The room’s size is nebulous. Seemingly infinite. The walls are glass, but nothing visible through them. Not mirrored, nor are they frosted or opaque. Clear. But seemingly nothing beyond them. Just white. Not a white wall. It has an apparent depth. It is more the infinite whiteness of nothing.
“Do you have any questions?” Archibald Leach Strichtenstein asks.
“Huh?” Milton Mann says.
“It is important that you fully understand the process before we proceed.”
Milton rips his attention from the glass and regards the sparse furnishings of the room. The heavy Victorian Oak desk. The waist-high shelves seeming to float in the whiteness. The items on the shelves. What appears to be a crocodile skull. A pair of oversized elephant tusks. A framed piece of papyrus with what looks like hieroglyphics strewn upon it. He looks down at the Persian rug his seat is positioned on. Beneath that rug is a glass floor. And the endless whiteness.
“Um, yeah, I guess I do have some questions, Mr. Strickland.”
“It’s Strichtenstein, Mr. Mann, and I am happy to answer any and all questions you have, but of course it would have to be outside the realm of those requiring a deposit and the signing of the nondisclosure agreement.”
“But that’s like every question.”
“We here at Tabü call it the circle of trust for a reason, Mr. Mann. Should you choose to purchase our services, you will be a member of a very exclusive club. And, frankly, to paraphrase a famous tagline: what happens in that club, stays in that club.”
“Well, Mr. Stricksteen, $100,000 just to hear if I want to spend another 200,000 seems a little steep.”
“It’s Strichtenstein. And it is a standard deposit for the $300,000 of your trip. Time travel, as it turns out, is expensive.”
“Well, yeah, that makes sense,” Milton says, “but so’s a con. How do I know you ain’t—and please excuse my home state’s colloquialisms—full of horse shit? I mean, you ain’t even letting the press in here to report on your procedures. Not that I trust the press, but this feels mighty shady.”
“There is absolutely no way for me to convince you that this is not a scam, other than for you to actually travel with us, so, yes, I suppose that has all the hallmarks of a scam. But—do you attend church, Mr. Mann?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well then you are aware of the concept of faith.”
Mann snorts a laugh. “Well, sir, even as a man of faith, I can tell you: when trying to convince someone something ain’t a scam, maybe use something other than religion as your example.”
Strichtenstein offers a subtle nod of acknowledgment and then opens one of the drawers of the heavy wooden desk. He produces a large revolver. “Do you know what this is, Mr. Mann?”
Mann squints at the firearm and says, “Looks like an old Colt.” He squints a little more. “Maybe an 1851?”
“Impressive. It is a Colt 1851 Navy Revolver. Like those used by Wild Bill Hickok.”
“And that’s from the past?” Mann asks.
“Well, of course it’s from the past, Mr. Mann. Everything we possess is from the past, so to speak, but if you are asking if this was brought from the past via time travel, then the answer is no; I’m afraid not. One cannot return with objects from the past.” Strichtenstein offers a sheepish grin. “Whoops; I suppose I gave that bit of information for free.” He leans forward and hands the firearm to Mann.
Not hiding his confusion, Mann takes the firearm. He holds the object respectfully, despite his itch to inspect it, cock it, point it.
“It’s loaded, if you were wondering,” says Strichtenstein.
“Feels loaded,” Mann says, despite having no idea what a loaded or unloaded Colt 1851 Navy Revolver feels like.
Strichtenstein’s salesman smile never faltering, he says, “Mr. Mann, you now have a loaded revolver in your hands. Should you pay the deposit and determine what I have to offer is a scam, you can shoot me dead.”
The two men stare at one another, then Mann mirrors Strichtenstein’s smile. Mann places the firearm on the desk. “C’mon, what is this?”
“Faith, Mr. Mann, it’s called faith.”
Mann leans back in his chair, distancing himself a little more from the revolver. “I’m not going to murder someone.”
“Isn’t that why you are here?” Strichtenstein says.
“Well…” Mann’s voice has the slight groan of pain, like an old man standing from a deep seat. He shifts a moment and says, “I mean, That’s different. He deserves it.”
