Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (18 page)

SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

SUBJECT: Roswell

We have completed quarantine and purging of the Roswell Event location. I have included depositions from our interrogations of all known witnesses of the event.

All physical materials recovered from the event have been relocated to Los Alamos by C-54 (First Transport Unit), but I have reservations about the long-term security of that facility. In accord with the extreme sensitivity of Project SATURN, I propose the establishment of a new, remote base of operations. I am attaching a draft proposal of locations near Groom Lake, NV, and Rock Valley, NV, for your consideration.

The list of law enforcement, military personnel, and local officials exposed to varying degrees of information is sizable. A debriefing strategy is currently my utmost priority. Press releases with both flying disk and weather balloon accounts have been disseminated and retracted through RAAF Public Information Officer Walter Haut.

I recommend that General Roger M. Ramey, 8
th
Air Force, who was initially notified by Major Jesse A. Marcel, 509
th
Bomb Group, be transferred to DC for debriefing at CIG.

END
DCI/PS

Helping Poison Ivy and the Boys (as he called them) to clean up and repair the reactor chamber in The Basement was an irritating interruption in Garrett Frazier’s work week.

And Terrance Gaines had grown tired of hearing about it. Tee had counted the complaint at least a dozen times in the last few hours. He noted that Garrett—who had jumped only six months prior—always seemed critical of
any
work performed in the lab below ground. But, to Terrance’s credit, he had also learned the secret about dealing with Frazier:
Listen Without Comment.

It was almost a
Fifth
Accord.

Tee had found that communicating with Frazier was often a lose-lose proposition. If you ignored Garrett and his continual complaining, he would get louder and more annoying. If you listened to his unending grievances, and then either added to them, or countered them, he would predictably fly off the handle.

The best policy was
Listen Without Comment
, and today Terrance followed that policy to the letter. Garrett was in rare form, even for Garrett.

Terrance stabilized the last badly damaged capacitor onto the cart and he and Frazier eased the heavy load through the reactor door. It had been several days since the disaster, but a disturbing blend of burnt hair, rubber, and an odd electrical aroma still assaulted the senses. The morning’s cleanup had proceeded without major incident. That is, until one of the wheels of the cart jammed on a small piece of shrapnel on the floor.

Terrance could see the sickening cascade, the impending domino effect, but he could do nothing at all to abate it. Two of the large capacitors crashed to the floor with a metallic clank that reverberated throughout The Basement.

Papineau lurched from his own work. “
Soyez prudent
, idiots!”

That was all the fuel that a spark named Frazier needed. “Listen, French toast. Don’t get on to me when it's your stupid—”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Doc Stonecroft mediated. “No need for scandalous verbiage in any language. We all just need to exercise extreme caution.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit hypocritical, Doc?” inquired Shep as he finished jogging down the last few steps and bounded into the room. He was cradling a new piece of glass, presumably to replace the broken one in the reactor room door. “I mean, don’t go preaching to us about exercising extreme caution and all.”

Terrance tried to defend the aged scientist. “Doc is right. We all just need to be more careful.”

“Yo, Tee! Listen to me good,” Shep declared. “When I want your opinion, trust me, you'll be the
last
to know. So drop it!”

Stonecroft motioned toward Shep. “Robert, we need—”

“What we need,” Shep interrupted, “is a little inventory of recent events.” Shep relocated near the reactor chamber door and pointed at the broken glass. “Let's see. In the past several months, who's been responsible for one hundred percent of the accidents and screw ups around here?”

He glared at the scientists. Papineau shook his head and returned to his work.

“Well, it's safe to say that we haven't had any problems upstairs,” Shep said. “Hmm, go figure.”

Doc paused for a moment. “Scientific pursuit is not a perfect process, Mr. Sheppard.”

“Not a
perfect process
? You're damn right it's not perfect! Your little nuclear playground down here nearly killed a man! Nearly killed us all, actually.”

