Phase Shift (23 page)

"The artifacts, Ms. McBride. I'd like to
have them. Now." He says the last word with such forcefulness, I'm
reminded of the neighbour's pit bull—small and unassuming, yet
likely to show aggression at the smallest provocation. I size him
up, contemplating if his bark will prove worse than his bite.

"I'm not done with their analysis, yet,
Stanley," I say, flatly. I flag him into the kitchen and offer him
a chair. He sits. I stand by the counter.

"What's to analyze?" he asks.

"I've spent quite a bit of time cleaning
them," I lie. "And I'm still trying to place the metals used. I
have quite a few leads on the cigarette case. And then there's the
tin cigar box."

Stanley seems to weigh my answer before he
speaks. "Again I ask: what's to analyze?" He props himself up, one
elbow resting on the melamine table top, the other on the back of
his chair. "You said it yourself. My place was in the middle of
nowhere. A former owner of the property buried the artifacts in the
fifties. Probably just a collection of his junk." He tries to stare
me down before continuing. "Besides. The artifacts are mine. I
don't want you to do anymore research. I'm satisfied you've done
all you can. I want them back."

I have no response. At this point, I'd love
to give the artifacts to him, if for no other reason than to have
him out of my life once and for all. But I can't do that. The
original modulator, the one I first used to go to Gaia, holds a
depleted charge. If Stanley were to press the button, the results
could be fatal.

We stare at each other in silence for a
moment and then Stanley says, "I read Prescott's memoirs, you
know." He pronounces 'memoirs' as 'memois'. I correct him, but only
to myself. "I made copies before I gave you the originals," he
says, answering the question I have yet to ask. "Fascinating
reading," he adds, lips forming an evil grin, like he's just called
my bluff and realized he holds the better hand.

"I can't give you the artifacts, Stanley," I
tell him flat out.

"Can't or won't?" he asks. The question is
moot, for Stanley continues without pausing. "I've spoken to a
lawyer friend and he advises—"

"You contacted a lawyer?" I'm not sure
whether to read disappointment or surprise into my next statement.
"Oh, Stanley."

"My lawyer friend advised me that, if you
were not forthcoming with my artifacts, I should telephone the
police and report a theft."

"Come on, Stanley. You're not serious."

"I'll give you five minutes to produce the
artifacts."

He takes out his cell phone and dials. I
need to stall and fast. "I need some time, Stanley. Let me call
Palmer to come home and together we can figure something out."

"Call your bodyguard to try and muscle me
into leaving without my things?"

"Muscle you?" I say. "That's not fair."

"You have four minutes."

"We could go to the university together and
find Palmer and talk about it there."

"That would take longer than three
minutes."

"Stanley, let's be reasonable."

He sits silently at my kitchen table
watching the seconds tick past on the kitchen clock. I don't know
what to do. He doesn't like Palmer. Okay. I get that. Palmer wasn't
exactly friendly to him when they met. And while I haven't ever
really known Palmer to be intimidating (at least not past my frosh
year), I can see how someone like Stanley could. Where Palmer is
tall, Stanley is...compact; where Palmer is broad, Stanley
is...compressed. During their meeting, Palmer was inflamed yet
comfortable on his own turf while Stanley was meek and out of his
element. I guess if I were Stanley Hume at this particular moment
in time, I wouldn't want to deal with Palmer Richardson either.

Stanley says, "Two minutes," and something
in me snaps. To hell with this pissing game.

"Alright," I shout, resentful in my
resignation. "Alright. I'll get you the artifacts." I tell him to
stay put, retreat to my office and gather the box from my top desk
drawer. "You know," I start as I retrace my steps down the central
hall leading back to the kitchen, "I'm not trying to steal your
fifteen minutes, or anything."

Stanley says nothing. He stands as I
approach, pockets his cell, and reaches for the tin box. I feel him
tug softly when he grasps it, as if he expects me to release it to
his possession. Instead, I maintain my hold on it. "I need to be
honest here with you, Stanley. We did more than clean the
artifacts. We experimented with them."

"What do you mean, 'experimented'?" He tugs
on the box once more, this time with force and I let go of it.

"We energized the modulator."

Stanley throws open the lid and peers
inside, scrutinizing each and every artifact for injury.

