Part 1: Tim

Tuesday, July 22, 2042, 8:13 am The 10-year-old Astro Cruiser lifted from its mount and slipped seamlessly into the flow of westbound traffic. Tim adjusted his previous instructions to the Tesla’s AI, sat back, and automatically glanced around.

“Crap,” he muttered. Cruising at 250 feet was a red BMW Dyno-Vector. Capable of leaving the atmosphere, should the driver so choose, it cruised the maximum allowable height for non-commercial traffic. “I know who you are,” Tim muttered. “And I know where you’re going.” He thought he did, anyway. Was she accompanied in her fancy new Dyno-Vector, he wondered?

Fusion-powered vehicles were prohibitively expensive to operate, and owned only by the wealthiest of the wealthy. That would change within the next five years, promised Oliver Norton in his State of The Union address last week. Tim had his doubts, though only concerning the period. Ten years out seemed a more likely scenario for the technology to take hold, though twenty wouldn’t surprise him at all. Until then, hydrogen fusion would remain the province of the military/industrial complex, certain commercial endeavors, and the filthy rich like Gloria Swindon.

The commercial end, and how it related to his agency was Tim’s concern. He easily recalled his stepfather’s comments back in 2017; confidently predicting the autonomous-auto nonsense would never catch hold. His reaction a few years later when Professor Erasmus Peabody of Cambridge University announced to a skeptical world that time travel was finally possible had rendered the old man apoplectic.

“Not in a fucking million years!” he hollered. (He considered it equally impossible that his stepson would someday become an officer in the Time Travel Regulation Authority). However, a surprisingly few years after Peabody’s pronouncement, he co-founded Virgin Time Travel, Inc. (VVT) with Richard Branson, opening the first travel center in Oslo, Sweden. Despite a decade-long wait on the first available ‘seats’, would-be time travelers lined up in droves. Scalpers and fraud became an immediate problem.

The dangers involved in temporal activity required tight regulation of the nascent industry. The Time Travel Regulation Authority (TTRA) was set up under the auspices of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), to provide oversight and enforcement. Following the first successful temporal experiments in 2027, the authority’s provenance was established and ratified by all 203 voting member countries of the UN. Headquartered first in Geneva, Switzerland, it moved to Brussels in 2032.

Thirty-nine satellite locations were spread throughout thirty countries across the globe: the US, China, France, The U.K., The Russian Republic, and Japan all had multiple offices. Tim worked out of Newark, New Jersey. The main US branch office was located in Los Angeles, California. Tim had trained there, as did all new recruits.

“Why are we here?” his instructor had bellowed the first day of physical training. On his hands and toes doing push-ups, Tim silently repeated the unofficial mantra: To stop some asshole rapist from jumping back to Elizabethan England and knocking up the Virgin Queen.

“And why do we want to stop this asshole?” Sergeant Waverley had demanded of the assembled greenhorns.

In unison the recruits had hollered back: “To insure us asshole recruits of ever being born, Sergeant Waverley!”

“You bet your ass that’s why, you pitiful load of pond scum!”

This consideration was, of course, complete horseshit. As every prospective TTRA agent knew, the longest documented successful jump back in time was 212 years. Performed by Gareth Huxby in 2035--the tail end of time travel’s Wild West days, before commercial exploits were sanctioned—the record had officially stood the test of time.

Huxby was signed by VTT in February 2029. His first successful flight for the company took place September 14, 2029; and is the first known jump by a human test pilot. (Based on Huxby’s extensive early career in the RAF, air travel terminology is still widely used in the time travel industry, on the commercial end, at least.) Huxby’s first destination was ten years into the past: an abandoned RAF airbase in Greenland. He remained onsite a scant half-hour, the frigid cold of January allowing time only to chisel his name and date into the end of the concrete runway. Upon Huxby’s return, his 10-year-old inscription was uncovered, photographed, and posted to VTT’s Facebook page, immediately going viral. Huxby and VTT became synonymous with time travel, and overnight sensations.

Within a year, Huxby and his staff had pushed the threshold back to 1995, photographing the eruption of the Soufriere Hills volcano on Montserrat. When grilled by an outraged press why he and his travel companion failed to alert the populace of Plymouth, Montserrat’s Georgian era capital, of impending doom, Huxby’s response was, “Jesus Christ! You don’t think we tried?”

