Second Paradigm

Smashwords Edition – 2014

WordFire Press
www.wordfire.com

ISBN: 978-1-61475-179-3

Copyright © 2008 Peter J. Wacks

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

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***

Epilogue

The crowd screamed, panicking. Police drew their guns, pointing them at the ground, ready to take down the shooter if they could spot him. The man stood back up from where he had fallen, looking around in wonder. Silence encapsulated him, a pinpoint beacon of sanity amidst the contagious fear of the crowd. Sensation was still tricky, confusing him. Had something hit him from behind and pushed him to the ground right before the gunshot? The other way, the other reality, was fading, but for half a heartbeat he traversed both.

Hidden like a viper, coiled and ready to strike, the knowledge of what might have been gnawed at him. Fighting to push it to the back of his mind, he took stock. He stood still amongst the whirlwind of motion surrounding him, frozen in place while people ran for cover.

“No man is an island.” He spoke it like a mantra, reminding himself that he was a part of all this, not just the eye of the storm. People around him pointed up and behind him, so he looked back. A window leapt out of the background for him the second his eyes lit on it. An empty tripod stood in the window, some type of clamp attached to the top of it, spinning in its joint. His gaze fell to the ground below. How could he see that far with such clarity? The thought lazily drifted across his mind.

He knew the defenestrated woman too well, from his trial if not his memories. The fall had broken her neck. On the ground next to her lay a Glock, with a shattered scope affixed to it. The gun pushed at his memories and a glimmer of understanding dawned on him. He squeezed his empty hand. The understanding did not come to him as an epiphany; it was not a cataclysmic opening of his mind to the truth. Rather, it was a thief in the dark of night sneaking into his mind and settled in: as though it had always been there.

And once it arrived, it
had
always been there. He smiled and calmly walked away from the crowd. What had been done was now undone. And the Origin … was once again safe. And now he understood what that was, and that it existed. With a simple motion, just pushing another man down, he had determined exactly what the future was to be. Hard though the choice had been, there truly was no other choice. He left and went back to living his life, walking through the reflections of the Origin into his future.

***

Relativity Synchronization:
The First Cause

2620: The Fine Line Bar, Tucson, Arizona.

Particles of hops floated through the beer, catching rays of the evening sun shining through the window, refracting the light through the dark amber liquid. Alexander Zarth watched the play of light with fascination. Subtleties of the environment, little details that so many people missed, never failed to amaze him. He took a sip of the bittersweet ale, enjoying the chill and the thick weight of it on his tongue. Putting the glass down, he stretched back in his seat and looked at the man across the table.

Leaning back in the booth till his shoulders hit the cushion, he got comfortable. Despite the man’s apparent youth, an illusion cast by curly blond hair and boyish features, he had piercing eyes and clearly defined muscles visible beneath his shirt. Wiping away the ring of condensation, Alex lowered his beer. Someone watched them both from the kitchen. He extended his senses and felt a time traveler’s signature there, one that he recognized all too well. Smiling to himself, he leaned forward again, ignoring the noise from the house music and other drinkers in the bar.

“So let me get this right. Twelve commandos from two C’s up the line have all taken failed shots at me, and you,” he paused to look into the eyes of the man across from him, “you manage to find me faster than any of them. On top of this, you have an out of time ‘mission’ you’d like to hire me for. A mission which puts me back in the crossfire, by the paradox standard of those commandos out to get me, and makes me killable. If I accept this I have to leave the safety of my own time, when they cannot kill me, and go somewhen else—which makes me a target. Do you think I’m stupid, friend? Or do you think greed motivates me past the point of caution?”

Alex locked gazes with the man. His eyes gave him away. Holding a surprising depth; their pure emerald caught Alex in an almost hypnotic spell. Alex had trouble reading him, itself a rare thing. But then again, his eyes gave him away. He was a stone cold killer, and lying through his teeth. Not that Zarth had a problem with lying. Everyone did it, and it was a useful tool.

The man nodded. “That is, looking at the smallest possible picture, correct, Mr. Zarth. It does make you ‘killable’ by their standards. And no, I do not think you are stupid, or greedy, for that matter. If I did then I would not have bothered coming here. Frankly—you are the best there is in the time travel business. I’ve been up and down the line from C forty-five back to the C twenty Origin and there is no one else who can do this. Not even me. And please believe me when I tell you that I am the second best ‘dox spinner ever. Ever. Do not accept that compliment lightly, or think that it is flattery. It is a simple statement of fact, a statement of your résumé, and why I am attempting to hire you for this task.”

Alex took another sip of his beer, finishing the glass off, then—with a quick burst of power—switched the empty with the full glass he had been holding fifteen minutes ago. Thinking hard about the term the man had used: ‘dox spinner’ while drinking the same beer a second time, he tapped his foot against the ground. Alex had never heard the term before, but he immediately liked it. He made his decision, mainly guided by the presence of the traveler observing from the back room.

