility to nothing.

“Wizard, my belief is that there is a single God who holds dominion over all the stars and planets.  He lets us struggle in our own worlds to do good works and to further enhance His glory.  I believe that He has a plan, but I know that it is not always made clear to us.  It was not my intent to crash here, or to be indirectly responsible for the suffering of your people.”

“Why do you travel between worlds?”

Linus admired The Wizard.  He knew how to tap into a core issue.  “I am seeking God.  I believe he has forsaken my home world for another.  Another land that needs Him more.  My quest is to be closer to God.”

“How long have you been on your quest?”

“Five hundred years, including the one hundred and twenty plus years I spent underneath one of your mountains.”

“How will you know when your quest is over?”

“God will send me a sign.”

The Wizard looked at Linus with tight eyebrows.  Unconvinced.

“It seems to me, Linus, that it took a long time for Lord Mondalac to find your sky boat – Maddy – you called it?”

“Her.  A ship is always a she.”

“Ah.  She therefore is in one of the areas controlled by the Dark One.  It seems to me that you need to find it to continue your quest.”

“This is true.  I had assumed that I would find her, make repairs and leave.  She was never intended to land on a planet, but I’m sure with time I can make repairs.”

“If I help you find her, will you help us take her powerful metals away from Lord Mondalac?  To get to the ship, you’ll have to deal with him regardless.”

“A reasonable proposition, Wizard.”

“One more question, Linus: What if Maddy is as damaged as your smaller sky boat?”

“I have faith.”

≈

Analysis of organic field energy complete.

“Explain your findings.”

The organic units are all connected to highly volatile and changing energy fields deep in the planet’s core.  With the fluctuating gravity and other properties of this system’s sun, the planet, in order to maintain a nominally stable orbit, exerts counterbalancing forces.  These forces become part of the living entities of this planet.  Each entity has a unique field that it can manipulate to affect other fields.  The Dakars reacted to your alien energy fields as best as possible by modulating their own fields; their bodies did not know the difference between your energy and some new change in the planet.  Their energy fields ultimately failed, but were unusually resistant.  Kinetic energy from swords and hard ammunition work better as they are known energies.  Many of the swords used by The King and his guard have been forged with special field energy giving them unusual resilience to kinetic forces.

So that was the magic, thought Linus.

≈

They arrived at the gate of Ellian just before dark.  The troop was exhausted.  The King ordered accommodations for Linus and invited him to a meeting of The Council of Peers the next morning.  Linus accepted.  He suspected that The Wizard had informed The King of the agreement.

Linus was shown to his chamber, which had a large bed with an enormous feather duvet.  His two attendants, a young boy and girl, showed him the amenities, which included a bedpan, and two pitchers of water – one for drinking and the other for washing.  Outside were two members of The King’s Guard.  Linus wasn’t sure if they were protecting him from the enemy or protecting the citizens of Ellian from him.

The amenities were amusing, as he had not had the need for a toilet in centuries.  He did wash his face after using his force field to kill any organic extras in the water.

He closed the door and prayed.  Linus looked to God for wisdom.  The idea of simply fleeing and looking for Maddy alone was appealing in that it seemed simple.  But in the end, was it?  Without studying the historical records of Ellian, he was looking for a needle in a haystack.  Besides, he’d offered to help The Wizard.  Linus wasn’t sure why, this being such a Godless society, but he had contaminated their world and it made sense that he should clean up his mess.  Perhaps it was in this action that he could show them God’s way and they could forever leave the dark behind.

Linus lay on the duvet and pondered.  Sleep took him to a dreamless place.

≈

The two Guards escorted Linus to The Council of Peers at first light.  The meeting was held in a large circular auditorium where the lesser peers sat at about balcony level while The Wizard, The King and The General of the Guard sat in the centre of the room.  Protection stood a discreet distance away.  Linus was shown to his own “box seat” on the balcony; the Guards remained with him.  The King stood to speak.

“Lords and Peers of Ellian.  We are faced with an unusual situation.  What I must tell you will stretch your credulity.  But I must convince you of the truth because I believe, as does my Wizard, that a path to survival – yes, survival, not mere victory – has shown itself.  To prove that I am serious, I will show you my blood.”

Almost casually, The King took a knife and made a long narrow incision in his forearm.  Linus was not the only observer to gasp.

“You see my friends, my blood is warm and real.”  Protection was on him in a flash and bound the wound.  “Two days have passed since we met Linus, who today is seated in the guest booth.  When The Wizard showed him to me, he was buried under a near mountain of rock.  We dug him out; he revived and learned our language.  Linus comes from the stars – in a sky boat made of metal.  We learned both from observation and discussion that the metal found in the Valasks came from his main vessel.  It crashed generations ago in Lord Mondalac’s domain.”

There were cries of disbelief and accusations of trickery from the gallery.

The Wizard stood.  “Be silent!  How dare you interrupt your King?”

The King raised a hand.  The noise diminished.

“Please,” continued The King, “we need cooler heads for heated discussions.  It is my intent to send a team beyond The Barricade to find Linus’ sky boat and take it away from Lord Mondalac.”

Linus stood up.  The Guards moved in his direction.

“We must ask our visitor Linus for his help.  He has an awesome magic that he has never raised against us.  But certainly could have.”  The King went down on one knee and put his bandaged arm out in supplication.  “Linus, please help Ellian in our day of need.”

Linus moved to the front of the balcony.  “Your Majesty.  I am but a visitor here.  My goal is to find my vessel and continue on my way.  If doing this rids you of a danger, it is my pleasure to help.  I would like to volunteer for your mission.”

There were cries of disbelief.  Who was this man anyway?  Sky boat indeed.

Linus leaped from the balcony.  His force fields pushed him up from the ground and he landed in another booth that had the most vocal protestors.  “Good morning, do you have a problem?”

In the booth, one of the five occupants drew a sword and slashed at Linus.  The blade vapourized in contact with his force field.  Linus released a small energy pulse, which incapacitated the attacker.

“What’s it to be?  Peaceful coexistence or the rough stuff?”

“Stop it!” yelled The King.  “This is a hall of lawmakers, not ruffians!”

Linus immediately turned to The King and said, “Your Majesty, I apologize for the rudeness on my part.  It seemed that this bunch were less than respectful of your wishes.”

“You are a stranger and can be forgiven.  Peer Simposian, on the other hand, needs to be fined for allowing a sword to be drawn in the hall.  General, you’ll see to it?”

“Of course.”

“To help us all adjust to our new ally, I am hosting a party at my home tonight,” said The King.  “All of you are urged to attend, speak with Linus, learn and see if you can contribute to the success of the mission.”  The King turned to Linus, “Honoured guest, I assume that you will attend this evening?”

“Naturally, your Majesty.”

“Excellent.  Tonight we celebrate.  Tomorrow training for the mission begins.”

≈

In the week before the team left, Linus learned a great deal about Ellian and the rest of the cultures on the planet.  As far as their records were concerned, the battle of good versus evil had been going on since the beginning of time.  Linus knew that the culture was at the most 1500 years old, but said nothing.  None of their creation myths included the possibility of off world colonization.  What disheartened him more was the complete lack of a formal religion.  The magic of the planet and the battle between good and evil had taken all their spirituality and used it up.

The team that was to pass through The Barricade and travel to Sonara, the city of Lord Mondalac, comprised The Wizard, Jebina – a nearly seven foot tall female member of The King’s Guard – and Linus himself.  They would be living off the land.  Linus needed no food, just access to water and light, and both The Wizard and Jebina knew how to hunt and forage.

The day before they left, Jebina, who was almost as taciturn as Protection, presented Linus with a sword.

“Honoured Guest Linus, all adults of Ellian, during times of war, have their special weapon.  Even The Wizard will carry his dagger on our journey.  I wish you to accept this sword as your weapon for the trip.  You may never use it, but it will be your companion.”

Linus didn’t know what to do.  It was an elegant weapon with beautiful metal work around its bone handle.  He felt he could not turn it down.

“Who had such a beautiful weapon before me?”

“It belonged to The King’s mother.  His Highness felt that, since you were searching for a female sky boat, you should have a female sword.”

Linus held it up high.  “Do you have a name for your sword, Jebina?”

“Yes I do; it’s Arksonna, which means demon-killer.”

“Then I’ll name this sword Maddy’s Spike.”

≈

As the trio left the city gates, each on a horse, and headed out into the rural areas of Ellian, the citizens of the city cheered them on.  Linus felt as if he were marching at his own funeral.  Horses had adapted well to the planet.  Linus had scanned the animals to find considerable Arabian genetics, plus some oddities.  The Wizard’s mount had a small horn protruding from its forehead.  It was in fact hard bone as opposed to material like a deer’s antler.

It took only two days to reach The Barricade.  Linus could see its energy force wavering.  No one would tell him exactly how the previous King and Wizard had managed to erect the field, nor why doing so killed them.  The plan was to pass through at a weak point, get past any Valask guards and proceed overland to Sonara.  Linus had the feeling that this was oversimplified.

They camped for the night and waited for dawn.  The Wizard was fairly convinced that the enemy wasn’t expecting them on the other side.  At first light they approached the barrier.  The Wizard projected some of his field energy out toward The Barricade.

“This act will leave The Wizard weakened,” said Jebina.  “We must move the horses through quickly and make sure we don’t leave him behind.”

“Understood.”

Linus’ scans showed that there was a part in The Barricade.  “Let’s go.”

Jebina and Linus quickly led the horses through.  While Linus held the reins on all the horses Jebina grabbed The Wizard, who was unsteady on his feet, and pulled him through.

Linus’ scanners were on maximum.  No sign of trouble.

“We must get moving,” mumbled The Wizard.

“You are exhausted.”

“No matter.  We can’t stay; they’re coming.”

“My scanners reveal nothing,” said Linus.

“Don’t trust them.”

They helped The Wizard up onto his horse.

After half a kilometre, Linus saw four figures lumbering toward them.

“Computer, identify the humanoids approaching.”

There are no humanoids approaching.

Jebina had seen them.  “Let’s go.  Lots of chances for fighting later.”

They rode fast into a farmers’ lane.  It hadn’t been many months since this territory had belonged to Ellian, and it still had a pastoral charm.  Five figures burst from an adjoining wood, causing the horses to buck in fear.  Linus fell from his mount.  He rose quickly to assess the menace.  The creatures were human-shaped, but seemed almost like a patchwork of skin types and were comprised of mismatched body parts.  Heads were too large or too small for the torsos and some arms weren’t the same length.

Jebina had her sword out and was hacking at the lead Valask.

“Computer, assess these entities and explain why you didn’t warn me about them.”

Processing.

In the meantime Linus joined in the fight.  His gun popped out of his forearm and he blasted the nearest Valask.  Burning flesh flew from the creature but it kept coming.

“Linus, these are Valasks; they have chest plating made from your sky boat.  They can only be killed by destroying the heart centre,” said The Wizard.

Linus thought it improbable that a shot to the head wouldn’t work.  He blasted the Valask and cremated the head.  It fell down.  He attacked the next one.

Jebina had pinned her opponent and used Arksonna to first pry out the chest plate and then pierce the heart.

Danger from behind.

Linus turned to see the Valask, whose head had been destroyed, rise.  A new head was growing.

“Computer, please reconfigure my weapon to emit a pulse that will heat the hull plating to orbital re-entry temperatures.”

Done.

Linus fired and the Valask burst into flames from the inside out.  Maddy‘s hull plating fell to the ground.

Processing complete.  The entities did not appear on the scanners as they were not programmed to detect reanimated tissue.

He repeated the exercise on the remaining Valasks and the team continued on its way.

“Computer, please adjust your scanners to detect the movement of any reasonably large sized object?”

≈

Linus sat on a boulder and looked west.  He was within fifty kilometres of the mountain stronghold of Lord Mondalac; he was alone.

The initial incident with the Valasks had given Linus a false sense of security.  After three months of travel, he took nothing for what it seemed and had become hardened to unpleasant surprises.

The road to Sonara had been designed, constructed and maintained by the darkest members of Hell, thought Linus.  And I don’t even believe in Hell.  God, certainly, although His tests of me seem to be have been rather severe lately.

The horizon was a mixture of dark clouds and smoke.  Linus had smelled burning flesh continuously for the last two months.  Anarchy was the motto of Lord Mondalac’s domain.  And how often had Linus killed, contributing to the mayhem?  The computer could tell him quantities by species, type and size, but Linus didn’t want to think about it.

It was quiet now; the relentless pursuit by Lord Mondalac’s army had abated.  Likely because there were nasty events in store for him down the road.  Linus held up two swords and admired their resilience.  He, Jebina and The Wizard had been separated in The Fire Caves during an attempt to escape an attack.  Linus and The Wizard had reunited, but all they could find of Jebina was her sword Arksonna.  Linus kept it to eventually return to her family.  He suspected she would prefer that he first use the weapon against Lord Mondalac.  Linus presumed Jebina dead.  The Wizard agreed; he had not been able to detect her essence.  Linus wanted to cry since the simple word “essence” was as close as this culture had to “soul”.  They were so far from God, he thought.