“Ellen saved him,” Terrance added.

Shep turned towards him. “You're kinda missing the whole point! He shouldn't have
needed
saving. The mad-scientists-three took us to the brink of a disaster last Friday.”

Papineau spoke up. “
Ce n'etait pas notre
—”

Shep silenced him with a raised finger. “I can promise you, the days of the blank research check are
over
.”

Doc nodded and placed a trembling hand on his chin. “Your point is well made, my friend. Well made.” He glanced up at Shep and adjusted his glasses. “But if I may.” A grave solemnity descended across his face. “The perilous path to progress has never been successfully detached from
sacrifice
, Mr. Sheppard. The altars of advancement have rarely been bloodless, but we can hope, we can pray, that our lambs have not, and will not, die in vain.”

Doc, having begun his point, walked away, noticeably lost in heavy introspection. “Of all the afflictions mortal man must face, it is the torment of
guilt
that cannot be diminished, neither will it be satisfied.”

He halted, misty eyes fixed upon Shep. “Trust me. I have lived with its scourge for nearly as long as you have been breathing, Mr. Sheppard. I do not take it lightly—especially as the scandalous day of my own indiscretion draws nigh.” Stonecroft fished out a handkerchief.

“May God above forgive these two hands that have shed innocent blood.”

Monday, November 10, 1947

It’s a girl!

Actually, a woman. An older woman. Our first. Overall, the score stands at: Men: 4, Women: 1. Her name is Martha and she is a graceful, dignified lady. But her arrival to Normal, from all reports, was anything but dignified. I was helping X in the garage. It was midday, around 3 p.m. or so yesterday when FlaT happened. We didn’t see the flash, but the thunder (though not as loud as usual) let you know that something special just happened.

X looked up at me, startled. I motioned and said to him that I have to go out and look around. He nodded. We are making some language progress. We usually work on communication during meals (most words we’ve learned are related to food. He likes to eat, and is a decent cook).

I drove all over town, looking in all the usual places. It may not be like finding a needle in a haystack, but it’s not far from it. It was after 5 p.m., and I figured that it might have been another case of a jumpless-FlaT (lightning without a Jumper). As I was passing by the police station, I noticed some unusual activity. I parked the sedan and went inside, thinking that maybe Chief Brandenburg had heard about some out-of-towner. Someone out of place.

There was a small crowd inside. The Chief was there, three older women I didn’t know, another gentleman that was introduced as Doctor somebody, and Barb, the Chief’s wife. They were all crowded around an older woman who was sitting in a chair in a nightgown, looking completely lost.

The Chief walked over to me as I stepped in. He said the woman was found about 10 feet off the ground in an oak tree over on Gregory Street. He said that she had no idea how she got there, and that her name was Martha.

My heart and mind raced like crazy. I knew she was a Jumper, but I needed a way to extract her peacefully and convincingly from this predicament. It took all of three seconds. My idea was bold, and based more on desperation than cunning. I think I said a prayer and then rushed up to her, almost pushing a few of them aside. I kneeled down and took her hand.

I called her by her name and then told the group that this was my Aunt (on my mother’s side). I said that she had been staying with me for a few days. I motioned for everyone to step away from her for a private consult. They gathered around me and I whispered that she has some mental issues. I told them that I had taken a nap and that when I woke up she was gone. I was even able to fake a few tears and thank them profusely.

I broke out of the group and went back to her, gently raising her up. She started to protest, but I calmed her, and started walking her out to the car. Barb followed us (I’m pretty sure I overheard a few “poor dear”s and “bless her little heart”s as we left). I leaned in to Martha and whispered “It’s okay, trust me.” She was clearly in shock.

The car ride home was horribly awkward, as I had to continuously rotate between driving, calming, and explaining. More calming than anything. I have rarely seen such raw terror in a person’s face. That was about 30 hours ago.