“If I were to scam you, would I not deserve it?”
“Well, I mean there are laws. I’d get arrested. Tried. Jailed.”
“This is true. That would be the most likely outcome. But I still need to believe, have faith if you will, that those consequences will deter you. I’d need faith that you would be arrested. Have faith in a jury. Have faith in a system which I know is lenient on those with great wealth, like yourself. And yet, I still handed you the firearm because I know what the most likely scenario shall be: you will, in fact, not shoot me, but rather sign the contract and hear me out.”
Mann looks at the gun on the desk, then at Strichtenstein.
“Your lawyers reviewed the NDA,” Strichtenstein says. “You’ve heard the testimonies from clients. Been referred by someone. I’m guessing you realize this is in fact not a scam. And what we offer is real. If I may be so bold to say: perhaps your trepidation has to do with your own resolve rather than the company’s veracity.”
Mann is silent as he looks at the revolver sitting on the desktop. He then says, “Okay. I’ll sign.”
“Splendid.” Strichtenstein presses a button under the lip of his desk.
A small panel opens in the desktop’s wooden surface, and a screen rises from it.
“Do you see the small oval circle on the screen?” Strichtenstein says.
“Yes.”
“You need only to say the words: ‘I accept’ and then press that oval with your thumb.”
Mann says, “I accept,” as squiggling lines mapping his voice decibels flash across the screen. He then presses the oval with his thumb, long enough for it to read his thumb print. The screen turns green, and white letters spell out: Then And Back Unlimited thanks you.
The screen folds back into the desk, and the desktop is again an unbroken wooden façade.
“The terms have been met, Mr. Mann.” Strichtenstein says. “You may ask any questions about the procedure you wish to ask. I am now your humble servant.”
Mann comes alive suddenly. “You said I can’t bring anything with me. I was told by a friend that you can bring weapons.”
“It would seem someone has broken their own NDA,” Strichtenstein says with a smile. “Please understand: as you can imagine, some of the rules of time travel are complicated and can even be outright contradictory. We will be dealing with quantum mechanics, which even the best physicists have trouble fully understanding. I could introduce you to Tabü’s own physicists, if you wish, and you can ask them questions, to receive more accurate and thorough answers, but I can attest they might not be any clearer; their answers are rather dense in their technicality.”
“I get that. That it’s complicated and all, but do I get to bring things back with me?”
“Yes and no,” Strichtenstein says.
“What does that mean?”
“Again. Complicated. The answer depends on to which back you refer? Can you bring objects from now to the past? Yes. In fact, it’s what makes the trips possible. If you were to go back without facsimiles of the time or place’s currency, you wouldn’t get very far toward fulfilling your fantasies. Very few want their time traveling trip to be spent on the street begging for money.”
“And weapons?”
“Yes. Rest assured, Mr. Mann, you can bring back advanced weapons. If you want to bring back machine guns to wipe out Attila the Hun’s army and save Rome, you can do so. But you can’t bring anything from then back here with you. No artifacts or trophies.”
“That your rule?” Mann asks.
“Afraid not,” Strichtenstein says. “That’s quantum physics’ rule. It all has to do with timelines. It’s the same reason mowing down Attila the Hun’s army won’t result in the Grandfather Paradox.”
“Huh?”
“The idea that if you make a change in the past, it could affect our present. It was part of The Grandfather Paradox.”
“Sounds like the plot of Back to the Future. Was The Grandfather Paradox a remake or something?”
Strichtenstein grins. “No. More that Back to the Future was based on The Grandfather Paradox. Einstein said if you go back in time and kill your grandfather before he has children, then how could you have ever been born to go back in time to kill your grandfather?”
“Shit,” Mann says. “Me going back isn’t going to, like, affect Einstein and his theories, right?”
