Superthread Page 2

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  I awoke to the sound of a man yelling at me.

  No, he wasn’t yelling – just trying in vain to rouse me from my slumber, his voice growing more and more harsh with each attempt to break the spell of my turbulent dreams.

  “Michael. Michael!”

  I forced my heavy lids open and focused on Commander Roman.

  “You need to get up, Agent Dennis,” he said. “There’s much to do today.”

  I willed myself to stay awake, and pushed myself up on one elbow. “How long was I out?”

  “You’ve been asleep for more than four hours,” said Roman.

  “How generous,” I said.

  “What? You want to sleep all day?”

  I crawled out of the bed and slipped into some clothes that had been prepared for me.

  “New?” I asked, indicating the clothing.

  “Can’t have you walking around in 2012 wearing seven year old fashions,” said Roman.

  I buttoned up the shirt. “I had the weirdest dreams,” I said. “Dreams of Nikki, dreams of lots of people dying. Hardly restful.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Roman. “But if you think your dreams were weird, wait till you get your briefing today. The period between 2001 and 2012 saw some very – interesting – developments. And it’ll be key that you remember all that you learn.”

  “Right.”

  We left my quarters and headed down a long hallway. The artificial gravity of the ship was still playing tricks on my empty stomach. As if reading my mind, Roman said, “You hungry?”

  “Starved,” I said.

  “Well, you did empty your stomach on the conference room floor,” said Roman, smirking.

  Feeling a little affronted, I said, “So, what exactly is my rank, anyway – you know, as a chrono-agent?”

  “Well, after you were sent back, and we were attacked, ATC took heavy damages. With the original chronovex destroyed, the military took over all time-related operations. The new ATC is now just a sort of contracted branch of the military. So, to answer your question – you work for me.”

  “I see,” I said. “but, what was my rank within the original organization?”

  “You were the equivalent of a captain,” said Roman offhandedly.

  We entered a room that resembled a miniature movie theater. Captain Stone was there waiting for me. Roman left us alone.

  “Good morning, Michael,” he said. “As we’re short on time and you have so much to get caught up on, you’ll have to eat while we work.” He gestured to a seat near him. I sat. He continued. “Are you still with us? I mean, is reality still sinking in and finding a firm hold in your mind?”

  “You mean, do I still believe that I am actually Michael Dennis, a planted operative from the future, sent back to enact certain changes in Earth history? Well, yes,” I said. “That does still feel right, despite the nightmares I experienced all night.”

  “Well, even though we lost you for a few years, I’m glad to report that you did in fact fulfill your mission. Let me start by briefing you on how that worked,” said Stone. “First – that is, right after you made that visual to yourself - your memory was wiped of everything but your specific mission parameters, so you wouldn’t contaminate the time line beyond your mission objective.”

  I ate my breakfast while Stone told me things that I should’ve already known, and as he spoke, it felt like I did already know it, even though I didn’t know that I knew it until he spoke the words.

  “You were sent back originally to help develop some technologies – hence your setting up J-Tech Industries – and also to have some political influence in early nineties America. You performed both of those tasks exceptionally. However, when your extraction date was missed, you carried on living as Michael Jacobsen – long past your expiration date.”

  “Expiration date, eh?” I said. “Makes me sound like a jug of sour milk.”

  “That’s just what we call the period of safe return. After about three years under cover, agents tend to start incorporating their new identity as their own – they lose themselves.”

  “And that’s what happened to me,” I said.

  “We’re so lucky we were able to get you back,” said Stone. He looked down for a moment. “There was a man named Bruce Langley. He trained me personally, back before the ATC was absorbed by the military. He was also your sponsor, Michael. When you were lost, it took a real toll on him. He would’ve been so glad to know you made it back all right.”

  I sifted through my mind in search of a Bruce Langley. At first, I drew a blank, but when Stone used the word “sponsor” I suddenly saw Bruce’s face again, as clear as yesterday.

  “You make it sound like he’s dead – is Bruce dead?”

  “He passed nearly two years ago,” said Stone. “He was a good man – a good leader. I just wanted you to know that I feel like I am carrying on his work, here. He had a vision, and he cared very much about his agents. And I feel an obligation to him, to help see it all through.”

  “Sounds like I’m in good hands, then,” I said, finishing off my orange juice. “I’m interested to get the history briefing – to learn what happened from 2001 to 2012.”

  “Let’s get to it then,” said Stone. He proceeded to give me a brief verbal narrative, highlighting the main geopolitical events of those eleven years. He then showed a visual on the large screen in the room. It played like a historical documentary, providing the details and context and analysis of everything from those years, and then went on to describe how things were supposed to play out after 2012, provided I could fulfill my new mission.

  “Do you have any further questions?” asked Stone at the conclusion of the presentation.

  “Not about history – it’s clear what has to be done – what I have to make happen. But when am I going to get my old memory uploaded?”

