Half Past Never
By Ryan Patrick Funk
“Have you ever stopped to look up at the
stars at night, to marvel at the wonders of the universe that are
here all around us, from the heavens to the Earth?” Otto Seidel
asks his colleague.
Watching the sand sift inside of his hourglass
grain by grain, the eyes of Chauncey Studebaker transition towards
Seidel, who remains affixed to the window.
“That poetic outburst of yours takes me
back to memories of my dog, on his last day alive here on this Earth.
Disease had blinded him of his sight, but it could not steal his
vision, which remained as clear and intact as ever. Something was in
the air that day, a gorgeous, June afternoon with nary a cloud in the
sky. He sat comfortably on the soft grass, basked in the warmth of
the sunshine, and enjoyed the refreshing caress of the summer wind.
He knew what was to come, and he was at peace, with these marvels you
speak of,” replies Studebaker in a most elegant fashion.
“Trifle difficult to fathom that the eve
is upon us, tomorrow is the day at long last. Alas, I am ready to
throw caution to the wind and assume the risk of whatever
possibilities await us, limitless as they may be. This may seem
comical given our vocational backgrounds and experience, however,
technological awakening and age of knowledge aside, the firm grasp of
the concept of time still eludes me, as if I can draw no nearer to it
than its shadow. The past...is it playing continuously in a loop like
a record, similar to one long recording? A mirror image, a
reflection, an echo, just maybe,” explains Seidel, eliciting
one final lesson in philosophical geometry for the evening. “Tomorrow
we shall learn the truth for ourselves, as we stand in a world that
is following a script written by the Gods of pre-destined,
pre-ordained fate.”
In the somewhat distant future we find a world
not too distant from that of our own back home in the twenty first
century. A world ripe with trials and tribulations, innovations and
inventions, and many admirable developments, including a most curious
one among them--time travel, an art that has been worked down to a
science following extensive research and development.
Three men at the top of their respective
professions, each a master of a specific discipline, are about to
venture one hundred years into the future in order to conduct a
governmental assessment of what is to come. However, these men are
not robots affixed with metallic machinery that conduct an operation
on command. Rather they are only human of the familiar flesh and
blood variety, and as such they plan to take the scenic route to get
there, a detour off the beaten track, which will take them down the
road less traveled, bending the primary principles of time and
physics and stepping into the past.
More trials and tribulations are to come, as
these plundering pioneers take one giant, forward leap for all
mankind, by taking a step backward. This is the goal of theirs in the
meantime, wherever, and whenever that may be...
The greatest gift bestowed upon one fortunate
and privileged enough to see through time is the direct vision into
time itself. A laser-like focus of x-ray vision, although not of the
prepubescent adolescent brand of sexual perversion, but rather a lens
capable of penetrating into the heart, mind, and soul of the person,
place or things calibrated. That is not to say that the hands of
corruption find themselves restrained from grasping hold of the
science. Abortion, stem cell research, euthanasia, subject matter
dirtied with political mudslinging from all sides, all pales in
comparison in terms of the moral and ethical implications and
dilemmas associated with time travel.
Among the three participants selected to cast
the cosmic sails were Geophysical Engineer Dr. Chauncey Studebaker, a
mild mannered thirty-four year old family man with wavy blonde hair
and hazel eyes. Studebaker was generally soft spoken, although he was
the type that would often open up, expressing himself in the company
of friends and associates that had gained his trust.
Joining him was a colleague that had no issues
conveying his thoughts, Quantum Resonance expert Dr. Otto Seidel, a
thirty-year-old dark haired jack-of-all-trades and master of all of
them. Serving as the unofficial spokesmen for the crew, his
outlandish unfiltered personality made him the antithesis of
Studebaker.
Rounding out the group at the center of it all
was the commander of the mission, the one whom had envisioned the
project from the outset, Astrophysicist Dr. Elgin Lincoln. A
sixty-year-old grandfather, Lincoln possessed a kind heart and gentle
personality to go along with a firm passion and devotion to his work,
he was a portly man with a soft set of curly white hair resisting his
balding head lacking in hair yet overflowing in knowledge.
The three enjoyed first-class top-flight
executive positions of acclaim, careers that had brought them immense
power and fabulous wealth along their professional journeys. They
were among the wisest and most trustworthy governmental employees
working in the rich field of scientifically advanced clandestine
endeavors.
Be that as it may, where faith ends the risk of
such foul, forbidden crimes such as treason and espionage begin, just
as it has in the past with spies and double agents penetrating the
most secretive and lucrative of operations, among them the Manhattan
Project. Conversely, the three time travelers had no such ulterior
motive or traitorous intentions, aside from skirting procedure in
order to scratch the surface of the technological capabilities before
them while simultaneously striking the summit of their individual
imaginations and expanding the horizon of their knowledge.
Before the rise of the curtain at the start of
the maiden voyage, each of the men conjures up a brief vision of what
is to come. Envisioning bright spotlights emitting a brilliant shine
as the three noble participants enter the facility to a rousing,
illustrious ovation worthy for a championship prizefighter, the
thoughts of Chauncey Studebaker are interrupted as the commanding
officer of the mission, Dr. Elgin Lincoln, requests a word in private
with his colleagues.
“Gentlemen, allow me to address a few
matters before the commencement of our waltz through the ages. As the
three most senior professionals involved in project Falcon, we have
been bestowed with the opportunity of a lifetime, and cherish each
moment of it we shall. As the commanding officer of this mission,
apart from our scheduled itinerary, it is within my authority and
discretion to dictate our time coordinates as I deem fit.”
Lincoln
pauses momentarily as Seidel and Studebaker await the words to come,
mesmerized with the magnetism and poise displayed by his speech, an
oration nothing short of presidential in its stature.
“We have each been allocated a sum of
fifty million dollars for our research and contributions towards
Project Falcon, and therefore overtures of prosperity, riches and
other forms of financial gain are not of necessity on this trip. To
reiterate one further item, caution will be taken to the utmost
degree with all we choose to do and see. The three of us would be
well advised to discuss and reject any and all notions of social
equity and injustice. Attach the cape to our attire and play the role
of hero we shall not.
“Murder the Chancellor of the Third Reich,
Adolf Hitler perhaps? Albeit lacking in originality, the concept may
be vastly noble in theory until one examines the inevitable wrinkles
and unintended consequences and unwanted side effects produced
thereafter. Destroying someone of such magnitude, and/or altering an
historical event creates ramifications we could not begin to dare
dream about and comprehend, such stresses the limits of the human
imagination, as vast as those possibilities allow. “If Hitler
is killed at an earlier point in time, perhaps a successor or
alternate leader seizes power and murders seven million Jewish
people. Perhaps postwar Germany is weakened resulting in a stronger
Soviet Union, leading to Stalin murdering tens of millions more, and
the establishment of a Communist state throughout Central Europe
leading to an inevitable Cold War turning nuclear, the result of
which not only threatens the existence of the three of us and the
program but advanced civilization and even humanity itself.”
Removing his glasses carefully and taking a
seat, Lincoln emits a more subtle and personal tone. “Now, I do
not mean to patronize the two of you or belittle your intentions nor
your wisdom, it is just that what we are about to embark upon is far
from a simulation or a concept in a textbook, and it is best that the
three of us remain on the same page, despite the fact that we will be
God knows where, in terms of time and space.
“The possibilities are infinite. Regarding
our hypothetical with the millions dead as we know them, save them in
our alternate timeline, and millions more fade from existence given
the natural course of time as the legions of born and unborn swap
places. You save innocent people but in the process you plant the
seeds for corrupt masses who will resort to murder, extortion,
larceny, who will in turn eliminate thousands if not millions of
people who otherwise would have lived, and you are responsible for
their deaths and suffering, the three of us would be.
“In such a world millions fail to emigrate
to this nation or meet, fall in love, procreate, and there is a real
profound chance that this impacts the three of us in some random,
inconceivable manner. Funny, if such an event were to arise, it may
take all the time in the world to ascertain the point of departure
from the world as we know it, and we would posses the only machine in
the world capable of solving a most difficult equation. Stands a good
chance that we would still lack the ability to solve the riddle.