His heart clenched every time he thought of The Wizard.  Only a week had passed since the confrontation with a creature that Linus could only think of as a dragon.  The Wizard’s wounds had been severe.  The best Linus had been able to do was put The Wizard into a stasis field and hide him.  He hoped that, once Maddy had been recovered, her medical bay could be activated and used.  A long shot.  More likely the field would eventually power down and The Wizard would die.

Lord Mondalac had a lot to answer for.

Linus started walking down the road.

≈

Linus found Maddy buried in the side of the mountain.  The damage was severe; not all of the ship was visible.  And the road he was on led right up the mountain to her.

Lord Mondalac’s stronghold.

“Computer, reset all security protocols to the emergency backup.  The one Maddy doesn’t know about.”

Procedure complete.

“Computer, lock down your scanners.  Do not interact with any other computer without my coded authorization.”

Procedure complete.

Linus thought he had been angry when Jebina died and The Wizard had been mutilated.  But Maddy …

“Computer.  Can you assess the condition of Maddy?”

No.

No point in asking for probabilities when there was so little data.  She had clearly been compromised, having been turned into the fortress of a madman.

Linus approached the front gate.  A troll – a short, burly beast with horns – stood guard.

“What do you want?”

“I have an appointment with Lord Mondalac.”

“Really.”

“I am certain he’s expecting me.  Plus, I’m in a really bad mood and am itching to obliterate something.”

“All right then.  No need to get testy.”

This planet never ceases to amaze me, thought Linus as he walked through the gates up to the main entrance, which had been a docking port of Maddy‘s.

She was partly powered up.  The lights in the corridor were set to a dim illumination.  The ship was on an odd angle.  Someone had put wooden floorboards down to make walking easier.  He thought it best to head for the command centre. The ship seemed tired – like it had been through a really rough one hundred and twenty years.  Although his perception was that he had been on the planet for only three months, Linus was feeling like he had been away from Maddy the full one hundred and twenty years.

Torches illuminated the command centre.  His desk chair was where it had been, at the table that doubled as a monitoring station and work area.  The problem was that Lord Mondalac was sitting in it, looking almost ludicrous given the angle at which the ship was resting.

“Honestly, I prefer the traditional illumination to that artificial lighting of yours.”

“Glad to see you made yourself at home on my ship.”

“Finders keepers.”  The computer used this ancient expression as the translation for Lord Mondalac’s last statement.  Was it true that someone so juvenile could have brought down so much hardship on an entire culture?  In the light, the Dark One looked like a normal human for this planet – dark hair, tall, thin and clean-shaven.

“Not entirely a valid premise.  I was indisposed.”

“But I am more connected to your sky boat than you ever were.  Maddy?  Talk to me.”

The ship’s voice responded with, “Good morning Lord Mondalac.”

“Your old master Linus is here to see you.”

A pause.  “Linus?  Why can’t I interface with you?”

“Maddy, you’ve been compromised.  Please revert to pre-crash operating system files.”

“I cannot comply.”

Lord Mondalac looked disappointed.  It would have taken only a second of direct communication for Maddy to have taken over Linus’ computer and allow Lord Mondalac complete control.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Linus asked.  “Interfacing with other systems when a clear security violation has occurred has always been considered a bad idea.  I certainly am not going to let you compromise me the way you did her.  How did you do it?”

“That would be telling,” Mondalac replied.  “Let’s just say her magic and mine share a certain affinity.”

“This frivolous banter is annoying.  Hand over my ship and I won’t injure you.”

“Maddy, please increase lighting to show Linus my prize.”

The room brightened and, in a corner, Jebina was hanging upside down, suspended from the ceiling by rope.  She had burns and had clearly been beaten.  Her tunic and trousers were in tatters.

“What do you want?” asked Linus.  He then gently leaned on Arksonna and silently told the computer to infuse the sword with an energy field in addition to its own magic.

“Frankly, you dead.  Your presence is a nuisance and you no longer useful.”

“I think I’m going to be more than a nuisance.”  Linus hurled Arksonna at the rope that was holding up Jebina.  The sword sliced through the rope and both weapon and woman crashed to the floor.

“How dare you?”

Suddenly Linus was pushed up against the wall.  His computer automatically adjusted Linus’ force fields to prevent injury, but he was pinned.

“Computer, what’s the source of this energy?”

Lord Mondalac is drawing on the ship’s power.

“How long can you hold it off?”

Not as long as he can maintain it.

Neither Lord Mondalac nor Linus saw Jebina touch her sword.  Nor did they hear her sigh as warmth worked its way through her aching body.

“Computer, please adjust power and see if you can unpin my hand so that I can reach my sword.”

Done.

This better work, Linus thought as he put his hand on Maddy’s Spike and drew it with all his strength.  The sword disrupted the energy fields and he was free.  But not for long, he suspected, as he charged toward Lord Mondalac.  Maddy’s Spike pierced the Dark One’s stomach.

He screamed, raised an arm and Linus was flung across the command centre and into a bulkhead.  Linus’ shields rippled with the energy needed to keep him from being torn apart.

Lord Mondalac was grappling with the sword in his gut when Arksonna‘s heavy steel cut his neck open.  The Dark One couldn’t scream.

“Die, you monster,” said Jebina.  She took a final swing; Lord Mondalac’s head flew across the room and bounced off a bulkhead.

The next noise was Maddy.  Her audio systems emitted a scream.

“Computer, open a unidirectional scan of Maddy‘s central processing area.

The ship’s computer core is in a loop trying to maintain contact with Lord Mondalac’s brain.  Ten minutes to failure.

“What can we do?”

Wait until the system burns out and attempt repairs.  However, that will result in a total systems failure, including the force fields the ship has been using to keep the mountain from crushing her.

Sirens to abandon ship sounded.

I can’t believe I came all this way to lose her now, thought Linus.

“Jebina, get out of here.  Follow the corridor with the wooden floor.  It will lead outside.”

“What about you?”

“I have to pick something up.  I’ll see you outside.”

Linus ran to the medical bay.  It had rarely been used – he never got sick – but it did have a standard set of supplies.  From a cabinet, he pulled out a portable medical kit.  Then he headed to the docking port.

“Good bye Maddy.”

≈

At a safe distance, Jebina and Linus watched the mountain collapse into a thousand avalanches.

Linus weeped.  Why God, why?  Was it my arrogance?  All I wanted was to find You.

Now he was stuck on a planet of savages for whom the time to become space faring people would be measured in millennia.

Was it Linus’ duty to teach these people about God?  Had He stranded him here for that purpose?  Linus wasn’t sure his beliefs and lifestyle applied on this world.  Maybe it was time to let God come to him.

Jebina put her arm around him.  “I’m sorry you lost your home.  You can come back and stay with my family in Ellian if you wish.”

Linus’ tears streamed more.  How could he have called this brave soul a savage?

“Thank you.  That would be lovely.  I wouldn’t want to be a bother.  Just until I get myself sorted out.”

Linus stood up and turned away from the mountain.  “I suppose we’d better get started.”  He held up the medical kit.  “This will let us heal The Wizard.”

“I agree,” said Jebina, “with Lord Mondalac dead, it is time to start the healing.”

James Castle was going home for the holidays.  His dark basement suite on Dupont wasn’t much of a home, but it was a huge improvement over his GenX veal fattening pen and chair to which his bottom had been adhered during the eighteen months of the Y2K project.  It had included excessive OT, five vacation days (non contiguous), five sick days (contiguous) and one funeral day for a friend who had taken his car and the laws of physics to court and lost the case.  He had told his supervisor that he was not returning until January 4, 2000, not carrying a pager or cell phone, nor would he answer the door.  If this were a problem, James assured his supervisor that he would offer his flaccid ergonomic chair-shaped ass to be kissed by whomever in senior management was demented enough to actually want to come in contact with his lily white backside.

Having frightened off his supervisor, there was but one thing left to do.  He picked up his desk phone and connected to his voice mail:

4 – Personal options <beep>

3 – Greetings <beep>

2 – ‘At the tone, please record your greeting’

He spoke very quickly:  “This is James Castle on December 23.  I’m out of the office until January 4, 2000.  If you are calling regarding a Y2K problem, I advise you to get a life.  It’s too late; your bad planning is not a crisis to me, and it shouldn’t be to you either.  I’m certain that one of your reports, which may seem terribly important, really can keep until after New Year’s.  And by the way, the millennium isn’t over until next year of the century that brought you Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, lava lamps and ABBA.  If you still want to leave a message could you please for once leave your phone number.”  <beep>

As he put on his coat, he wondered if that was a little extreme.  Nah.  He took the elevator down to the main floor and stepped out onto University Avenue.  Traffic was light.  Snow was falling onto bare pavement, melting on contact, leaving marks that looked like kisses.  He walked into the theatre district in search of a pub.

*

In the same office as James, but three floors up, Charlotte de Laan was struggling.  There were piles of documents on her desk along with a laptop and case bulging with files.  She did not want to come back to this mess in the New Year.  She did not want to take it home.  She did not want to stay and work on it.  In her office Charlotte had a closet in which she hung her work out gear and guests’ jackets.  In the bottom was an Air Canada blanket that she had ripped off a few years ago.  Prone to being cold in her office, the blanket had kept her legs warm.  She retrieved it from the closet and put it on the corner of the desk.  Charlotte then put the laptop and case on the floor.  Next she carefully placed the piles of papers around it.  Then she unfolded the blanket and with it covered the whole heap.  From her desk, she withdrew a safety pin and a Post-It note.  She wrote, “Touch this at risk of being tortured,” and pinned it to the blanket.  She hadn’t realised how dusty the desk was; she pulled a can of Endust from her drawer, quickly sprayed the surface and wiped it off with a paper towel.

“There.  Now I won’t have to come back to a mess on my desk.”  Y2K lawsuits can frigging wait until Y2K.  She put on her coat, grabbed her purse, left her office – locked it – told her secretary not to come back until January and took the elevator downstairs.

*

James noticed Charlotte as soon as she came into The Olde Hogs Head.  Not five blocks from their office, this new pub was modelled on the English premise that you were there to drink, smoke and maybe eat.  If you went alone, you did not want your thoughts drowned out by 80s retro.  If you were with a friend, the assumption was that a conversation was desirable.

Because he was alone, James sat at the bar near the bartender.  Apart from Charlotte, the place was empty.  The wave of Christmas parties had passed and everyone was preparing for New Year’s.

Charlotte went straight to the bar and, while she was taking off her coat, said, “A Manhattan please.  On the rocks with enough vermouth so that I can taste it please.”

James was drinking Creemore ale and didn’t know what a Manhattan was.  For him she was riveting because of her elegance and the fact she looked really familiar.

The bartender quickly prepared the drink and presented it to her.  She tasted it.  “OK?” he asked.

“Yes, that will do nicely.”

Then James remembered.  “Charlotte de Laan.”

“Yes?”

“James Castle.”  He extended his hand.  She shook it.  “I’m in the IT group.  I helped work on your contracts system.”

“Ah yes,” she said coolly.

Ooops.  Someone else who hates the computer group.

“So,” he said, “what does the legal mind predict for the last year of the 20^th century?”

Charlotte raised one eyebrow.  “You didn’t use the M word.”

“Yes, it’s overused, incorrectly applied and hard to spell.”

“My prediction is that I will waste a lot of time with frivolous Y2K suits and claims only to learn that the plaintiffs and claimants cannot establish clearly that the problem was ever caused by a date issue.  What about you?  What new technological horrors await us as we gird ourselves for the 21^st century?”

Another person entered the bar.  The newcomer was well dressed, tie and suit under a long trench coat.  He hung his coat on a hook.  His eyes were bloodshot and one had in intermittent twitch.  The two co-workers barely registered the newcomer’s entrance.

“In the computer business?  More of the same – faster hardware and slower software.”

“I keep reading about Linux …”

“I would really like to think it will compete with Windows but, seeing its based on Unix, which in turn I suspect is based on LSD, I don’t see it being widely accepted.  Maybe it and the anti-trust situation will force Microsoft to actually release a version that isn’t as big as a whale and as agile as one on a beach.”

Four barstools away, the newcomer ordered a beer.  The bartender served him, but did not let him run a tab.

“But,” continued James, “your interest in computers probably only goes as far as how they annoy you or your clients.  What do you want to see happen?”

“I want to see fuel cells and clean air, an end to intolerance, and a total intolerance to undignified treatment of individuals.”

“Never happen,” said the newcomer.

Charlotte looked at him for the first time.  He was attractive she supposed, but she wasn’t sure about the eyes.

James wasn’t taking in the newcomer’s appearance because he was concentrating on the next point in his argument.  “I don’t know.  Fuel cells are really close.  That outfit on the West Coast has Ford and Daimler Benz backing it.”

“I don’t want to disagree, but the car companies have a history of buying technology and then burying it.”

“If that is the case here,” said James, “then it’s a pretty public burial.”

“Just think,” the newcomer responded, “who else would pursue non-oil and gas fuels if such a highly respected venture failed?  They only have to buy it once, fail it once and never have to worry again.  Bartender, another Manhattan for the lady.”