Laughing bitterly, he explained how every attempt by he and Jan Case was met by hindrance, obstruction, or a malevolent act of nature. Tires blew out on their jeep. A huge oak tried to smash it flat. Three satellite phones in their possession all suffered battery malfunctions at once. When Jan attempted to warn a TV crew of the imminent eruption, an errant rock kicked up by a passing lorry knocked him unconscious. He returned with a serious concussion, suffering nausea and double vision. This apparent effort by the past to thwart interference from the future in historical events henceforth became known as The Huxby Paradox.

Jan Case never returned to active duty. In December 2030, Huxby, along with Case’s replacement, Jacques Brunel, catapulted back to October 24, 1929, documenting the stock market crash. Remaining in New York until late Tuesday night, October 29, documenting the biggest one-day percentage-drop in stock market history, Huxby and Brunel returned to the future with colds, which Huxby famously nicknamed, “My Black Friday Curse.” Brunel died the following day in a car crash. People began to wonder if Huxby himself wasn’t cursed. More precisely, his travel companions.

In March 2033, Huxby and Jules Piccata safely jumped back 200 years to March 4, 1833. Secretly recording the second inauguration of Andrew Jackson as president, both returned the following day suffering intense bouts of nausea and vomiting, ringing in the ears, along with muscle weakness and heartbeat irregularities. The unexplained tinnitus required surgery to alleviate. Piccata underwent an ablation to remedy acute atrial fibrillation. Both men suffered unexplained hair loss. Huxby’s Curse began to undermine the excitement and cachet of time travel.

Cognizant of the public’s growing disillusionment, TTRA’s governing body issued a restraining order on further attempts beyond 100 years, pending outcome of animal trials. Huxby--by equal measures a pariah and rock star in the public’s eye--decried any effort to halt experimentation, bringing immense political pressure to bear on the TTRA. A publicly funded organization, UNESCO buckled under public pressure and in early 2035, directed TTRA to lift the test ban. Huxby immediately programmed his personal transport for August 16, 1823.

An ardent fan of the movie, The Revenant, Huxby sought to witness first-hand Hugh Glass’s bear attack, filming it if possible. Knowing the date and location of the attack were both in dispute, Huxby programmed a 7-day stay, planning to bracket the event. He failed, never encountering the explorer, or his group of treacherous companions. Returning to Oslo, Huxby collapsed in the transport and spent two months in hospital, suffering what doctors most closely diagnosed as the bends: decompression sickness.

Huxby had round-tripped 424 years. 400 was determined the maximum safe limit for a human being. 360 years became the official research limit, with 300 set for future public transport, once authorized. No transport was authorized without TTRA signoff.

Despite two month’s hospitalization and four months of rehab and intense physical therapy (he required crutches to perambulate), Huxby campaigned for a 500 year, round-trip option for historical research. His target was July 4, 1776, a slightly extended 512 year trip. His efforts failed. You had only to look at the man to understand why.

March 26, 2036 arrived. Laboratory privileges revoked, warned off any form of experimentation by management, Huxby gained access to the flight lab and commandeered his personal unit for one final trip. What returned could not rightly be called a human being, rather, human remains. Huxby finally fell victim to his curse.

The Tesla’s AI, which Tim had named Sally, apologized for the traffic delays. Progress had dwindled to nearly walking speed. “It seems to be a breakdown in Newark Center, southwest control. A repeat of last Monday, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine, Sal; I’m only headed to work.”

His sarcasm was not lost on Sally. “Should I divert to an alternate route? Maybe Coney Island via Rockaway Park?”

Tim snorted. “Just get me to work in the shortest time possible, Sally. What time is it, anyway?” He eyed the clock as Sally concurred the readout.

“08:31 and 3 seconds, precisely.”

Tim chuckled. Precisely. Precise as a sexbot blowjob.

“Hey, Sally?”

“Yes, Tim?”

“Were you ever anywhere but this car?”

“And your apartment?” she corrected.

“My apartment, yeah. You never gave anyone a blowjob, right?”

Sally laughed. “I’m not that kind of AI, Tim.”

Tim chuckled affectionately. “You better not be, girl. Your mouth is mine.”

“I don’t have a mouth, Tim, but it would belong to you along with the rest of me, were it so.”

“Put on Fox News for me, Sal. Let’s see what depravities occurred overnight.”

“Sure, Tim.”

The screen alit to a commercial for tour packages to the asteroid belt, specifically Ceres, in closest proximity to Earth as it had been in a century. Imagine the cost of that package, Tim thought cynically: much the same as a BMW Dyno-Vector. Automatically, he looked up, but the red convertible was nowhere in sight.