“No.” Strichtenstein offers a half shrug and says, “Well, yes, possibly. But not for us.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Let me explain it as best I can. We are in a timeline. We will refer to it henceforth as our timeline because both you and I belong to it. You will travel back in time on our timeline, but the moment you step out in the past, introducing something which was not there before, it will change the timeline to a new timeline. It will no longer be our timeline. Our timeline has already occurred. It happened. It can’t be changed. As far as we’re concerned right now, here, while we speak, you never stepped out into the past, even if you choose to do so. And, should you choose to do so, even when you do step out into the past, we are not aware of it, because for us, you never did. Do you get it?”
“No.”
“Technically, you stepping out into the past is actually your future that only you will experience, in a timeline running congruent to our now. When you complete your trip, and we reverse the process, you will return to our now, leaving behind the changed timeline to run its course. Think of it this way: when you go on a trip, say to another country, life still continues here in America, correct? At your house? Gardeners still tend to your lawn? Maybe house cleaners still tidy up? If you left family behind, their life continues on without you?”
“Yes.”
“Well. Same thing here. Our life continues while you are on your trip.”
“So,” Mann says, taking a moment to gather his thoughts, “you’re saying I won’t affect Einstein?”
“Not here.”
“And when I go back and shoot Hitler, I ain’t gonna come back to a world, like, overrun by Jews or something?”
Strichtenstein takes a beat before answering, “No, Mr. Mann.”
“I mean,” Mann says, shifting in his seat, “I’m not racist or anything. I’m just saying you dump six million of them back into the past and they could multiply fast, you know? Throw off the demographics. The religious order of things.” He pauses. “You get what I’m saying, right? I don’t hate Jews.”
“I understand your concerns, Mr. Mann.”
“Suddenly come back to Anne Frank being president or something,” Mann adds under his breath.
“I can assure you that you will not return to such an occurrence, Mr. Mann. Although, I can not guarantee what will happen in the other timeline. For all we know, Anne Frank could become World Emperor.”
“Never heard of a World Emperor.”
“Not in our timeline, no. But in another? Maybe.”
“So, wait,” Mann says, excitement seeping into his voice, “With my advanced weapons and taking out the German High Command and all, I could, like, become World Emperor, right? I mean, in that timeline?”
“Possibly.”
“So…” Mann leans forward in his seat some. “Let’s say that does happen; can I stay there, in that timeline? As emperor?”
“Should you so choose. It is one of the reasons we encourage our clients to get their estates in order here, in this timeline. Some might choose to stay in the new timeline. Some,” Strichtenstein offers another half shrug, “might die in the other timeline….”
“Die?”
“Of course, Mr. Mann. Despite advanced weapons, taking on the German High Command, as you say, comes with a substantial amount of risk.”
“Yeah, but, if that’s in another timeline, won’t I be all right in this timeline?”
Strichtenstein flashes a salesman smile, tinged with a touch of satisfaction. “No, Mr. Mann. The you of this timeline went back; whatever happens to you happens to you. Your corpse will remain in the other timeline, and the you from this timeline will be dead.”
Mann sits back in his seat, quiet for a moment, cogs seeming to turn in his mind. He leans forward and says, “If I’m killed, can I, like, hire someone to go back in time to right here,” he waves his hand, “to right now, and convince me not to go?”
“Theoretically, yes,” Strichtenstein says with a smile and shrug. “But you would have to wait twenty years.”
“Twenty years?”
“You have to go back at least twenty years into the past. So the person you send would have to come from twenty years in the future.”
“Why twenty years?”
“We’ll get to that. But even if you did send someone back to stop you from going, your survival would be along another new timeline. You would still be dead here. And there would, of course, be no guarantee the other timeline in which you survived would play out the same as this timeline. After all, there would now be two of whomever you sent back to help you, which would have Butterfly Effect implications for that timeline.”
“Butterfly Effect?”
“Yes. Small changes in an environment can have massive future ramifications.”
“But no Butterfly Effects in this timeline, right?”
“Well, every day we do things which could have Butterfly Effect consequences on our future, but in regards to time travel, you are correct: the lack of a Grandfather Paradox will ensure no Butterfly Effect consequences on the timeline you and I are currently sharing.”
“Grandfather Paradox, Butterly Effects…” Mann throws his hands in the air. “It’s a lot to take in.”
“It is complicated. Just wait until we get to the Andromeda Paradox.”