  “That will have to wait until after the mission. It’s too dangerous to travel back with your memory intact. We must stick to our standard operational protocols,” said Stone. “I know you’re going to need everything you’ve got to carry this out, but there’s just too much room for error if we send you back with your memory uploaded. You’re our last chance at this – we just can’t afford to fail. This should be a relatively short assignment – a matter of a couple of months - and after that, we’ll restore your backup and you can retire from this game, if that’s what you want. Heaven knows you deserve it.”

  “So I’m going into this blind?” I said, catching my breath. I’d assumed that they would make me whole before sending me out again, and the idea of trying to do this without all my memories was terrifying.

  “I know you don’t like it, Michael, but you have to understand – this rule is not flexible. From the beginning, ATC researchers and policy makers determined that an agent bringing all of his knowledge to the past presented a greater risk than was deemed acceptable. This is one of the rules we just can’t bend or break.”

  “And I’m supposed to convince my wife that she’s an agent, without even being able to appeal to her with our shared memories? This is a suicide mission.”

  “Believe me, I’ve already tried to change this. The Board of Governors, the ATC Commissioner – I even took it to the President of the First World – because I understand the critical nature of this mission. But no one is willing to take responsibility for what could happen. Now, I know it seems strange, but if you were uploaded, you’d insist on being downloaded again before the mission. You’re a dedicated agent, and you believe in these rules because you understand the dangers.”

  I sat back in my chair and exhaled explosively. “Can I at least get briefed on Nikki – not who she is now, but Agent Nikki Dennis?”

  “Yes,” said Stone, “we can get to that right away. There’s not much time before that window opens.”

  I spent the next couple of hours getting to know my wife. Then they had me make a brief visual recor
d – a message to myself to help me readjust upon my return from this mission. Next I was taken to a large, two-story room that resembled a laboratory. In the center of the room was a gunmetal gray chamber, about the size of a school bus on its end, with steps leading to a single hatch entry. Thousands of colored wires led from the top of the chamber down to several banks of computers, and also up to the ceiling, where they disappeared into the steel rafters. At least thirty technicians buzzed about, reading various meters and punching data into their glowing consoles.

  Stone and Roman shook my hand and wished me success, and I climbed the steps and entered the giant metal cocoon, feeling a distinct sensation of déjà vu. I sat down in the contoured seat within, and the door automatically closed, slowly eclipsing my view of the lab. As it formed a seal, I found myself sitting in near-silence, accompanied only by the sound of my own breathing.

  I looked around the small shell and saw a few more of the colored cables that adorned the outside, and a single visual monitor set into the door in front of me. The monitor came on, and I was greeted by the face of one of the control room scientists.

  “Agent Dennis, my name is Johnny Nakamura. I’ll be in charge of initiating the transfer today.”

  I nodded.

  “All you’ll need to do is lay very still – we’ll take care of the rest.”

  Before I could question what he meant by “lay very still” – the chair started to slowly recline and a support came up under my legs. After a few moments, I was lying flat on my back with my arms at my side.

  “Excellent,” said Nakamura. “Now, just close your eyes, take a deep breath, and hold it.”

  I did as I was instructed.

  Nakamura muttered a few quick commands to his subordinates, using technical terms that I didn’t understand. Then his voice returned more clearly. “Standing by in five, four, three, two, one. Activate chronovariant streaaaaaaaam-eam-eam-eam.”

  Nakamura’s voice seemed to stretch and echo and distort and finally fade away to infinity. My body tingled all over. I was tempted to open my eyes and release my breath, but my fear of interfering with the process and messing things up kept me rigidly in place as if I were getting an MRI. Within moments, or after an eternity, I thought I heard the sound of the ocean, a distant roar growing louder and louder.

  The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed.

  “He’s coming around,” said a female voice.

  I opened my eyes and stared up at a man in a white doctor’s coat.

  “Can you hear me?” he asked, his voice deep and sure.

  “Yes,” I said feebly. “What’s happened – where am I?”

  “You were found washed up on the beach,” he said. “You’ve been in a coma for four days.”

  “Oh,” I said, struggling to get my bearings.

  “My name is Doctor Halsgaard. Do you recall how you happened to wind up on the beach?” asked the doctor.

  I thought hard for a moment. “Um, no,” I said.

  “Your identification says you’re Michael Hashir. Is that right?”

  As soon as I heard the name, it was like a light bulb turned on in my mind, illuminating the dark corridors. I remembered who I was. At least, who I was supposed to be. I recalled the parameters of my mission. I realized I had to get out of there and get to work.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said, trying to sit up. “I’m Michael Hashir.”

  “Take it easy,” said Dr. Halsgaard, gently placing a hand the size of a waffle iron on my shoulder and easily restraining my weak body from rising any higher. “You’re not going anywhere, just yet. We need to run a couple of tests to make sure you’re all right.”

  I agreed, and spent the next day recuperating, fabricating some story about having been surfing and wiping out. When my tests came back clean and I had regained my strength, I was released from the hospital and my mission began in earnest.