Force

Observations

  Nothing.

  I tossed the Boom Pack and nothing.

  I’m still standing here in the middle of the field smelling like a goat in my puke suit. Waiting… for nothing.

  Maybe the charge landed too close? There are two sets of stones in there. The radius for energy absorption should be... I shake my head because I don’t know. When I left Ice World I didn’t even have to remove the rocks from their bag, they just went off the second I pulled the zipper open. But, before I got Doyen’s set, the one I picked up in World Two was exposed to energy several times before reacting. So I just don’t know; does that make for a bigger or smaller radius for absorption?

  Opening the pouch, I pour the stones out into my hand for a closer look.

  What the hell!

  There are only three rocks: one white, one red, one black. One set of Threestone. They are slightly larger than the set my father left me—which means they’re the set I picked up in World Two.

  So, the smaller stones I took from Doyen are gone.

  Just, shit-shit. Shit!

  Searching the ground, I check every step between here and the stream. Closely. Carefully.

  Twice. And still find nothing.

  Maybe the Boom Pack didn’t go off because I tossed them near the set of stones I dropped.

  Warily, I creep towards the nitroglycerin pack lying dormant on the ground, stones out ahead of me as insurance. It’s easy to see that the chemicals are mixed and there’s nothing around them save rocks and twigs, the obligatory pine needles.

  I can just see the lost set of stones lying in the streets of Neutopia surrounded by piles of unresponsive androids and want to kick myself for the stupidity. I fell and didn’t once think to check that I still had the stones.

  Taking up the tiny chemical pouch, I pinch it once more for good measure then fling it further out, waiting for the boom.

  The chemicals inside the envelope are supposed to be volatile. Maybe the ground is too soft. The first pack I used fell on a paved road and went off without a hitch.

  I make my way around the immediate area trying to find the hardest surface. There’s a group of rocks near the base of one of the great trees. I throw the packet on it and come up empty.

  Slamming it against the trunk doesn’t work, either. It smacks impotently against the wood and smacks onto the rocks below.

  The shrill ring of disappointment is the only sound.

  Is it possible that travelling through the gateways damaged the cartridges? They didn’t get wet, but maybe the cold damaged them? Or, what if, there’s something about this place that changes the chemicals?

  Did Eli even test the Boom Packs? Maybe he knew it was possible that one could fail, and that’s why he gave me three. I can’t imagine he has much experience in producing pocket-size bombs.

  Yeah, there was probably a dud.

  That one had to be the dud.

  My last explosive pack—very likely my only hope of getting out of this place and back to a modern society where things like soap and indoor plumbing are commonplace—is now in my hand. I’m not going to think about what it means if it doesn’t work because it will.

  It will.

  With hood tightly refastened, holding the lone set of stones against me, I use my free hand to crush the delicate glass vials in the enclosed envelope. The liquid mixes. I toss it far and fast. It hits a large rock and bounces onto soft grass.

  There’s no one to hit or yell at.

  I punch at the air and scream at Eli, anyway. This is all his fault.

  Resisting the urge to wear myself out, I change out of my radiation suit and back into hiking boots, then head south. If any city exists in this plane, it should be Los Angeles.

  Coming across the lower part of the stream, I decide to follow it since it bends in the right direction. If there are any campers, they’ll likely be near a water source no matter the decade.

  Singing to pass the time, playing a little air guitar when the song calls for it. It’s difficult to stay upset when my surroundings are so utterly song worthy, but I manage.

  It’s not long before my throat is aching and the sun is still mid-sky. Shadows on the ground are fat and short pointing to a minimal passage of time though my feet feel like I’ve been walking for hours.

  After stopping for a drink I take out my notebook. Eli will want to know everything and I have a few things to tell him. I make some notes referencing the time differential, explaining that there is no way to measure it.

  I lost a second set of stones after killing a man to get them.

  Screw you and your damn time differential. I’m stuck here, you idiot! Your boom-packs don’t work. I’m stuck here until I find an alternate energy source.

  Why couldn’t you give me something solar powered? The sun is everywhere.

  My only constant.

  After soaking my feet, I start walking again, keeping inside the cool water until my toes tingle. The sun is still high. It’s moved some, but not as much as it should. It’s like the land of endless days.

  After another long stretch of tall, grassy knolls and pathless trudging, I stop to rest beneath the edge of a striking Oak grove. Scribbling my thoughts, I speak the words as I write.

