Paul Jones - Towards Yesterday

“And a very good morning to you too, Doctor Lorentz,” said Jim, glancing up from his breakfast plate. Licking toast crumbs from his fingers as he swiveled the paper around to read newspaper’s headline.

Scientists admit their involvement in the Slip , the headline screamed. Jim quickly scanned the leading article. It carried all their names and quoted an ‘ unnamed source close to the project ’ as having admitted they were leading an investigation into the probability that Project Tach-Comm had been responsible for the Slip. Interestingly though, there was no mention of the cascade effect, only that the team in Reno was now investigating the events leading up to the catastrophe following the initiation of the experiment.

“Oh! That’s not good,” said Jim.

“My God. How do these things get out?” squawked Lorentz as he paced back and forth behind Jim’s chair.

“Do you want me to call an emergency meeting?” asked Jim.

“No. No. I know it wasn’t anybody here. Security is too tight and none of us have left the building. This leak has come from outside of our team. Besides, we can’t afford the time to launch an investigation.”

Jim nodded his head in agreement, then asked, “Why no mention of the cascade effect? That’s a little odd don’t you think?”

Lorentz pulled out a chair from under the table and sat down. “Who knows? Maybe they only heard some of a conversation or got hold of part of a memo. I’ve ordered the head of security to review all protocols and pull all the communication logs; but I don’t think he will find anything.”

“Can’t we just deny it? Say we have no idea what they are talking about?”

“What’s the point? Pretty soon, every half-baked loony will be coming out of the woodwork ready to tell their side of the story of how they destroyed the future. I half expect to be sued for copyright infringement by every eccentric within a hundred miles for stealing their ideas in a dream.” Lorentz’s head dropped slowly to the table where he gently tapped his forehead repeatedly on the tabletop. “Why me,” he asked.

“The price of fame, my friend,” said Jim, placing a reassuring hand against the scientists shoulder.

Lorentz sat up. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“So what are you going to do? Issue a rebuttal?”

“Nothing. I’ve been half—expecting it to occur. It was always unlikely we could keep something of this magnitude under wraps. If your theory is right, then all of this,” he waved a dismissive hand at the crumpled newspaper, “will mean nothing, and if your theory is wrong… well… none of us will have anything more to worry about ever again, anyway.”

“I can’t fault your logic,” said Jim. “I don’t like it, but I surely can’t fault it.”

The first protestors showed up outside the security fence the morning after the article appeared in the Washington Times . They came in cars and minivans, on foot and on bike. A trickle at first, but by the end of the day there were close to two-hundred members of the Church of Second Redemption gathered around the entrance to the base.

The first the scientists knew of it was when Lorentz received a call on his office phone from the head of security.

“Sorry to disturb you, Dr. Lorentz,” the voice of Sam Calhoun, head of security for the facility, announced. “I thought it best to let you know about a developing problem, we have out here at the front gate.” He went on to explain about the newly arrived protesters who were in the process of setting up camp on the stretch of grass adjacent to the main entrance gate to the facility.

“Are they likely to be a problem?” Lorentz asked.

“Hard to say, Sir. They’re behaving themselves for the moment.”

Lorentz trusted his head of security. He was a career officer who commanded his soldiers well and had gained their respect. His men called the big Irishman The Chief and Lorentz knew he could trust the man’s assessment of the situation.

“Can’t you just arrest them?”

“Well the problem is they haven’t broken any laws yet, Sir. They’re not trespassing, they’ve made no threats; there’s been no stone throwing or bottle tossing. They appear to be a pretty well behaved bunch. If that changes you can bet we’ll be on them like flies on shit—begging your pardon, Sir.”

“If there’s any change let me know.”

“It’s nothing serious. I’m sure we can handle a few whacked-out Jesus freaks. Besides, they’re not doing anything other than build their tent city and stare at the building.”

Lorentz hung up the phone and settled back in his chair. He had a bad feeling about this.

Over the next twenty-four hours, the number of Second Redemption followers collecting around the entrance to the base grew disturbingly. Coaches began arriving, dropping off their passengers, then immediately departing for locations—unknown only to return an hour or two later filled to capacity with more protestors.

The security chief didn’t know whether to call them protestors or not. No demands had been made for the scientists to stop their work. No banners were being flown or placards painted demanding the complex be shut down or for the personnel be handed over to the gathered crowd. They stayed far enough away from the gate to allow traffic in and out of the scientific complex. There was no misbehavior, no threats, nothing.

By the time the last bus deposited its final group of silent passengers, there were two-thousand souls outside the gate and spread out along the north perimeter fence. The Chief knew because he had had his men count every damn last one of them.

They sat on the open grass verge on the opposite side of the road encircling the complex, talking quietly amongst themselves or praying in huddled groups, staring at the security guards as they walked their way around the perimeter fence, or reading quietly from their open bibles.

That made The Chief very nervous.

One of the phones on Mitchell Lorentz’s desk was ringing, demanding his attention. There were three phones, each one on a separate line. Two of them had to come through the front—desk operator, and allowed either Lorentz, the receptionist, or Mina Belkov to filter out any unwanted callers. The third phone was a compact, black, box with a stub of plastic protruding from the top. It was a military-issue satellite phone that allowed him to stay in communication from anywhere in the world. The only person who knew the number to the phone was John Humphreys, his government contact at the Department of Homeland Security.

Lorentz kept a strict weekly routine of contact with Humphreys. Each Friday he would call him and apprise the department of how well the project was progressing. In the months since the project had begun, Lorentz had made only outgoing calls on the handset. The fact that the phone was now ringing insistently was doubly disturbing because he had made his report just two days earlier.

Lorentz picked up the sat-phone and pressed the receive button.

“This is Doctor Lorentz,” he said.

The familiar voice of his government handler spoke quickly and insistently into his ear. “Doctor, we have a problem.”

The team of scientists gathered in the conference room, chatting quietly amongst themselves. Doctor Lorentz had summoned them all to the room half an hour earlier for an emergency meeting. Mina had delivered the message to each of them personally; drop everything, and get yourself to the meeting room right now .

The chatter stopped as a red faced Lorentz stormed into the room slamming a folder of papers loudly down onto the conference table, spilling some onto the floor. Mina Belkov, who was following close behind her boss, started to pick up the spilled papers.