“One last item. Now, I have always been
one to advise against adultery, but visiting an erotic dance club
will not destroy a marriage in and of its self. The same theory holds
true for our quest. While the regulations, guidelines, boilerplate
language and instructions were written by wise individuals, those
individuals are not traveling along with us. Abstaining from
utilizing this gift to further our knowledge and appreciation of
history would be equivalent to committing colossal waste. In
accordance with what we have agreed to, each of us will choose one
location in the past or present to visit, provided we abide by the
promise not to alter the natural course of history to a substantial
degree, until we have completed our mission and obtained a greater
appreciation and foundation in the finer aspects of time travel. Do
you both understand and accept these terms and conditions?”
asks Lincoln.
“Affirmative sir,” replies
Studebaker.
“Usque ad mortem,” exclaims Seidel.
“Gentlemen,
let’s make history,” boasts Lincoln as the three march
towards their mission.
The
ovation received is far from the grandiose spectacle Studebaker had
projected, winding up as more of a subdued clap reminiscent of a
professional golfing event. There is no sold out arena, rather a
small collection of scientists and field operatives in one of many
governmental research facilities in the District of Columbia.
Just as early television offered a picture in
black and white as opposed to colorized and digitalized, or the
earliest computers were housed in entire rooms and crawled at a
snails pace in comparison to the lightning fast modern versions that
are no less powerful than the human brain and no larger than a
peanut, the same degree of growth evolved with time travel. Like most
any other of these technological mediums, early time travel was
primitive as well, and involved cautious experimentation with
inanimate, stationary objects.
The critical moment arrived during the 2090s, as
researchers became able to harness the power of the wormhole courtesy
of years of space exploration, astro-mining and advanced particle
data analysis, enabling them to bend time and space. Over the years,
the costs became somewhat less restrictive although still quite far
from efficient, as the requisite level of power and energy became
more readily worthy of control, allowing for the implementation of
successful human experimentation. As alluded to in the opening speech
of Dr. Lincoln, the government research was dubbed Project Falcon.
As for the time machine itself, the device was
cloaked with many secrets developed over the years, several of them
obtained from the cosmos. Massive amounts of energy were produced
from fractional particles of anti-matter, a technology that became
harnessed in an effective manner during the 2080s. The reaction
enabled the power and surge necessary for the functioning of a
portable wormhole apparatus. In tribute, it was titled the “Wonder
Worm,” a nickname Otto Seidel categorized as “most
platitudinous.” The inside design of the ship consisted of
several computer screens, a one-way window, time input coordinates in
order to effectuate the time of the destination so desired, and
latitude and longitude coordinates in order to plot the location of
the destination so desired given the Earth’s rotation. Two
large turquoise conduction tubes were constructed for energy
production, with a shiny blue tiled floor with blotches of red,
green, and yellow, as if it were dipped in a rainbow. The swanky
pattern was the result of a fevered push to add color and style to
the interior of the machine that contrasted sharply with its
exterior.
Regarding
the outside, it resembled arguably the last item one might proffer a
time machine to resemble-—which was precisely the point during
the phase of design. Of all the aesthetic and auditory criteria taken
under advisement, drawing attention comprised the caboose in the
chronology of this locomotive. Therefore, the machine flew and
operated with the silence of a passing cloud, and resembled a tree,
which had been deemed the most inconspicuous object possible, in
order to avoid clear cut or any apparent detection of something out
of the ordinary. As a matter of fact, the machine was specially
adapted to conform its appearance to the most abundant species of
tree native to the particular area, within size restrictions and
limitations. The machine was also equipped with sensory technology to
ensure the machine appeared so as to avoid detection from any human
beings in the vicinity, as well as to avoid simultaneous placement
with another object upon arrival.
Following
the equivalent of a ribbon cutting ceremony in the form of a tender,
photographic moment showcasing the time travelers placing their keys
against the machine to open up the apparatus, the three enter the
Wonder Worm preparing for departure.
“After we cast our cosmic sails, we will
return five minutes from now, of course we have all the time we could
ever ask for to return to that agreed upon moment. Have you two
decided where you would like to go?” asks Lincoln.
“Yorktown,
1781. To witness the dramatic end of the American Revolution and the
birth of the nation, among the most significant moments in all of
history, one that I can hardly dare dream of witnessing first hand,”
explains Studebaker, as the two turn to Seidel.
“Growing
up enamored with world history and fascinated with the law, there was
but one scene from history that I’ve wished to see more than
all others, the signing of Magna Carta on the outskirts of London in
1215. Historians nowadays believe that there were dozens of copies
distributed in the aftermath of the ceremony, to retrieve an heirloom
of such historical significance, I can hardly imagine,”
declares Seidel.
Completing
reference check with all systems a go and in the proper balance, Dr.
Lincoln commences the time traveling procedure. To viewers inside of
the machine transfixed at what sights await them through the
windshield, the perspective shows life rewinding, as if time is
drawing backwards, as the Earth begins to spin slowly, growing faster
in a motion of rapid ascension. The sun rises and descends, as does
the moon, as the stars appear to circumnavigate the sky, a celestial
dance that harmonizes into a blinding light given the speed of the
machine.
“Is
the compass set to our destination one hundred years in the future,
2215?” asks Studebaker.
“I was under the impression we would first
partake in the fruits of our labor?” asks Seidel.
“As ambassadors of democracy, I shall cast
the deciding ballot on this issue. Following years of research,
preparation, and above all suspense, I am of the opinion that we
should kick up our heels a bit and set aside professional obligations
for personal ambitions,” cites Lincoln. The decision
was one to have been expected, as one cannot expect to place a gun in
the hands of a child and subsequently expect said child to read the
corresponding safety manual before departing to find something to
shoot. Nor could one believe that insider trading does not occur
within circles of affluent white-collar professionals at
passive-aggressive cocktail parties and on the stressful tranquility
of the golf course.
The Project Falcon obligation amounted to merely
taking this Wonder Worm into the future for measures deemed
appropriate and beneficial to both the government and society as a
whole. Integrity and signed contracts aside, only a naïve mind
would believe that any human of flesh and blood would abstain from
using the insatiable power at their disposal for forbidden matters. A
tracking system was constructed inside of the Wonder Worm, but any
such system of surveillance is only as effective relative to the
programming skills of those under the surveillance and their ability
to override them—-in this case, the tracking devices were null
and void.
“Where in time have you selected, Dr.
Lincoln? Studebaker asks as the three await the ride reaching its
climax.
“My
choice was not finalized until this morning, after deciding to sleep
on it last night, where I encountered two dreams that helped shape my
focus,” explains Lincoln while drifting his thoughts back
towards the previous night, his daydreams shifting into his night
dreams.
“In
the first, the three of us ventured back to a time long before the
arrival of mankind back when our world was dominated by arguably the
most successful and longest reigning of champions crowned atop the
food chain. Yes, the dinosaurs, the mammoth classification of larger
than life reptiles, representing and staggering the imaginations of
nearly every boy since their discovery. “In my dream the
prehistoric era of choice was the Jurassic, the reason being for its
rich cannon of recognizable plant and animal life. As the Wonder Worm
weaved its way through the sands of time, we were greeted with the
light green and orange hue of a much younger atmosphere and his
cousin, the sun-drenched gold of the horizon, looking precisely as I
remembered it. The scenery may have appeared like a dreamscape or a
distant planet in another galaxy, yet this was the Earth, only it was
dressed in imagery so different as to struggle my grasp upon that
very fact, as well as my concentration on our whereabouts. 150
million years tends to have that effect. Choosing our destination
carefully, our cautious planning enabled us to avoid the
Tyrannosaurus Rex and other threatening carnivores. The first
creature we spotted from atop the tall trees and plants, that seemed
to stretch endlessly upwards into the sky, was an unmistakable flight
of a Pterodactyl, a firsthand observation and identification by
twenty-second century men that proved the undying popularity of this
extinct sector of the animal kingdom.
