Second Paradigm (7 page)

Rat pointed down the street the other direction. “See that big, pointy tower?”

Chris saw it: a massive silver spike, about a mile down the street, which rose what looked to be hundreds of stories high. Chris was awed.
That isn’t possible. That building must stand near a mile high. Someone must have engineered high impact, low weight building materials while I slept.

The street they stood on ran toward the obelisk, and seemed to be a thoroughfare for the aerial cars that zoomed a few hundred feet overhead. The way they swerved and moved, passing both above and below, Chris imagined that there must be some sort of advanced artificial intelligence driving them. Either that or humanity’s reflexes had improved quite a bit in the past forty years.

“This is Cherry Lane. Go that way—the shop you’re looking for is on this street right under that spike.”

“What’s the spike?” Chris had trouble keeping the awe out of his voice. “It’s huge.”

“That, boss, is the GeoCorp District Administration Building. The D.A.B.” Rat stopped the mock bravado and moved in close, his eyes shifting about. “Don’t trust them.”

“Why not?” Chris asked, suspicion surging through him.
Who is this guy? Maybe he really is someone sent to spy on me. But why would anyone want to keep tabs on me?

“Because they’re assholes, that’s why.” Rat coughed and spit something black onto the trunk of one of the wretched trees. “They got all these ads floatin’ around that they’re gonna bring a better tomorrow. Well, fuck them. They ain’t gonna help me with this shit—” Rat thumped his chest “—cause I ain’t worth shit to them. I don’t have money, so they’re gonna watch me die and send in a cleaning crew to burn my corpse. I’m only twenty-five and I’ll be dead in under five years—all because GeoCorp won’t employ anyone who had family in the government. So with me the Kennedy family dies out because my grandfather had the wrong job.”

Rat leaned towards Chris and lowered his voice to conspiratorial whisper. “Hell, most of the street people you saw are in the same position that I am. The really old guy asleep back there at the mouth of the alley is Tod Morrison. He’s the famous mathematician who came up with the new Mathematical Optimization Model that solved the food shortages for the population growth. People considered him one of the world’s greatest philanthropists—even won a bunch of prizes. But he worked for the government and now he sleeps on a concrete bed.”

Chris’s suspicion ebbed, but he didn’t know what to say, so he looked back at the spire. “Thanks. I never would have found the place without you.”

“Shit, it ain’t nothin’ for a hundred bucks. You need anything, you find me. Just ask for Rat—I’ll be around.”

“I may take you up on that.” Chris fished through his wad till he found a five hundred dollar bill. “Take this. Consider it a retainer to stay in the area so I can find you if I need you.”

Rat nodded to Chris with a grin as he took the bill. “You take care, Chris Nost. This is a dangerous world—but you’re different. And I like you.” Then he headed back the way they had come. Chris could hear his wet, hacking cough long after his head disappeared behind the heaps of rubbish.

Squat and run-down Hotel Rangely’s dingy exterior had seen years of abuse and disrepair. A couple despondent souls lounged by the front door, using the hotel’s canopy as a shelter from the light rain and drinking whisky out of an unmarked bottle that Chris could smell ten feet away. He nodded to them as he walked by, trying to be friendly in his nervousness, but neither responded with as much as a grunt.

Inside, the lobby was mostly clean, if worn, with a few dusty chairs and tables. In the far corner sat an overweight cleaning woman watching a black and white television even older than Chris. The anchorwoman spoke about widespread natural disaster in Asia, and the images on the flickering screen depicted piles of bodies bloated by flood and burned by fire.

Chris approached the desk. “I need a room,” he said to a newspaper held erect by two stumpy, hairy hands. The headline read:

Mount Fuji Blows Again,

Remnants of Japan Sink

“How long?” The paper lowered to reveal a scabby bald man with a face that looked like it came from the same family as a pit-bull.

“Actually, I have no idea. I need a place while I look for a job.” Chris realized his mistake as the words came out of his mouth.

“Sorry, bub. ‘No idea’ isn’t an amount of time I rent for.” He brought the paper back up, hiding his face from Chris. “Besides, we don’t rent to people who ain’t registered Corp Employees.”

“Wait. How about a week?” He realized that this would be an expensive fix. “I’ll have my papers by Thursday. After my hiring negotiations.”

The clerked gave Chris a long, calculating look. His small piggy eyes lit up with the prospect of a good profit. “Three-thousand. Cash only.”

