Out of Time - Ryan Matthew Harker (short books to read TXT) 📗

little wrinkles around the edges.

I can’t help myself, “What?” I ask her.

I wouldn’t think it possible but her brows scrunch even further.

“You’re really him,” she breathes with something sounding very much like awe in her voice.

“What?!” I repeat confused this time rather than defensive.

“It went right over my head earlier, when you told the Curator your name,” her voice deepens with the awe I thought I’d heard. “But you ARE ‘the’ Davey Galileo Jones, aren’t you?”

Yep, definitely awe.

“What the... how does everybody in Time know my middle name?!” I exclaim. “I haven’t told anyone what it is since middle school!”

A now familiar chuckle vibrates my fillings and I clench my teeth involuntarily.

“Yes, if I remember correctly,” the Curator drones. “Davey ‘Galileo’ Jones stopped revealing his middle name in what was known as 7th grade due to the teasing of a bully named...”

“Franklin Josef Harcourt,” all three of us say at the same time.

Sammi’s obviously becoming overcome with excitement as she’s begun bouncing up and down on the couch cushion next to me. “It’s him, Curator!” she exclaims and claps her hands. “It’s really, really him! He’s returned!”

I can tell the Curator had been skeptical, but his skepticism seems to be abating as he replies to Sammi’s enthusiasm with a solemn, “Ye-es.”

“Now just hold on here one second!” I hold my hands up for everyone to stop. “I’m serious here! How do you know so much about me? And so intimately! And what does ‘He’s returned’ supposed to mean? I’ve never been anywhere close to this Time period before!”

I’m growing heated here and I make a visible effort to calm myself, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth with eyes closed. When I’m calm again I open my eyes and feel a bit embarrassed by my outburst.

“Sorry,” I apologize. “I’ve been through a lot lately and I guess it’s all becoming a bit much.”

Sammi had shrunk into the corner of her side of the couch at my display of anger, and relaxes considerably at my return to sanity. I feel bad that the beautiful young woman had to be exposed to my childish behavior but I ignore her as the Curator clears his throat circuits in a startlingly human manner. Will this robot never cease to amaze me?

The Curator’s feet leave the ottoman and he rises with smooth, oiled precision to move across the room toward one of the overflowing bookshelves. I look to Sammi for a clue to the robot’s purpose but she just smiles broadly at me, her eyes full of the awe that had been in her voice. Her gaze is almost worshipful. In my time I would have avoided a woman with a look like that in her eyes as a potential stalker.

“I believe I may have something here that may help your understanding,” the Curator rumbles as his blue eyes systematically illuminate the many titles before him. “Ah, here it is.” Plucking a nominally narrow book from a shelf the Curator glides back over and hands it to me before returning to his chair and ottoman.

I’m flabbergasted as I read the book’s title in utter disbelief.

“Memoirs of a Time Traveler,” I recite. “The Complete History of David Galileo Jones and How He saved the World!” I look up from the picture of TRU on the book’s cover. “You have got to be kidding me,” I groan and begin flipping through the pages, idly reading random paragraphs. “But this talks about stuff I haven’t even done yet!”

The Curator’s left hand suddenly snatches the book from my unbelieving grasp. I look up in time to see his arm retracting like a squirmy nightcrawler as he sets the book next to the lamp on the little table beside him. “Which is precisely why you should not read too much. A man should not foresee what the future holds for him.”

Although it would be nice to know, my knowledge of physics won’t let me argue the point. Ironic statements considering my current situation.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I concede. “Would you at least do me the favor of filling me in on a little bit of why you two think I’m some sort of hero? I don’t need details, just an overview will be fine.”

“Because you killed the Great Aboratis and stopped the Final World War almost five hundred years ago!” Sammi gushed. “And you did it all with the help of your great friends, the trusty Time machine TRU, and the spirited war woman Samieena. I was named after her,” Sammi confides the last part in hushed tones.

“Enough, Sammi,” the Curator admonishes. “We cannot tell young Davey here too much of his future. He is not yet the one history speaks of and to inform him now of his deeds later could bring disastrous results.”

Sammi lowers her gaze, properly abashed. “Yes Curator, I’m sorry.” She looks up, from me and then back to him. “But isn’t this exciting though,” she asks.

“Yes, quite,” the Curator agrees and abruptly stands up. “A very exciting day indeed, and one I trust that has made the two of you rather hungry.”

I look at Sammi, she looks at me, and we both smile. “Yes, sir,” we say in unison and laugh.

My teeth vibrate as the robot leaves the room, presumably for the kitchen.

 

As I said, that robot may never cease to amaze me: for a machine, he sure can cook.

As wealthy as I am across Time, I don’t always get to eat well. My adventures (more often than not) keep me from the pleasure of enjoying luxurious meals, but not tonight. No, not tonight, my belly is full of a hot home cooked meal and my right hand holds a large tumbler of scotch. Leaning back in the soft cushions of the couch I sigh contentedly and enjoy the feel of Sammi’s leg against mine. An equal amount of scotch in her own hand has removed some of the woman’s initial awe of my identity and laughter runs freely from her throat, building in her soul to bubble musically from her lips and float around the room.