"We tried to use it but nothing
happened."

"So what are you saying?" Stanley asks as he
appraises the last artifact.

"I'm saying the results were
inconclusive."

Stanley looks up at me as he holds the
modulator gently in the palm of his hand. "No they weren't," he
says, challenging. "If the results were inconclusive you wouldn't
have needed to keep my stuff as long as you did." Suddenly, his
eyes seem to glow with realization. "You went to Gaia, didn't
you?"

"No, Stanley," I say, trying to maintain eye
contact, sure if I look away, he'll know I'm not telling the truth.
"We pushed the button and nothing happened." He looks at me
intensely, looking for some kind of tell which will confirm I'm
lying. "OK, I felt dizzy for a second, maybe even nauseous, and I
thought it was going to work, but then nothing happened."

Stanley watches me for a moment longer and
then tosses the modulator into the cigar box. He stows the box
under his left armpit. "Good-bye, Ms. McBride," he says, and steps
toward the front foyer, but I block his exit.

"If you read Prescott's papers, then you
know. Trying to use the modulator with an improper charge could be
suicide, Stanley," I tell him.

"Cut the melodrama, Ms. McBride," Stanley
says, plastering on a fake smile which shows too much teeth. "If it
didn't work for you when it was fully charged, what makes you think
it will do anything if I try to use it now?"

"Stanley..." I say, intending to reason with
him, but I can think of nothing to say. He's right. Logically, if
nothing happened when it was charged, then nothing should happen
from that point on.

"No, Ms. McBride. As far as I'm concerned,
there is nothing more to say. The artifacts are mine. It is my
decision to do with them as I will. If and when my discovery is
made public, well, that will be my decision, too."

Screw it. I'm trying to reason with him,
trying to save his life and all he's interested in is controlling
the release of the story to the media. I step aside and let him
leave.

He walks out onto the front stoop, my
outstretched palm the only thing saving the screen door from
slamming after him. "Stanley," I call, catapulting myself onto the
front stoop, careful to catch the screen with my hand (rather than
my face) on the rebound. Luckily, it's the middle of the day in the
middle of the work week and the street's a ghost town. Stanley
ignores me as he storms across the front lawn to his car parked by
the curb in front of my house. "Whatever you do, don't press that
button."

Stanley gets into his car and closes the
door behind him. I swear and bring my hand down hard on the wrought
iron rail in front of me. Son-of-a-bitch, but it stings.

I’m out back staring into dull, gunmetal
twilight when Palmer gets home. The moon illuminates the clouds,
backlighting them, like some child's Black Magic drawing. It's
misting. The wood on the deck appears mossy. It glows shiny with
moisture. Nevertheless, it's a nice night. Autumn's chill is warmed
with the threat of summer's redux, abundantly welcome, if only for
a day or two.

I hear a screen door squeak somewhere. Then
the front door of my house whooshes a gust of warm air chased by a
whoosh of brisk air through the backyard walk-out screen. It
terminates abruptly seconds after the deadbolt slides into
place.

Palmer’s home. The floorboards creak beneath
his feet as he travels through the house. When he slides the
walk-out screen open and joins me on the deck he brings a fleece
throw with him. He wraps the throw around my shoulders and leans in
for a kiss. I turn my head half toward him and we connect, one
hemisphere of each of our lips meeting with the other’s cheek. I
rearrange my legs beneath me and draw from the waning warmth of
what was a steaming latte bowl of tea not too long ago. "Hey," I
say. The exposed surface of the throw grows slick with dew.

"Hey back," he says over my shoulder. He
drags the floor umbrella from the corner of the deck and positions
it between my chair and the one next to me. From nowhere, he draws
a bath towel and proceeds to cover the patio chair pillow with
it.

I put the teacup down, and wrap myself
tighter in the cotton candy coloured throw.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Uh huh," I say.

"I half expected to find you still glued to
your computer."

He knows me too well. Had Stanley not
interrupted, had my brain not threatened to explode, he’s right.
I’d still be hunched over my computer researching. I sigh, look at
him and manage a smile. "No. I've had enough of that. Too
depressing."

"I tried to call—"

"Yeah. I forgot to bring the phone out."

"How long have you been out here?"

I shrug.