This one is all on me, since we lost Ken and Larry…and with the language difference, X can’t help at all. I don’t think she is a flight risk, but then again, the memories of Grant’s sudden disappearance tinges my optimism a bit.

Her name is Martha Tomlin. She is 64 years old and jumped from near my own time zone—1989. She lived in Nashville with her daughter Caroline, she is a widow, and her late husband Calvin died of a heart attack in 1978. She is proper, stately, well-educated, and absolutely terrified. I have to go into town and buy her some things.

Just in case you were wondering, she is a size four and just adores the color blue.

SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

SUBJECT: Roswell Complication

We have uncovered that Ms. Pamela Hendrickson, WAC nurse with the 509
th
, witnessed both of the recovered specimens, and was privy to direct information concerning temporal displacement. She has repeatedly denied exposure to the information, but two independent witnesses provided identical details implicating her knowledge.

She has rank among the remainder of the flight nursing staff, could leak information to them, and may have already revealed information. We have debriefed all medical personnel, and I am in the process of separating and relocating all nursing staff. To prevent future access to their information, the personnel records of the 509
th
will be modified.

Per your authorization, Nurse Hendrickson will be transferred to Edgewood Arsenal for memory therapy, and if that proves unsuccessful, her termination. Her eye-witness testimony and level of access could undermine Project SATURN.

END

DCI/PS

I’m over thirty-five years old.

I think I’m past my prime when it comes to school.

Denver located a set of doors near the back of the factory.
Ellen said last door on the left.
He took a deep breath. Regardless of his misgivings about returning to school, he imagined that it certainly had to be safer than the reactor room. He grabbed the handle and walked in.

A voice greeted him. “You’re tardy.”

Denver looked up and caught the hard stare of Leah Swan from across the classroom. She was seated at a small, metal desk and Tori Wilkinson was mesmerized with a book nearby.

One teacher and one underclassman. Great.

He blushed at her complaint and walked up to his new taskmaster. The walls of the classroom were lined with vibrant and expressive paintings of landscapes of all types. There was a large sign just above and behind the desk that read: REMEMBER THE ACCORDS.

Leah repeated herself. “I said, Mr. Collins: you’re late.”

He reached her desk and donned a mischievous grin. “On the contrary, Miss Swan, considering the fact that I won't even be born until 1979, I would say that I'm at least twenty-three years
early
.”

She broke out in a sweet smile and rose to greet him. “
Touche
, Mr. Collins.” She turned to her left. “Tori, what do we do when someone walks into a room?”

The dark-haired teen set her book down and stood. She rotated toward Denver. “Hello.”

He nodded. “Uh, good morning, Tori.”

The contrived exchange was now over and Tori returned to her book. Leah folded her arms and studied her. “Tori and I are working on basic social skills. It's baby steps.”

Denver nodded, then strolled over to the wall on his right and examined the paintings, each completely different, but all sharing the same signature: TW. He gazed down at the withdrawn girl, and then back to the colorful artwork. The apparent contradiction was fascinating.

Leah interrupted his musings. “Anyway, how are you feeling? You’re looking better, only a few bandages. You looked like the mummy last time I saw you.”

He spun about and shrugged. “How am I? Honestly?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he started, “since I've been in Normal, I've been shot with a tranquilizer gun, incarcerated, apprehended at gun point, I've been both killed and resuscitated by electricity, and now, ten years after I left the military, I'm returning to school in the back of a window factory in 1956. You tell me.”

She played along. “Oh, that's all we ever get around here, day in, day out.” They both chuckled and she motioned for him to have a seat. “Did the Chief or Ellen brief you about TOC, our little school here, Denver?”

“’Brief’ is a good word. How about
very
brief? Ellen told me that all the new arrivals have to be educated, or is it re-educated?”

She nodded. “Yeah, it was decided years ago that we needed a formal initiation process, a structured curriculum to prepare Jumpers for the culture shock of life here in Normal.”

He raised his hands. “Well, just to be upfront, I'm a
terrible
test-taker.”

