The Battered Suitcase September 2008

  Whirling, Blake finds Galen has imposed himself on the entire visible spectrum. He shuts his eyes, his fists pulsing at his sides. "And what is my fucking purpose, old man!?!"

  "You're not a fighter, Sonny. You're an observ-- blast it, man! Focus! Oh, for crying out loud... we'll talk when you get back."

  Blake feels himself dissolving from the inside. "Galen!"

  "If you were sick last time you'll be fine this trip. Alternates for some reason... but it'll fade eventually, once you get more control..."

  Everything tornadoes into nothing.

  ~

  By now your mentor should have briefed you on the basics. To reiterate, here's the first two rules:

  How can I be reading these when I can't see anything else?...

  1) You can't kill.

  2) You'll get killed.

  Is this just in my head?

  The third run is the final trial. It should be fairly intense. Be ready to improvise; you won't have much other choice.

  ... Ripping again... but... no pain?...

  Bon Voyage.

  ~

  Recycling waves lapped against a waking beach. The sun inched out over the water, still only a dull glow but growing steadily with each crash of the surf.

  He rose to his feet, relieved to be feeling none of the earlier jump's pain. Sweeping the sand off his khakis, he paused as he recognized them for vintage military apparel. Already low and sinking further, he resignedly doffed his white cap for confirmation. Authentic U.S. navy. He should know: his granddad had done thirty years of active duty.

  Unreal... in the service, then. With no context this time... and the scrolling text refused to be summoned. A good four or five inches taller, too. He shook his head and turned to fully take in his surroundings.

  A flash of crimson spurted across his vision, vanished behind the now gleaming sun, and reappeared on a palm tree to his left.

  Palm tree? And that bird...

  He had been here before. One of his few clear memories from age six, and the last period he could remember his parents coexisting. The air had tasted a little different, the trees had looked maybe that much fresher, and the sand had felt... cleaner... but he had been here before. A certainty he clutched to desperately...

  Christ. Shit. A U.S. navy uniform? On this beach? What the hell was the date? He had the where, but what the fuck was the when?

  Spinning around to reorient, he churned up a plume of glistening sand that sent the red bird streaking skywards again.

  If memory served, the port should be due east, along the coast, maybe ten miles... quite a hike, but there really weren't any other options.

  Slipping off his boots with two smooth kicks, he stuffed his socks into the heels, tied the laces together in a bowknot, and took off at a brisk jog with the bundle over his shoulder.

  1941 A.D.: Hawaii, United States.

  Jesus.

  ~

  "Honolulu Star: December 6th, 1941." The text and images that had stabbed through his thoughts for much of the trek here should have kept it from having much of an impact. But it did not: he felt sick. It was already early afternoon, and he had no idea what order he should or even could go about doing this... how to overcome countless combinations of chance and incompetence, military rigidity, miscommunications... and Gramps. His true father, his inspiration for picking up that first historical novel, would lose both legs in roughly eighteen hours. But warning one low ranking relative -- if he were even believed -- would do little for the other two thousand odd casualties to be... This was too much. Too ironic, too contrived. "Damn you, Galen!"

  The short Hawaiian woman recoiled slightly, but kept her open hand extended. Mumbling an apology, he fumbled through unfamiliar pockets until his fingers located a quarter. Turning his back on the surprised stream of thanks, he walked to a nearby bench and sat heavily. He was still sweating profusely from the run here, and he could already feel himself sticking to--

  "Kyle Wilson?"

  He started noticeably, swearing not quite under his breath as he barely stayed seated.

  "I was told you might be a little surprised." A bronzed teenager, sixteen at the most, was flashing a bemused smile. "For you, Mr. Wilson. Courtesy of a Mr. Jackson."

  Blake nodded dumbly, instinctively closing his fingers around the proffered envelope.

  The boy laughed again. "No worries, sir. Mr. Jackson already took care of the tip." Clearly enjoying Blake's mystified expression, the boy chuckled and walked off, whistling as he went.

