Chapter 8

I sat at my desk reading a report from Betty, my personal secretary who also assumed the role of charities coordinator. It described the various donations, monetary or otherwise, BSS Enterprises had made during the past six months and what they had been used for. Each item also contained a capsule evaluation of the charity and the person running it, in case I wanted to reevaluate my contributions or go visit the place. I still tried to visit as often as I could, but there were quite a few now. It was difficult enough to keep up with the businesses that made me money. I was pretty busy maintaining oversight of the parent corporations while still trying to stay involved with the ones I really enjoyed, such as AmazeInc. Anyhow, there I was, reading away, when the doorbell rang.

That was pretty amazing in itself. Considering the amount of security around this complex, not to mention additional systems around my condo, it was unbelievable anyone could get to my doorstep without all kinds of warning devices going off. Naturally, that first alerted me to the possibility this might not be someone from my Time/Space Continuum. Either that or a Super Ninja. I didn’t think I had anything to fear, however. If it was an assassin, they wouldn’t be ringing my doorbell. With a half-hearted hope it might be Solomon, I toggled the front door camera.

There stood two of the funniest looking guys I had ever seen. I mean both funny strange as well as funny ha-ha. They weren’t really big, but they seemed kind of bulky at odd places, and not in the same places. I couldn’t figure out if maybe they were carrying large weapons after all or if they had wallets the size of machine guns strapped to their backs, thighs, shoulders, and wherever. They were also wearing the kind of outfits you would expect from a grade ‘B’ spy film: trenchcoats down to the ground with the collars raised up and hats with big, floppy brims that hid most of their heads. Even though it was night, they were also wearing very large pairs of sunglasses obscuring what few facial features I could see. I was very reluctant to let these characters in, so I spoke to them over the intercom.

“What can I do for you?”

They both looked directly up at the camera, even though the speaker was beside the doorbell and the camera was in the top corner of the doorframe. That made me even more nervous. These were professionals who knew exactly what they were doing concerning security systems.

“Citizen Barnaby Frederick Smith,” one of them said, and he didn’t make it sound like a question. Well, it figured they would know who would be the only person in this condo.

“Naturally. What do you want with me?”

“Simply conversation, Mr. Smith,” said Number Two to the speaker, no longer looking at the camera. Number One looked away as well.

“Then go see your local clergyman, or maybe a shrink. Got anything in particular you want to talk about with me?”

“It’s about your relationship with Solomon Barnaby Smith.”

It’s funny how memories of insignificant incidents from the distant past can rush back to you under certain circumstances. When this weird looking fellow said that, I suddenly remembered my someday relation had told me his name was Solomon B. Smith. I had never thought to ask what the “B” stood for. Was it a quirk of fate, or had his father somehow known all of this would happen when he gave his son his middle name?

“What about Solomon? Did he send you here?”

“No, Citizen Smith,” said Number One. Like twins, they reached into their coat pockets and whipped out some sort of identification, holding them up towards the camera. “We’re security agents from his time era, something like a police officer here. It is very serious, and we would really like to talk with you in person, okay? Mind if we squat?”

“Squat?” What the heck kind of jargon was that? I zoomed in on the badges. They were impressive looking, at least. Obviously, I had no idea if they were authentic.

I thought about it for a moment. These guys were some kind of cops, and they wanted to talk about Solomon? I couldn’t imagine a billionaire inventor doing anything to get the police hunting for you, especially by looking up very distant relatives. On the other hand, why would these guys have traveled back in time to talk with me about Solomon if it wasn’t something serious? After all that had happened to me since the evening Solomon had knocked on my apartment door, it never occurred to me these two were not really from the future. The way they dressed certainly seemed more out of my own era, but maybe they hadn’t wanted to attract too much attention if they were seen by someone else – as if those costumes wouldn’t attract serious attention. But what else could they be? How else could they possibly know about Solomon if they weren’t really future G-men?

I was convinced that if they had wanted to do me harm, they could have easily done it without giving me any warning. Nevertheless, I activated all of the surveillance devices in the entryway, which included detectors for metals and certain types of plastics and chemicals that might be weapons. There was also a type of x-ray scanner.

They stood there quietly, seemingly not bothered by my long hesitation. After all my scanners had done their jobs and registered negative, Number Two asked: “Satisfied we aren’t carrying?” Wow! I thought, what kind of sophisticated devices did they have that would let them know what I was doing? And if their surveillance detection devices were that good, how could my pitiful scanners pick up any futuristic weapons they might have on them, after all? Well, I figured there was only one way to find the answers to all my questions. I buzzed the door open.

“Come on in, guys. ‘Squat’ a while.”