“The biggest surprise of all lay in the
form of the plant life, numerous, rich and vibrant, the likes of
which I nor any other human most likely had never before seen. It
were as if we were strolling through the Garden of Eden, or through a
field previously soaked with radiation, or bathed in an
extraterrestrial fertilizer. In accordance with the brilliant
foundation set by the plant kingdom, the animal life proved its
sensational valor and reputation as well; for the three of us were
flanked by unknown and unseen creatures that feared our presence.
They must have lacked the sensory capabilities to sense the fear we
exhibited, although perhaps evolution had not yet reached that stage
by this juncture.
“A
stegosaurus calmly nibbled on some shrubs roughly one hundred yards
afar, completely ignoring our presence. However, it was the
Brontosaurus, marching through the trees that drew my attention more
than anything else. The thrill of viewing the exquisite grace and
gallantry of this creature was everything I envisioned this journey
would be. At that moment I was not an aging scientist, or an educated
adult. At that moment, I was a child again, watching in amazement of
the wonders all around us, or at least which resided here at one
point in time, a distant memory reduced to the fossil record but
brought back to life thanks to the magic of technology.
“Alas, the great negative and downside of
this selected location involved the presence of mosquitos and
associated airborne parasites so terrifying in appearance as to
warrant an honorary doctorate in science fiction lore. With the
onslaught of these dastardly fiends, we retreated back to the Wonder
Worm, where my thoughts focused on my newfound appreciation for some
organisms that fell victim to extinction.
“There were four corresponding reasons
indicating why such a prehistoric venture did not amount to a wise
choice for visitation. Firstly, the substantial degree of untold,
unfounded, and unknown risks littered about, whether consisting of
animals with an exploratory taste for flesh, toxic plants, poisonous
parasites, or blood born pathogens, bacteria, and viruses the likes
of which human kind has never dealt with. Second, the further one
trapezes backwards along the timeline the greater the likelihood of
dramatic ramifications further on down the line. Forget killing one
figure of history, wading down this path could prove consequential to
the development and existence of the human species altogether,
directly or indirectly, such as by inadvertently aiding an ancestor
or rival, say the Homo erectus. “Third, one must take
into account the risks of a fatal flaw in the manufacturing or design
of the worm. It would be awful being stuck merely one hundred years
ago in the primitive twenty-first century, much less being stuck in
the prehistoric era. Therefore, it would be wise to select locales
that would at the very least involve intelligent civilization in the
event of fatal mechanical failure rendering us prisoners in the past.
“Fourth, any acceptable remnant or
artifact, if one does so exist from the period, has escaped my mind.
A souvenir is a most needed requirement regardless of where we go,
along with our cherished memories,” concluded Dr. Lincoln.
“What did the second aspect of your dream
entail?” asks a curious Seidel.
“A journey to the Renaissance, the moment
in history when the conscience and understanding of society graduated
from the adolescent rank of teenager and entered adulthood. The
thought of traveling to the bustling cities of Rome, Venice, Paris,
and Zurich, ripe with change and new ideas, the likes of which would
transform our world forever, paced my mind. Imagine interacting and
rubbing elbows with the likes of Leonardo da Vinci, Galileo Galilei,
William Shakesphere, Ferdinand Magellan, Michaelangelo, Adrian
Willaert, and so many more. As you both know, partaking in such
discourse, despite the revolutionary and stimulating nation therein,
would also embody a depraved heart evincing reckless behavior. For
instance, if one or more leading minds of the day were interrupted in
their work, many of the ideas encapsulated with the Renaissance could
just as easily cease to be, leaving us as serfs in a twenty-second
century that remains engulfed in feudalism.
“Ramifications so dramatic would render
our destinies frozen in place given such a restrictive setting, much
like the poverty-stricken third world that labored deep into the
twenty-first century. Conversely, sharing with the representatives
from past cultures the fruits of our progress and secrets of future
innovation that dare yet not be revealed could very well seriously
distort the technological progress of mankind, sparking off a chain
of events playing out like a stack of falling dominoes crushing our
existence in the world and rendering our way of life in the
twenty-second century more akin to how it would look decades or
perhaps even centuries later,” explains Dr. Lincoln.
Just then the outside light fades from view and
the motion of the time machine desists, slowly coming to a rest as
the machine has arrived at its first destination.
“I must ask then, what did you choose as
your location of choice? What may we expect to see as we open this
doorway?” asks Seidel.
“We made it, we’re here!”
states Studebaker, excited and anxious and daunted all at once.
“Not exactly, we’re at my home, five
days in the past. I have to grab something we are going to need to
bring in order for us to blend in,” describes Lincoln,
returning minutes later with three flowing white robes as the ship is
set in motion, taking off again...
Emerging from the Wonder Worm, the three begin
casting their eyes from the relenting sun and scorching heat roasting
down on them from above and rising up from the sweltering sand.
Leading the way is Dr. Lincoln, playing his oratory skills like a
well-tuned instrument, or to be more appropriate given the journey,
playing them like a well-oiled machine.
“As for my paramount selection, a place of
historical significance was of the utmost importance, along with the
ease of retrieving an artifact for future admiration. Above all, a
location was needed where the possibility of our ramifications
leading to cataclysmic consequences, although never entirely expunged
from chance, would be sufficiently mitigated. My winning ticket in
the lottery of time travel consists of a satisfying and refreshing
well of knowledge, the African cousin of the Babylonian House of
Wisdom. A profound establishment that will allow us to pick the
brains of scholars, artists, philosophers, playwrights, a collection
of some of the most brilliant minds of the ancient world, whose
compilations contributed both to the world as we know it, and the
world that was never meant to be.
“The three of us have ventured back into
the land of ancient Egypt, two hundred years B.C., to visit the
eighth wonder of the ancient world. One of the most culturally
influential empires in the history of civilization also housed the
collective of the entirety of the wisdom and knowledge acquired of
the ancient world, the astounding, magnificent, and beautiful
structure standing before us, the Library of Alexandria. The Greek
tradition is often cited and praised for its impact on the
educational and university structures that predominate higher
learning in western culture, and rightly so, however the Egyptians
rightfully deserve credit for their impact as well. Hell, I went so
far as to name my daughter after the mystical centerpiece of study,”
explains Dr. Lincoln.
Proceeding
to climb the stoic steps of stone, the three are set to officially
begin the experience, gaining entry to an entrance center complete
with bronze pillars, marble floors, and decorated with dazzling works
of art, from elegant paintings to elaborate sculptures. An
embarrassment of riches, this fabled, library of grandeur lives up to
legend, a true showcasing of the wealth and power of ancient Egypt.
The entryway is abuzz with a flurry of activity,
and privileged with the presence of an audience of intellectual
elites and curious minds, the three tourists receive at worst looks
of confusion, given their demeanor and unknown language. The vast
archive proves quantifiably ginormous indeed, as Lincoln and company
begin combing the hallowed halls of antiquity, scanning through
various scrolls among the thousands, or at least attempting to in
good faith given the monumental language and linguistic barriers.
“In a perfect world I would be infused
with the ability to borrow, or purchase a volume of this papyrus
potpourri. Taking into consideration our less than desired
circumstances, I find myself breaching commandment and common law
alike,” declares Dr. Lincoln.
With nobody in range of this particular column
of scrolls, Elgin Lincoln places a single scroll inside of his robe,
lifting a piece of history.
“Great thing about the past, there is no
camera security system. Try nabbing a book today from the Library of
Congress or the Smithsonian,” quips Seidel.
“Maybe so, but back in our time they
wouldn’t commit the common law crime of mayhem against
perpetrators by maim of limb,” remarks Studebaker.
A scroll to be translated at a future time, the
identity of such could prove to be long lost play, poem, or epic from
one of the legends. It could possibly be a work of medicinal, legal,
or engineering brilliance, or maybe just a recipe for an alcoholic
beverage. The feeling of anticipation would be the best part for Dr.
Elgin Lincoln, not unlike a child shaking a Christmas present still
hidden inside its wrapping, waiting for that moment of discovery. A
priceless artifact to be certain, which could yield untold future and
present dividends, yet in the process would serve as a deprivation
toward another for the opportunity for enlightenment. That is, if the
scroll contained sufficiently intelligent information in the first
place. Then again, the three reasoned, there were thousands of
scrolls still available for absorption waiting to be had, with many
more to come.