She rolled her eyes. “That won’t be a problem. I see that Shep has finally given you an ID badge, Mr. Collins.”

He looked down and pushed out his chest. “Correction, that’s Mr.
Jackson
.” He pointed.

She peered closer. “Aha, I see,
Mr
.
Jackson
. But I’m a bit confused, why the name change?”

He was puzzled. “Don’t you remember about my wallet? Oh wait, you left before all that.”

She was lost. “All
what
?”

“It’s complicated.”

She didn’t press the matter. “Well, okay, Mr. Collins, or should I say, Mr.
Jackson
, my job is to prepare you to interact with a small-town population from the mid-1950s. Even the slightest error in language, or in the discussion of politics or technology, could destroy our efforts to remain below the radar.” She smiled at him. “Speaking of being a bad test-taker, Mr. Jackson, interacting with Locals is one test we simply cannot afford to fail. Even once.”

“Makes sense.”

“But we also have to be concerned about how we interact with each other as well.”

She rose and relocated to the front of her desk, leaning against it. She tilted her own name badge. “If you will look at your ID number—”

He finished her thought. “The last four digits indicate that person’s jump year.”

“Well done, Mr. Jackson.”

He adopted a smug look. “I need to make a confession—I was the head of my class in pre-school.” They both laughed.

She moved on. “Yeah, we have to be very careful. We have a rule about not sharing future information with another Jumper from an earlier time. The first few months I was here, the Second Accord used to really give me a headache, always having to pause and filter everything I would say or hear. But trust me—it gets easier.”

Denver cocked his head. “So, lemme get this straight, I'm not supposed to tell you that the war of the sexes ended in the year 2012 and that the men won?”

“Both a student
and
a comedian?” She looked to her left. “Looks like we found ourselves a funny one, Tori!” If Tori heard her, she didn’t acknowledge it. “You know, we laugh about this, but even seemingly insignificant and trivial information about future events or technology to a Prior could jeopardize all of our futures.”

He decided that it was time to get all the lingo straight. “A
Prior
?”

“Oh, sorry, a Prior: that means someone who is from an earlier time than you. Prior, as in time.”

“Shouldn't I be writing all of this down somewhere?”

She waved her hand. “Nah, it'll come naturally. Now you, Mr. Jackson, are a
Trailer
. At least to me. Actually, to everyone currently.”

He nodded. “I've heard that a few times—it was kinda lost on me.”

She leaned in. “Someone from a later time is a Trailer. You see, you follow after a Prior, so you are a Trailer. To give a Prior any information they shouldn't know could cause time ripples once we all get home. Remember—filter—then speak. It’s the Second Accord.”

He frowned. “Second Accord?”

Leah hesitated and gazed at the ceiling. “I know it seems so overwhelming at first. All the new terms and rules and such.” She glanced back at him. “But it’s all for our own good, it was put in place by our founder.”

Denver looked past her and spotted a picture of Leah with an older gentleman. He pointed. “Is that him?”

She turned and retrieved it. “Yeah. Good ole Nellie,” she said with a growing smile. “He was something else. Smart. Kind. I miss him. Every day.”

“I'm sorry for asking, but, uh, what happened?”

She handed him the photo and looked away for awhile, blinking hard. She stared down at Tori who had just finished one book and was trading it for another.

Leah lowered her voice. “It, uh—was—he, um, killed himself.” She nodded. “About three years ago. Three years ago last month actually. Feels more like three
weeks
ago.”

She took a deep breath, long and full. Denver regretted resurrecting such strong, painful memories, but a part of him knew that talking could also be very therapeutic. He was thankful for the many friends that sat up for some late night confession sessions in the months following his last tour of duty in Afghanistan.

It didn’t change the past, but it made the present almost bearable.

Regardless of the benefits, he apologized to her. “Look, I didn't mean to start—”

“Hey, no, really. It's okay. I'm a big girl, and, well,” she paused, “
you need to know
.”