As they trooped in, it seemed they looked even stranger than they had on the surveillance camera. Then they literally did squat, right there in the middle of my living room, ignoring several pretty comfortable chairs. Very strange. In spite of their obvious comfort with the situation, and my discomfort, I was determined it was going to be my show. So I sat down in my La-Z-Boy and immediately started asking the questions.

“You gents got names?”

“My name is Jones,” said Number One, “and his is Brown.”

“Neither of you are named Smith?”

“No, we are not. We are not related, Barnaby F. Smith.”

It was obvious they had this thing about full names in the future. It was also obvious those weren’t their real names, as they had not stated their full names. I wondered what the hell difference it could make, since I couldn’t call down to the local F.B.I. office and try to have them traced. Whatever.

Just for the hell of it I asked, “You got any personal identification? I mean something besides those stinking badges?” How would I know the difference? Still, I wanted to seem like I was somehow in command here. The best way is to ask the questions and make the other party provide all of the proof. It seemed to work wonderfully well for me in business. And it worked in all of the cop shows on TV, so why not here?

Number One reached inside his trench coat and pulled out a piece of what looked like paper. He gave it to me without a word. It felt something like wax paper, only much thinner, and much lighter. Still, it somehow felt very sturdy.

It was a very official looking letter of authentication from some high corporate official, from the title and fancy letterhead. It named John Polonius Jones and Emanuel Barrett Brown as Special Investigatory Agents for what sounded suspiciously like a massive holding corporation for a huge conglomerate. It not only spelled out their duties, but clearly stated they had ‘full authority to investigate the whereabouts and apprehend in any manner necessary the number one criminal in the known world, to wit, one Solomon Barnaby Smith, for heinous crimes against humanity and the recognized governing authority.’ It made Solomon sound like some sort of political criminal, which could mean a lot to me or nothing at all. I decided to continue the interrogation.

“Looks very official to me. Oddly enough, it’s written in English. And how is it you speak English so well – well, more or less. Solomon said he had to study for years to come close because the language had changed so much over the decades.”

They simultaneously pointed towards their throats, although I couldn’t see what they intended to point out because the collars were up all the way, practically hiding their mouths as well.

“It was anticipated you might wish documentation as to our identities and mission,” Number One explained. Wow. That was some foresight on the part of their employers. “As to the verbal abilities, we had translator implants. They’re attached to the larynx, with direct contacts into the vocal cords, the part of the throat that produces the vibrations which become sounds. Our ears translate those sounds into meaningful symbols, such as words. Our translators are programmed to make sounds come out of our mouths in symbols you can understand, even though we’re really speaking our own language.”

“You’ve got electrodes attached to your vocal cords? Isn’t that pretty dangerous?”

“The technology has been around for decades, and the surgery has become so simple that the entire implant takes less than thirty minutes. It is no more dangerous than, in this era, having your tonsils removed.”

“Wow! But I’m not wearing one of those gizmos. Unless you both studied my language, how come you can understand me?”

“Actually, that’s the easy part of it,” Number One claimed nonchalantly. “We’re wearing small devices that process the sounds you make, translates them into our language, and then broadcasts them through tiny speakers in our ears.”

“Sort of like hearing aids?”

“I don’t know what those are, but the auditory translation devices are used by people who can’t hear very well, so I suppose so. Explanation satisfactory?”

“Perfectly. Uh, by the way, you guys happen to know the name of the company that invented those gizmos?”

They looked at each other again, and I really wished I could see their expressions. Finally, Number Two kind of shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s really not ... relevant to our way of life, you might say. The manufacturer of our equipment is called Communication Sub Unit 27. I believe they’re in the West Oriental Region. It seems to me the original manufacturer may have been called SynVoc, but I’m not certain. That was a long time ago.”

“Oh, sure, I understand,” I said, making a mental note to see if there was a company named SynVoc yet. “Ancient history for you. Well, once again, gents, what can I do for you?”

“Please tell us what Solomon B. Smith told you regarding himself and his reasons for asking you to leave him a fortune.”

One thing was for certain, these future guys didn’t beat around the bush. The world just seemed to get faster and faster...

“Actually, he didn’t talk much about himself. Just told me I was his great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather (I think that’s how many ‘greats’ he used), and that I would leave him this vast fortune so he could do the R&D on a time machine. Only he called it a TMD, or something. I forget what that stood for.”

Number One and Number Two gave each other a look. Yeah, they had supplied me with supposed names, but I figured my designations of them came much closer to their actual identities than the really unimaginative aliases that letter purported them to be. Somehow, the names seemed vaguely familiar to me, which I suppose was intended. Anyhow, the numbers seemed much more appropriate.

“Solomon B. Smith told you he was the inventor of the Temporal Displacement Mechanism?” Number Two asked with kind of a snicker in his voice.