After spending an hour inside this temple doomed
to be forever lost, Lincoln’s thoughts turn to preservation of
the crown jewel of Africa. Preventing the destruction of this
cathedral of knowledge would hardly be in the range of logical
thought taking into accord two prohibitions. One, the library was
burned many times throughout the ages, the first time allegedly by
Julius Caesar during Roman conquest. Two, had the structure somehow
remained intact, there always lay dormant the possibility that the
modern standing of technology back home could instantaneously
transform to be a few thousand years more advanced beyond the
capacity wherein it currently stands, as opposed to decades or
centuries had the seeds of change been planted during a later age
such as the Renaissance.
“Taking whatever precautions or
preventative measures to somehow save this bastion of knowledge is
simply out of the question. Even if we were able to find a way to
pull off such an unthinkable challenge, such an outcome would
instantaneously negate our mission, our usefulness, and our
livelihoods,” explains Seidel.
“Come on Elgin,” remarks Studebaker,
blanketing a reassuring sensation of warmth and compassion onto
Lincoln, still intently watching the library as if he is watching the
Titanic set sail from Liverpool. Remaining motionless and prolonging
one last cast in preliminary memorial knowing what is to come is Dr.
Lincoln, unable to draw his focus and thought away from the library,
a premature ghost of a structure, the wealth of priceless knowledge
within doomed for tragedy...
“Put up your shields gents, things are
about to get medieval. Next stop, old England, 1215, to witness the
signing of a peace treaty nine hundred years ago, one ripe with far
reaching ramifications the likes of which even the King could never
have anticipated or begun to appreciate,” declares Seidel.
Whereas the weather of Alexandria was searing in
scale, the temperature of this place was blissful to the touch as
opposed to blistering, as emerging from the Wonder Worm the three are
greeted to a calming, euphoric serenity that resembles paradise.
Rolling green meadows stretched far and wide meeting the peaceful
border of the light blue sky naked from the clouds, and whether
gentle or gusty, the kiss of the wind felt elegant nonetheless, this
was summer, summer in a place that was far from this setting
throughout the majority of the year, making the spectacle of the
month of June all the more cherished.
Runnymede was the spot, a slice of nature that
appeared as though it had been carved out of a fantasy book, nestled
right along the Thames, a river as voluminous in history as it was in
water content. Located kilometers outside of London they had arrived,
several dozen of them congregating under a makeshift construction of
rustic lumber and thick cloth, resembling what we would characterize
as a picnic in the park, perhaps a Founders Day event, which is
appropriate considering what was taking place.
Making their way towards the gathered mass of
nobles, the three are somewhat surprised with how close they are able
to draw near to the ceremony, swiftly learning how history is devoid
of auditors demanding identity and authorization, or painstakingly
scrutinizing against inaccuracies. Standing alongside the others in
their flowing white robes, the three were somewhat astonished at how
well they blended in with the others in attendance. Was it because
styles in clothing and fashion were slow to change? Was it because
his loyal guard surrounded the King from a quantity of rivals already
in the audience, and the era preceded the introduction of the gun,
much less its widespread adoption? Perhaps nobody was particularly
concerned; after all there were very important matters to attend to
and regardless the proclamation would be scattered throughout the
land.
Among the members in attendance were a legion of
the King’s barons on one side, dressed in a colorful assortment
of robes and period attire of the Middle Ages, and King John of
England and his advisors on the other, separated by his royal guard
and several bishops cloaked in red and brown, joined by other less
prominent holy men.
Triumphant trumpets blaring through the air as
the barons readied themselves for the moment, awaiting the actions of
the King and bowing down in his presence, watching on proudly as he
sat majestically upon a leather throne. Clutching the fabled document
in one hand while submerging in a small pool of ink his foot long
swan quill before recording his signature guaranteeing the rights of
millions and changing the course of history in both the Old World and
the New World yet to be discovered by Europeans (aside from Viking
conquest), the crowd erupted in a congratulatory adulation of
clapping and praise, served both upon the king and upon themselves.
Most of us today believe this is a rough estimation depicting the
moment steeped in history, but Otto Seidel and friends were
experiencing a very different scene playing out before them, being
reminded of how history is often romanticized, polished and touched
up like a portrait, meticulously dusted of the less desirable
attributes of humanity and simmered in a pot inflated with the
picturesque and grandiose.
In reality the three travelers partake in a
ceremony not nearly as celebratory as even the three astute students
of the ages would have envisioned, finding a far more contentious
scene erupting all around them. At the center of it all sat the
languished King John on a simple wooden chair, a man most fortunate
to possess royal blood given the protruding eyes and ragged, curly
brown hair and beard of his ugly physique—-although the red
velvet robe and crown encrusted gold did help make up for his shoddy
appearance.
The barons were no friend to the King and his
henchmen, surrounding them with little regard for the elaborate
collection of swords, spears, and shields, at their disposal.
“What are they saying, I can’t
understand a word? It’s all muffled and strained, extremely
gruff to the ear,” whispers Studebaker to Seidel, listening as
the barons appeared demanding things left and right, their shouts
scattered near and far throughout the crowd, periodically coming
together in unison.
“Keep in mind these are the noble classes,
they spoke Norman French at this time in history, Middle English is
understood, but mainly among the peasants. Wouldn’t be spoken
by the nobility for another century or so,” explains Seidel.
Resembling more of an underground, no holds
barred political debate as opposed to a formal, official ceremony
concluding an arduous conflict between the King and his barons, the
three kept their mouths closed and their ears and eyes open at the
history playing out before them. The mercurial King John looked
exhausted and distressed, occasionally replying to the inventory of
remarks as one particular baron, dressed in a blue and white tunic
and the only one that happened to be clean-shaven, began pointing
repeatedly at the document presented before the king.
At long last silence fell upon the gathered
masses as the King regrettably and inevitably affixed his royal seal
composed of beeswax and resin to the bottom of the parchment document
inked in Latin, officially signing the Great Charter affectionately
becoming known as the Magna Carta. Pure conjecture on their part due
to their lack of fluency in Norman French, our three listened as
arguments continued making rounds for another twenty minutes, before
one of the Kings men hastily removed several sheets of parchment
containing handwritten copies of the agreement ready to be
distributed to the barons and Bishops congregating in Runnymede.
Standing among the crowd between a Bishop and a
baron stood Otto Seidel, as the royal clerks meandered throughout the
gathering, handing out copies of the sacred parchment like newspapers
on a street corner. Hands shaking in anticipation as he receives an
official copy, Seidel departs the scene with his colleagues and the
other barons and Bishops, each entrusted with a copy as they scatter
about from which they came to share the news of the day.
There were no jesters frolicking about, no
entertainment of any kind, no bountiful feast of exotic foods from
near and far, after-party or no raising of swords in celebration.
Rightfully so for these men in attendance that would die with their
ashes destined to dust long before the sweet taste of the fruits of
what transpired before them could be enjoyed by the masses.
“King John was a corrupt tyrant of a
ruler, but perhaps no more so than his adversaries standing before us
today. They represented the nobility, but their actions were far from
completely noble in themselves. Neither group would uphold their side
of the bargain, as John would travel to the Vatican to annul the
agreement, the Barons likewise breaking their obligations agreed upon
under the contract,” explains Seidel.
“Sad fact of life really, for even during
humanities greatest moments and most profound written achievements,
often times they do not come barren of asterisks or loopholes. Our
American Declaration of Independence embodying that all men are
created equal, only initially consisting of white men holding
property, and consisting of that for far too long. The Emancipation
Proclamation, freeing the slaves in the Confederacy, turning a blind
eye by and large to the finer points of such a bold announcement,
most especially those slaves residing in the Border States. Magna
Carta served as the granddaddy of each of those descendants that were
to follow, and sure enough it was annulled, cancelled, ignored,
rejected, put on ice and roasted over a fire for many years, and that
is just taking into account the barons. For commoners, peasants
rummaging the fields and villages, the language of this document
might as well have been transcribed on another planet, as it was
intended for a different world as far as they were concerned,”
declares Lincoln.