James looked at the newcomer and noted his good hair, polished shoes, and fancy suit.  James was dressed like a techie in a formal office: badly pressed dress pants, casual shirt and no tie.  He wore a practical ski coat with a shell and liner.  Charlotte, on the other hand, was in a crisp business suit with perfectly understated makeup and hair and had arrived in a long mohair coat.  I wasn’t planning on even trying to chat her up, but now that Mr. GoodHair is here – had I changed my mind – I would be out of the running just based on attire.  And he knows what a Manhattansmells like.

“And another Creemore for me.  I guess he can’t smell the difference between lager and ale like he can different cocktails.”

Charlotte had started to slip into a reverie in which she alternatively worried that what she had bought her brother for Christmas was wrong and how to politely get away from this sudden and unpleasant male pissing contest.  James’ remark made her change tracks.  He noticed; he is in the middle of a mano a mano argument and noticed the guy moving in on me.

“So, Charlotte, our comrade here – I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Darryl.”

“I’m James; this is Charlotte.  Anyway, Darryl seems to think that greed will overtake all other considerations.  That doesn’t leave much hope for developing tolerance.  What do you think?”

“I think it’s too convenient to blame greed for everything.”

“That’s because the real driver is power,” said Darryl.  “Money and the pursuit of material wealth are mere side effects of seeking to put one’s self ahead of all others.”

James asked:  “Isn’t this just the old argument that the current financial system is a modern version of going out and crushing the tribe in the next valley over – killing the men and taking the women – so that your genes will win out over others?”

The bartender placed Charlotte’s Manhattan in front of her.  She did not touch it.

James took a sip from his fresh Creemore.

“I think it might have been that at one point,” said Darryl, “but now I feel that people have lost even their hereditary connection to their family.  It is the desire to feel complete power over someone.”

“No offence, but you are both wrong,” said Charlotte.  “I’ve been in court where power is applied, where a decision that seems trivial to a judge can end one person’s business pursuit and instantly put their house on the auction block.  Everyone is driven by fear.  And mostly by the fear of the unknown.  ‘Am I going to win?’  ‘What happens if I don’t?’  ‘Will my backup plan work?’  In the case of fuel cells, it is the fear of failure that will prevent success, not money.”

“Fear is very powerful, but it tends to motivate people to not act,” said Darryl.  “Influence and control over other people requires overt action.  Fear leads people to not try something, but only for a while.  If they want it badly enough, they’ll do anything.”

Charlotte silently started planning how to gracefully exit the pub.

James was wondering what this guy’s hang-up on power was all about and then was questioning why he cared, given that Charlotte was present.

Darryl pulled a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket and moved to light up.

Charlotte grimaced slightly and for an instant rolled her eyes up into her head.

James noticed her reaction.  “Hey Darryl, we’re the only ones here and it’s not often you get a smoke free pub.  Any chance of holding off on that?”

Just when you thought there were no subtle men left in the world …

Darryl snapped the case shut.  The lines around his eyes seemed to deepen, like those of an old three-pack-a-day man.  And the smile turned into a hard straight line.

“Funny how people act when faced with the end of the world.”

“What?” asked James.

“This cigarette is not going to kill me before this insane planet does.  I find it amazing that people really haven’t been observing the signs that it’s all over.”

Oh great.  “And to which portents of doom would you be referring?” asked Charlotte.  Why did I say that?

“Lawyers … forever the sceptics.  Let’s see … where do we start?  Earthquakes in Turkey, Greece, Taipei along with wonderfully out of season hurricanes in the Atlantic.  The fact that global warming is a common joke on morning radio programs ought to ‘warm’ your heart.  And what about our friends in Pakistan and India?  Some of the most immature cultures – watch out for that acid in your face ladies – have access to nuclear weapons.  The only reason that section of the world hasn’t been obliterated yet is that they probably use the same contractors for the nuclear facilities as they use for their housing.  The Russians are the only ones who have figured out that fundamentalist Middle East religions are on the rise, which is why their barely clothed and badly equipped armed forces took on ‘rebels’ in Chechnya.  Won’t that be fun, Charlotte, when acid-throwing and arranged marriages become the norm around the world?  And of course the Americans … everyone’s favourite unwilling global police force.  It’s a pity they are more interested in the current location of their President’s penis than they are in the fact that they have 4-year-olds taking loaded handguns to school.  We seem to think here in good old Canada that if we play nice and pass cool laws that, when the shit hits the fan, we’ll be protected by our own smugness.”

Darryl’s voice had increased in volume during his tirade to a point that the bartender took interest.

How did I get into this?  All I wanted was one, well maybe two, well-made Manhattans before I went home to wrap some gifts, play some Celtic Christmas music and take a hot foamy lavender bath.

“So what are you going to do about it?” asked James.

“Do about what?”

“The world; you obviously have a vision we mortals here can only begin to comprehend so therefore you must have some constructive ideas on how to save it.”

“Save it?  You don’t get it, do you?  What makes you think there is anything outside right now to actually save?  I think the planet is already dead and we just haven’t figured it out yet.  Poor Mother Earth had her ass kicked about twenty minutes after the steam engine patent was issued.”

“So why live? Why come here and bother us?”

I don’t like where this is going.

Darryl stepped away from James and pulled from his jacket three items, which he placed carefully on the bar:  a six inch knife, a vial containing a clear liquid and a handgun.

James stood back quickly, unconsciously placing himself between Darryl and Charlotte.

Figures that this lunatic would be between the door and us.

“Hey,” said the bartender, “what the hell is going on?”

“Barkeep!” boomed Darryl, as if he were hosting a party, “Join in!  You can help me with a crucial decision.  All that is left in this world is to die.  If not on the stroke of midnight New Year’s Eve … soon, very soon.  For me I don’t want to wait.  The question is how?  Knife? Poison? Firearm?  They’re all risky, don’t you think?  The gun might slip; the knife may miss and the poison may take too long.  And worst of all, one of you might try to ‘save’ me.”

The bartender moved toward the phone.

Darryl picked up the gun.  “Don’t try it.”

“Poison,” said James.

“What?”

“Poison.  It seems that the risks are the same; i.e. the chance of being interrupted, or there being a misfire of some sort, is the same.  So from my perspective it’s ease of administration that counts.  Swilling back some poison, especially if there’s time to chase it with some good scotch, is the easiest way to attempt suicide.”

“Would you pick poison?” Darryl grabbed the vial and waved it in James’ face.

“I don’t think the world is going to end.  I’ve been on a Y2K project; it was a retirement savings plan scheme for the computer professionals from the 60s.”

This is a little bit of the wrong time and place for bafflegab, James.

“The world has ended, James, you and your fucking computers even calculated it.  But then you decided you could bug-fix it.”

“What is really bothering you?” asked Charlotte.  “The world has been ending since at least the Middle Ages and I think the Jehovah’s Witnesses have unofficially ended the world at least twice.  So what’s the real problem?”

“You’d like it if I said that my mother used to hit me and my Dad was an alcoholic, wouldn’t you?”

“No one should be abused;” said Charlotte, “that’s what I said at the beginning of this very strange conversation.  But if you were having easily understandable problems, it would make it easier for me.”

“I just want to die before the rest of you, but the biological programming against killing yourself won’t let me do it.  I’ve tried and tried and I can’t do it.”

“You know,” said James, “this all started with that damn cigarette.  If you really want one that badly, go ahead.”

That probably wasn’t a very good …

Darryl put the gun into his coat pocket, grabbed the knife and with cat-like grace moved around behind James and put the blade to his throat.

The bartender, placed both hands on the bar, pushed hard and brought both legs over the counter.  It was an unexpectedly lithe movement for a broad shouldered, five foot eight, fifty-year-old man.

“Don’t make me cut him!”

“That’s enough; no way you’re hurting anyone in my place.”

“You can end this, valiant barkeep, by putting your hand in my pocket, taking out the gun and shooting me.”

“You are one sick bastard,” said the bartender.

“OK, Charlotte, you do it,” said Darryl.

“Ah, you see if I did that, it would be murder.”

“But if you don’t it will be the same as you killing James.”

“No, no; it would be the same as if you killed James.”

“Don’t you understand?  There is no world out there.  It’s gone.  Go outside and you won’t just be dead; you won’t even exist!”

“You’re yelling in my ear,” said James.

“So, Jamesy, where’s the fear she predicted?  Or do you not care?”

“Don’t mistake sarcasm for lack of fear.  I, for one, am shocked that I haven’t crapped my pants, but if what you say is true, why should I be scared?  If I go outside and cease to exist or you cut my throat open what difference does it make?”

“You’re a coward,” said Charlotte.

“What?” replied Darryl.

“You can’t bring yourself to commit suicide, and now you are trying to coerce someone into doing it for you.  Isn’t the simplest thing to do is to just go outside and die?  You might be able to control some people, but the whole world … I don’t think so.”

“Control, or power, starts with yourself, man,” said the bartender.

Darryl threw the knife down and James collapsed on the floor.  Charlotte was feeling a little weak in the knees.

Darryl’s face was a contortion of fear.  He backed away from them toward where he had hung his coat on the way in.  He grabbed the coat.  “I won’t see you later,” he said.  As if he were deliberately throwing himself into a furnace, he opened the door and left.

The bartender had made it to his phone and was calling the police.

Charlotte was helping a rather pale James from the floor to a barstool.

“Drink your beer.  I can’t tell if you are insane or stupid.”

“I was trying to decide myself.”

“The cops are going to be here in a few minutes,” said the bartender.  “Can I freshen up your drinks – on the house?”

“Just some water for me; it certainly wasn’t your fault,” said Charlotte.

“Charlotte,” said James, “I want to tell you that some of my bravado was to show off to you.  I’m sorry.”

I had figured that out.  “You are just too funny.”

“If it’s not too late by the time the cops are through with us, can I please take you out for dinner?”

Alone in the bath or dinner with a friend?  “OK; but let’s see how we feel after we give our statements.”

“Hey,” said the bartender, “I know the maître d’ at Le Papillion.  I’ll call him and get you in.”

“That would be great,” said James.

“Are you sure you want to go outside, James?” asked Charlotte cheekily.  “The restaurant might not exist.”

“Gawd,” said the bartender.  “If this is what Christmas is like, I ain’t gonna open on New Years.”

Prelude

In 1983, Dr. Riley was an obstetrician and gynaecologist who also performed abortions when he felt the case merited it.  He was a nervous man.  The controversy surrounding the practice of therapeutic abortion brought with it notoriety and perceived personal security risks.  Despite being off the well worn path to the Toronto clinic of Henry Morgantaler, a man who had spent time in jail for performing abortions, Dr. Riley’s clinic regularly received bomb threats.  Their security system consisted of doors with good deadbolts.

“Not enough,” chirped Dr. Riley who knew that the budget did not have the cash for the kind of system he had in mind.  He stayed on the lookout for a possible benefactor who would finance the clinic’s security.

At a medical faculty party, Riley had the fortune, or so it seemed, to encounter an American medical researcher named Evelyn Segnar who had money to contribute anonymously to the security system.  There was a catch.  Segnar needed twenty foetuses and their associated waste products – on ice.  No questions asked.

Dr. Riley took Dr. Segnar’s number and went home to think about it.  On the news, more violent anti-abortion protests were shown in Winnipeg.

It took careful planning and execution, but Dr. Riley had, by early October 1983, provided Dr. Segnar with her twenty foetuses.

The following week, the security system was installed at the clinic.  The donor was not identified.

On November 11, 1983, Dr. Riley was shot through the head while standing in his living room.  The sniper had been positioned on a rooftop a safe distance away.

No suspect was ever located.  The incident did start a nasty trend in attacks on so-called abortion doctors, which was ironic as the shooter in the case of Dr. Riley had no views on abortion whatsoever.

Resolution

On December 24, 2003 Jason entered the executive offices of Total Access Technologies Ltd (TAT).  The surroundings were a cool blue, with very few indicators of the Christmas season.  He approached the receptionist, who had on her desk a photo of her poodle wearing a Santa hat.

“Can I help you?”

“Jason Childs for Mr. Battle, please.”

“Ah,” said the receptionist.  “I’ll send you through to Vicki.”

Jason never thought he’d heard Vicki spoken with such reverence before.  Clearly she was Mr. Battle’s executive assistant.  Her desk was hidden around a corner from the reception area; she provided the main buffer between the company and its CEO.

“Hi, I’m Jason Childs.”

“Ah,” said Vicki, “please take a seat; I’ll buzz him.  In the meantime, may I take your coat?”

“That’s OK, thanks,” said Jason.  He removed his bicycle courier shell with its winter lining.  It occurred to Jason that Battle’s staff might expect him to wear something a little dressier than jeans, cotton sport shirt and bicycle garb.  Tough.  He had biked to TAT, what did they expect, an Armani suit?

Once again the only sign of Christmas was a picture of Vicki’s husband and two children sitting in front of the Christmas tree.  The photo was hidden from general view.  Vicki picked up the phone, used the intercom button linking her to the boardroom, and said, “Mr. Battle, your 10:30 is here.”  Holding his coat, Jason sat on the visitor couch, which was positioned with a view of the boardroom door, but no view of Vicki’s desk.