  His fingers spasmed with the sudden urge to tear the letter into nothing. His grandfather's name... who knew he was even here? And had the knowledge and the gall to call him by it? "Galen, so help me, if this is another one of your God damned games... "

  The sun began to reflect off the shell-flecked pavement, its movement a reminder of time he did not have. Slowly, painfully, his breathing normalized, his reason resurfaced, and he smoothed out the crumpled enveloped and ran his finger under the flap.

  ~

  "Please, Sir, just raise the alert status. If I'm wrong, and nothing happens, what harm will you have done?"

  The balding commander stayed staring out the window, watching the dock that still bustled even in the failing light. "State your name and rank again, Sailor."

  Blake hesitated, painfully aware of the one task he had yet to complete. "Henry Smith, Sir. Private on the USS Arizona. Please, Admiral Kimmel, Sir-- "

  Without turning around, the older man held out his hand a few commanding inches from his side. After receiving the expected silence, the hand lowered slowly. "Several hours ago, Privates Lockhard and Elliot of the signal battalion were telegraphed anonymously that when they spot an unusual cluster of planes on the Oahu radar tomorrow around 0700 hours, they are to report it 'immediately and unfailingly', despite all orders to the contrary.

  Shortly thereafter, various captains reported being similarly advised, including a Captain Outerbridge who was instructed by an unsigned note to raise full alarm, bypassing the proper channels of authority, when he comes in contact with enemy midget-subs tomorrow morning. Not twenty minutes ago, our liaison with the Star contacted my secretary about the unsolicited tip they had just been given concerning hostile ships sighted within a hundred miles of the island. And now a phantom private of the USS Arizona, a Henry Smith who doesn't even exist, who has been breaking down my door since 1700 hours, is warning me that the Japanese will bomb Pearl Harbor into rubble if I don't raise the alarm here and now."

  Kimmel finally turned and looked at Blake directly, imperiously, in the eye. "What would you make of all this in my position, Smith, keeping in mind that I've had nothing more from Washington than a caution to be on alert against sabotage and espionage?! Sailor?"

  Blake stood rigidly at attention, schooling his impatient fingers not to fidget with the denim trousers' ties. Play on Kimmel's insecurities; it's your only chance of establishing credibility. "The last time you asked your superiors whether or not you were being fully informed, Sir, did they tell you that Army and Navy cryptographers cracked the Kaigun Ango?"

  The admiral's face screwed up incredulously.

  "Over a year ago, Sir. The diplomatic cipher, too. We've been intercepting communications to their embassy for months, now."

  "And what proof do you have, Smith?" The admiral tried his best to sound amused.

  The details I leave up to you: you know them better than I. Just be aware that I cannot forsee the actions of those who come after me...

  "One of the intercepting stations is actually on the island, Sir, less than a hundred yards from where we're standing now. I can show you, Sir, if you'd like, but we must hurry; Admiral Yamamato is laying his final preparations as we speak."

  The admiral said nothing for several moments before switching on his intercom. "Charles, I'll need a security escort as soon as possible." Releasing the button, the old man looked back up at Blake. "What else do you think you know, Sailor?"

>   Suppressing a small smile, Blake stared up at the ceiling until the other items he could recall from his dissertation fell back into place. "Any minute now, the Japanese government will begin relaying a declaration of war to its embassy in Washington, to be used at 0700 hours Hawaii time. We'll intercept it at the same time as their ambassadors, the Secretary of State will enter negotiations pretending as usual he doesn't know what's about to be said, and the information will never reach where it's most needed, Sir. Pearl Harbor will be left unprepared, and there will be a slaughter. Here, tomorrow, Sir, unless we act quickly."

  Noting the admiral's reddening face, it was Blake's turn to forestall an outburst with a gesture. "I can't say why you've been kept out of the loop, Sir, but it's one of the graver oversights in histo-- "

  The door burst open, rebounding off the white wall and crashing back against the outstretched arm of a panting officer. Kimmel started to open his mouth for what looked liked a reprimand before deciding against it; Blake followed his lead and stayed silent. After several moments of heavy, raspy breathing, the newcomer found his voice.