“What is amazing is how you just never
know what decisions we make out of the hundreds each day and millions
over the years will wind up having the most profound effect on our
lives and the lives of those around us. It’s not always the
vital decisions that prove being the biggest deals years later.
Likewise, it is remarkable how time has a way of cleaning up the dirt
from our memories, as in general we fondly remember the finer points
of nostalgia as opposed to the less desirable attributes. I thank God
for that,” declares Studebaker.
“To think of the revolutionary ideas held
here in my hands. Granted, there were rumors that this was a sequel
of sorts to an ancient text from the Anglo-Saxons that was suppressed
during the Norman Conquest of 1066. Henry Ford did not invent the
automobile but through the innovations of his mind and assembly line
he had arguably the greatest impact on its history. The Beatles did
not invent popular music, but with their creativity and artistic
craftsmanship they perfected it and changed the world forever,”
explains Seidel.
“Magna Carta...despite witnessing the less
refined aspects of the ceremony, I’m still one to look back and
remember that moment with the recollection of a bolt of lightning
casting down from the heavens and sealing the formal agreement, to
think that a group of rebels were able to sign with the crown a peace
treaty overflowing with rights. A document of parchment and ink
written in a dead language, but between the lines giving birth to
concepts that would change and shape our world forever, limiting the
far reaching power of the King and State and providing due process
rights to the individual. This myriad of goodness includes
protections of the church, rights against false imprisonment, illegal
taxation, fines and other payments, habeas corpus, the right to a
jury trial, the concept of how justice shall be swift and is not to
be sold, among countless other doctrines outlined in her sixty plus
clauses. Crafting legal principles and the bedrock of jurisprudence
that would serve as the inspiration for a little get together in
1776, and a little Bill of Rights dotted in Amendments. This may not
have been the beginning of it all, but it was the starting point, and
the reverberations of that thundering document are still felt echoing
the ground we walk on today. There exists in the universe no greater
embodiment symbolizing the struggle and battle of the human spirit,
as well as this sample of sheepskin parchment in my hand. Historians
would dissent, but in my humble view this was the day when
Medievalism would begin its slow descent into death, for the
Renaissance was born right here, in June of 1215,” proclaims
Seidel as the three reach the Wonder Worm.
“I’ve got to say, people must
enjoyed far superior vision during these Middle Ages, forget being
transcribed in Latin, I couldn’t even read it if the print was
of standard size and not as miniscule as the lines of a sheet of
loose-leaf paper, jokes Seidel.
Inputting the proper data into the computer
machine is Chauncey Studebaker, as the scenery transitions into the
third leg of the journey. “As we rise together with this
colonial sunrise, let us take a moment, to reflect upon all this day
represents. Having been graced with the gift of being born into this
country, it is only fitting that today we witness the beginning of it
all. The triumphant hour when freedom and liberty, revolutionary not
in idea, but in degree, devotion and desire, delivered a devastating
blow to tyranny and oppression, and in the process changing the fate
of the world. Wars would be fought to defend the fruits of this glory
in the successive decades and centuries, from foreign and domestic
enemy alike. This was the final battle in the war that achieved
victory, and had these brave men not spilled their blood fighting the
crown to the death, those later days of glory would never have
occurred. Now it is time to witness the third and final round of the
past, having departed from the dawn of one war and the dusk of
another. Gentlemen, welcome to Yorktown,” proclaims Studebaker.
The
crisp cut of the autumn air and its mellow aromas cascaded throughout
the valley playing host to the free and the brave. The articles of
capitulations were taking place on this morning, as the British, the
most powerful military force and empire in the world during the late
stages of the eighteenth century, had been defeated and forced into
surrender.
“At
this point in history, the losing side often wished to march away
with dignity and offering tribute to their conquerors, which the
British had requested. General Washington rejected this notion, after
the British had denied the Americans the same request in a preceding
battle,” explains Studebaker.
“Karma,”
replies Seidel.
“Such a glorious scene, as luck would have
it, I find myself afflicted with a severe headache,” describes
Lincoln.
“Must
be that music,” remarks Seidel.
“The legends are true! While lacking a
musical ear for effective deciphering, if I am not mistaken, the
British drummers and musicians are playing ‘The
World Turned Upside Down’.
Quite the metaphor for the impact of this date,” declares
Studebaker as the three men stand tall and proud beside each other
watching from afar as a brisk gust of wind blows by, it’s cold
touch no match for the warmth of patriotism burning deep within.
Next
came the ceremonial surrender, as the three moved down for a better
view, initially reluctant to enter what had been a war zone but now
joined by a mass of civilians that had gathered. True to the
historical descriptions, the victorious Americans aligned on one side
in a rugged row of white and grey, while the defeated British stood
in a row of red across the way, looking proper and professional yet
forlorn and vanquished. “Cornwallis refused to shake the hand
of Washington,” describes Studebaker.
British
Brigadier General Charles O’Hara had been granted custody of
Cornwallis’ sword, walking gracefully yet swiftly towards
French General Rochambeau, who refused acceptance of the sabre,
pointing his way down the line at General Washington. Washington
likewise declines to hold the symbol of victory, motioning towards
Benjamin Lincoln, as Studebaker broadcasts the play by play to his
colleagues as if narrating an historical reenactment, only calling it
live as it happens.
“Any relation?” asks Seidel to Elgin
Lincoln.
“Not to my knowledge, I regret to inform
you. It is curious that the sword is an unwanted artifact,”
replies Lincoln as Benjamin Lincoln offers the sword back to O’Hara.
Studebaker looks on at the prized possession, an artifact he
desperately desires to obtain, and has spoken to his colleagues about
many a time.
With
a loud roar, the Americans begin celebrating as the British troops
lay down their arms before beginning their solemn retreat. Lincoln,
Seidel and Studebaker cannot help but partake in the celebratory and
emotional aftermath with revelers and soldiers blending in with the
crowd quite well, if only momentarily, as there is business to be
accomplished.
Following
the British back to their stronghold, the three plot their larcenous
scheme of action.
“How do we retrieve this sword without
falling by the hand of it?” asks Lincoln.
“Brought
along a pistol for protection, in the event danger may impend itself
upon us,” replies Seidel.
“I
have an idea, after all, it is I wishing to obtain the sword,”
recites Studebaker to his partners in crime. “May be a little
crude, but what the hell. If it doesn’t work we can always
return and start over, try something new. That worm is the great
eraser after all, a mighty mulligan if ever there was one.”
“General
O’Hara,” shouts Studebaker with the boom of a cannon,
causing the British General to stop and cast his gaze to the traveler
moments before retreating into the mansion housing Cornwallis.
“My name is Lieutenant Studebaker, the
three of us were sent from General Washington with orders to retrieve
the sword of surrender.”
With
a look of disgust sewn upon his face, O’Hara grunts before
placing the sword on the ground, as he and his henchmen disappear
into the mansion.
“This
is it,” gasps Studebaker racing towards the sword that had been
discarded on the ground like an object of shame, a true testament of
how one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Here it
was, the sword of surrender, a superbly crafted, brass based sabre
that glimmered and reflected the golden shine of the sunlight pouring
down upon America and the world for that matter. A sacred weapon, and
perhaps the second most historical artifact in American history save
only for the Declaration of Independence, the sword of liberty that
symbolized the very independence written of five years earlier.
“This is a beautiful moment,” explains Studebaker,
after having captured the legendary sword. “Best wind up in the
possession of a true Yankee, as opposed to ending up as a remorseful
scourge to some redcoat descendant.”
As
the three make their way back through the slow march of British
troops and towards the time machine, Dr. Lincoln requests a break.
“Gents, I am in dire need of a brief recess period. My head is
pounding, and I am feeling quite feverish and ill,” he asks,
scratching his arm.
The
moment of triumph turns to terror as the three notice a batch of
small, red pustules scattered throughout Lincoln’s arm. “Hives?
Some type of allergy?” asks a hopeful Studebaker.
“Damned
if I know for sure, but this looks like chickenpox, if we’re
lucky, if we’re unlucky...it could be the other variety of pox.
The smaller but deadlier version, and I’m not talking about the
Cowpox,” explains Seidel.
“Smallpox?