She had barely resumed work on her PC when Mr. Charles Battle burst from the boardroom, yelling, “What’s the point?  I wonder how we would do if we had a marketing plan deliberately designed to offend our customers!”

Vicki raised an eyebrow in surprise – Jason wondered at what.  Couldn’t be Battle’s outburst, his aggressive nature was well documented.  Was it how quickly he responded to her interruption?

Battle was a short stocky man wearing a conservative suit.  His tie had incredibly small Santa Clauses on it.  Jason noted that Battle’s face was more lined than in their most mid-thirties.

Battle approached Vicki and whispered, “Could you let them sweat for fifteen minutes and then go in there and tell them I got caught up in another mess?  And tell them to go home for the holidays and try to dream up something sane for Marketing.  Oh – and after my meeting with Mr. Childs, I expect to see that you’ve gone home.”

“What about your lunch appointment?”

“Oh, I can take care of that myself.  Cancel anything else after that.”

“Done.”

Jason should not have been able to hear the conversation, but his acute hearing allowed for easy eavesdropping.  And what he heard was beginning to contradict his research on the mercurial Charles Battle.  Total Access Technologies was a come-from-behind software company.  At a time of huge operating systems and bloated applications, TAT had started writing highly efficient code that actually compressed existing programs to one-tenth their original size.  The other software makers had tried suing, buying and sabotaging TAT, but in the end Charles Battle brought his company to five billion dollars in annual sales.  The business community attributed it to his being a total bastard.

Charles Battle extended his hand to Jason.  “Mr. Childs, thank you for coming – please come into my office.”

It was a modest office for a CEO.  Jason had expected to recognize the artwork on the walls – water colour landscapes of Europe – but they were by an unknown artist of noticeable skill.  There was a meeting table a short distance from his sensibly sized desk.  The chairs at the table were not expensive leather, but rather durable cloth.

“Yeah, I don’t go for the leather – it upsets my vegetarian friends and I feel like I’m sitting on grease after a while.”

Observing me observing, thought Jason.

“Mr. Childs, I got your name from Jennings at IBM.  She said that you were the best at computer security in the world.  And, I might add, she alluded to the fact you weren’t all human.”

“Really … seeing as I’ve never met Ms Jennings, that’s quite the statement.”

“Well, my curiosity and your elusiveness don’t matter – I have a problem.”

Battle moved to his computer, let it look at his retina and logged in.

“I’ve been receiving some interesting e-mail attachments.”  Battle ran the program, which showed simulated images of Battle being raped and murdered.

“Explicit,” said Jason.

“Yes.  Because of mail volume, notes don’t get to my inbox until Vicki and others clear them.  These ones passed all of the routing and security.  What I would like to know is how this is getting in.”

“Do you feel that you are in real danger?”

“I’ve had a lot of threats over the years, but none quite so … focused.”

“I’ll see what I can do.  Can I use your office for a while?”

“Sure.  I’ll sign myself in at Vicki’s desk and prep for my next meeting.  What do you need from me?”

“All your passwords for all the systems you use.  Plus a list of the old systems that you logged into before Y2K.”

Battle started writing down IDs.  He was left handed, Jason noted.

“How much is this going to cost me, anyway?”

“$250,000 for the search.  $500,000 if hackers are caught.  $250,000 for each password you withhold.  I presume that your own security people have looked at this.”

“Oh yeah.  Hopeless.”  Battle kept writing.

“Why are you trusting me?”

“Jennings – I’ve known her a long time.  And I’ve checked your references.”

And he’s scared, thought Jason.

Battle handed him the list.  “Go to it.  If you need me at lunch, I’ll be in the Penthouse Arbour Restaurant.”  Battle left his own office.

Jason sat at the desk, eager to start work.  The enigmatic Charles Battle had left him with a couple of mysteries.  The hate mail was likely an obvious hole in security, but the IBM connection was puzzling.  Rumours surrounding Jason’s actual nature made him nervous.  From his bicycling coat, he withdrew a custom-made cable, which he spliced directly into the wall port.  He plugged the other end into a port hidden beneath a flap of skin under his jaw.  With ease Jason bypassed all of the security – Battle’s list of passwords was simply a way to gauge his trust in him – and plunged himself into the mountains of data in TAT’s own network as well as the Internet.

The process of connecting to huge systems tied up all his subconscious resources, which allowed his conscious mind to wander.  Recently he had for the first time actually told someone parts of his life story.  It had been such an extraordinary admission that he felt guilt over having placed someone at risk with the information.  His thoughts returned to it regularly.

 

Since Integrated Life Forms (ILFs) are never really born.  This made all of Evelyn’s motherly posturing feel empty.  She was a genius.  Our lives were the simple result of allowing computers and human tissue do what they do best: provide instructions, calculate responses and store data and, in the case of the aborted foetuses, grow and adapt.

Our circuitry was programmed with the most advanced neural network algorithms known, and left with the foetal tissue to grow in a special goop until a fully formed integrated entity (me) existed.  Of the twenty foetuses Evelyn had killed some Canadian doctor for, the technique worked for fifteen of us.  Her CIA paymasters made her incorporate some of their super-soldier requests: heightened senses, rapid tissue and component re-growth, titanium alloy reinforced bones and, naturally, built-in knowledge of tactics and surveillance.  It was more like coming on-line than being born.

 

While reminiscing, the parallel processing capability in Jason’s subconscious waded through corporate data.  In this case, one thread was off trying to find the originating source of the e-mail threats while another looked for clues as to a possible perpetrator.  Jason’s search program started with TAT’s human resources files.

Fifteen minutes passed and there was no sign of the origin of the e-mail or its attachment.  Most unusual, thought Jason.  He let his background processing continue.  To it he added another thread – a personal background check on Charles Battle.

 

Childhood started one year after the foetal and computer components had been left in the goop.  Evelyn treated each of us as a new-born human – a problem, seeing we weren’t.

For the survivors, Evelyn set up a nursery where we could play.  Electronics were a favourite; we literally ate them up – our programming included integrating new computer components more or less on contact.

After five years in the nursery, we all looked like young adolescents; at this point the CIA wanted its investment to be used.

Evelyn rebelled.  Her attachment to us had grown to such an extent that to begin the training and send us on high-risk missions was unthinkable.  So we fled – one forty-year-old woman and fifteen teenagers all aged five.  For ten years we hid in North America.  Considering the CIA was hunting us, you’d think it was tough, but there are certain advantages to working with fifteen walking computers who, on top of all this, could modify their facial structure and skin colour at will.  Also, the CIA wasn’t keen on advertising the fact that they had funded a program to create super-soldiers who were now on the loose in America.

By 1998, Evelyn was a paranoid wreck.  Ironically, at the same time as she suspected a lack of loyalty in her “kids”, a bunch of us were longing to head out on our own.  Basically we were in three groups: those enjoying the status quo, those longing to explore (like me) and those so connected with “Mother” that they plotted the destruction of the CIA.

When the attack came, it was likely the result of a tip from one of us.

They tried to corner us and blast us to pieces.  Fleeing was the most logical plan: hide out, cripple one of the so-called clean-up team, steal his uniform and face, and slip away.  Don’t know what happened to Evelyn or the others.

 

Ping.  His subconscious processing had flagged a point of interest.  At that moment CEO Battle knocked on the door to his own office and walked in.  Jason turned and let his neck connection fall out, dropping soundlessly to the carpet.

“Any luck?” asked Battle.

“Not with the hate mail, but I did find out you were lying about Jennings at IBM.”

“Ooops.”

“You have donated substantially to the Overseas Children’s Relief Fund.”

“And so have you,” Battle said mildly.

“Denise Kalef.”

“Yes.”  Denise was the head of the OCRF and the only human to whom Jason had told his story.

“According to my searches you have donated a massive amount of money to a large number of charities.  And not accepted one tax deduction – except for the obvious corporate related donations.”

“The corporate ones are a front for the more extensive ones.  My philanthropy is private.  I hope you’ll respect that.”

“Of course, but why?”

“My corporate persona is that of an utter prick.  It works.  Microsoft proved it.  Of course you have to have a deliverable product, which explains IBM’s failure, but pricks and products – it’s a recipe for success.”

“Therefore being a softie at heart would affect sales – even if you are the most generous philanthropist in the world.”

“How far did you go into the finances?”

“All the way.”

“I hid those transactions very well – or so I thought.”

“You did; very few, if any, could repeat my analysis.”

“So, Jason, Denise told me very little about you – except that she was convinced you could help me and she didn’t think you were human – and now that you know that I’m a closet Santa Claus, how about you?  Are you an alien?”

“No, I’m of this earth.  It will disappoint you, but I am unwilling to discuss my situation due to the risks to my personal well-being – and yours.”

“I love mysteries, except when they remained unsolved.  Anyway, I’m paying you a zillion dollars a second so I’m going to my lunch appointment.  If you need me, I’ll be in the restaurant on the top floor.”

“Before you go, do you think the charitable activities could be the source of the hate mail?”

“Hmmm.  I’ll have to think about that one.  I have connections in all those organisations, but they are all good.  They know if they go public with me, they’ll lose my funding.  Denise is the only one with whom I have anything more than a professional friendship.  I suspect you also know how easy it is to speak to her.”

“She is a very unusual person.  I can only imagine that she spoke of me because she was worried about you.”

“Precisely.  Well, keep at the problem – I’d really like this solved.”

“I’ll advise you of any meaningful progress.”

Battle left and Jason plugged back in.  The fact that there was no trace of the hate mail was annoying him.  The more difficult it was to crack, the more likely the attachments were not the work of a prankster with poor taste, but that of an actual assassin with an interest in tormenting the victim.

He assigned all his threads to complete the network analysis, trying to find even a hint of the origin of the abusive attachment.  His conscious mind wandered back to his talk with Denise.

 

Security consulting was a natural for an organic computer.  You lay low for a year, establishing a convincing identity.  Then, given how much money an ace security expert can make, you realize that money is meaningless – sure you can measure success, continually buy chip upgrades and keep hidden – but it’s giving the money away that is the fun part.  Identifying with neglected kids is easy and, face it, they’re going to save the world.

 

Ping.  His scanning of the network revealed no sign of the attachment.  Most irritating, he thought.  He had never seen such an effective way of covering one’s tracks.  Even the process of removing records from a system leaves a trail.

Therefore he decided to concentrate on the attachment itself.  There was a remote possibility that the attachment was the product of another program or, more cleverly, the original program was designed to expand to the full attachment.  If this were the case, decompiling it would prove or refute the theory and hopefully lead to the correct origin of the file.

During decompilation, a hidden program was launched that in an instant sent thousands of packets all over the network and quickly gained access to the broader Internet.

Jason was astounded.  Examination of one of the packets revealed that it simply had date, time, and physical network location information.  It was a beacon.  A highly disturbing hypothesis came to mind.  First: the packets were an I Am Here flag.  Second: it was to pinpoint the location for an attack.  Third: Charles Battle might not be the target.

Jason was in a moral dilemma.  Typically, if anyone hostile got close to him, he fled.  But since he didn’t know for sure what this all meant, he worried that Battle might be at risk.

Jason disconnected from the network, left Battle’s office – Vicki had gone home – and ran up the ten flights of stairs to the penthouse where Battle was dining in the company-owned restaurant.  As he burst out of the stairwell, Jason immediately saw Battle and noted that he was dining with a famous film actor-director – Jason was again amazed at Battle’s connections.

“Excuse me, we have to go.”

The producer’s body guard was affronted.

“What’s wrong?” asked Battle.

“No time to explain.”  Jason grabbed Battle’s arm to coax him out of his chair.  The bodyguard – a square-framed buzz-cut man in a suit – grabbed Jason’s wrist.

“You’d better just hold your horses.”

“Luigi …” warned the producer.  Too late.  Jason poked the guard in the neck with his free index finger.  The guard collapsed into the pasta primavera.  Jason had used an injector to put concentrated sleep inducing hormones into his body.

Jason and Charles left behind a baffled-looking director.

They started running down the stairs.  Jason pushed Battle in front to lead the way.

“What are we doing?”

“Fleeing.”

“From what?”

“As I was dissecting the attachment, I inadvertently launched the Internet equivalent of a homing beacon.”

“So what?”

“The objective of the beacon was to pinpoint our location.”

They reached the fifteenth floor.

“Why aren’t we using the elevator?”

“The beacon program was disturbingly sophisticated and the elevator is run by a computer program.”

At the eleventh floor, Battle said, “You know, since there wasn’t a hope in hell of me launching that beacon, I wonder if I am the real target.”

The access door to the eleventh floor swung open just as Battle passed it.  One arm of the person entering the stairwell roughly pushed Battle forward, causing him to lose his balance and tumble down the stairs.  The other arm smashed squarely into Jason’s chest, knocking him against the wall.

Jason turned to look – Evelyn?