  No doubt, it’s been hours since I arrived, but the sun says it’s nowhere near evening. It’s too quiet. The birds fly way up high and those are the only other life I’ve seen. No squirrels or other forest animals like I’d expect being so deep in wooded areas. I’ve walked for miles. My feet hurt too much to keep going today. Right now, I could really use that tent.

  Don’t say it. I know, you tried to tell me.

  I’ve set the stones in the sun to catch the heat. This pair, like the first, stays locked together in a petal formation. I tested by lowering them to the ground and holding only the white rock. The red and black remained tight against it, held by some force that keeps the three connected like a single entity. Easy to see how they got the unified title of Threestone.

  Too bad the sets don’t stay together so easily.

  I can’t believe I lost them.

  A breeze kicks up, calling attention to the water on my cheek. My fingers rub at it, realizing its tears. Two deep breaths, a cough to clear my throat, and that’s that.

  Solar power will have to do for now. My rumbling stomach presents the most immediate worry. But also has to wait until I know what’s what.

  Down on my knees, I unzip my backpack and get to work.

  With everything sprawled out on the ground, I can finally take inventory. The last plane was, first, too cold and then too crowded.

  There’s two types of rope, three days’ worth of food if I stretch it, a pair of space blankets, a rain poncho, toothbrush, dirty socks, night-vision goggles that don’t work, a soup pot, cup of dry beans, first-aid kit, an empty water bladder, non-aerosol bug spray, a small handsaw, matches, lighter, pocket knife and three cigarettes. There’s also a folder with the copied pages of my dad’s journal, but that will have to wait.

  After making camp, I can eat and if I’m not too tired, do some reading.

  To cook, I’ll need hot water.

  For hot water and light, I need fire.

  Top of the list: gathering wood.

  In ninth grade, I read a book about a boy trapped in the Alaskan wilderness. He had a hatchet. I’ve got a flimsy, six-inch saw and a knife that has a corkscrew for opening bottles of wine. It also has a plastic toothpick and a tiny pair of scissors. What do the Swiss think people do on camping trips?

  I spread out my stuff at the edge of the tree line, under the shade of a grouping of enormous trees because there’s a wide rock, relatively flat, that will be serving as my evening chair. By the looks of the sun, evening is still hours away but I need to hustle if I’m going to have some semblance of shelter before night falls.

  The sky is barely cloudy, which means night could be cool, but I’m not worried about that. It’s the sprinkling of d
arker clouds that worry me. If they gather, I might get stuck in a downpour.

  Leaving the stones to rest in the sun-drenched meadow, I trek into the denser parts of the forest and the place comes to life. Choruses of birds whistle in the thick canopy, insects chirp, bugs fly. I see one small, fluorescent green snake slinking up a white tree trunk. Fat, fluffy rodents bound away from my heavy steps in every direction.

  About fifty yards in, I come upon a large, dead tree, covered in moss and brightly colored insects. Even the bugs are something to look at. The moss is a vibrant green carpet.

  It takes some time, but I manage to work off a good-sized branch near the top of the fallen giant. The main branch will provide firewood while the long twigs will help build a lean-to. The wood is dry enough for burning. I lug the branch back to camp and spend too long breaking it up and tossing the useable pieces into the campfire until the pile looks large enough to last through the night.

  Semi-sheered branches are layered over the high side of a large rock. Underneath them is just enough space for me to crawl inside and sleep on a small patch of soft grass.

  It must have taken a solid hour to hike to and from the stream both times. Since then, I’ve walked until my feet hurt, rested and started again. I’ve made camp, chopped wood, built a shelter and a fire. The sun has moved only a few feet in all that time. The sky looks to be about 4 o’clock, but my stomach says its way past dinner time.

  I’m not going to think about stretching time or the frozen sun. It’s worse than waiting for my water to boil—which feels like hours passing as I wait, impatiently poking the campfire.

  When the sun finally starts to set, the colors are indescribable. The air everywhere glows in radiant hues of red, blue, orange and purple, painting the treetops and mountainsides in sweeping strokes of glory.

  It’s beautiful and depressing, this superbly tinted canvas marking the end of the worlds’ longest day, which inevitably leads to what is going to be the longest night of my pitiable life. I lay a few more large chunks of wood on the fire before curling up with my crinkly space blanket and close my eyes.

  Rest comes and goes before the night is through. I woke, stirred the fire, and set another log on. The woodpile is disappearing faster than the dark, and according to the moon, it’s still a few of hours until dawn.