He peered into her eyes.
There’s more. There’s way more. She’s holding something back.

He pointed at the photo. “Mr. Nelson was only briefly mentioned the other day when I was touring the factory.”

Leah rolled her eyes. “Briefly mentioned? Really? Well, I’m shocked he was even mentioned at all.”

Denver thought for a moment. “It seemed to be an uncomfortable topic.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised. It really isn't talked about...
ever
,” she said, and rather bluntly. Leah leaned up from the desk and walked off. “You know, a lot of what has happened to all of us, with time jumping, and why did we all jump to Normal of all places, and everything, it's just so confusing.”

She stopped and turned to him, her voice a bit lower. “But in many ways, Phil's suicide makes even less sense than
any
of that.”

Denver wasn’t sure what to do or what to say, so he did nothing.

Leah began walking back to the desk. “There were so many questions when it happened, and everything was just—you know—
swept under the rug
all neat and tidy.”

Denver grew concerned. “Suicides aren’t usually described as neat and tidy.”

“See, that’s what I mean! It was like, one day everything was fine, or as fine as our crazy situation can be, and then the next,” she swallowed, “and then the next, Phil is dead, and no one talks about it. And there were so many things that just didn’t add up. It’s like the powers that be don’t want anyone talking about it.”

“Powers?”

She leaned in. “Look, he’s a nice guy and all. But, uh...” The distraught teacher stopped. “No. I’m not gonna go there. It’s all just supposition.” Leah looked over at the photo in his hands. “None of us really had closure…well, at least
I didn’t
.”

She looked back at him and spoke just above an emotional whisper. “It, uh, it was a closed casket. That made it even harder. You know, it’s really hard to say goodbye to a pretty wooden box with pretty flowers all over it.”

Denver gazed at the floor. “I, uh, I know. I’ve been there.” He paused, reflecting back. “I’ve stood beside more red, white, and blue caskets than I care to count. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I can’t look at the flag without seeing young widows and little kids without dads. It haunts me.”

His thoughts turned to Jasmine (not that she was ever very far from his mind) and he paused.

Leah gazed into his misting eyes and patted his hand. “Hey, look, I didn’t mean for this to spiral down into a morbid trip down memory lane—”

He met Leah’s compassionate stare and sighed. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I started it. But, it’s okay, talking’s good. It’s good. So, when was the last time that you saw him?”

She looked up, tears forming. “Oh, it was at church earlier that day. It—the suicide—happened on a Sunday night, pretty late. It was the day after Independence Day actually. Ever since, the sound and smell of fireworks makes me ill.”

She stared over at Tori and raised her voice back up. “But, whoa, there are way more important things for you to worry about right now. No amount of talking will bring ole Nellie back now, anyway.”

Denver pulled the frame closer and studied it. “What’s this here, on his neck?” He pointed to a dark smudge.

She leaned over and nodded. “Ah, the famous Nelson Personal Portal.” She retrieved the photo and set it back on her desk. “It’s a birthmark.”

He wondered if she had misspoken. “A Personal Portal?”

Leah chuckled. “Oh, it was a joke with all us Jumpers. It’s hard to see from this picture, but Phil’s birthmark was roughly triangular. Kinda shaped like our Jump Portal. It was quite large.”

She faced him and took a deep breath. “Well, anyway, we have to get down to business, Trailer Jackson. We need to cover politics, money, technology, language, laws, social etiquette, and even relationships.”

She glanced up at her overwhelmed student. He smiled back at her. “When’s the most important subject of the day?” he asked.

She scrunched her nose. “And just what subject is that?”

His face lit up. “
Recess
.”

She wadded a small piece of paper and hurled it at him. “There’s no downtime, Mr. Jackson. Too much to know, too much to do, too much to learn and too much to
unlearn
.” She leaned across her desk.

“You must think, feel, and act like a man from 1956. It's my job to get you there.”