The following commercial made him sit up and clasp his knees. Shot in the American Southwest, it was twilight, sun setting behind a low-slung adobe villa, cactus planted in clay pots and rock gardens, and cirrus clouds painted red. Lounging at the balcony rail with her head tossed back, hands loosely gripping the balustrade, sampling the warm air was DeArmand’s newest companion model, Joi. Ostensibly modeled on a younger, more accessible Gloria Swindon, Joi was DeArmand’s best selling model ever. It seemed almost blasphemous to call her a sexbot.

Joi lowered her head and eyed the camera, smiling cautiously. “I was truly surprised to discover how easy it is to vacation in the Southwest. Everyone here is so nice--” She glanced back at a figure crossing behind her inside the villa. “--and the weather is phenomenal this time of year.” A black and yellow finch alighted beside her left hand, making Joi laugh with its comical chirping.

“And of course, the unspoiled beauty of the Grand Canyon only a few miles north--” She gestured gracefully, not alarming the black and yellow finch in the least; it scooted closer to her left hand. “--and the beautiful Sonora Desert to the south.” She grinned mischievously. “You might even bring your wife. As an option, of course,” she added as a man in evening attire joined her at the rail. Smiling, he slid an arm about her waist and guided her inside, closing the balcony door behind him. The logo for Traversia appeared, followed by a montage of promotional shots. It didn’t surprise Tim at all that Gloria, in the guise of Joi, had made the leap to advertising other people’s products.

Gloria was something of a black eye for TTRA. Once considered a shoe-in for Newark Station Commander, Gloria had left in 2037 to accept a position with the Phillip DeArmand Company, rising quickly to Senior Vice President of Product Development. Gloria was two years younger than Tim, and could afford a penthouse in Manhattan. The BMW Dyno-Vector was her personal car.

“You make fucking sexbot’s,” he growled at the screen. “I should have screwed you when I had the chance. Before you cashed in your humanity and went to work for that fucking father of yours. Before you married that philandering piece of shit you call a husband. Before you designed your own clone and put it out there for anyone to screw.” He snapped off the viewer with a flick of his finger.

“Get me the fuck to work, Sally!”

Responding to his anger, Sally hung a right at the next intersection, accelerating briskly while illegally killing the Tesla’s transponder and engaging the crash screens. Sally would get Tim to work on time, even if it killed him.

...

“Hey, Sam.” Tim removed his uniform jacket and dropped it on the old-fashioned coat rack he shared with Sam Dunbar. Sam looked up, half a Snickers bar in her hand, the other half presumably in her mouth. She nodded, chewing.

“Newark South is down again.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Never would have known. How’s the boards?”

Sam shook her head. “Nothing unusual. All in the green.” She indicated the high board along the south wall. “Berkshire’s reporting some trouble, though. Don’t know what it is, yet ... not that we care,” she said, turning back. Berkshire was Ken Ralston’s territory. “How things go last night?”

Tim grimaced. He’d called his daughter in Flagstaff for her birthday. They’d fought. Product of a divorced home, Tara disrespected both parents equally, despite having lived with Tim through her senior yet in college. Now in her first year of post-grad at Arizona State, she disrespected him even more.

He thought uneasily of sexbots on balconies. Sexbots on campus.

“Forget I asked. Should have known better, sorry.” Rising, Sam rubber-banded the uneaten half of her Snickers bar snugly into the package, dropped it into the top drawer, and donned her jacket. “Keep an eye out for Kate. She’s got a right strop on this morning as Chief puts it. Don’t know what her issue is. Maybe her Ken model broke down last night. Or has a weak battery, or something.”

She grinned, twitching her right eyebrow. Ken was the facetious name given to male-version sexbots. Tim was relatively certain that Kate O’Dare, his commanding officer, didn’t own one. He stooped to retrieve her nametag from the floor: Lt. Samantha Dunbar, TTRA.

“Thanks.” She pinned it back on above her breast pocket. “Always good to know who I am, you know.”

“I thought you were David Marx. All this time I coulda been after you for sex.”

“And that would be different, how?” she quipped.

Tim rolled his eyes. Never trade barbs with a quick-witted broad.

“I’m outta here. Good luck with Kate, bucko.”

“I’ll keep your seat warm till you get back.”

She wagged a forefinger. “I’m off until Thursday, oh-nine-hundred. Don’t you even think about calling me, bucko. I’ll be in bed the next 24 hours. Alone!” she stipulated, pointing her red-tipped finger. Tim laughed.

“You have nice two days off, then. Take a Sominex for me.”

“Right, partner.” She cocked her finger at him and turned to go. “Keep the world safe.”