This soon? We were in Egypt for the equivalent of only several hours,
and in Medieval London for even less time, the incubation period and
onset of symptoms lack any logic or reason whatsoever,”
explains Studebaker.
“Correction,
we were in Ancient Egypt, not to mention The Middle Ages, it could be
another strain or form of Smallpox or any other infectious disease
that, that, we may be in the dark about,” offers Lincoln,
struggling to speak clearly. “The time acceleration may have
played a role in the hastening of the viral effects. This was an
unanticipated occurrence, and there has been no such medical testing
or analysis on the subject. Not to mention the fact that I am the
unfortunate owner of a lackluster immune system.”
“Here
is what we are going to do, you sit right here and relax, we will
return to the Worm, venture to the future, and return with us a
medical professional in order to diagnose and cure whatever the hell
this illness is,” declares Seidel.
“Leave
him behind, here? Just look at his condition!” cries
Studebaker.
“It
is all right,” reveals Lincoln in a reassuring manner. “I
could not possibly risk contaminating the two of you, I am likely
contagious, and it is only appropriate that I quarantine myself for
the time being. Just make sure that you return one minute from the
present. Go now, and Godspeed,” utters Lincoln.
Returning
to the ship, Otto Seidel sets to work plotting the coordinates for an
unplanned fourth leg of the journey.
“Fear not, we’ll return with a serum
that will liquidate every last undead strain of the virus in his
bloodstream,” exclaims Seidel.
“Be
that as it may, he is suffering with each passing moment, let us
return in due haste,” an exasperated Studebaker beckons.
“While
your good intentions are not wasted on me, remind yourself that we
have a time machine, we can return one minute after we departed.
Besides, the fun is merely beginning; my sweet tooth is chomping at
the bit to take a bite out of the pie cooling on the windowsill for
my tastes. Now without further ado, the next stop, 1938 Munich,”
declares Seidel.
“What?
No!” demands Studebaker.
“Chauncey,
why should each of us be restricted to but one stop on the timeline?
My family bloodline has a very proud legacy, although there happens
to be one blotch on our permanent record, as roughly half of my
ancestors left Germany just before the outbreak of the Second World
War. Among them was my great, great, whatever, Grandfather, who
abandoned his homestead along with a precious eighteenth century
painting, escaping that totalitarian land but leaving the painting
intact, into the plundering hands of the Nazis. My ancestors who
remained lost everything. This heirloom is steeped with an economic
value of maybe a few million, while the sentimental value of it is
priceless. This painting, this relic, is the Holy Grail for the
Seidel family tree. Now if you would be so kind as accompany me, than
I shall return the favor,” asks Seidel.
“One
stop for each of us! That was the agreement! Besides Elgin is sick,
where is your compassion?” asks Studebaker. “After all,
how can you be so certain that we should visit the home of a relative
at any point in time, there is always the risk that your relatives
are still inside, interaction with them could be catastrophic.”
“So
I suppose stealing a scroll from the cerebral jackpot of antiquity,
and a sword from the Revolutionary War were more calculated risks?
Lay down your shield and thrust your weapon, what is your malfunction
here Chauncey, enough of your high horse, holier than thou demeanor,”
demands Seidel.
“You’re
right, please accept my apology for that rush to judgment. The two of
us, we just are yet to concur thus far on this mission. At first I
requested we complete our assignment, only to be outvoted. Next you
demanded that we travel to Nazi Germany before helping a friend,
while I opined to seek assistance for Elgin,” replies
Studebaker in a passive-aggressive manner.
“Fine.
We’ll take care of Lincoln this instant,” replies Seidel,
regrettably inputting a separate set of coordinates as not a word is
uttered from Studebaker for the length of the voyage.
“Yes,
it was just a painting, but a magnificent work of art it was. Can
only imagine how I would be able to feel the spirit of my ancestors
alive and well gazing upon the admirable craftsmanship of its beauty,
title ‘Sonnenaufgang auf dem Rhein,’ translating into
‘Sunshine on the Rhine,’ and featuring the calm, crystal
clear waters of the Rhine as the morning sun begins its ascent above
the Black Forest of Bavaria. Suffice to say, the only crystals that
would be in the vicinity of Munich in the weeks to come would be the
shattered glass of Krystalnacht, accompanying the nations descent
into madness that would condemn millions to death.
“Your family, were they Jewish?”
asks Studebaker.
“My
great-great, again, whatever grandmother was. In the journals, he
described the change in the conditions there, well, here. Grandpa was
a World War I Veteran, he was a successful architect, and he was as
blonde haired and blue eyed as any Aryan poster child. Yet he was not
on board with the intricate ways of the old party, which alone
threatened his wealth and status. Throw his marriage into the
equation with a woman who came from a Jewish family and it was enough
to sign his death warrant. His heart belonged to her as opposed to
the state, how could it not?” asks Seidel.
“We
have arrived. You know, just thinking about what it must have been
like, seeing a swastika emblazoned on the red banners of cinema and
television and history makes me shake my head in sadness before
thinking of the people, as you only fathom what was to become of
their lives under the toxic days that were to follow. The self
destructive policies of the Third Reich, to think that they
transformed a weary land into a nation of wealth, prosperity and
Industrial Might only to poison it with levels of barbarism deviant
enough to make a caveman blush, striking up the deadliest war in the
history of the world and murdering millions of innocent people for no
valid reason, as if there ever is a valid reason,” explains
Studebaker.
“Atrocities
had been committed, but had they only stopped while they were ahead,
before things became dramatically worse for everyone involved. The
library of Alexandria burning, Magna Carta placed on the shelf, war
and revolution in America, in Europe, everywhere. Not only in the
eighteenth and twentieth centuries, but in the later portions of the
twenty-first century, including right here, in what had been among
the most prosperous nations on Earth, yet humanity still showcased
itself primal brutality, perhaps this is the way it is always going
to be,” proclaims Studebaker in a solemn manner, opening the
time machine door.
“Now, the time has come for us to visit
1965, in order to draw from the maximum quantity of smallpox
medication,” snaps Seidel growing weary of the increasing
anxiety exhibited by his colleague.
“Center
for Disease Control? Any specific medical facility?” asks
Studebaker.
“Just
follow me,” quips Seidel as the two step outside of the Wonder
Worm.
“The design of the residential
neighborhoods, the design of the automobiles, this is not 1965, where
have you brought us?” demands Studebaker.
“Are
you to tell me this does not look familiar to you old boy? How about
828 Lakefront Drive?” Seidel asks.
“My
grandparents old cottage...my God, what year is this?” remarks
Studebaker.
“Forgive
me, my math is not quite accurate, the year is 2065 Anno Domini, and
we are in Toledo, Ohio, now ring the bell,” demands Seidel
drawing the pistol from his jacket.
“I
can nary fathom what trick you have placed up your sleeve,”
cautiously declares Studebaker.
“You
just happen to be at the top of my international, inter-generational
hit list. Next on the agenda is Hitler, Stalin, and Pol Pot,”
Seidel exclaims sarcastically.
“Mad with delusion as you are, your
thought process is hardly that dysfunctional, tell me the truth,”
demands Studebaker.
“Very well. Today we shall conduct an
experiment, to finally discover the truth of a riddle that has
bothered myself for years. Why, you will go down in the history books
as a martyr, difficult to top that is it not?” asks Seidel.
“What is this all about, I don’t
understand,” responds Studebaker, growing apprehensive.
“This is all about a complex little matter
called the Grandfather paradox,” describes Seidel.
“Yes?”
Asks the man answering the door.
“Just one problem, that man is not my
grandfather,” cries Studebaker.
“We’ll
just see what happens, get in,” demands Seidel.
“Grandfather? No solicitors!” barks
the homeowner before freezing in place at the sight of Otto’s
pistol.
“I’m
afraid I have to insist,” replies Seidel as the two enter the
home, walking into the den. Wasting no time, Otto Seidel fires the
trigger, shooting the man in the chest, the grandfather clutching his
heart and bellowing a muffled scream of pain.
“Grandpa
Don!” cries Studebaker, sliding to his knees in an ill-fated
attempt to save his relative.
“You
fool, you will not have any memory of this callous deed, negating my
existence will preclude you from having journeyed here!” cries
Studebaker.