  The woods behind me are deathly quiet. The crackle of the fire is my only company. That and the stones. They’re set near the flames, eating the warmth. When I move them back, the blazing limbs bend the same way they did on the rooftop in New York; stretching towards the cold rocks. I set them further and further back until the flames snap back to normal and mark the distance. Nineteen long steps.

  I take out my notebook and make notes describing what I see. It’s fascinating and should have me distracted, but World Two is weighing heavily on my mind.

  I hope Carrie and little G are okay.

  And I’m still wondering exactly what it was that killed little G’s dad. The blast from the neighboring building was strong, but I didn’t see anything hit him. We were both thrown back, but I was the one who hit the wall. He fell on top of me. There was no visible blood. He was breathing when I left. I should have stayed with him.

  The fire is warm and my bed is stone cold. I’ve slept all I can, yet there’s no trace of light on the horizon. Huddled inside my sweatshirt and space blanket, I’m glad for the warmth and wishing for something softer than the plastic inflate-o-pillow I found swimming in the bottom of my bag.

  The fire is burning bright, but it doesn’t matter. The journal pages Eli photocopied for me have all turned black—probably from the heat of the vortex. There are no distractions now, nothing to detract from this depressing mess.

  I wonder what Abi’s doing. Does she miss me?

  She’s probably angry with me for leaving her like I did. But if she really thinks about it, maybe she’ll understand why. I had to. If I took her with me, we’d both be in trouble. She’d be stuck here with me—which, actually sounds pretty great, but I couldn’t risk her life like that. It would drive me crazy not being able to protect her.

  Eli is consumed with work, no doubt. In the time since we reconnected, he’s talked of nothing but science and theory; his words too big, his concepts too large, for the common mind.

  Sometimes, while listening to his attempted explanations, I imagined him sounding like Morgan Freeman. The science shows he narrates always seem to make sense. Eli could learn a few things from him. He once spent half the night trying to pound out some explanation about some relationship between wormholes and entanglement, how they’re impacted by dark matter, but it all went way over my head. I didn’t understand the language enough to grasp what he was saying because Eli’s primary tongue is mathematics.

  My basic understanding of everything he tried to teach me in the short time we spent preparing me for this long, slow death was this: anything and everything is possible in the world of quantum physics, even and especially, the capabilities of my inheritance, the Threestone.

  He’d unintentionally bored me for hours. Every time I sighed, he’d apologize in his circle-talk.

  “I do not possess the skill to explain these formulations.”

  Or, he’d say, “There’s no legitimate language to answer your questions, G. I’d have to show you by formula.”

  The fact that someone that intelligent lacks the language to explain anything is just sad.

  He did manage to explain how he came up with his closed loop, multi-verse-slash-time relativism theory. I can’t remember the name... ‘Thacker’s Timely Theorem,’ or something stupid like that, but the idea was kind of ingenious. Beautifully simple and still too complex to fully explain.

  Eli started by saying he was not like other kids. I can attest to that. He was always reading books or writing them. Always talking about scientists no one else had ever heard of and questioning parts of the world that most people take for granted. Like, why is the sky blue? What makes the earth stay fixed on its’ axis? Hell if I know. But Eli wouldn’t only ask the questions, he’d search for the answers.

  One day, while he was out to dinner with his parents—they were at some Mexican restaurant—and Eli was staring at the Aztec calendar on the wall near their table. It was manmade and round. For some reason, he began comparing the loops found in nature. The round sun and round planets that orbit in an oval pattern, the natural circles that exist within each—every planet rotating on its’ own axis within the larger circular orbits. The gravitational pull that holds our round moon and the subsequent cycle of high and low tides.

  He thought of the morning—how every day starts with the sun rising in the east and ends with it setting in the west. And every season that comes and goes only to come back again. He connected that back to the layered circles of the Aztec calendar and then back to everything in existence: the shapes and patterns within all natural life that operate in closed loops until he had the revelation: time worked the same way.

  Then there’s the endless number of dimensions that theoretical physicists accept as truth because of some sub-atomic particles that have the ability to be in more than one place at any given time. Bi-location! It’s called bi-location, I recall, and pat myself on the back.

  All the technical parts of Eli’s theories are as good as nonsense to me, but being here, stuck in this place that looks and feels so slow and surreal, it’s a giant slap of reality.

  Pow!

  Right in the face.