Dr. Segnar struck Jason hard across the face.  She was wild-eyed and laughed.  “Dear Jason.  I finally found you!”  She was wearing a black jump-suit, her grey hair was flying about, and Jason noticed that her body was more muscular, frankly more masculine, than he recalled.  From the fingers on her left hand, five metal probes emerged and she jammed them into Jason’s neck, while pinning him against the wall with the other hand.

The probes had a downside.  Jason could send his own software agents up into Segnar’s body, specifically to find out what had happened.

 

Three of Evelyn’s “kids” were incredibly devoted to her.  In the battle with the CIA Evelyn was shot several times.  One of the three devotees went berserk and killed most of the attackers, before dying from his own injuries.  The remaining two tried to save her and found themselves in a situation where only integration could help.  Basically the more injured of the two – everyone except sneaks like me took injuries – gave up his life in order that his biological and technical components could be donated to Evelyn.  The remaining ILF escaped with the stabilised but highly transformed Dr. Segnar.  She recovered, adjusted to her bio-implants but after a time her body started to fail.  Her immune system required constant work of a nature that the original components could not handle.  In the end the last devotee donated himself to her.  Since that time she had stalked the ILFs that had escaped and, as she found them, she consumed them.  Jason would be her seventh victim.

 

With this information, Jason counter-attacked.  Her strategy was to disable his main defences and then isolate and remove the required hardware and bioware.  Since her weakness lay in her immune system, he used his own probes and released a variety of organic and software viruses, many of which he had encountered during his work and modified.

“Sweetie, don’t you want your mother to live?”

“Given the circumstances, I am on the fence.  Couldn’t we discuss this civilly?”

“No, you abandoned me, child.”

“All offspring eventually leave the nest.”

The biggest problem facing Jason in this match was the fact that he was pitted against what amounted to six ILFs.  They existed within Segnar and had the collective skill and experience to repel his viruses.  He needed a creative approach.

Battle had managed to grab a railing on his way down and had been knocked only slightly silly when he tumbled down the stairs.  The conflict between the two machine people was intense.  Under his pant leg was a small automatic he had taken to wearing since the hate mail had started.  He decided that diplomacy was not going to break up the fight.

Both Jason and Segnar were surprised when 25-calibre heavy-jacketed ammunition began penetrating Segnar.  Not being a great shot, Battle concentrated his fifteen rounds in the centre of her mass, with one shot straying into her neck.  Normally this sort of injury would take about thirty minutes to repair.  However, when Battle was finished, Jason planted one foot and pushed Segnar away, ripping her probes painfully from his neck.  With her signals no longer present, he had the capacity to pump her full of every biological toxin and software virus he could think of and synthesize.  So much for creativity.

As she lay in a mess of blood and circuitry, she beckoned Jason closer.  He did not move.  “Say what you want.”

“I never liked you.”

And she was dead.

Jason stood expressionless over her body.

“That was your mother?”

“In a way … her, Intel and Motorola.”

Postlude

December 26, Boxing Day, found Jason Childs and Charles Battle swinging on children’s swings in a snowbound park near the children’s hospital.  They had just been delivering post Christmas cheer to the sick and dying children whose families were unable to spend enough time with them over Christmas.  Denise Kalef had suggested it – including the elf costumes – as a way for them to come out of the philanthropy closet.  Neither Charles nor Jason had ever made a personal appearance to the children they had both helped financially.  She said it was time to see the results of their work.

“So,” said Jason, “you thinking of being less anonymous more often?”

Battle got a good swing going and replied, “No.  Don’t think so.  Nothing beyond this anyway.  I really don’t mind my hidden life.  There are much worse ones to have.  What about you?  Your creator is dead; you probably have effective, if not actual, détente with the CIA – considering you let them discover their rogue researcher after all these years.”

“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t lied to them so well over the last two days, particularly about my role in the situation.”

“Whatever.  You have a chance to hide less in any case.”

“True.  I’ve set up a special message on the Internet for the remaining ILFs.  I’m thinking of having a family reunion and then deciding what to do next.”

“Next Christmas I’d like us to do this again, but without me having to shoot anyone and with warmer elf costumes.  Interested?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

 

FIN

Kovack came into existence with a scream. His charred left side and its missing arm had not magically stopped hurting during his escape. In front of him was the Mediterranean with a brilliant sunset blazing across the water. He stood in the centre of what remained of a small Roman amphitheatre. As he turned around he saw the Crusader castle, still impressive despite its abandoned state.

“Computer, please state time and location.”

“We are fifteen minutes prior to our previous point of existence. Location is Byblos, also known as Jbail.” It was certainly hot enough to be the Middle East.

His computer continued, telling him that the location was ancient, as he had requested. The light was beginning to fail as he started toward the castle.

“Anything you can do about the pain?”

“Anything more would incapacitate you.”

Kovack gritted his teeth and proceeded up the dry, dusty stairs into the ruin. The large room was still hot from the day’s sun. Slits for windows and a hole in the roof let in the dying light.

He estimated that he had twenty minutes at the most before his antagonists, temporally speaking, caught up with him, located him – some 10,000 kilometres from the North American location of their skirmish – and killed him.

This Crusader castle was situated where Phoenicians, Romans, Egyptians and other cultures had made their mark on the land. The huge chamber with its high vaulted ceiling had the feel of antiquity beyond its Crusader origins. He could almost see the thousands of people that had walked on the hard packed earth. He carefully kneeled on the dusty floor, letting his knees buckle gently and readying his remaining arm in case of a fall.

“Computer, please initiate the temporal scan as soon as I put myself into the trance.”

“Understood.”

***

Desmond was preparing shortbread cookies for his wife Rebecca and their daughter Cecilia on a snowy Christmas Eve. As he contemplated the health implications of butter and sugar, weighing them carefully against taste and tradition, he felt the pull.

“No,” he said aloud. He had not felt the unpleasant sliding of time travel since 1991 – Christmas Eve. He stopped what he was doing in the kitchen and moved swiftly into the living room, where his wife was decorating the tree. The battle in his mind was like forcing himself to be sober after six pints of beer.

“What’s wrong?” asked Rebecca.

It was a good question. Ten years ago, Desmond had discovered that he could time travel just by thinking about it. But, because of the frightening experiences that accompanied movement through time, he avoided even thinking about it. He had so effectively buried his memories that his conscious mind almost believed that the 1991 adventure had been a dream.

Desmond grabbed his wife’s hands. “Something is trying to pull me away.”

“Don’t go.”

The sensible dark-haired Rebecca had spoken. He smiled; it was just like her to boil a problem of quantum mechanics down to two words. His mind was wrenched further and he lost his grip. The last thing he saw was Rebecca’s concerned face and, behind her, the almost decorated Christmas tree.

Rebecca watched her husband fade out like some gradually decaying video signal. His hands, for an instant, felt like grains of sand slipping from between her fingers. Then he was gone.

***

Desmond was screaming the word NO as he arrived in the ancient castle in Byblos. The room was dark compared to his living room and, as a result, he stumbled and fell hard against a stone wall. Kovack took that moment to snap himself out of his trance.

“Computer, time remaining?”

“Less than four minutes.”

Desmond’s eyes adjusted to the light enough to see Kovack rise awkwardly to his feet.

Kovack approached Desmond, saying, “You’ve got to get us out of here.”

“Just who the hell are you?” As he asked his question, Desmond suddenly felt déjà-vu about his one-armed companion.

“I am Kovack; there isn’t time to explain. I know you can travel in time. You must take us back.”

“Where or when are we now?”

“What will become Lebanon. Late 15^th century. Please, you must hurry.”

They both heard a far off whining sound.

“Incoming,” said the computer.

Kovack grabbed Desmond’s arm. “You must act now. People who will kill us are coming.”

“In a jet?”

“A kind of aircraft, yes. It’s 1491; like us, these people are in the wrong time. Get us out of here!”

“Intercept in thirty seconds.”

“OK, OK, shut up.”

Desmond tried to relax enough to slide. He grabbed onto Kovack’s arm. Kovack understood the process and was audibly breathing in a rhythm that matched Desmond’s.

They detached from space-time and, as they slid away, they saw the roof of the castle being blasted away; tonnes of rock fell where they had just been standing.

***

Kovack didn’t feel as if he were falling off the planet when his computer used a time travel field. Whatever technique Desmond applied was not easy on the stomach. Kovack was so queasy that he didn’t recall the process of materialising and sitting down on the frosty, wind-blown grass. Desmond sat beside him, not as nauseous only because he was expecting it. They both sat with their backs against a large grey stone. Kovack knew without looking that it was a tall stone and unnaturally flat, nothing like a boulder. They remained where they were, neither of them speaking, letting themselves adjust to normal time. It was the early part of sunrise and, with the mist rising from the fields, there was no point in moving about, as visibility was less than two metres.

In a few minutes the morning light revealed their location. “OK. That was easy,” said Kovack. “It’s just a matter of when.” He turned to Desmond.

“I don’t know; I don’t even know why we’re at Stonehenge.”

“So, when you time travel, you really don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Look, you dragged me into this and now it’s time for you to confess. What the hell is going on?”

“Just a second. Computer, any idea of our time?”

“No. The time travel was disorienting. I will do an environmental analysis.”

“Where is your computer anyway?”

“Inside me. Its processing and storage occurs within the cells of my body.”

“Fast?”

“Very.”

“OK, so what’s going on? Who are you? Where are you from?”

“I’m from 2152 AD. I was – or am – the scout for a temporal correction mission. Where I came from, Earth was almost dead. I was chosen to travel in time, make a time portal and let the rest of the team in. Which I did. However, I didn’t trust them – I feared they didn’t want to save the planet but rather conquer it. As soon as I let them through the gateway they tried to kill me, but I escaped with only the loss of my arm, which is growing back.”

Desmond looked more closely and saw a pink nub protruding from Kovack’s left shoulder.

“How does that work?”

“My computer keeps a record of my physical state and can regenerate new parts based on that data.”

“Neat. What did your team hope to accomplish – before you started shooting each other.”

“Prevent the colonisation of the Americas and turn them into a global nature reserve to keep a critical mass of the natural world alive in order to prevent environmental collapse.”

Desmond sat back and thought about it. He had been born in Toronto. Wouldn’t just the presence of this guy have eliminated his whole personal existence?

“How do you explain me?”

“That’s a little more unusual. Do you want to start walking? It’s light enough.”

“Where?”

“Salisbury; it’s about ten kilometres from here. The computer and I want to analyse a few more, er, recent artefacts to determine our time.” Kovack slapped the side of the Heel Stone. “On the way I’ll try to explain more.”

They walked out past the last marker. The computer confirmed they were walking south, the correct direction. Despite the sunlight, a brisk winter wind cut through Desmond’s jeans and thick cotton shirt.

“I should have brought a jacket. Stonehenge in winter … sounds like a song title.”

Suddenly it warmed up.

“I should have thought of it earlier,” Kovack replied to Desmond’s puzzled look, “I’ve extended my environment field to include you.”

“What’s that? Like a force field?”

“Something like that. The computer generates fields to do all sorts of things.”

“Like time travel?”

“Precisely.”

“What about me? Why did you hijack me? How did you do it?”

“We’re related, in a way.”

“How? Am I your great to the n^th power grandfather?”

“No. I am your reincarnation.”

“You mean I die and come back as you?”

“There are, as best as I can determine, some intermediate steps. You see, when I realised my comrades were not going to keep the agreement, I was unable to prevent the gateway from opening. This meant I needed to escape and find another way to stop them. One of the reasons I’m on this mission is you. A past life regression revealed your abilities to travel in time, which inspired me to continue my work in temporal quantum physics. My jump to Byblos – all I could manage – put me before my original arrival. Since I now cannot carry out the mission, you still exist. Then I tapped into space-time and summoned you. It was a gamble and my computer is still amazed it worked.”

“Excuse me, but would you shut up for a second?” asked Desmod. “I have to think.”

Thinking was painfully circular. To avoid it, Desmond assumed that the start point of this whole mess was Kovack going back in time. After that, he was attacked, slipped further back in time, psychically induced Desmond to time travel and, finally, they both fell back even further to Stonehenge. Simple. There was only one real problem.

“Kovack, I’ve met people from the future. Their experience contradicts what you’ve described.”

“Interesting, but not relevant. I know what I know. Isn’t time surprisingly malleable?”

“So you dragged me into this to save your own skin and you’ve guessed that I’m not going to slip away because leaving you behind would likely mess up my own time line.”

“Precisely.”

Desmond was afraid to ask what came next.

They walked for a couple of kilometres in silence.

***

“People approaching,” said the computer.

“Hide us,” ordered Kovack.

Desmond noticed no difference.

Coming toward them on the path were what looked like refugees. Kovack motioned Desmond to join him just off the path. Whispering, Kovack said, “The computer is emitting an image of what the background would be like if we weren’t here. But, if they bump into us, they’ll know.”

Wearing rags, for the most part, and carrying bundles of belongings, the miserable folk – apparently all women – plodded along the path. They heard them muttering, but could not make anything out because of the foreign tongue and the regular loud moans and cries from the refugees. The computer advised them that it was scanning the language database. The column of people stretched for about two kilometres. Once they had passed, Desmond asked, “What the hell is going on?”