“The Andromeda Paradox?”
“I haven’t even gotten to the really complicated stuff yet. And that is the actual time travel procedure. Which, I suppose is a good segue into how we intend to get you back to 1940 Berlin.”
“Well, I imagine it’s complicated. It costs 300K a pop. But is it easy on me? What will the physical toll be on my body? Is it painful?”
“You won’t feel a thing. You’ll be vaporized.”
“What?”
“In a way,” Strichtenstein says. “Vaporized is a term I like to use. For effect. It’s more of a disintegration. It’s quite painless.”
“I don’t think I’m following.”
“You and any other matter—your weapons, say—will be broken down into their individual atoms and scanned for their atomic information. That information will be imprinted onto particles we call Photonic Matter—particles which can act both like photons and matter. We will then begin firing these particles—essentially your atoms—in pairs at the speed of light. A receiver we will set up at the exact location where you wish to go will collect the atoms and fire them back. When we receive them on our end, we fire them back at the receiver, creating two streams of particles traveling between the two receivers at the speed of light, each receiver—due to the speed of the particles and the relatively short distance between them—receiving the atoms almost instantaneously…you look a little confused; are you following me?”
“No.”
“What part are you confused about?”
“Kinda all of it,” Mann says. “You’re going to break me down into atoms?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll be able to put me back together again?”
“Yes, of course. Wouldn’t work if we couldn’t.”
“Be a good way to keep my money, though. Whoops, we couldn’t put him back together again.”
“If we left our clientele disintegrated, we wouldn’t stay in business for long.”
“Only need to do it once to get my 300 grand.”
“Seems a complicated and expensive process for only a single $300,000 payday.”
“So,” Mr. Mann says, “if you have the ability to break someone down into atoms and beam them across the world at light speed, then why not invent a teleporter? Get from New York to China in under a second?”
“That is a great question, Mr. Mann. I can see why you are such a captain of your industry.”
Mann smiles.
Strichtenstein continues, “The reason we can’t teleport is because it takes a great distance for the atoms to organize and, remember, if you will, what they are and how they reassemble. We can’t quite get it right over short distances, and if we were to teleport you, you could end up inside out, or fused with your clothing, or with an arm coming out of your nose. It would not be pleasant.”
“But you’re still doing it at short distances. What’s the difference between sending me to 1940s Germany and today Germany? It’s still Germany.”
“As Einstein said, Time and Space are intertwined. Travelling vast distances of Time is the same as vast distances of Space. This is why we have to go back at least twenty years.”
“Then why not use it for space travel. Beam to Mars or something?”
“It’s possible,” Strichtenstein says with a shrug. “But Mars is too close. And we would need a receiver wherever we wanted to go. But don’t you worry, Mr. Mann, we are working on it, believe me. As for now, let’s just focus on the time travel.”
“So firing my atoms back and forth will send me back in time?”
“Just firing the atoms at lightspeed will not.”
“Okay,” Mann says, lifting his hands off his lap in a confused shrug.
“As I said,” Strichtenstein says, “we will be firing the atoms in pairs, creating two streams of atoms. What we do then is osculate the streams, so they are no longer running parallel. This will cause, despite both atoms leaving at the same moment, one atom to arrive slightly ahead of the other atom, and since both atoms are traveling at the speed of light, it will mean to one atom, the other atom is traveling faster than the speed of light, and thus has arrived before it left. Get it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s the basics of Relativity. To certain atoms, it will appear like the other atoms are traveling back in time. You do this a few billion instances, it will appear to the atoms that they have traveled into the past. When we slow the speeds of the atoms, they catch up to each other and reassemble in the past.”
“And that’s the Anal-droma Paradox?”
“Andromeda Paradox. Not quite,” Strichtenstein says. “We could be here all day if we go down that rabbit hole. Let’s just say that even at relatively slow speeds, movement can alter the perception of time. At lightspeed, we will alter time enough to get you to 1940s Berlin.”
“Can I go to the future?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it hasn’t happened yet. There is nowhere to go yet. Or, at least we currently don’t know how to get there.”