Tim watched her stroll toward the elevators, rear end twitching, left hand swinging free at her side, the other clasping the strap of her purse. Sam was thirty-eight years old, Tim’s junior by ten years. Married once to a helio-tech, her husband was killed on a downed transport in Afghanistan four years ago. She was the only woman Tim would ever consider asking to marry him. They’d last had sex in 1927 Chicago. It was the third and worst time.

The console beeped behind him. “What?” he demanded, turning. Two-thirds the way down the screen a thin red line ran horizontally across the display; twenty-three small blue dots hovered at varying heights above the red line.

“So what?” he griped. “That lowest dot? It’s not that fucking low, dammit.” Actually, it was.

Grumbling, he tapped the screen and read the dot’s particulars: Shaw, Andrew Richard. Destination: Berlin, Germany, Feb 3, 1936 (Years: 106. Extent: 13 days. Status: Approved.)

Punching up further details, he discovered that Prof. Shaw was a Cambridge historian researching 20th century political history. No problem, other than too close to redlining due to extent. Time spent in the past was nearly as critical as the years traveled.

A quick examination of the remaining dots proved all travelers were operating within approved norms. Sitting back, he brought the Ever-Hot mug to his lips, wondering how it was that despite the worldwide shortage of coffee, his favorite infusion remained the top selling beverage in the world.

A new dot appeared at the top of the screen, green, instead of blue. “Who the fuck are you?” he muttered. “And why are you green?”

Tapping the keyboard, he started the required diagnostic and alerted the watch commander. Most likely an equipment malfunction, they could still have a terrorist on their hands. Or a Bomber.

The term “Bomber” harkened back to the second decade of the 21st Century. Youth in search of the ultimate thrill jumped off towering cliffs and immense skyscrapers, high bridges and tall structures, parachutes strapped to their backs that might or might not open on the way down. Internet challenges resulted in hundreds of young people dead before the newly instituted International Internet Authority (IIA) shut down sites involved in illegal (or idiotic) challenges. IIA also had authority to prosecute the prognosticators behind illegal challenges, sending scores to jail. In today’s parlance, a Bomber was any unauthorized time-traveler, jumping back solely to reach or exceed Gareth Huxby’s record jump. Several had met the same fate as Huxby.

“What’s going on, Tim?”

Without looking up, Tim briefed the watch commander on the interloper.

“You ran a diagnostic?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “Still running.” He tapped the scrolling code at the bottom right corner of the screen. “I think this one’s real, Kate. Commander. Sorry.”

Behind him, Lt. Commander Katherine O’Dare smiled and leaned forward, hands clasped behind her back. Purposely, or not, she brought the side of her small left breast into contact with Tim’s shoulder.

“Do we know where he launched?”

Tim shook his head, not in denial, but in disgust. “Looks like Disney, again. Virgin’s Disney World center.”

“Son of a bitch,” Kate swore. A graduate of Brussels, Kate had run the accelerated program and captured the rank of Lt. Commander shortly after her 30th birthday. Now 32, she held Gloria Swindon’s former position of watch commander. It was rumored she was being fast-tracked to full Commander, and future command of the station. Time for her to run off and make sexbots, Tim often thought sourly. He wondered what to make of the soft mass pressing warmly against his right shoulder.

Kate spun about. “Chief! Can you get a lock on L23 Z44? We got an unauthorized here, I think!”

“Roger that, ma’am!”

Chief Petty Officer Dan Howell was an old salt. Seen it all, done it all. Nearly old enough to be Tim’s father, Kate could be his grandchild. He doted on her like one.

“Subject took off from Disney World, pod 3. Trajectory will take him to ... crap. Looks like June 18, 1815. He’s heading for Belgium.”

“Christ,” Kate groaned. “He’s trying for the Battle of Waterloo. What’s the matter with the idiot? If he survives the jump, the English will blow his ass off.”

“It’s a he, then?” CPO Howell questioned.

Kate shot him a withering look. “Of course, it’s a man, Chief. Only men pull stunts like this.”

Tim knew better, but kept his mouth shut.

“Get onto it now, Lieutenant. Stop the stupid bastard before he redline’s.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tim was the most experienced tracking Bombers. He knew they tended to stick to a narrow bandwidth. Donning his head set, he listened carefully, scanning the expected wavelengths. “Got him,” he announced softly after a minute.

“Can you stop him?” Kate asked anxiously. A watch commander never wanted a Bomber on her watch.

“Maybe. Let’s see.” Tim started a retrieve algorithm and watched as a scintillating blue dot closed in on the illegal green dot. Drone BA8746E out of Orlando.