  "I'm sorry, Admiral... didn't realize how out of shape this desk job is making me... one moment... alright, I think. Sir, I have evidence that this 'Henry Smith' here is in fact an anarchist attempting to provoke an international incident with the Japanese."

  "That's a lie!"

  "Hold your tongue, "Smith." Kimmel raised his hand again with a renewed sense of majesty.

  "All of the recent rumors can be traced to this man, Admiral. Lieutenant Jacobs is on his way with evidence, but I sprinted ahead to prevent his harming of your person, sir."

  "Very good, Adams. "Smith," do you have anything with which to deny these charges?"

  Blake's mouth opened and shut once before his speech functioned. "If you would just accompany me to the intercept station, Sir, we can prove-- "

  "I think I know my island, "Smith." Lieutenant Adams, if you would."

  The newcomer nodded and moved forwards, arms tensed but lowered.

  Blake looked rapidly between the two men, edged slightly to his left, and stopped altogether when a third man in naval attire entered the office.

  "You're bringing everything that happens tomorrow on your own head, Admiral."

  "Everything that happens here already is, Smith. Adams, Cell Block Five until further notice."

  "Yes, Admiral."

  Adams and the summoned security moved to secure his arms, but Blake shook them off. "I'm going."

  As he left, sandwiched between his two escorts, Blake took one last look back at the Admiral, searching for any flickers of doubt.

  ~

  He had tried, using everything he remembered in combination with the more useful elements of the mysterious Mr. Jackson's advice. The letter would have been sci-fi whimsy a few days (weeks, months, years?) ago, but unfortunately it had made all too much sense.

  "Left here, "Sailor." Blake turned without really noticing, letting Adams direct him from behind without protest.

  In all probability, he had failed, though. Without accomplishing the most personally important part.

  "Right."

  The odds of being allowed to make a phone call were pretty slim. But he was alone with Adams now, the other guard having been dismissed due to Blake's seeming placidity.

  "Through that door, straight ahead."

  And not that this was any real justification, but decking this idiot would feel pretty good. But did he try and find Gramp's number somehow, or just show up at the house?

  "Sleep tight, Blake."

  What? "The fuc- "

  Fire flashed through his head. Unconsciousness followed.

  ~

  "... your eyes, boy. I left you alive for this: wake up and see how little effect a rookie like you really has."

  Blake's lids fluttered open and took in a night sky, a sneering face, and a raging pain at the base of his neck. "Adams?"

  The face chuckled grimly, wavering in and out of view, moving in blurring, jarring jumps. "Sure. Look to the East, Boy." Something streaked behind the face, blotting out the stars for a fraction of a second. "Too little, too late."

  "... attacking? But... still... night."

  "1:30 AM. Things just got moved a little ahead of schedule; Kimmel's a fool, but he did try. Just not hard or soon enough. Kind of like you."

  His vision seemed to stabilize somewhat, and then the sneering face split into two, one superimposed over the other in an all too familiar way. "... Jackson?"

  The faces snorted. "Cyrus. Jackson's a moron; it's mostly his mistakes that are being erased here. Days of Infamy have to happen. Fools like you two are just too short-sighted to see it." Three more dark blurs shot by in the background, seeming to speed in one set of ears and out the other. "It's beginning."

  The Cyrus' withdrew as another plane whipped overhead, leaving a dot behind in its wake. A pinpoint that began to magnify as it hurtled groundwards. "Did they tell you the rules yet, Boy?" Cyrus's voice seemed further away. "Number one doesn't apply here."

  Blake struggled to stand up, then to crawl, then to roll over, and finally just to shut his eyes. Failing even that, he watched helplessly as the dot became an oblong monstrosity which rapidly eclipsed all but itself.

  An explosion rocked the world, and Blake was gone.

  ~

  Log, third entry:

  ... Body's... gone... disintegrated... reforming... motes of flesh... my flesh... swirling back together... Cyrus? Then who was Jackson... and-

  Gramps.

  Shut this shit off. Stop recording. Now

  ~

  "Leave me alone, Galen."