"I thought you were going to call me with
your research."

"I guess I forgot," I say, examining my
cuticles. I take a small nip at a piece of hanging skin, but then
remember I’m trying to quit. I bury both hands inside my blanket
cocoon and look at my husband.

“Unclench.” I trace the furrow between his
brows with my index finger. “Unless you want perma-scowl.”

“I clench when I worry,” he says. The furrow
shallows when he grins.

“What are you worried about.”

He looks at me as if I should know.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” I say. I
wonder if my brow furrow is showing.

He maintains the look.

“Really, Palmer, I’m safe, I promise.” I
can’t say the same about Stanley.

“I just,” he says as he digs under the
blanket for my hands. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me. It’s safe,
like I said.”

“I’m not talking about your physical
health.”

Incensed at whatever that might mean, I open
my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.

“How long have you been sulking out
here?”

“I’m not sulking. I’m thinking.” Okay, so
after the way things went this afternoon with Stanley, maybe I’m
sulking a little. “There’s a difference.”

“What are you thinking about,” he asks and I
begin to tell him of my research.

Though I’d secretly hoped Gaian file
protocols would somehow mesh with those on Earth, it became
apparent early on that the files Reyes had stored on my Gaia-link
had less in common with contemporary computer protocols than Macs
had with IBMs. In the absence of a common interface, I began taking
pictures of the display. But without fine detail, many of the maps
were useless. I had no choice but to resort to good old fashioned
pen and paper transcription. I drew sketches. I re-typed entire
documents.

Reyes had most certainly done his homework.
The first file I found was a primer on the Gaian calendar, used to
facilitate the conversion of Gaian dates to those in Earth's
Gregorian time frame. I learned the Gaian calendar year is composed
of twelve, thirty-day months called "Kalends". An intercalary
month, called Sol, is sandwiched between June and July to make up
for the remaining five days in the year. The file noted Reyes Sr.
had calculated that, in order to translate Gaian years to
Gregorian, a difference of about forty years needed to be
subtracted from the Gaian calendar date.

The next file was composed of dates on a
timeline, the earliest of which read: "Seismic activity caused by
tectonic event. West-central coastline of Selene. Fourth kalend,
1950". I applied Reyes Sr.’s conversion factor. I needed to find a
momentous event taking place sometime in the spring of the early
1900s. This one was a no-brainer. Reyes and I had already discussed
it after Symposium: the San Francisco earthquake, April 1904.

The next entry corresponded to late summer,
mid 1940s, over a period of about a kalend. Two events within weeks
of each other, one on the continent-slash-mass Gaia calls Ganymede,
and a second on Selene. According to the map in the silver case,
Ganymede correlates with Japan. The incidents manifested themselves
as a noted increase in random phase shifting on Gaia. I’m sure this
refers to what is affectionately known as "The Manhattan Project",
and the attack on Hiroshima. Three nuclear weapons detonated over a
time period of less than a month. The first, codenamed "Trinity",
an episode of nuclear testing in New Mexico, the second and third
detonated early August 1945, both over Japan.

This revelation both astounded and paralyzed
me. For a moment, I could do nothing but stare at the computer
monitor, dumbfounded. The implications were appalling. Activities
on Earth, however damaging they may be to our environment, had
implications for a sister planet. Especially disturbing was the
flip side of this discovery, that activities on Gaia must therefore
have consequences for Earth. It's like no matter what one planet
did, whether to help or hinder its cause, both were doomed to
suffer whatever consequence ensued.

I checked the next entry on the timeline:
"Experimental craft lost over south-central Selene. Sixth kalend of
1991". Craft disappears, June, late 1940s. I did the Google search,
but found nothing conclusive. It didn’t hit me until hours later
when I was sitting outside in the dark watching the sky. A flashing
light—probably night lights on a plane—hit it home for me. An
experimental craft lost sometime in the late 1940s could only refer
to one thing: Roswell. At that time, Gaia was already experimenting
with terraforming. Excessive terraforming was what had initially
precipitated the random shifts in phase, the one they called Motar
Prefect had said so in his Symposium oration. Was the so-called
"alien crash" in Roswell, New Mexico nothing more than a ship of
poor Gaian souls who had unwittingly flown through a random phase
shift pocket?