petermaize

The Jubilee Machine, Pt. IV

 

The door swung open. Ellen swallowed hard and stepped inside. She wasn’t prepared for what she saw. The figure crumpled on the cot wasn’t recognizable as Benton Scott. One of his ears was missing, his head seemed misshapen and scars were visible on his hairless skull. The figure turned his head toward her, eyes mute and lifeless.

Ellen stood in the doorway for a moment, the guard a few feet behind her, hand on his baton.

“Hello, Benton. I’m Ellen. Ellen Garzio. Do you remember me?”

The man turned his head to stare at the wall. Silence.

Ellen waited more than a minute before she spoke again.

“Benton, Badri Singh asked me to see you.”

The crumpled figure spasmed involuntarily. Ellen tensed. The guard stepped forward slightly. But Benton didn’t look up. Ellen edged into the room, speaking softly.

“He told me that you…”

“James is going to kill you,” Benton interrupted. He spoke in a hoarse whisper.

Ellen had been warned by the doctors that Benton suffered from severe paranoid delusions. She wondered if she’d get anything useful from him at all. She decided to indulge Benton initially and see where that led.

“Why do you say that, Benton?” Ellen asked softly as she lowered herself onto a bench along the opposite wall. Benton didn’t respond for several seconds, then he sighed and turned over onto his back. Ellen could clearly see his ravaged face. A long, irregular scar ran from his left cheek to the corner of his mouth. One of Benton’s eyes was lifeless, the lid half-closed and battered. Benton’s face was red and pockmarked. The young, cool mathematician who had invited her to raves was unrecognizable. Benton Scott was gone, replaced by a brutalized figure with shaven head and pummeled features. He looked at Ellen with his one good eye. She shivered involuntarily.

“What year is it?” he asked. She hadn’t expected this question.

“2009,” she replied evenly.

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely, “I lose track sometimes.”

Benton heaved himself upright, groaning loudly. “Doesn’t matter. He’s prepared for all this. He told you I’d say something like that, didn’t he? Warned you that crazy old Benton will spout nonsense about conspiracies and treachery.” It appeared that Benton was trying to smile. He had no teeth.

“I haven’t spoken to James, Benton. Badri told me you had been through a lot, that your health was bad,” she responded with a portion of the truth.

Benton coughed. Then he seemed distracted by a thought.

“Have I left yet?” he asked. Ellen knew what he meant.

“About two weeks ago.”

“When did Badri tell you I was here?”

“Benton, he’s not hiding anythi…”

“WHEN DID HE TELL YOU?” Benton roared.

The guard, who had been following the conversation intently, jumped. Ellen was jolted by the outburst, flattened against the hard rubber wall. The guard advanced from the doorway, but Ellen lifted her hand, eyes trained on Benton’s face. He was glaring at her, breathing heavily.

“Just a few days ago. About ten days after he came to see you.”

“Ten days,” Benton repeated. He sighed. “You know, I came back 18 years ago. Saw James as a boy. Then they threw me in here. James came to visit about…oh…I guess five years ago. Been here a few times.”

Ellen had checked with the hospital. James McPherson had never visited Benton, not once.  Nor had anyone from the Cassandra project before Badri’s visit.

“Only he didn’t use the name McPherson.”

Benton and Ellen leaned toward each other. “’Course, I didn’t know he was using an alias. And I didn’t help my cause much by trying to rip his head off the first time I saw him.”

Benton groaned and shifted. Ellen realized he was trying to sit up straight, but his body was so bent that he could barely uncoil his crumpled frame.

“Ellen, I’ll spare you the details. James has covered his tracks quite well, and he’s willing to do anything to carry out his plans.”

He saw her twitch slightly. “Yes, James is designing his own little world, defining the future. But unless you take action, there’s no future for you. James will kill you, Ellen. You’ve got to kill him first. It’s the only way.”

Ellen tried to remain calm. She had to remember that Benton had been through hell. It was natural that over the years he might come to blame James for what went wrong. James had been at the controls when Benton made his jump. The man who came to visit? She’d check into that.

The wretched old man was staring at her, and Ellen’s discomfort increased. She was about to ask him about Persia, when he blurted out, “Did you wear the necklace just for me?”

“What?”

Benton grimaced. Which facial expression he was attempting was unclear.