“Then how do I get back to the future?” Mann’s face suddenly lights up in a smile. “Hey, that title really works don’t it? I get it now. Back to the future.”
“Yes, Mr. Mann. It is an effective title. To answer your question, however, you return the same way you went. We will leave the door open, so to speak. The Time Stream, we call it; it will recognize the atoms it sent and reclaim them, firing back to our receiver the same way they came, where their information will encode onto your atoms in our containment system. And we reassemble you.”
“So, wait. If you still have my atoms here, then if I die, I can come back, can’t I? I mean, you have me, or at least the parts of me here. Can’t you just reassemble me?”
“An excellent question, Mr. Mann, and I have to admit, you were paying closer attention than I’d been led to believe.”
“Not sure how to take that.”
“As a compliment.” Strichtenstein smiles. “To answer your question: no, we cannot simply reassemble your atoms. They no longer have your atomic information. They will be just atoms. The information of you, given that it went back in time, has to return. If you leave something, say your gun, behind, in the past, it will stay behind. If you lose an arm, that arm stays behind.”
“So this is why I can’t bring anything from the past back with me?”
Strichtenstein offers an impressed nod. “An impressive logical assumption, Mr. Mann. However, not quite. The reason you can’t bring anything back with you is because in our timeline, that object has never been brought to the future. If you go back in time and steal the Mona Lisa, you stole it in the other timeline; it is not going to suddenly vanish from the Louvre here, but in that other timeline, if you want the Mona Lisa, it can be yours.”
“But if I lose my arm in the other timeline, why can’t I have it here?”
“Well, as I’ve said, the information of your arm’s atoms will not have returned. Don’t forget: this whole trip is your future. You will be traveling through time. We will not. So your actions will only affect you…” Strichtenstein waves his hand, “and anyone in the other timeline. So…” Strichtenstein holds up a finger to emphasize his point, “and this is the most important part: you must make it back to the Time Stream in the allotted window of our agreed upon rendezvous, otherwise you will be stuck there.”
“Why can’t you just keep the thing running until I want to come back?”
“It is quite expensive to keep it running, Mr. Mann. And not knowing if you have perished, or decided to stay and pursue a new life there, we need to cut the stream for…economic reasons. We are the ones paying the electric bill, after all. You understand.”
“If something happens and I don’t make it, couldn’t you send someone back to rescue me?”
“There would be no way to find the timeline you are in. If we sent someone back to 1940s Berlin, as soon as that person appeared, it would create a new timeline, separate from ours and separate from yours.”
“What if I get lost trying to find the Stream?”
“We will provide you with an as accurate as possible map of the location, and you will be given a tracking device, but understand, there will be no GPS-level location. After all, there will be no satellites. The tracker will run on good old fashioned radio waves, and can be, at times, prone to interference. Otherwise, you are going to have to rely on your wiles.”
Mann shifts in his seat, his brow knitting in thought. His eyes happen upon the revolver, and he is quiet, staring at it.
“I trust I’ve done an amendable enough job that you will not be needing to use that?” Strichtenstein says, steepling his fingers toward the firearm.
“You did,” Mann says, his voice quieter, almost dreamy, lost in thought.
“It is a tough decision,” Strichtenstein says.
“It is. But…I’ve hunted every animal there is in this here world. I think I want to hunt me the most dangerous of the most dangerous game: Adolf Hitler.” (He’d practiced that line for days.)
***
The “Launch Room” is as black as Strichtenstein’s office was white. Along one wall are darkened windows, behind which shadowy figures work at computer panels. At the far end of the room, illuminated in dim track lighting, is a 10’ x 10’ x 10’ metal cube.
The main doors of the Launch Room open, revealing Mann, silhouetted against the bright lights of the outer room. He is dressed in charcoal gray fatigues, an American flag emblazoned across the Kevlar vest strapped to his chest, and a tactical helmet is nestled low upon his head. His gear accentuated by his rainbow-lensed Oakley Blades.
“Ah, Mr. Mann,” Strichtenstein says with a jovial clap of his hand. “You look wonderfully the part. Come in, come in.” He ushers Mann into the Launch Room. “The rest of your gear is in the Launch Pod. Would you like me to go over your inventory list?”