“Take
all the time you need old man,” Seidel chuckles as he turns his
gaze to the younger Studebaker. “Just what shall I do without
you Chauncey, await the arrival at Plymouth Rock in 1620 and proclaim
this land is accounted for? Or maybe venture back to some 1880s
countryside village in the nation of Georgia and just slap a young
Josef Stalin in the face, bombarding him with the wrath of twenty
million?” laughs Seidel.
“So quick to disgrace the mission and heed
Lincoln’s warning about playing the hero, doing as you please
in such a reckless display of needless murder!” declares
Studebaker, choking back the tears.
“Despite the fact that everyone grows up
wishing to save the world, much like the comic superheroes and action
figures of their youth, I have always been one to prefer playing the
part of the villain,” exclaims Seidel, a line he delivers while
flashing a devious stare at his colleague hunched over in peril.
As the gasping of the bullet stricken man
subsides, breathing his closing breath, Dr. Chauncey Studebaker
vanishes into thin air. It had worked, as the fabric of time had been
tampered with indeed, Seidel was amazed with the results as he looked
over the dead body of the old man. Problem was, it did not play out
quite as he drew it out, for the calculations and projections were
well off, the conclusion failing to match the hypothesis and theory
he had envisioned. Had this experiment been entered as a science fair
exhibit, the expert in Quantum Resonance would likely receive but an
average grade for his trouble. Seidel remained in Toledo, and as he
made the suddenly lonely trek back to the Wonder Worm, he began
speaking aloud to himself, feeling instant remorse for his actions.
“Disingenuous as it may sound, I had been
wishing that Studebakers warnings would be correct. I believed that
committing the murder of the grandfather and cancelling the existence
of the grandson would preclude my actions, washing my conscious
clean, just as it did his memory, as he now had never walked the
Earth in the first place. Therefore, I killed nobody! This turn of
events is completely lacking in logic! Studebaker should never have
been a part of the mission and this segment of the journey never
should have unfolded, including where and what I am doing now!”
Slumping to his feet, grimacing his teeth and
tensing up, struggling to restrain the urge to tear his hair from its
roots, a new theory reveals itself. “I suppose the guilt of
murder had to rest somewhere. Appropriately enough, the punishment
happened to rest on my conscious, staining my memory. Energy can be
stored in time, and there are some footprints that remain permanently
in place in its sands,” he declares, staring distantly at
nothing but with everything cluttering the descending fragility of
his mind.
Unlocking the time machine and taking one final
stop in the rearview mirror of history before returning to the twenty
second century, Seidel imagines the political ramifications of his
actions and the front he will place upon his research team when
arriving home. “Lincoln is sick, while Studebaker has been
eliminated altogether. I shall tell them that Lincoln had been dying
of cancer, and had wished to live out the remainder of his life in
peace with the wife of his that had predeceased him twenty years
earlier. Should do the trick!” reasons Seidel aloud. “This
machine cleans up any particular mess, good thing they have entrusted
it to a reliable set of hands,” snickers the killer, noticing
that the sword of Cornwallis has disappeared along with Studebaker
while the scroll and copy of Magna Carta has remained. “Neither
Elgin or Chauncey lied, I was playing with fire. How I remained in
Toledo and the painting in the machine, suppose it did occur, or
still would have transpired, I may never know, enough mental
gymnastics for now.”
One final stop remains on the agenda for Otto
Seidel before returning back to present day 2115. “The painting
can wait, after the stress of this day I could really use some
relaxation. Studebaker was correct about one thing, of course I was
not equipped with the insanity required to launch an assassination
spree on the purveyors of history,” he says opening up the door
of the Wonder Worm.
A Chicago native and lifelong suffering fanatic
of the Chicago Cubs baseball club, he has yearned for the day where
he could watch his beloved Cubbies win the World Series firsthand,
and given his possession of the Wonder Worm, he is about to realize
his dream.
“What
a legacy, this sordid franchise completed the twenty-first century
without so much as a pennant. I needn’t own a time machine to
know what the future holds for this organization,” declares
Seidel aloud, as if growing weary of the solitude and missing the
presence of his two former colleagues. Arriving in a quiet north side
Chicago neighborhood where the number of trees dwarfs the number of
houses, Seidel spots an approaching electric trolley car rumbling
down the street. “A dime for you, my good man,” Seidel
chides in jest offering a large tip to the operator, climbing aboard
en route to the park.
A
good six years before the construction of historic Wrigley Field,
Seidel strolls up to the ticket booth of another historic facility,
the West Side Grounds. Stepping through the gates of the hallowed
baseball park Seidel immerses himself in the moment, taking in the
sights and sounds of the experience, from the aroma of the freshly
cut grass of the field to the jubilant crowd adorned in turn of the
century attire, our time traveler enjoying the festivities with the
nostalgic exuberance of a five-year old child attending his first
game.
Strolling down the stairs of the aisle and
taking his seat no more than ten rows up long the third baseline,
Seidel finds himself sitting adjacent to a youthful fan, bringing him
down memory lane of his childhood recollections of spending summer
days at Wrigley.
“The
World Series here in the Windy City, and I am not talking about
Comiskey’s bunch!” boasts Seidel, his witty remark lost
on and ignored by the child. “Good God, Mordecai Brown and Ty
Cobb playing on the same field, you may not realize it now sonny, but
you’re going to remember these games for the rest of your
life.”
“Eh,
we’ve lost four of ten, plus the Detroit nine got the best of
us last season mister,” replies the child.
“Quite a critic, you seem to know your
stuff,” scoffs Seidel, looking around the park basking in the
moment and amazed at the modesty of mild mannered crowd.
“So
this is what it was like, to watch the Cubs in the World Series.
Enjoy this series son, because it is going to be the last world
championship you’re ever going to see!” snaps Seidel at
the young denigrator, who remains focused on the players warming up.
“This is something else, spectacular, magnificent, to
think of all the places I have visited since the journey began, for
me personally, this is the absolute tops,” explains the
traveler as the customary opening statement of “Play Ball!”
is declared by the umpire.
Oh how the treacherous and conniving murderer
longs to be able to tell of his exploits and origin, along with what
is to come in the years that follow. To think these poor souls have
no foreknowledge of World War I, the stock market crash, the Great
Depression, World War II, so on so forth, and of other matters far
more pressing and concerning than a baseball franchise. Revealing
information is a measure far too risky, and Seidel understands that
he has probably spoken too many a word as it stands, thus he
convinces himself to keep it simple with his fellow fan.
“Do
you hope to be a ballplayer one day when you grow up?” he asks
the boy.
“My
family always says how I’m going to make a living just like
they did, by becoming a farmer,” replies the boy.
“Agrarian
importance aside, the nineteenth century has passed, you could always
explore your options, so much to do and to see in these exciting
times. For instance, I am a scientist of sorts, a challenging and
refreshing profession allowing me the opportunity to be on the
cutting edge of mans pursuits,” lectures Seidel as the two
strike up a conversation while watching the game.
“Science
is actually my favorite subject at the schoolhouse, a secret I have
withheld from Mom and Pop. You know what? I’ve grown weary of
keeping my interests in the dark from the family. Thank you mister, I
am going to come clean with them about what I would really like to
accomplish, and who knows, maybe someday I’ll be a scientist,
just like you! Wow, what a fantastic catch!” exclaims the boy
following a highlight reel play, turning to search for somebody to
share the moment with and finding that the next seat to his is empty,
as Otto Seidel has vanished and is nowhere to be found.
“Heinrich!”
a voice beckons from the crowd, as the boy casts his eyes upwards
towards the bleachers beneath the overhang, where a woman is making
her way down the steps. “Heinrich Seidel, you come when I’m
calling you!” demands the woman.
“Yes
mother,” replies the boy rising from the seat he did not
possess a ticket for.
“What have I told you about conniving your
way into things you have no business in!” she declares,
dragging him up the stairs by his arm.
Little else compares to the spectacle and the
pageantry of American sport. Whether be the youth of today or the
youth of yesteryear, attendees will undoubtedly display excessive
levels of uncouth behavior and risk trouble in exchange for a more
satisfying view. Some things never change...while something just did.