Alex raised his glass. “Here is to paradox, Mr. Smith. And the free beer it entails you. All right, I believe you. But why should I accept the job? My odds of survival are low, and frankly money is not a problem for me. And, you should know, there is another who is as good as me. Hell, he’s probably better. If this situation is as big as you say, then in all likelihood this man will be opposed to me once my presence is known.”

Smith smiled at Alex, and something odd lurked in that smile. “To be frank with you, you don’t survive the mission. You change the objective and die in the process. But somehow, it all ends up working. Whatever it is you do—it works. And I’m not good enough to figure out what exactly it is that you do. But as to why you accept the mission, I can only suppose that it is because it is the greatest challenge you will ever face.”

Alex raised an eyebrow.

“And because Mr. Zarth, as trite as it is, only you can save the world. And your trick just now, circumventing the block I put on your ability to travel, only goes to reinforce the point to me that you are the best. That you can do what I could not.”

With a grunt Alex raised his fresh glass of beer to his lips then set it back down without drinking it. Thoughts ran through his head. “Hmmm. I die? You really know how to upsell, don’t you? You might as well drop the block you have on me, all it’s doing is annoying me. I’ve already shown you I can slip it.” The other traveler meant something, but the block on his nanotech was messing with his ability to figure out what that was.

The heads up display on his contacts started flashing information as his nanotech fired back to life. Alex grinned. “So you want me to go on a mission that is a secret, bring me against my worst enemies, and get me killed? Yeah, you’re right. I’m probably in. Leave the dossier with me.”

The look of surprise in the other man’s eyes gratified him. “Trace my last jump and you’ll find a list of what supplies I need and when I need them dropped. If you can’t trace the jump, find someone else for the job, Mr. Smith.”

2003: The Pawn Sacrificed

“I …” Chris flushed, anger pushing through his blood roughly. He could feel every heartbeat in the tips of his fingers. But looking to the jury and seeing sympathetic eyes staring back at him helped calm and stem his rising pulse rate. He answered the question, asked in a different way for the dozenth time, with the same reply. “… I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

The prosecuting attorney, James Garrett, flashed a tight, humorless grin at Christopher Nost, and his cold gray eyes bored into Chris’s, sparking a fight or flight reaction. Words arced through the connection of their eyes.
I’ve got you. There’s no way out for you this time. This has to finish it
. Chris felt bile rise in his throat. Fearing he would to throw up all over the witness box, he swallowed it down. The acrid taste burned at the back of his throat.

“What exactly do you mean, you don’t remember, Dr. Nost? Do you or do you not have an alibi for the night of August thirteenth, nineteen ninety-seven, or was it, in fact, you who murdered Lucille Frost at the office building you both worked at?” Garrett’s voice gained volume as he turned towards the Jury. “How can you know you are not guilty? Your mental condition seems awfully convenient— something that you could easily take advantage of in a situation that played out exactly as this one has for you. I urge you to look deep inside yourself. You ca—”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Chris’ defense attorney, Alan Dunwich, rose, both fists planted on the long oak table in front of him. “Dr. Nost’s memory loss condition has already been established to the jury. At this point the prosecution is badgering the defendant and building straw men!” Livid, his face flushed as he glared at the prosecuting attorney.

“My client has a rare form of mental defect that inhibits PKC Zeta, here documented by Dr. Eric Jorgensen, one of the world’s foremost neurologists. As was previously explained—” he drew out the words while staring at Garrett, as if speaking to a young child, “—Dr. Nost can remember concepts and ideas, hence his ability to continue his work in the field of Aerospace Mechanics and Astrophysics, but new experiences and faces fade after a little more than a year, rendering his long term memory useless. The court has already heard Dr. Jorgensen’s testimony. I request that the prosecution’s question be struck from the record.” Dunwich waved a manila folder toward Judge Miller, but he still glared at James Garret.

Chris’s head swam and Garrett seemed to blur for a second as his vision went fuzzy.
Hold it together,
he fought the fear rising in his gut, a wave of nausea burning his stomach,
here is not the time or place to break down.

“Objection sustained, defense. Recorder, please strike the last question from the record and the jurors are instructed to ignore it. Mr. Garret, you have been warned once already about bringing up Dr. Nost’s disability in an attempt to discredit it without actually bringing a witness to the stand over it. If you continue to ignore the rules of this courtroom I will hold you in contempt. Now, would you like to spend a night in jail, or do you have any other real questions for the defendant?”

Dunwich looked at Garret in triumph, but the lawyer only shrugged, seemingly nonplussed, and said, “I apologize, your honor, it must have slipped my mind. The prosecution rests.” Garrett walked back to his seat at the prosecution table and sat, trying to hide the smug smile flitting across his face.