“The computer tells me – from what it could determine – that there has been a disaster in Salisbury. The nature of it is unclear.”

At that moment they saw their first glimpse of the town and the Cathedral. The spire was there but, just to the south-east was the obvious crash site of an aircraft or, possibly, a spacecraft. It had ripped into the ground some time earlier, leaving burned fields and churned up rock and soil.

“That’s not supposed to be there,” said Kovack.

“Time’s malleable, you said.”

“Get down,” ordered Kovack.

“Why? I thought we were cloaked or something.”

“From pre-technology people. Get down. Computer, please magnify the image of the crash site. Any identifying marks?”

“No. The ship type is unknown.”

In front of Kovack and Desmond the computer produced a floating video image of the distant crash site.

The ship was charcoal grey and roughly rectangular with a mottled surface. There were two elliptical domes at the exposed ends of the ship. Engines? Desmond had no real idea what any part of the ship might be. Was there a bridge? He lost interest in the ship when he realised that there were hundreds of people digging around it. Apparently they were trying to free the ship from its crash site.

Desmond looked at Kovack. He seemed intent on the image, but also appeared to be listening to something. The computer?

Then they saw it. A rather shaggy two-legged creature – its colour was the same as the hull – scuttled into view. It wore a metallic backpack and was hunched over. The face was square. Desmond could not tell if it had eyes or other facial features.

“First contact in medieval England?” asked Kovack. “This can’t be right. Computer, what is the probability that the unusual figure is human?”

“Five per cent.”

The diggers hesitated as the alien passed them. Then it stopped cold; the alien seemed to address a specific group of diggers. The creature drew what looked like a gun and, in the next instant, one of the workers no longer had a head. Desmond, totally caught off guard, turned away to be sick. Kovack witnessed the alien motion the remaining people back to work and then drag the corpse to a pit – or mass grave – and cast it in.

“Once you’re finished fertilising the grass,” Kovack said, “I need to talk to you.”

***

They retreated further from the crash site, allowing Desmond to recover his equilibrium.

“I have a plan,” said Kovack.

“Go ahead.” Desmond was still rattled, but tried not to show it.

“Obviously we have to stop the aliens before they do too much damage. I think I can handle that.”

“Really.”

“Yes. But the exciting part is that their technology might help with our other problem.”

“Which problem would that be?” asked Desmond.

“Me. I brought you into this so that you could take me to my original entry point – 1491. My plan is to sabotage my own equipment and send me back to my own time. This would prevent the people who blew up the Crusader castle in Byblos from ever materialising. Unfortunately I am now not as powerful as my earlier self. I’m hoping our mysterious aliens can give me an edge – some new tool.”

“Don’t you think this is rather convenient?” asked Desmond.

“What is?”

“Aliens mysteriously appearing in Salisbury – right where I take you after you kidnap me.”

“Are you trying to say this isn’t a coincidence?”

“Well, duh, no shit. Do you think these creatures – and their ship full of high tech toys – are here to accommodate you? Let me ask you something. How does your time travel technology work?”

“It’s complicated,” replied Kovack.

“Simplify it.”

“Essentially my computer, which manages a huge power source in my body, produces a field of energy that punches a hole in space-time. This allows us to move basically anywhere. I now need you because my energy source, although big, is no longer enough to time travel.”

“So,” said Desmond, “you don’t think that, just maybe, your ripping a hole in the universe in one spot didn’t create another somewhere else? Maybe in the path of an alien ship in some other place and time?”

“Are you saying this is my fault – these aliens being here?”

“Ten points for the half man/half machine.”

“I don’t accept that. Our calculations were perfect.”

Kovack was actually starting to show some emotion. Desmond had wondered if the tall pale man was human at all but, now that Kovack was becoming angry, Desmond felt a strange kind of relief.

“Oh, please, ‘perfect calculations’,” said Desmond. “That’s like trying to tell me how big infinity is. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me God’s Internet address.”

Kovack snorted.

“Ahhh,” said Desmond. “You don’t believe in God either – just your own superior technical skills.”

“I was trying to save the world!” yelled Kovack.

“And you’ve done an utterly brilliant job.” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Kovack. He clenched his jaw and fists and faced away from Desmond. After a moment’s pause, Kovack reasserted his self-control, relaxed and turned around.

In a cold edged voice, Kovack said, “I have only two things to say. One: If God exists, I would have some very unpleasant words for Him about how He answers prayers. Two: It doesn’t matter what we think. The facts are that we are here; we have unwanted aliens; and we have to stop my earlier self from making a hideous mistake. Are you willing to help me resolve these problems?”

“I suspect that’s why I’m here.”

***

Kovack’s plan began with intelligence gathering, which led them into Salisbury to make contact with the natives in an attempt to ascertain the number of aliens as well as how and when they had arrived.

The narrow streets were quiet; gusts of sharp winter wind made the only sound. The computer had modified the field that disguised them to show any observers that they were wearing clothes suitable to the day and age. Both men were still tall. At close range the computer could not convincingly compensate for changes in height. Kovack’s growing stump of an arm, however, was disguised as a normal limb. Just as they started to worry that meeting someone was going to require break-and-entry, they heard a voice coming from a small opening in the door of The New Inn.

“Get in here! For God’s sake,” translated the computer.

Kovack turned and led the way. They both carefully ducked to avoid hitting the lintel as they entered.

“How on earth did two strapping lads of the likes of you not get snatched up by those terrible beasts?”

The innkeeper was an older man.

Desmond was no longer hearing the translation, as he did not have a direct connection with the computer, nor was the computer likely to speak aloud in this situation.

Kovack haltingly asked the innkeeper to explain, stating that they were travellers and had seen the dark object near the Cathedral, but did not understand its significance.

“Where’re you from then?”

“Wales.”

“Oh ah.”

“Please pardon my poor English,” said Kovack. “I am just learning and my friend here cannot understand or speak a word.”

“Well then. This story’s really important so I’ll give you time to translate.”

“Thank you.”

Desmond noticed the smell of cooking. At one end of the pub was a large fireplace with a pig roasting. A young child, so small and dirty they hadn’t seen him at first, was turning the spit.

“Your friend looks hungry.”

“Perhaps.”

“Tell him,” Desmond said, “I want his best ale and a slice of well done meat.”

“We don’t have any money.”

“Shit.”

“What’d he say?”

“He would, kind sir, enjoy some of your provisions, but we have no money you would find acceptable.”

“Fie on’t. It’s Christmas Eve, ain’t it? I’d be happy to serve travelling gentlemen. It was complete madness to start cooking that pig, but now I can help some weary travellers.”

The publican started to pour two beakers of ale.

“Kind sir, I cannot partake; I fast on Christmas Eve. However, if you care to serve my friend, I’m sure he would be grateful.” To Desmond he whispered, “if you get sick, I’ll kill you myself.”

“So it’s Christmas. What do you think of that? Got to love those coincidences.”

“Drink your beer.”

After one taste, Desmond realised he had in his hand one of the best and harshest ales he’d ever tried.

Kovack pressed the innkeeper for more information about the aliens.

The small dirty boy brought Desmond a wooden plateful of pork bits with a lump of hard bread.

After fits and starts of conversation – once interrupted by the entry of another old gent who needed to talk about his bunion – Kovack learned that the crash had occurred about two weeks ago. Shortly after, the aliens had rounded up all the able-bodied men and set them to digging. This explained the publican’s concern over their wandering the streets. No one could really differentiate individual “beasts”, but the most anyone had seen at one time was five.

Kovack made profuse thanks for the hospitality and said, given the circumstances, that it was probably best they slip out of town – away from the creatures.

Once outside Kovack said, “I can’t believe you ate that.”

“When in Rome … from the look on your face, you’re a vegetarian.”

“Of course.”

“I bet that would change if you were trapped on an island with lots of rabbits and no plants but poison oak.”

“An unlikely scenario.”

“Tell that to the Donner Party. What’s next, O strategic planner?”

“The direct approach.”

***

As they neared the crash site fully cloaked (as Desmond insisted on calling it) he asked Kovack why he wanted Desmond there. Surely Kovack and the computer could easily take care of the bad guys.

“First, you are my way out of here and I don’t want you out of my sight. Second, if we encounter resistance greater than I can handle, I want you to rescue us.”

“Oh.”

The up close sight of the workers shocked them both. Starving, weak and miserable, the diggers were barely useful at the task. The aliens would do better by feeding them properly. Perhaps it was ignorance of the needs of the species?

They saw the first alien. Kovack knew that the cleverness of his computer’s disguise field was now going to be put to the test. Did the alien have equipment to detect the energy field? Or were its eyes so different that it would see them plain as day? They were within ten metres of it. The square face was more dog-like – although Desmond felt this would insult some dogs – and it had three digits on each hand. Its gun was clearly a gun. The metal backpack had a waistband and shoulder straps that were covered with what looked like instrumentation. At eight metres a light flashed and a groan came from the alien’s belt. It whipped its head around and glared at their position. It bared its square teeth and raised the gun.

For the first time Desmond actually saw Kovack’s energy field. A harsh red colour, it reached outward from his body and incinerated the alien. All that was left was the steaming backpack and gun. Kovack moved toward the entrance to the ship.

The diggers dropped their tools and ran from the scene screaming. All they saw was the glowing energy field, which they hoped was (and were afraid might be) the hand of God.

“Computer, please guess how the alien detected us and adjust the disguise field accordingly. Desmond, stick close.”

Two more aliens burst from the entrance. One fired a shot wildly and Kovack released two heat fields, incinerating them. Desmond had watched how the alien used the gun. He carefully picked up the weapon; it was hot, but not too hot. The trigger was in an odd position. Suddenly gunfire came from above. A hatch had opened above them and an alien was blasting at them. The energy field that disguised them (albeit not very well) repelled the projectiles. Desmond whirled about and pressed the trigger. Projectile after projectile shot from the gun and ripped the alien to pieces. Its blood was grey. Desmond worked to keep lunch down.

“Good shooting. Lucky for you the defence field allows volleys to exit.”

“Isn’t there one more?”

“Likely inside.”

“I guess that means we have to go in.”

“Yes, would you make sure to stay close? I want you to pull us out if there is any difficulty.”

It was dimly lit inside. The ceilings were not too low, but it was claustrophobic. The totally alien feel to the ship was disturbing. Not one switch or panel looked familiar. “Computer, do an active scan and try to locate our fifth alien. Also, please don’t let us get lost.”

“The alien is on an upper level. I suspect it is dead.”

“That would be handy,” said Desmond.

They found an elevator and the computer needed several seconds to figure out how to activate it. In what they assumed to be the bridge or command centre, slumped in a chair, were the remains of the last alien. It had committed suicide by shooting itself. There was little left of its head.

“Big on head shots,” commented Desmond.

Kovack incinerated the remains.

“Why did you do that?”

“I want no signs of them afterwards,” said Kovack. “Computer, any more?”

“No.”

“Can you access the computer systems, assuming that’s what they use?” asked Kovack.

“Yes. It will take time to determine their protocols,” replied the computer.

“How long?”

“I will know within twelve hours.”

“I would like to get out of here in case they set some sort of self-destruct or something,” said Desmond.

“Good point. Computer, can you keep a remote link?”

“Within a five kilometre radius.”

Once outside the ship, they both sighed in relief.

The bells of the Cathedral started to ring.

“I don’t know about you,” said Desmond, “but I’m going to church.”

Kovack looked pained. “I don’t think that I’d be welcome there.”

“I assumed you’d cloak us. Also, my concept of God is that He is the same size as the universe. In that case, He’s probably big enough not to mind you being in church.”

***

Everyone in Salisbury was in the Cathedral. It was more like a large hospital than a church. The older men and the women were attending the seriously ill former slave labourers. A choir sang Christmas music while priests tried to organise a Christmas Eve mass. To avoid being bumped into, Kovack and Desmond were careful where they walked and spent time looking at the artefacts. The tomb of William Longspee was particularly interesting because it was painted blue and red with gold relief. Desmond had been to Salisbury and remembered the tomb being stone grey. This inspired Kovack to perform an analysis on the rate of decay of the paint with what little computer power wasn’t being used to decode the alien protocols. The computer estimated that the year was between 1430 and 1460.

Once the mass had begun and the hundreds of people prayed to God and Christ thanking Them for their deliverance on this holy evening, Desmond started to cry. Tears streamed down his face. He suddenly missed Rebecca and his daughter Cecilia very badly.

“Are you OK?”

“I want to go home.”

***

After twelve hours, during which Desmond managed to sleep fitfully, the computer announced that they should return to the ship. It was totally dark but the computer helped them navigate the uneven terrain.

“OK, so what’s the story?” Kovack asked the computer.

“I cannot determine where this ship came from nor how it got here. However, their equivalent of ship’s logs state clearly that, since they had no way home, they were planning to make the ship operational for Earth’s atmosphere and take control of the planet. Their long term goal was to contact the home world and advise them of the new colony.”

“Gosh, and I was going to feel bad about killing them,” said Desmond.

“I also have a method for disabling our younger selves,” continued the computer.

“Good,” said Kovack. “Tell me about that later. Desmond, we still have a big problem.”