Back in 2115, the Wonder Worm has just returned
from a voyage that faired better than did the Hindenburg, or the
aforementioned Titanic—-at least for part of the crew, as the
adventure was primed to be both remembered, and forgotten.
As the long awaited return of the arriving ship
comes into focus, its presence serenades the crowd with a blinding
light of brilliance, slowly retreating in luminosity as the activity
of the time machine settles down. Smoke clears from the tree modeled
Wonder Worm, as the door slowly opens. Moving in to offer a
congratulatory welcome back is the crew, stopping dead in their
tracks at the shocking revelation standing before them. Gasping in
exasperation is the research team of Project Falcon, stunned to
discover that not all have returned... Dr. Chauncey Studebaker being
the lone man emerging from the machine.
“Friends, it is my reluctant duty, to
inform you that our studies from the mission shall remain
inconclusive at the moment. Dr. Elgin Lincoln was stricken with an
illness, a horrible virus unlike any I have witnessed in my lifetime.
We surmised that his faltering health and the acceleration and
distortion of time travel hindered his immune system, and led to a
quick spread of the fierce strain. We hospitalized him immediately,
with the ordeal amounting to a matter of shear days. Lincoln demanded
that I leave, both for precautionary reasons, but more importantly to
proceed in the mission without him for the time being, an operation
that I regret to inform you all that I was unable to do under the
circumstances. A further demand was made, that in no event was I, or
anyone associated with Project Falcon, to travel back to an earlier
point with the sole goal of altering his destiny. He refused us the
option of pressing the reset button or pulling strings that had
become entangled. I made an oath to uphold this solemn word, and when
I returned, he was gone...”
The scene shifts fifteen years into the future,
taking us to 2130, where Dr. Chauncey Studebaker has recently retired
and is concluding a busy weekend that had been chock full of
festivities by resting comfortably in the chair of his living room,
outfitted in his favorite robe and enjoying a ceremonial drink with
his son Charles.
“Some things never go out of style, and
here we have a thing or three in validation of said saying. A warm
fireplace, a good stiff drink, and a chat between father and son,”
declares Chauncey with a mild laugh.
“Charles, forgive me for having kept my
lips hushed these past fifteen years...I have two things to divulge
about our first mission aboard the time machine. Lincoln and myself
were able to dock our beloved Wonder Worm into the past.”
“Always had a feeling that you did. Tell
me, where did you go?” asks Charles.
“Each of us chose one destination. Lincoln
opted to see the Library of Alexandria, from which he collected a
scroll, as well as, regrettably enough the Smallpox virus. On the
other hand I selected the British surrender at Yorktown, and through
strategy, perseverance and luck, was able to acquire the most fabled
artifact in all of American history, at least in my mind,”
describes Chauncey.
“You
lifted the Declaration of Independence?” asks Charles.
“Well,
second most fabled artifact. The Declaration belongs to the people
and belongs in the Archives. This one belongs to me,” he
declares, motioning to the sword of Cornwallis encased in glass
resting proudly and symbolically on the mantle atop the fireplace.
“Yorktown was where the affliction
revealed itself to Lincoln, and despite racing to one era in search
of medical assistance and racing back, he perished in a matter of
days. Elgin Lincoln was a good man, a worthy role model for myself,
and many more like me. He warned me before the mission, about how the
further back in time any disruptions occur, the greater their
inevitable ramifications, although theoretically one could concoct a
remedy and alleviate such a mistake by venturing further back and
attempting to correct said error. “Plotting such a
plan of attack flowed through my mind the moment I left Yorktown, and
that is the course of action I would have taken, had it not been for
a promise made, one I was obliged to keep. Lincoln had spoken to me
about continuing the mission, and about leaving him behind as his
destiny had called for no matter the gravity of circumstances. I
buried him with his beloved scroll that day, before finishing what I
had begun.
“As far as the future world was concerned,
you were aware that the mission was to venture ahead one hundred
years time. What you did not know was that I lied to the research
team and the entire world, as I did see beyond the emergency room of
a hospital,” admits Studebaker.
“Funny, deep down, I had always imagined
that you had done so,” chides Charles. “Do tell, what did
you see, what was the future like?”
“Lincoln had been somewhat scared of
navigating through the past. Conversely, I had been fearful of
navigating through the unknown waters comprising the future that lay
ahead. What I saw was a world raped with anarchy and chaos, a
systematic devastation draped into the social fabric, truly
terrifying and horrible all at once. It surpassed in taste the bitter
failures of twentieth century communism, in magnitude the destruction
of World War II. What struck me most of all, was how it was so
ingrained and intertwined in the daily activities of the people, as
if it had all become routine,” replies Chauncey.
“I have to assume that you discovered the
cause of the calamity, given the time machine, did you not?”
asks Charles.
“The moment I had returned from the maiden
voyage, I vowed never to return to that place, though of course there
would be subsequent missions where I was contractually bound to
deploy myself, along with the realization of the responsibility I had
obtained in the process. It is hard to say how or when it all
started,” explains Studebaker.
“You did attempt to avert it, did you
not?” asks Charles, his voice quivering like a child concerned
his parents have forgotten about Christmas.
“Charles my boy, I have learned a great
deal through the years, and I mean that both in terms of the natural
progression of my lifetime, along with the sights and sounds I have
experienced as a passenger aboard the Wonder Worm. The greatest
lesson of them all has slowly built up and accumulated with each
mission. The various problems of the distant future were not created
by any one man and nor can they be solved by one man. What had
occurred was not merely a result of governmental or bureaucratic
incompetency. Nor was it nuclear war, global warming, or widespread
famine or disease, unemployment, pollution, overcrowding. I had
witnessed a centuries worth of problems, just as I was privileged to
have witnessed several millennia worth of miracles, achievements and
advancements sprinkled throughout history,” emphatically
declares Studebaker.
“With all of those problems, surely you
could have found some answers?” asks Charles.
“Son, as I’ve learned from my trek
across time, the numerous trespassory steps I have taken into
forbidden times and lands out of my jurisdiction, it is not up to me
to learn those answers, patch up the pitfalls and stop the ensuing
cataclysmic happenings of another place. Learning from the past is
one thing, intermeddling in the future is something different all
together, this principle of late I can share.
“You see, conducting further research
through various travels I compiled my findings, as did the rest of
our staff, and after releasing our findings through the proper
channels to the appropriate parties and agencies and governmental
departments, at the conclusion of five years time we opted to return
to 2215 in an attempt to track and take note of the changes...where
we found that nothing had changed-—apart from my attitude that
is from that date forth. The dynamics of time are far more complex
than instituting an alternate policy or committing a murder and
acquiescing a throne to another. Thinking otherwise would be nothing
shy of an insult to the rules of time,” explains Studebaker.
“Makes one question the merits of time
travel all together, does it not?” asks Charles.
“Not in the least,” replies Chauncey
very quickly. “Unbeknownst to most, the key word in time travel
is not so much the aspect of time, as it is the aspect of travel. A
time machine is very much like any other ship, whether be it airship,
starship, or automobile, in that a journey riding about in any of the
above constitutes an array of risk and reward. Like most of those the
utility far outweighs the danger, provided the proper precautions are
undertaken. Had they not been, why, we could have left with three men
and returned with two, not due to a fluke illness but rather a time
paradox, a slip through the cracks that one is never to recover
from.”
“One last item pertaining to the legacy of
Project Falcon. Stop the impending downfall of civilization? It is
not up to me. The baton has been passed to your generation and those
that follow. Big government, wars, economic and financial despair,
placing my escapade in another light, the future appeared all too
familiar in many a way. Measures must be taken, yes of course,
although they must occur gradually, just as one would take
precautions over time in order to prevent an avalanche or a forest
fire.
“Consider it akin to cramming for an exam
instead of taking dutiful and diligent preparations over an adequate
frame of time. The same principle can be most especially applied to
society at large, and its relationship between past, present, and
future. As Sir Winston Churchill once declared, paraphrasing the
famous quote of George Santayana, Those who fail to learn from
history are doomed to repeat it.”
THE END
Points: 3581
Reviews: 33
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