Bastard
. Dunwich couldn’t conceal the thought so obviously going through his mind. Chris imagined he could see the words scrolling through his lawyer’s mind. Inadmissible or not, prosecuting council had planted suspicion in the minds of the jury. It was a dirty tactic, one that ignored actual innocence or guilt in favor of getting a conviction.

Allen glanced covertly at the jury. The defense attorney could see it in their faces; the seed of doubt would grow. Where five minutes ago there was sympathy for Chris etched in their eyes, some now looked doubtful, others loathing—the ones that had already made their decision. The damage had been done, right when Dunwich thought he had this trial clinched.

He clenched his jaw in frustration, gears already spinning on how to turn this around in the closing statement.
Damn him,
Alan glanced at Garrett,
an unknown who relies solely on playing dirty. How did this asshole land this case? Is the District Attorney stupid? I can nail him in an appeal and it will be easy.

Judge Miller looked around the courtroom, his gaze lingering on Chris as he walked back to the defense table and sat. “Then this court will adjourn for a one hour recess. We will reconvene at—” he glanced at the round, institutional clock hanging above the jury, “—three thirty for closing statements. Bailiff, please take Dr. Nost to his holding cell. Dr. Nost, you will not be summoned to this courtroom again until the jury’s announcement of the verdict. Do you understand that?” He met Chris’s eyes with the last question.

Chris nodded to the judge. He did understand. It meant that he would have to suffer alone in a cell until the jury finished deciding his fate. As the guards led Chris from the courtroom he saw a man stand up in the audience benches and push his way through the milling crowd, waving to Judge Miller. He wore a plain blue suit and thick black-rimmed, military style, birth control, glasses. The last thing that Chris noticed as the guards pushed him from the courtroom was that the man clutched a small stack of folders stamped with a red “
CLASSIFIED
” across them.

Do I know that man?
Chris wondered. A spark of recognition flared and, though he wracked his brain, he couldn’t remember.

* * *

Chris waited in the holding cell for over three hours, staring out to the world through a three-inch thick Plexiglas window. The glass, besides obscuring what he could see because of its thickness, also had some sort of thin metal woven through it in a diagonal pattern that formed diamonds, ostensibly to stop prisoners from smashing through the three inches of transparent plastic, squeezing through a tiny window, taking out armed guards, and escaping down the sheer wall.
Just in case I had a hope of escaping they had to reinforce it with metal,
Chris thought bitterly. Every moment of those three hours dragged by like an eternity as he watched the seconds creeping along on the wall-clock behind the guard, who was ignoring him while reading a science fiction novel at a desk.

It looked like the same clock hanging in the courtroom.
How long will it take them?
he thought over and over.
How long?
He fantasized about moving time forward to get it over with, but soon gave up on the idle daydreaming, knowing that it was futile to try and distract himself.
It could be days
, he thought …
or even weeks
. Anger welled in him over this unfair situation, a throbbing tide in his blood, eaten away by a corrupting fear. Conflicting emotions ate at him until he became so lost within himself that he didn’t even notice when tears ran down his cheeks.

Chris’s stomach lurched when the external door opened. His hopes and fears were answered as the bailiff walked in and, with a quick glance at him, began speaking to the holding cell guard. Chris took a deep breath, trying to make the nausea settle.
It’s not going to be good.
He tried to banish the cancerous thought, but it entrenched even before they opened his cell door. A certainty lay in his stomach like a lead weight.
It’s not going to be good.

As the holding cell door opened, the guard noticed the despair in Chris’s eyes and handed him a small stack of napkins. “Here. Wipe your cheeks off.”

The guard looked away for a moment to give Chris a chance to compose himself. “I know it’s scary for you right now, but don’t give up. Me and the other guards have been watching your case on the TV and none of us think you did it. We can’t be the only ones thinking that way.”

Their eyes locked for a brief moment. Truth gazed back at him from those eyes and with crystal clarity Chris, realized that his life had finished.
Hope … they know I’ve lost, too. It’s not just me.
As he focused on centering himself, trying to retain some shred of his dignity, he looked once more to the guard.

“Thank you,” he said with no emotion in his voice, no fear, no hope. As they walked down the hall the guard once again became all business, but as Chris entered the courtroom and started walking towards his attorney, he felt a slight, reassuring pat on his back from the bailiff. He knew it should be consoling, but it only served to reinforce the hopelessness in his mind.

It seemed like he had been through this scene a dozen times prior—and nothing he could do would change the scripted outcome of this play. As he took his seat, his lawyer leaned towards him. Alan Dunwich, a man who surprised him with his humanity and friendship. The man was older, in his sixties with pure silver hair. He was large, not necessarily fat, but headed in that direction as a lifetime behind a desk caught up to him. In many ways Chris thought him to be truly larger than life. “Something has happened,” Dunwich whispered. “I don’t know what, but as soon as you left a guy came in to talk to Judge M—”