“The necklace I gave you. Did you wear it today to be nice?”

Ellen’s hand went to her neck. She had forgotten she was wearing it. And she’d forgotten that she was talking to the same man who had given it to her just a month ago. But in his reality, nearly 20 years had passed since that act of kindness.

“No, actually, I always wear it.”

She could see that Benton was crying. Long streaks emerged from his eyes. She swallowed.

“You were wearing that when I found you.” At first Ellen didn’t understand what he meant.

“Please, Ellen. These are not experiments you’re involved in. It is evil. Pure evil. James has his own plans, and none of you have any idea. Please, you must stop him.”

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Chester Mellon was not a man to be trifled with. A former NASA project manager, he expected accountability, precision and obedience from his staff. Mellon had accepted that James and Badri would be off in their own world of theoretical calculations without strict oversight. As long as they filed their weekly reports, he was willing to allow them far more freedom than the rest of the Cassandra team. But when they started missing reports, then the lenience ended. Mellon would not tolerate disobedience.

“Where is he?” Dr. Mellon asked, arms folded and feet planted in the doorway of Badri Singh’s office.

“He just had to run home, sir. Some kind of emergency. He didn’t tell me what it was, but Badri said he’d be back by 7pm when we begin the next round of slowdowns on the decelerator.”

Ken knew that Dr. Mellon couldn’t be at the decelerator at 7pm, because he needed to fly to Washington for a late inter-departmental meeting. He also knew that Mellon would not accept that excuse.

“Why isn’t he answering his cell phone? All staff are required to be available 24/7. Dr. Singh more than anyone else is aware of that requirement, and the need that it be strictly enforced.”

Chester Mellon’s face was growing ominously stormy. Ken moved a step back.

“Of course he is, sir. I’m afraid though, that…” he paused uncomfortably. “Um, well, he forgot his phone.”

Ken gestured to the small cell phone lying in the middle of Badri Singh’s desk. Mellon’s jaw clenched, but before he could say or do anything, Ken reached quickly for a manila envelope lying next to the phone.

“He was in such a hurry, he must have forgotten it,” he explained, simultaneously extending the envelope toward the granite frame of Chester Mellon. “But before he left, Badri made sure to instruct me to give you the weekly report. That was foremost in his mind, because he knew it was a day late.”

Ken’s arm was extended, a solicitous smile on his guileless face. Mellon did not extend his. The muscles on either side of his jaw flexed and contracted. The envelope remained in mid-air.

“Two days late,” he corrected sternly. Mellon grabbed the envelope and turned to leave. “I will leave another message with Dr. Singh requiring him to call me immediately. When you see him, you make sure he does so.”

Ken nodded emphatically.

“I’ll tell him tonight when I see him, sir. He won’t keep you waiting.”

But Mellon had already marched down the hallway. His steps echoed for several seconds, then disappeared. Ken slumped onto the desktop.

Oh, man, Badri. Benton’s been gone for weeks with no trace. Now you’re gone.

He straightened up, and picked up his cell phone from the desk.

“Badri, I don’t know what you’re up to, but it ain’t good. You are a few hours away from destroying everything we’ve been working for. I hope it’s worth it.”

 

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Jordan had Nine Inch Nails blasting out of the speakers, so he didn’t hear the stranger enter his room. For a few moments, the man remained motionless. Then he reached inside his coat and withdrew a semi-automatic handgun and folded his arms.

Jordan looked up from his book and saw the man standing in his dorm room, arms crossed, gun plainly visible. He looked like a businessman, conservatively dressed. Jordan thought he recognized him, but he couldn’t remember where they’d met.

“Jordan, you’ve been very unkind to your roommate. This is unacceptable.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?”

The stranger didn’t answer. Instead he leaned over slightly and turned up the volume on the stereo. Anguished howls, crunching guitars and pounding drums filled the room.

“It’s time you learned some manners, Jordan,” the man called above the din.

He pulled the trigger, and a hollow point .45 slammed into Jordan’s chest, tore through his left aorta, mushroomed and splintered, coming to a rest just under his left shoulder blade. Jordan winced, then looked down at his chest, where a rivulet of blood was already staining his white T-Shirt.

“Let this be a lesson to you. Never mistreat those whom you consider unusual or unfashionable.”