Mann stares past Strichtenstein, his eyes—hidden behind the Blades—are fixed on the pod at the far end of the room. He answers Strichtenstein’s question with only a Lamaze-like exhale of air.
“It’s perfectly natural to be nervous, Mr. Mann. Everyone who reaches this point is nervous. As I imagine you were nervous the first time facing down a lion on a big game hunt.”
Mann mutters, “The lion was sleeping. We just kinda drove up and shot it.”
“Well, then an elephant, perhaps?”
“Yeah, the elephant was scary,” Mann says, still staring at the pod.
“Exactly,” Strichtenstein says, “And I’m sure that your trepidation turned to exhilaration as that elephant bore down upon you, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly. The same will be true here.” Like a magician, Strichtenstein produces an electronic tablet. “Shall we revisit your inventory list and your travel plan?”
Mann tears his attention from the pod and finally acknowledges Strichtenstein’s presence with a glance.
“Yeah. That would be good. Please.”
“Splendid,” Strichtenstein says as his fingers dance upon the tablet’s screen. “Your gear is already inside the pod, and it consists of: 10,000 Reichsmarks, your map, homing beacon and transponder, four canisters of military grade teargas and four canisters of smoke. And let us not forget the two fully automatic M250 light machine guns with 10 additional magazines of ammunition. Have we forgotten anything?”
“Huh?” Mann breaks from deep thought.
“Does this inventory sound complete?”
“No…I mean yes. I mean, no, you didn’t forget anything. It sounds good.”
“You realize, upon homecoming, the M250s have to be returned; they are, of course, illegal in our timeline. And should you leave them behind in the other timeline, you will forfeit the deposit you paid for them.”
“Yes, I realize that.”
“Shall we discuss the logistics of your plan then?”
“Okay.”
“You will be streamed to July 6th, 1940, the date of which Hitler returned from his conquest of France and neighboring countries. Upon arrival by train, Hitler will leave Anhalter railway station and make his way via a motorcade parade to Reich’s Chancelry. We have set your arrival point atop a building, which, still standing today, lines his route. You requested an easy in and out trip, so when you and your gear arrive, you will have about ten minutes to acclimate yourself and prepare for your hunt.” Strichtenstein offers a chuckle, saying, “Although, I guess it’s not so much a hunt, but rather a hit? Are you with me so far, Mr. Mann?”
“Huh? Yeah.”
“Good. As I was saying, you will have a short window in which to hit your target from the roof. Upon completion, if you are successful, and so wish, you can simply transport yourself and your gear to the Stream’s location and return to our timeline. Should you miss killing your target and want to pursue your objective, you can do so. The Stream will be open for five days. This is why it is imperative to mark its location with your transponder beacon as soon as you arrive. Are you still with me, Mr. Mann?”
“The bacon, yes. I mean beacon. I am with you.”
Strichtenstein raises an eyebrow as he inspects Mann in his gear and Blade sunglasses. “You may want to return straight to the Stream regardless, Mr. Mann. Whether or not you are successful with your objective; you will have a plethora of heavily armed German soldiers wanting very much to kill you. Despite your advanced weaponry, you will be in extreme peril.”
“Yeah,” Mann says with an unsure chuckle. “I get that.”
“All right then,” Strichtenstein says, the tablet disappearing behind his back. “Shall we proceed?”
“Yeah,” Mann says, looking at the box on the far side of the room. “Hey,” he barks a laugh, and, for the first time since entering the Launch Room, his voice has the life it had earlier in Strichtenstein’s office: “I bet I’m the first to think of going back to kill Hitler, right?”
Strichtenstein regards Mann for a moment and then grins. “Not the first. But it certainly is an interesting, if not noble, premise.” He gestures toward the pod like a maître d’ toward a table. “Are you ready?”
Mann’s voice is more subdued again. “Yeah.” As they approach the pod, he says, “By the way, about the whole Jews thing I said earlier…” He stops, unsure how to continue.