  "If we had time I would, Sonny, but now I'm the one who's short on it." Galen's form finishes coalescing, his black robe barely distinguishable from the void around him. "Now stop acting like-- "

  "No." Blake finally looks up, raising his head from his lap, dried tears streaking both cheeks. "I'm through." Pulling up short, Galen studies him for a moment before continuing in a softer tone. "I know it can be hard sometimes, Blake... incredibly hard... but-- "

  "I gave up history four years ago, Galen." Blake lowers his head again. "Did these damn logs tell you that?"

  "Actually, I don't know anything about you, Sonny. Barred from any point after my first death, just as you are."

  "It took over my life... " Rocking back on the conjured stool, Blake pauses over the irony of that last statement.

  Galen's left hand wanders to the tip of his beard, tugging lightly as he seems to wage an internal debate before sighing softly.

  "Possessed my thoughts, consumed my days, destroyed my marriage... " Snapping back to level, Blake looks Galen in the eye, hard. "The day I quit grad school, I didn't want to go any further back than yesterday's news. That's faded some, but... I didn't ask for this. I've died four times over the span of a few days... thousands of years... I'm done. If you want to do any more mentoring, just tell me how I can end it."

  "In a few minutes now I'll show you." Galen's lips betray a slight, sad smile as Blake's expression morphs from bitter to confused. "But until then I need you to listen. This will be a bit of a lecture, but there's no help for it."

  His eyes turn wary again, but Blake's mouth stays shut.

  "How to keep this short? Dive in, I suppose... take the plunge, then: you're my successor, Blake. I was Philip's. He was Thomas's. And so on. Down the whole course of human history, there's always been one of us. Which means, in one sense, that there's always been all of us: except for the bookends, there's only ever a single Shifter in the Void, but the whole lot of us are forever muddling through time." Galen begins pacing rapidly, gesticulating rhythmically with each stride. "What's more, you have access to the files of every Shifter that's come before you. Their logs, their Shift dates, everything. Study them so you can use them, because rest assured others will read yours. It's best to be prepared; the nature of our jobs makes interaction inevitable. And messy -- it's rare that two
of us agree exactly on how matters should be allowed to unfold."

  His eyes bulging suddenly, Galen freezes for a moment before shuddering and taking a seat on an instantaneously appearing folding chair. "It's coming fast, Sonny." Shaking his head once, he squares up with Blake's eyes and begins rapidly ticking off points on his fingers. "The rules you don't know: Number three, your lower limit for jumps is man's first consciousness. Four, your upper limit is your first death. Five, you can't overlap with any point of your prior jumps."

  Blake's eyes show a hint of panic at the last item.

  "But if you have mistakes to fix... " Galen starts to tremble, shakes working their way up from his feet to his head and down his beard. "Blast... never knew it would hurt... mistakes... contact another Shifter. Use the files... strike a deal. I'm sorry, Blake, but I'm being called."

  Galen's robe merges totally with the void, the protruding points of his body floating seemingly of their own accord. His skin begins to erode from the outside in, smudging away towards nothing.

  Blake leaps up and sprints after Galen's receding form. "Galen? Wait, dammit! When does it end? What am I supposed to do? What can I possibly do? You can't leave yet, old man!"

  A sketch of a hand waves a farewell. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Sonny?"

  "Figured WHAT out?"

  Galen's disembodied voice sounds from the emptiness, fading as it speaks. "You, me, us are the powers that shape history, channel it as it should have flowed. In Christian terms, Sonny, we, collectively, are God. Or what remains of him. Goodbye, Blake."

  "Galen!" Blake stumbles to a stop, not expecting an answer but still distraught when he does not receive one.

  Turning slowly, he stands still for several minutes before sitting cross-legged on the dark. After a long while, he shakes his head, sighs, and opens himself to the files. From the beginning. Another length passes, and then he looks up and around, embraces a growing swirl. The void blurs, his mind divides.

  Nothing.

  ~

  Fourth jump, and you're on your own now. Be objective, be vigilant, be as wise as you're able.

  ... I didn't ask for this...

  Be careful with my legacy. Our legacy.