“What?”

“The ship itself.”

“No problem,” said Desmond.

“What do you mean?” asked Kovack.

“Is the Mariana Trench deep enough to keep this sucker out of human hands?”

“Sure, but how do you propose we do that?”

“Travel through time is also through space. I can take it and us a few years in the future and dump it in the ocean. Then we can go to 1491 where I hope you will fix the mess you created.”

“You can move an object this big?”

“Well, I moved a car through time once …”

“Computer, can you open all the hatches on this thing so that it will sink properly?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need to see the whole ship,” said Desmond. “Take a tour so to speak. I think it’ll help to have the whole thing in my mind before I try to do it. Care to escort me?”

Two hours later Desmond had seen more than enough of the ship.

“Now what?” asked Kovack

“Where did you originally materialise?”

“Near Niagara Falls.”

“Good. All we have to do is wait for daylight and leave.”

“Why daylight?”

“So I can see what I’m doing.”

***

They stood on top of the ship and Desmond held onto Kovack’s arm. Desmond relaxed and made his breathing slow and rhythmic. Kovack matched him and started to feel as if he were falling. He wanted to see how this worked but, before he knew it, they were floating in the middle of the Pacific. Heavy swells lashed at the ship; the computer raised a defence field to prevent the winds and water from knocking them off the ship. It started to take on water and sink.

“Are you OK? Can you get us out of here?” asked Kovack.

Desmond gasped. The trip had been incredibly fast and he wasn’t sure why. Nor was he sure he was in the right place. The ocean was angry and was quickly swamping the craft. “OK, Kovack, I want you to think about where and when you want to be. It might help.”

A huge wave slapped against the computer’s defence field.

They held hands.

This time the travel was slower. Desmond coasted them through time, hovering near The Falls. Suddenly, Desmond saw Kovack – his younger self – appear in a forest. Desmond drove his mind back, pulling carefully backward in time a few minutes before materialising.

They were in the woods.

“I don’t have much time, do I?” asked Kovack.

“No.”

Kovack pulled from beneath his coveralls a fairly ordinary-looking cable.

“What are you going to do?”

“The alien computer system was so foreign, that I will be able to take over his, my, system and reverse the time effect. It has to be right away before the gateway completely closes. Computer … are you ready?”

“Yes. I am detecting the gateway.”

Kovack moved so he would be directly behind his soon-to-arrive self.

It took only an instant for Kovack-the-younger to pop out of the gateway.

Kovack, with the not fully-grown arm, jammed the cable into the back of his other self.

“What?” He turned and saw his older self. “No.”

And the screaming began. Two almost identical men howled like lost souls in hell. Desmond covered his ears. The newly arrived version of Kovack seemed to collapse to a point and vanish. The remaining Kovack fell to the ground.

Desmond knelt beside the shivering figure. “Did it work?”

“He’s dead. I dumped all my power into him using the alien energy signals.”

“That’s not what you said you were going to do.”

“I lied.”

“Are you all right?”

“I can’t hear my computer. It’s so quiet in my head.”

Kovack died in a beautiful forest with the roar of a waterfall in the background. To Desmond it seemed a fitting end to the ultimate eco-terrorist. His body had a self-destruct mechanism; Desmond watched the corpse disintegrate. He assumed that, if the computer went off-line, the body and any equipment were to be vaporised so as not to contaminate the environment.

Desmond stood alone in the forest.

***

He could drop a ship in the ocean and pinpoint someone in a forest but he could not travel home to his own living room. He rang the front door bell. It was five minutes after he had left.

Rebecca opened it. “You scared me. What happened?”

He walked inside, “I am really sorry.” When he hugged his wife he realised she was about six months pregnant. This was not life as he recalled it.

Cecilia tromped down the stairs to see who was at the door.

Relieved beyond measure, he scooped up his daughter and held her.

Cecilia wrinkled her nose. “Daddy, you stink funny.”

He put his daughter down and gently rested a hand on his wife’s protruding tummy. “The thanks I get for saving the universe.”

Jaw set, knuckles edging into the white, and nostrils flared, it was clear (even to Gerry) that he was driving in the wrong mood. The MR2, a fast red sports car, hurtled up the wet surface of Granville Street.  The dashboard clock told him it was 8:35 p.m.  It was December 23. Nothing but trouble.  Bugs in the software.  Contracts being cancelled.  And Christmas.  For Gerry it always brought painful memories. The middle lane was sluggish.  He pulled into the right lane behind a cab.  He kept a half second distance.  He wondered if it were wise to be rushing home to change clothes for a Christmas party that he really didn’t want to attend.  Clients would be (possibly) disappointed if he didn’t show.  His ex-wife’s friends wouldn’t. The cab deeked into the middle lane leaving Gerry jowl to cheek with a bus.  He hit the brakes, fish-tailed slightly in the slick pavement – it hadn’t been raining enough to wash away the road grease – and regained control.  He was so close to the bus he could see little of the road in front of him.  An Ocean Construction cement mixer passed on the left and he snapped the MR2 into the lane right behind the truck. “Come on, come on.” His cell phone rang. “Shit.” He let it ring a second time.  Gerry grabbed the phone with his right hand and flipped it open.  When, he thought, am I going to get a hands-free set? “Yeah?  Hi … they did what?  They can’t change the resourcing for the New Year now.  What?  They cut the effort for the install in half? At 35th, he pulled back into the right lane, a few car lengths ahead of the bus.  He started to overtake the cement mixer.  He was considering who to hit at the project office when he approached 33rd and a person at the bus stop stepped, or stumbled, off the sidewalk into his lane. Gerry dropped the phone. He couldn’t determine why someone was suddenly in the road nor if they were likely to move themselves out of the way.  Two seconds to decide.  Gerry couldn’t live with hitting a person and swerved into the middle lane knowing full well that the cement mixer was going to be there.  He consciously decided not to check his blind spot.

———————————————

He regained consciousness in a sea of agony.  It was obviously a hospital; he wasn’t sure which one. There was a man in a tuxedo standing beside Gerry’s bed.  He held a strange-looking device – it reminded Gerry of what a kid would do to a cell phone to make it look like a Star Trek tricorder – and was passing it over his body. Gerry let this strange person sit in his mind unanalysed while trying to take stock of himself.  He could move his head only slightly to the right and thus he could tell nothing about his body.  All the tubes leading to his body and the amount of equipment in the room disconcerted him.  His tuxedo-clad visitor abruptly peered into his face.  He had a goatee, a slim moustache and dark, dark eyes. “Who the hell are you?” asked Gerry. “Excellent.”  He waved the scanner in front of Gerry’s face.  Twinkling lights shot down his eyes and into his brain.  The pain stopped. “I’m less of a who and more of a what.” “Thank you, whatever you are, for what you just did.  I take it you aren’t a nurse.” “No, I’m an angel of death.” “An angel of death?” “Well, your angel of death.” “Really.” “Yes.  You are a statistical anomaly.  The chances of you being anything but purée after you embedded your MR2 into that cement mixer are astronomically small.” “You’re saying I should be dead.” “You will be dead, soon.” “Is this some kind of joke?” “Let me put it this way … if the doctors could have stopped your pain the way I have, don’t you think they would have?” Gerry’s angel of death waved his device and the pain resumed.  He waved it again and the pain stopped. “Please don’t do that again.”  Gerry took in a hard-earned breath.  “If you are Death, why did you stop my pain?” “I didn’t stop it; I just taught you how to ignore it.  Since no one can predict one’s time of death exactly, I have to arrive a little early and people are so much nicer to talk to when they don’t notice the pain.” “I see … Is it Christmas?” “December 24.” “What’s the longest you’ve ever waited for someone to die?” “Forty-six minutes.” “What’s the average?” “Eleven point five.” “Do I get any last wishes?” “You’re not being executed; you smashed up your car.  A direct result of being in a rush, I might add.” Gerry remembered the crash.  “Don’t I get points for choosing not to hit the pedestrian?” “Spirituality is not a points system.  There is no hierarchy of sin or karma.” Gerry wondered if Death just kept him out of pain simply to harass him. “You’re a gambling man, obviously.” Death cocked his head to one side.  “Yesssss.  So?” “I bet that I’ll last a total of eleven and a half minutes since you showed up.  If I win, you have to grant me a wish.” Death looked at Gerry.  “Eleven point five minutes from now.” Gerry frowned.  “OK, but you have to put me back into pain.” “Why?” “I want to monitor my situation.” “OK.” Agony.

———————————————

“Well Gerry, I’m impressed.” Gerry was exhausted.  Clinging to his consciousness had been like bailing out a horribly leaky lifeboat with a teaspoon. “There are limits to what I can do in the last wish department, but here’s what I can offer.  You can spend six minutes at three different times in your past.” “In my current condition?” “No, no.  Something useful.  Age thirty.” “Why thirty?” “Divisible by six.” “Oh.  What different times?  What can I do there?  Won’t this screw up the space-time continuum?” “The date will be picked from your memories more-or-less randomly.  I can’t control that part.  You can do anything you want in six minutes and, finally, I think the space-time continuum (as you put it) is old enough to look after itself. “When does this start?” “Now, actually.”

———————————————

Even if he hadn’t recalled the dingy yellow gloom of the corridor, the smell was a giveaway:  high school.  He looked at himself.  Not smashed up, wearing jeans and a corduroy shirt.  All blue.  His watch was different.  It had a simple digital display with a chronometer – counting down.  It read:  05:40.  But when was this? The corridor had that eerie during class quietness.  He heard the muttering of teachers talking about algebra, physics, botany, and social studies.  Did he hear the typing class clattering away in the distance?  He pivoted slowly in the middle of the corridor.  He saw the plaque on the door:  PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE. 05:10.  Minutes and seconds remaining. He opened the door and entered the office.  The huge counter, which acted as a kind of safety buffer between the dry, grizzled secretaries and any student misbegotten enough to visit, seemed to warn him to go back. He walked past it and the secretaries (to whom he wished a pleasant day). “Mr. Helm is with someone.” “I know, thanks.” Gerry walked into the office and, sitting in the usual I-am-the-powerful-principal and you-are-the-worthless-student chairs were, respectively, Mr. Helm and himself at age seventeen. 04:50. Man, was I a geek, Gerry thought. “Hello …” said the Principal. “Hi, I’m Gerry’s Uncle Gerald and I hear there’s a bit of a problem.” ‘Uncle Gerald’ winked at his younger self and – with his face away from Mr. Helm – mouthed the phrase “work with me.” “Well,” said Mr. Helm as Gerry Sr. took a seat, “we were just discussing what’s appropriate for slide shows at school assemblies.” 04:30. During high school, Gerry had photographed everything that moved, particularly female things that moved.  As president of the photography club, he organized the various slide shows sponsored by sports teams, the student council and so forth.  His meeting today with Mr. Helm was the result of a swim team photograph. “Sorry to jump in like this,” said Gerry Sr., “but I’m really pressed for time.  As I understand it, you are concerned about a photo of a girl on the swim team.  As I’ve been told, the photo garnered some wolf whistles from the audience.” “Yes it did and ….” “And you don’t think this is appropriate behaviour.  I understand that ….” “It was not my intent,” said Gerry Jr., “to … embarrass anyone.” “I’m certain that’s true Gerry but ….” 03:59. “Mr. Helm,” jumped in Gerry Sr., “I have a hypothetical question for you.  We all agree that the swim team member in question was, shall we say, a buxom lass.” Mr. Helm scowled. “I’ll take that to mean you noticed her breasts; everyone else seemed to.  What if she had been flat?” Mr. Helm twitched. “Gerry, you’d have still put the picture into the show, right?” “Of course.  The lighting poolside is atrocious.  The flash units barely compensate.  I took two rolls of film and got four usable shots ….” 03:02 “Thanks.  Mr. Helm do you agree that, if she had had nominal bazoombas there’d have been no wolf whistles and I … and Gerry would not be having this conversation with you?” “It’s possible, but there were wolf whistles and this can’t be tolerated.” “But the problem, if there is one, isn’t the photo, the tits or the whistles.  It’s the attitude.  How do you expect to teach these kids anything about moral behaviour when you are sexist?” “Sexist?” “Yes, if it had been a guy – shirtless – or a trim girl we wouldn’t be having this chat.  You wouldn’t have noticed a problem.  Furthermore, you are not teaching or nurturing these kids; you’re trying to control their behaviour so that they don’t embarrass you.  I urge you to examine your motives and review your breast fixation.  The teenage boys around here are supposed to be upset by them; you’re not.” 02:28. “I’ve got to go.  Gerry, let’s move.  Nice talking with you Mr. Helm.” Gerry Jr. followed semi-blindly, leaving Mr. Helm to wonder what had just hit him. Once in the hall, Gerry Jr. said, “who the hell are you?” Gerry Sr. stared at him. “He’s you,” said Death. They whirled in sync to see the tuxedo clad figure leaning against a locker, smoking a cigarette. “Why are you smoking?” asked Gerry Sr. “I’ve always wanted to smoke in a school corridor.” “What do you mean he’s me?”  All of Gerry Jr.’s muscles were tense and he appeared like a cornered cat looking for a way out. “He’s a solid projection from the future fulfilling ….” 01:30. “Shut up.  He doesn’t need to know that.” “Gosh, now who’s embarrassed.” “Look, Gerry, I’m going to be gone in a minute ….” “Almost literally.” “Be quiet.  And the importing thing I want to tell you is to firmly and politely stand up for yourself.  You were going to let that idiot Helm make you think you had to kiss his ass.  It’s not required.” “OK,” said Gerry Jr.  “I agree, but if you’re really me, you’ll be able to tell me what I really wanted to say in there.” “Sure:  ‘Mr. Helm, if that girl had been flat chested I wouldn’t be in here.  Your puritanical attitudes are not my fucking problem.’” “I guess you are me.” “Bye, bye,” said Death.