“I understand, Mr. Mann,” Strichtenstein says. “You intended no cultural disrespect.”
“Well, yeah…but also…I’m seriously not going to be coming back to a world overrun by Jews, right?”
“You will be returning to the exact same world from which you left, Mr. Mann.”
Beside the pod, a tech, dressed in all white, joins them.
“I’m afraid here is where I leave you, Mr. Mann,” Strichtenstein says. “I should be getting into the protection of the control room.”
“Protection?” Mann says.
Strichtenstein chuckles. “Well, yes. The pod can produce a rather large magnetic field. Nothing to be concerned about. Think of it as being like the dentist leaving the room when taking x-rays of your teeth.”
The tech completes his inspection of the pod and flashes Strichtenstein a thumbs up.
“Here we are, Mr. Mann. It is departure time.” Strichtenstein holds out his hand. Mann shakes it with a grip far more flaccid than their initial meeting. Strichtenstein says, “Godspeed. And may you be successful with your mission.”
“Thank you,” Mann says.
“Enjoy your trip to then and back,” Strichtenstein says with a slight bow, and then he turns and exits into the control room.
“Thanks,” Mann says, more to himself than to Strichtenstein.
The tech ushers Mann into the pod. “This way, sir.”
The inside of the box is empty, save for Mann’s gear, which is piled neatly in the center of the floor.
The tech says, “You can stand, sit, even lie down. Just know that whatever position you choose is the position in which you will arrive to then.”
“Okay.”
“If you choose to hold anything, say a weapon, be sure to hold onto that weapon the whole Streaming procedure. Don’t drop it. It could confuse the atomic scanners.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have any questions before we move forward to send you back?”
“No.”
“Okay,” the tech says. “Good luck, then.”
“Good luck?” Mann asks as the tech shuts the pod’s door with an air-hissing finality. Mann’s ears pop as the pod pressurizes. “Fuck me,” Mann mutters. He is about to cry, perhaps throw a tantrum, screaming that he wants out. He no longer wants to do this. He wants to do what Wyatt Anthony said he’d do: pussy out.
There is a click and a tinny voice erupts from the speakers, echoing throughout the chamber. “Are you okay, Mr. Mann?” Mann recognizes it as Strichtenstein’s voice, somehow still refined in its small boxed sound.
“I’m fine,” Mann calls out. He takes a deep breath and mutters, “Fuck you, Wyatt.”
“I beg pardon?” the voice says.
“I’m good. Let’s do this.”
“Splendid. If you wish to hold any of your gear for arrival, you should pick it up now. And do not drop it until you arrive to then.”
“I know,” Mann says. “The tech told me.” He regards the gear. The two M250s atop the pile. He darts forward and grabs both rifles, nestling one in each hand. He imagines telling Wyatt Anthony of his arrival, “With two M250s, one in each hand like the goddamn Terminator.” Wyatt will be rapt. “Had you ever fired an M250 before?” Wyatt will ask. “No,” Mann will answer, “but I sure shot the shit out of them then.”
Mann smiles. “Ready.”
A new voice fills the pod. A mellifluous female voice, more solid than the voice from the tinny speaker, as if the pod has anthropomorphized and learned to speak. “Initiating atomic scanning,” she says.
The sensation begins as pins and needles, intensifying into a feeling of bubbles running up through a bottle of soda.
“Streaming to commence,” the voice says, “in 3…2…1…”
A sudden weightless, joyful sensation overtakes him, filling his core, his heart…and then nothing.
He felt sun on his face. There was a light breeze, which lifted the loud cheering from below him. He opened his eyes, squinting against the bright daylight. He looked down and saw the M250s gripped in his gloved hands. Blinking his eyes against the brightness, he turned toward the din of the crowd, almost hypnotized, and approached the edge of the building. Glancing over the edge, he saw the crowd lining the streets. Mostly women and children and Hitler Youths, waving tiny swastika flags.