“Well, yeah. Right, TDM, that’s what he called it. But I take it you mean to imply he wasn’t.”

They gave each other that look again. At least, I assumed they could read the message in each other’s eyes, although I couldn’t see a damn thing through those dark lenses.

Number One made that same little snickering sound as he said, “No, he wasn’t.”

“Well, he sure as hell seemed to know a lot about it.”

“Solomon B. Smith was a very minor assistant on the project, and we think he had himself attached to the project so he could monitor its progress and learn how to operate it. The real inventor was both a great scientist and a loyal, dedicated member of the Zaibatsu.”

“‘Was?’ For me, that’s future tense. Did something happen to him?”

Number One said flatly, “He was murdered by Solomon B. Smith, who then stole the mechanism and made his escape by using it before we could stop him.”

“What!”

“Affirmative, Citizen,” Number Two confirmed. “That is what started our hunt for him, although he has committed many more crimes since then. In our relative time frame, we have been trying to capture him for more than five years.”

I was so stunned I literally tumbled backwards onto my La-Z-Boy – yes, the same one I bought many years before. I collapsed so totally I was fortunate it was already laid back or I may have triggered the lay-back mode and just kept on rolling over the back and onto the floor. I just lay there for a while, staring at them as they squatted impassively in their strange stances. It never even occurred to me to resent their lack of concern for my welfare.

I couldn’t believe it was true. Solomon was such a nice guy! At least he had seemed nice. I was pretty sure it wasn’t just my memory making him seem that way because he had made me incredibly rich. A murderer – it just didn’t seem possible. But why would these guys, so obviously some sort of government agents, chase after him through time for so long if he hadn’t done something really bad?

“What other crimes has he committed?” I demanded.

“Solomon B. Smith is one of the leaders of a radical group known as the ‘Revos,’ who are dedicated to the overthrow of the Zaibatsu, which are the ruling bodies of our world,” Number One replied. “Their tactics seem to be borrowed from the I.R.A. of your time frame. They assassinate prominent government leaders when they are in vulnerable situations, and plant bombs in public places to kill helpless citizens because it is much more difficult to attack protected government installations.”

“So you’re saying Solomon is not only a terrorist, but a cowardly one.”

“I’m merely telling you the tactics of the group he leads. You make your own judgments,” he said with a neutral voice.

“This is all pretty damn difficult to believe.”

“Solomon B. Smith is your direct descendant. I can understand your reluctance to believe such evil acts of him.”

“I suppose you have some proof of this?”

“We have extensive evidence. Would you like to see some of it?”

“Of course.”

“Most of it’s not very pretty. I hope you have a strong stomach.”

“Go ahead. Show it to me.”

Number One signaled to Number Two, who sort of turned away so I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. Number Two reached into an inside pocket in that bulky trench coat and pulled out a box about three inches square each way. Perhaps strangely, I thought that still left a lot of weird lumps to account for. As he put the box on the table in front of me, Number One explained what was coming up.

“This is a small TotalVid unit, which is a type of projector. It will produce a holographic image of certain events that involved Solomon B. Smith. We stored these images in the projector anticipating that you would want to see for yourself. The first was taken in the R&D laboratory on the day the TDM was perfected – and then stolen. I’m sure you will recognize Solomon B. Smith in the group.”

Number Two flicked a switch on the box, and suddenly a complete scene materialized about two feet in the air above the table, and about a foot high. The setting was obviously a lab of some sort. The tiny people seemed like solid flesh, not just some sort of images on a screen. It was as though I was actually looking down into the lab from very high above.

In the center of the scene was a machine. It didn’t look much like the little time machine I had been using all these years, but I presumed that’s what it must be. It was surrounded by perhaps fifteen people. Most of them wore lab smocks, although two of the men wore very strange but attractive costumes, perhaps their equivalent of suits. Looking very carefully, I could make out one of the men who might well have been Solomon. To my great surprise, he also looked quite a bit like I did these days, which was a very depressing thought.

There was evidently some sort of major event happening, as everyone seemed to be upbeat, yet still somehow tense. Two young people were adjusting a wide array of dials and displays on a control board as the rest looked on expectantly. When they were finished they stepped back with a bow, and a very distinguished and senior appearing man stepped towards the machine holding an animal that resembled a large white rat. He put the ‘rat’ into the machine, and very ceremoniously flipped a switch. Without the blink of a light, the animal and the machine disappeared. After perhaps a minute, during which everyone watched the now empty space intently, the machine reappeared. The man reached into the machine and pulled out the animal. It seemed no worse for wear, only perhaps a bit more nervous. The man held the animal aloft in obvious triumph. The entire room exploded into shouts and enthusiastic cheers.