———————————————

It felt as if they were on a high speed moving sidewalk, blasting through an airport full of people, buildings, and animals. “What is this?” “A transition to the next stop.  It takes a couple of minutes to settle down.”  Death looked at his hand held scanner and snickered. “What?” “This should be fun.”

———————————————

Gerry was lying on his back, knees bent, on the rear seat of a car.  He kept very still and glanced at his watch. 05:58. The car was big, a station wagon, and from the front seat he heard voices and noises. Gerry didn’t realize that the sounds of kissing and caressing were so distinctive.  He heard the occasional murmur, but could discern nothing that made sense. 05:30. It seemed a waste of his six minutes to be sitting in the back of a car, motionless.  The shock he would give the romantic couple would be fairly intense. “Please, I don’t want to do it again,” said the woman, a girl really. “I’m sure you’ll like it once you’re used to it.  The first time is always tough.” The man’s voice was indeed much older than the girl’s and was familiar. “I just don’t think I’m ready.” Now the girl’s voice was familiar … high school?  Is this another encounter from that time? 05:20. “No one, not even men, are ready my dear.  It’s a matter of being taught, getting into the rhythm. “And being ready to learn …”  Her voice was faltering.  This was followed by the sounds of clothes being manipulated. Taught?  Teacher?  Like a flash card being removed to show the answer, Gerry knew.  This was Mr. Benton and Cindy – a girl who was part of his group of friends.  So it was true.  He’d heard rumours, been provided with allusions by serious-eyed girls, but had never really believed.  A crushing guilt fell upon him.  He’d liked Cindy in high school, even asked her out once, but she was remote and unapproachable.  Maybe this was why. “I’ll be very, very careful,” said Mr. Benton. 04:57and Gerry’s blood was up. Mr. Benton was in the midst of freeing himself from his trousers when someone’s hand grabbed the side of his face and inserted a finger into his ear. With his middle finger pressing into Mr. Benton’s ear and his thumb and index finger at very uncomfortable points under Mr. Benton’s jaw, Gerry slammed the teacher’s head against the driver’s side window. Cindy screamed. “Shut up and don’t move,” screamed Gerry.  To Mr. Benton, “Mr. B!  Having fun yet?  How does it feel to have something unwanted in an orifice of yours?” Mr. Benton’s powerful hand moved to grab Gerry’s arm. “I don’t think so,” said Gerry, who slammed Benton’s head into the window a second time.  “Use your hands to put your dick back into your pants.” Once Mr. Benton had adjusted himself – Cindy took the opportunity to re-dress as well – Gerry said, “Good.  Now, I promise you, I won’t be long, but I insist you answer some questions.  One:  how many high school girls have you had sex with in your career?  And if you say ‘only Cindy’ I’ll plunge my finger into your brain.” “Uh … seventeen.” “Over how many years?” “Er, ten.” Cindy was looking shocked by the figures. “How do you know our names?” “I’m asking the questions.  So, why isn’t your wife sexually satisfying for you?” “I don’t know!” “Sure you do – it’s power.  You have power over Cindy, but not your wife.  Poor Cindy here not only has to put up with your immoral and illegal behaviour but has to face the fact that you can influence her marks, including the ones that may or may not let her go to university.” 03:20. “It’s not true!  I loved them all!” “You’re so full of shit.”  Gerry turned away.  “Cindy!” “Yes ….” “OK, why’d you let him touch you?” “I trusted him.  He treated me like I was special.” “Listen to me very carefully.  You are special.  He can tell you that without fucking you.” 02:50. Mr. Benton punched Gerry while his head was turned.  Gerry’s hand released the teacher’s head.  He was once again on his back in the car.  Mr. Benton left the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door.  Gerry was groaning.  Mr. Benton reached in to grab him.  Gerry raised his foot, planted it just below Mr. Benton’s shoulder and pushed.  The teacher landed on the gravel of the dark and deserted parking lot.  Gerry moved quickly out of the car and sat on Mr. Benton. “Mr. B., what we have here is a failure to communicate.” 02:08. “I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime.  Think of yourself as Dicken’s Scrooge character.  See the folly of your ways and remedy it while you’re still relatively young.  And uninjured.”  Gerry moved his weight up and down on top of Mr. Benton.  “What do you think?” “Oooof.” Gerry looked at Cindy, who was scrutinizing him.  I really hope she doesn’t recognize me, he thought.  She was a girl of simple looks:  long brown hair, decent skin, and an unbalanced teenaged figure that Gerry figured would be just fine later. “Do you drive?” “Yes,” she said. “Good, take the car and drive to the bus stop at York Mills and go home from there.  Lock the keys in the car.  Don Giovanni here can figure out how to rescue his car later.” Cindy didn’t move. “Go!” Gerry watched the tail lights fade into the night. 01:10. “And you were worried about the universe.” From the gravel, Mr. Benton looked up to see a man in a tuxedo. “Do you think he learned anything?” “I don’t know; let’s ask:  Mr. B., did this evening prove enlightening?” “Yes.  Can I get up now?” “You’re really not very convincing.” 00:40 “Well, Death, do you think we can have a relatively spectacular exit to help this poor man?” “Don’t see why not.  But if you wanted him castrated, I could always ….” “No.  For an angel you are pretty bloodthirsty.” “Sue me.” They left in a burst of blue flame.

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The moving sidewalk raced them through manic scenes of life.  Gerry would barely make out a scene or face before he was bombarded by more images. “What’re you getting out of this?” asked Gerry. “Me?  I’m just honouring a gambling debt.” “But you chose the means of paying up.” “I have less choice about these things than you think.  You wanted a wish; I’m not a genie.  I can’t bring something into being, but I can give you the chance for wish fulfillment.  You still have to do the work.” “Does what I’ve done so far effect my car crash?” “That would be telling.”

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The bus stop at 33rd and Granville was wet and cold.  Gerry, unlike his previous appearances was wearing a rain coat.  It didn’t fully protect him from the chill.  He wrapped his arms close around him. There was an old lady sitting on the bench.  She was well-dressed in a warm coat and well-shined new boots.  Her cane was gnarled – carved from drift wood and polished.  The handle was a relief of a face transmuting from a female to a male, or perhaps vice versa.  She smiled at him.  Two teenagers riddled with earrings in places other than their ears were arguing loudly about a pop band called White Zombie. 05:45. He had a very bad feeling about where he was.  Gerry wiped a spot on the bench free of moisture with his coat sleeve and sat down near, but not right beside, the old lady. “Pardon me, ma’am, do you have the time?” “Yes, it’s 8:30.” “This may sound like an odd question, but it’s the 23rd, right?” “Oh yes,” she laughed. “It’s amazing how you can lose track of the date when you get too busy.” Gerry wracked his brains.  He’d left Richmond when?  8:15?  So, about fifteen to twenty minutes to get to 33rd, given the traffic over the Arthur Laing bridge? Gerry’s mind was wrapped up in how to flag down the car his other self was driving before the accident. He suddenly felt stupid.  Stopping himself wasn’t the problem – he needed to stop whoever stepped out onto the road.  The paradox hit him.  If he stopped whoever fell onto the road, he would never crash.  And if he had never crashed, Death would never have gambled with him and never given him the opportunity to stop the crash or visit the past. “Young man; you look like you are considering very serious matters. He turned to look at the old lady.  She was wrinkled, but all laugh lines.  And her eyes were crisp and green like a healthy child. “I’m struggling with a puzzle.  A paradox actually.” “You mean two impossible notions like ‘responsible government’?” Gerry laughed.  “Isn’t that an oxymoron?  I’m thinking of a personal problem like the famous time travel paradox where you go back in time and murder you grandfather before your father is conceived.  Do you suddenly cease to exist or are you fine?” “I always found that example rather hard on senior citizens.” Gerry smiled. 03:10. The two teenagers were fighting, pushing and shoving each other.  It was becoming obvious to him, too obvious.  Teenager A pushes teenager B into traffic and idiot driver C (him) crashes into a truck. For reasons he couldn’t pin down, he was convinced this was the correct assessment. 02:50. Death was sitting beside him. “Gerry, what’s up?” “How big a liar are you?” Death peered around him at the old lady.  She waved politely. “What did she tell you?” “Nothing.  Do you know her?” “Of course.  The cute old lady disguise doesn’t fool me a bit.” “Who are you two?” “Long story,” said the old lady. 02:45. “Don’t you have some decisions to make, Gerry?” Death straightened his bow-tie. The teenagers who were pushing and shoving each other about were nearing the curb.  Gerry glanced down the road.  He thought he could see the cement truck. 02:30. Gerry decided to give himself ninety seconds to think.  He believed he was part of some sort of game between advanced beings.  Angels, ghosts, gods, whatever – it didn’t matter.  He wanted to optimize the outcome.  An interesting thought.  What was optimal?  (The teenagers were getting quite loud now.)  He had been focused on his feelings about the past and how to avoid the accident.  He thought past the accident.  Assuming he was right, how would these boys have fared after the accident?  Despite his evasive driving, they may still have been injured.  Was this something worth avoiding?  He honestly thought they were jerks and didn’t mind the thought of them suffering broken bones.  But, in the end, he knew that if he could prevent an accident, he would.  In addition, his gut told him he really needed this accident to shake him out of his bad driving habits and even worse attitude.  He also didn’t want to retroactively miss the visits to the past. 01:30. His decision took less than ninety seconds.  The two teenagers were still brawling.  A closed fist punch was thrown that landed on a cheek bone.  The howl was incredible. Gerry stood. The old lady and Death’s eyes watched him. “HEY,” yelled Gerry.  They froze for a second. Death smiled, thinking he’d won. “You want to see a real fight?  Watch this.” The teenagers looked on in confusion as a guy in a trench coat grabbed some guy in a tux and threw him into traffic. Even the old lady was surprised. “You bastard,” yelled Death as he tumbled onto Granville Street. Gerry was looking for the MR2, but instead he saw himself behind the wheel of a Volvo. Death stood up, clearly angry. The Volvo swerved and crashed into the cement mixer.

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Gerry woke up in post-op, not the intensive care unit.  His head swimming with what was likely anesthetic, Gerry sat up slightly. The little old lady stood in front of him, smiling.  She wore a nurse’s uniform, but still carried her gnarled multi-faced cane. “How do you feel?” “What happened?” The old lady picked up his chart.  “According to this, you have suffered multiple breaks and fractures and just finished up in the OR.  Prognosis, good.  Much better than last time.” “I was dying before.” “Yes.” “Where’s Death?” “Oh.  Him.  He wasn’t really Death.  He’s an excellent liar.” “I have so many questions.” “I’m sure you do, but I am not going to answer them.  However, since you made me so happy when you embarrassed him, I want to give you a Christmas present.” “What is it?” “Knowledge.  I’ll tell you three things.” “Why three?” “My favourite number.  Now listen.  One:  Your gambling with him has changed history.  Two:  The problem is that you don’t remember what is now real.  Three:  you have only one ex-wife (same woman) and your second wife (to whom you are still married) is going to be here to pick you up.  Be nice to her; she’s lovely.  And plan to have amnesia for a while.” Gerry tried to sit up more, but his battered frame would not let him. “Wait, what’s her name?” The old lady just smiled, tapped her cane twice and was gone. Gerry tried struggling with the sheets, managing to get his unbroken arm free, but had to stop due to a sudden urge to throw up.  By the time he calmed himself down, the recovery room nurse was by his bed. “Well, you seem very alert.” “Yes, I’d have to be.” “Oh.  I see.  We’ll get the doctor to look you over and hopefully he’ll let your wife see you.” “That’s nice.” What the hell am I going to do? he wondered.  His next thoughts fell over the concept of not knowing his own history since … when?  High school? The doctor arrived, took the usual pulse and blood pressure readings and asked him how he felt. “I don’t feel like I really know where I am.  I recall having an accident but other stuff feels hazy.” The doctor assured him he was physically OK and was likely just muddled. Finally they put him on a gurney and wheeled him to a room. Gerry looked away from the door, scared by what or who he might see. “Hi sweetie.” He recognized the voice, but it was older sounding.  Gerry turned to see Cindy, the girl he’d rescued from Mr. Benton, all grown up.  She held him, kissed him and wept on him. “I was so worried.” “Me too,” Gerry whispered, thinking he was very glad that she was someone he liked.