“Oh, shit,” he said, rushing back to his gear. He shouldered one of his rifles and fished the beacon from the gear. It was about the size and shape of a half dollar, and he placed it where he had initially been standing—or at least his best guess as to where he’d been standing—and he hopped back, unsure how much time had passed, unsure when the Stream would reengage, not wanting to be prematurely sent back before he’d finished his goal, before he got his $300,000 worth. He stared at the beacon for a moment, questioning if it was in the right place. He took out the transponder. A green arrow blinked rapidly, pointing at the beacon. It seemed to all be in order, not that he’d need it anyway. In and out. Light up the Nazis and then back home. That was the plan.
But, should that be the plan? He thought about what Strichtenstein had said about staying in this timeline as a hero. Revered as the man who single-handedly took down the Nazi regime. The crowd lining the street for Hitler now would be half the size of the crowds that would line the streets for him in America. World Emperor, Strichtenstein had called it. He weighed this option against the option of returning to his time. His life. His stale marriage. His entitled kids in college. His unfulfilling fling with his secretary. And golf. Lots and lots of golf. If he stayed here, he’d be having flings with movie starlets like Marilyn Monroe, or, he supposed she was Norma Jean Baker at the moment, but she’d be Marilyn in a few years. And he could play golf with the President of the United States. Although, FDR probably couldn’t play golf in the wheelchair and all. But he could play with Truman when he took office. Did Truman play golf?
Would he be able to get out of Germany safely though? He was currently in the heart of Berlin. Granted he was armed to the teeth with, for the here and now, a futuristic arsenal of weapons, and most of the army is probably positioned around Europe, but it only takes one soldier. One bullet. Or, would the crowd below him accept him as liberator? After all, he’d be freeing them from tyranny. He envisioned them embracing him as a messiah of freedom.
His thoughts were interrupted as louder cheers erupted below on the street. He ran to the edge of the building. The crowd was now Roman saluting, hands in the air, forty-five degrees to the body, elbows straight. There was the roar of a cavalcade of motorcycles. And then Mann saw the open-topped Mercedes-Benz 770, and Hitler with his hand hovering straight over the street, as if blessing the crowd.
His thoughts of staying in this timeline faded. He could revel in the knowledge of the crowd’s adoration as he liberated them from their autocratic hellscape when he traveled back to his own timeline. After all, he needed to get home and rub this shit in Wyatt Anthony’s face.
He looked over his shoulder and regarded his gear. Did he want to use the canisters they’d provided? He definitely didn’t want the smoke. He wanted to see the look on all those Nazis’ faces as he opened fire. The tear gas? Nah. He didn’t need it.
Mann racked the M250 in his hand, shouldered it, unshouldered the second M250, and racked that one. Both safeties off. Then he held the rifles, one in each hand, Rambo-style. His heart pounded in his chest, as if the motorcycle engines were inside him, idling, ready to be revved into action. It was time. The car was almost within range of clean shots which would result in great big gobs of greasy, grimy Hitler guts.
He called down toward the car. “Helloooo,” elongating the word.
But no one heard him. No one noticed.
“Hey.”
Nothing. The crowd cheered. The motorcycles roared.
“Screw it,” Mann said.
He stepped up onto the lip of the roof’s edge. He’d certainly get their attention now. Nestling the stocks of both M250s against his abdomen’s sides, he howled, “Auf wiedersehen, motherfuckers,” and he pulled the triggers.
The erratic kicking of the fully automatic rounds lifted the rifles’ barrels, and he struggled to gain control of them, as if fighting the reins of spooked draft horses, bending his body this way and that, until his right boot slipped and lost footing on the lip of the roof.
Tumbling down toward the street, he didn’t think to loosen his fingers’ grips on the triggers. The magazines emptied with both weapons’ final clicks before he struck the sidewalk.
Luckily, his antics had brought enough attention from the crowd for the group of women and children below him to vacate a large enough area for his landing. With a breath-stealing thud, Mann felt several cracks and snaps throughout his torso and appendages, but his helmet had saved his head from smashing on the pavement. He groaned and opened his eyes, spotting the crowd of women and children staring down at him. He felt he should say something, ask for help, but there was no chance to do so as they were upon him—the children being the most violent, hitting and kicking and gouging with their tiny Nazi flags.