One of the more pleasant evenings I’ve spent in my travels (if it is evening, hard to keep track of the Sun’s passage down here) it’s during the discourse of these mellow moments I learn that the name of this giant, cathedral-like cavern where so many temporally displaced people dwell is referred to as The Cocoon, or Cocoon Town, or simply Cocoon; take your pick. The Cocoon was named not for its coziness but because it’s the hope of many of its inhabitants that, like the caterpillar, perhaps someday they will break out of the confines of their subterrain chrysalis and transform into a butterfly of fluttering free people.

Perhaps someday, but only first if they can somehow overcome the iron grip of oppression they’re so clutched in by Ras Adoc Davison and his diabolical red army of faceless Zenociders.

From what I’m learning from the woman and the robot tonight it seems the residents of Cocoon Town are either Temporal Refugees or the children of Temporal Refugees.

The story is that once upon a time the Curator had been the Secretary General in the Department of Temporal Affairs, second to no one, only then he had been known as C.R.O.N.O.S. (Cybernetic Robot of No Ordinary System). Go figure. Anyway, his job was to oversee that both Time and Possibility entwined together smoothly and safely to create the most beatific and sublime timestreams for a greater and brighter future. Thus began the Temporal Relocation Program, the Curator’s attempt to save little known but potentially key members of history from death, or fates worse than, so that they may have the chance to fulfill destinies greater than themselves.

He aspired to do this through... Temporal Relocation.

From what I gather there’s this massive supercomputer squirreled away in a sub-basement of the DTA building downtown, goes by the name of the Chronicler. The Chronicler’s job is to scan the multitude of timestreams, creeks, cricks, and rivers throughout the multiverse of possibility looking for what’s known as an Anomaly. An Anomaly is generally classified as a man, woman, or child who, if not having experienced a number of factors, would have contributed with their lives in a way which would have had a significant impact on history; significant in that the future would have become a brighter, more prosperous place. These factors usually include, but are not limited to, death, incarceration, or detrimental social interactions. Once the Chronicler had located one of these Anomalies it was then up to C.R.O.N.O.S. (aka- the Curator) to, for lack of a better word, abduct them to this time, explain the situation and their potential place in the scheme of things, and convince them to relocate to a timestream in a universe where their potential may be realized.

Of course this was all before the arrival of Ras Davison.

Ras came blowing in from nobody knew where and somehow insinuated himself into the hierarchy of the DTA. Quickly he rose through the ranks and, being young, intelligent, charismatic, everyone liked him and nobody thought to suspect him of an agenda. But agenda he had and it was soon to be realized once he had worked himself all the way up to the position of Assistant Secretary General of Temporal Affairs, answering to no one other than C.R.O.N.O.S. and in direct control of the supercomputer Chronicler. This was not a good thing. In a horrible example of diversionary tactics Ras began manipulating the forces of Time to change the future from a thing of peace and prosperity, to one of dictatorial oppression and social suppression.

Ras began to subtly divert the refugees, instead of to places and times where they would do the most good, to an elaborate concentration camp he had used his power and influence to construct in secret. All the while his reports to C.R.O.N.O.S. stated that all was well, that the refugees were being placed properly. The future began to grow dark, steadily darker. C.R.O.N.O.S., his misplaced trust in his young assistant secretary absolute, was content to sit back while unbeknownst to him the world he had spent two centuries to create was undone around him. As the future grew darker, Ras grew more powerful, until he created an army of cybernetically enhanced psychics loyal only to him... the Zenociders; then he was unstoppable. It was with the power of this army that he finally grew brazen enough to rise up and usurp the robot who had bestowed so much trust and favor in him.

Or so he’d thought, for C.R.O.N.O.S. was a wise and patient robot who had begun to see Ras for what he truly was, a malignant, power crazed psychopath , and so had made preparations of his own. When the time came that Ras brought his Zenociders to bear against him, C.R.O.N.O.S. was already gone. In a daring move of his own the robot escaped the Zenocider’s clutches, freed the refugees from Ras’ concentration camp, and led them here, to their new home, the Cocoon.

It’s here that I now find myself, a future grown dark and corrupt, sitting with a beautiful young woman and an old robot now known only as the Curator, sipping a wonderfully flavored Scotch.

Funny how Time works.

“How long y’all been down here?” I slur gently, feeling the mellow glow of the scotch permeate from my belly into the rest of my body.

“Nearly one hundred and fifty years,” the Curator drones.

“Naw way,” I slowly drawl. “That Ras fella didn’t look to be more’n’ in his mid-thirties.”

“Looks can be deceiving in this age,” the Curator calmly informs. “One hundred and fifty years of age, for a human, can still be quite young.”

“Technology?” I ask.

“Technology,” the Curator affirms with a nod.

“Figures,” I shrug and throw back the rest of my scotch, then lightly shake the tumbler so the remaining ice rattles. The Curator, obliging my silent request, grabs the bottle and his arm snakes over to refresh my glass.

“So, what’s your plan?” I ask. “Y’all