Jordan’s eyes were wide, but already they were unseeing. He sat slumped against the well-worn corduroy couch, bleeding, dying and quiet.

The stranger calmly returned the pistol to his pocket. He turned off the stereo. The sudden absence of grinding industrial rock left a sonic void in the room.

“I never did like that group”, he said, opening the door just enough to slip through.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

James McPherson wasn’t in a good mood. He’d been forced to spend extra time with Dr. Mellon and the CTC group for the past two days, covering for Badri and pretending he cared about the group’s meaningless research. Sometimes it was all he could do to prevent himself from bursting out in laughter as the somber scientists earnestly discussed their plans to use the decelerator to move a molecule a few seconds into the past, maybe as soon as the following month.

You fools. You pathetic fools.

“Are you sure you’re ready for it?” he asked Dr. Mellon, straight-faced.

The somber scientist nodded slowly. “Yes, James. The variances are within tolerable limits, and we are consistently able to get the speed of light down to 70-80 kph.”

James brightened and looked at the faces around the table. “I’m very proud of you all. I’ll tell Badri the exciting news tonight. And I’m sure when Benton Scott gets back he’ll be amazed by the advances you’ve made with your algorithms.”

Patrick Corrigan, Dr. Mellon’s uptight assistant, piped up at this point. “When do you expect him back?”

James stood up and collected his papers. This was his cue to leave. He’d already lied to the group about Badri’s absence, saying he’d been called away to India for a few days. He was not going to get sucked into a series of questions about why members of his team were no longer coming to the project lab on a regular basis; didn’t even seem to be on campus anymore.

“Tomorrow. His father is much better now, and Benton is eager to get back to work.”

He nodded to the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to check the new panels the technicians installed in the decelerator. See you tomorrow.”

Everyone thanked James for his time and smiled.

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Benton could not understand what his jailers said, but he always knew what

they meant. He had picked up a few words of Persian in the past few weeks. Come. Sit. Silence. And a few epithets that he imagined to be along the lines of “You cursed devil, you will wish you had never been born.”

They hadn’t tortured him for several days. Hadn’t fed him, either. Benton took this as an indication that he would be executed shortly. As he lay on his side, ribs still aching, he thought of Ellen, and hoped that she would be okay, all those centuries in the future but really right now. A rat waddled over to him and sniffed. Benton didn’t have the strength to make it go away.

The sound of heavy sandals clumping down the stairs indicated that his jailers were back. Benton was only slightly surprised to find himself hoping the guards had come to lead him to the execution chamber. He heard their voices, and closed his eyes. Let them kill me. Let it be over. I can’t take the pain anymore.

The heavy bolt was hurled back and the door swung open. Benton did not roll over. He remained on the floor as the guard he called Grumpy shouted at him. Probably “Get up, you filthy swine!” One of the other guards, Dopey, seemed to be speaking with a third person. Grumpy came over and kicked him, spat on Benton’s neck and ordered him to get up. Benton recognized the phrase. He tried to, but was unsuccessful. All he could do was roll over on his back, but that made it even more difficult to get up. Benton opened his eyes. Next to Grumpy and Dopey was a middle-aged fat man with a short grey beard, a large mole on his left cheek, a single eyebrow hovering over his dark eyes, and rings on almost every finger. He spoke to Benton in Aramaic.

“Do you speak Aramaic?” he asked.

“A little,” Benton responded. It hurt to talk.

“Are you Greek?” the man asked.

Benton’s mind focused. The fat man didn’t strike him as Persian, although Benton was by no means an expert on 3rd century Middle Eastern accents.

“Macedonian.” He’d planned that response before his jump, figuring it would be the safest answer in most situations. Might account for his odd accent.

“I thought so,” the man replied, pleased. “Good, I’ll take him.”

The fat man tuned and walked away as Dopey unclasped the shackle from Benton’s right ankle. Grumpy grabbed Benton’s arm and hoisted him aloft. Benton cried out, then stifled the scream. He’d learned that cries of pain led to the infliction of more pain. Still, his ribs ached fiercely and he could barely stand. Grumpy punched him in the face, then punched him again. Benton buried his head as much as he could in his right shoulder, but Grumpy didn’t hit him again. The two jailers dragged him out of the cell, up the stone stairs and into a courtyard. Grumpy took one last shot that left Benton unconscious as he was loaded into the back of an oxcart.