Chris smiled. “Can I get a receipt? I’ll need to turn in my expense account to the Company, after all. I will be getting partial reimbursement for the move until I find a more permanent place to live.” He hadn’t liked the way the guy had looked him over, and given what little he knew of the times, it seemed a safe thing to say.

Sure enough the man scowled and said, “Eighteen hundred and no receipt. That’s the best price I can give you.”

Chris counted off some bills. “Here’s fifteen hundred. No receipt, but a good room.”

The man thought for a moment and pulled down some keys from the pegboard behind him and tossed them to Chris. “Deal.”

Chris took the keys and slid another three hundred across the counter. “Tip.” He said simply. It seemed the best course of action to make sure that he had the man’s friendship in the future.

The clerk smiled. “Wait up a minute.”

He took down another set of keys and flipped them to Chris, and motioned for Chris to toss back the others. “A good room. Like you asked for. Anything else I can get you?”

“Can you tell me where a drugstore is?” Chris thought about the basic necessities he would need.

“What kind of drugstore?” The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Slab, smack, net drugs, contraceptives, antivirals … what you looking for?

“You know, toiletries, that sort of thing? Toothbrush and stuff.” Chris raised his empty hands to indicate his lack of luggage.

“Sure, bub. By the way, the name’s Charlie.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a map of Denver, pointing out a few malls and intersections with convenience stores. The tourist map had only the main streets and little pictures of all the places worth seeing in the area. In large letters along the top it stated: NORTH DENVER—TWO MILE HIGH CITY.

“You got no luggage?” The clerk seemed to have a hidden meaning in his question, but Chris had no idea what it was.

Chris shrugged. “I arrived a little unexpectedly.”

“Shit, man. Sounds like being born. Hey, let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, Mr. …?”

“Call me Nost. Chris Nost.”

“Righty-o, Chris Nost. Call down to the desk if there’s anything you need. Dial star one-one. I’m here nine to nine every day, and most nights, besides. Enjoy your stay.”

The room surprised him, given the outward appearance of the Rangely Hotel. The bed was large and not obnoxiously lumpy, and the little table lamp lit the room with a bright yellow glow. Chris shut off the lamp and opened the brown, flower-patterned curtains, letting the distilled gray afternoon light wash over him and into the room. It had stopped raining, but a low fog had rolled in, hiding the silver spire of the D.A.B. and obscuring the view from his room. The Rangely was the highest building on the block, and Chris wondered what the scenery would be like once the weather cleared. His trip through the streets with Rat had disorientated him and he was no longer sure which way downtown was.

Chris stripped and walked into the bathroom, wondering whether or not he would find some technological wonder. Luckily in the bathroom he found only a sort of refreshing disappointment—familiarity. Shower. Tub. Toilet. Sink. Starched hotel towels with the GeoCorp logo on them. They were the only signs in the hotel room that he had been asleep for forty-one years. He took them off the rack and laid them, unfolded and facedown, on the floor. He muttered his thanks that the embroidered “G” in a triangle was only on one side. Less than a day in this world, but he already knew he didn’t like GeoCorp, turned the hot water all the way on, laid down on the towels, and let the steam wash over him.

He waited until the bathroom was filled with steam, turned off the shower and climbed into the tub, letting the heated ceramic warm the chill he hadn’t noticed was there. Tension started to drain from his muscles and a warm glow seeped through his body, filling the void left by the tension.

Chris attempted to let his mind drift into oblivion, but there were too many questions running rampant through his thoughts.
Who did I murder? Why? How is it possible that I am here, now?
He thought of Dr. Jameson and felt a growing irritation. How could the man profess he cared anything about Chris when the only advice he could give was to find a job?
I know he was on the clock, but three days is a long time to wait for answers.
With newfound resolve he buried that portion of the discordance in his thoughts by resolving to find a way to research his past before meeting with Jameson. He smiled as he felt a small portion of the weight of his troubles lift from his shoulders.

Chris couldn’t fathom searching for a job in this dark world of neon lights and cardboard dreams. If his suspicions were founded in reality, then everything he knew as a scientist was outdated and no longer relevant. It seemed impossible that the technology level had advanced so far in just over forty years; he assumed there had been some major breakthroughs since his time.

That line of thinking brought more questions. He had no specific memories from ‘his time’ at all—only a series of thoughts and impressions. He didn’t even know what sort of person he was before about six hours ago. He didn’t feel like he was capable of murder, but then he thought back to Rat.

The surge of paranoia he felt when Rat told him about the D.A.B. was more than cautiousness at unfamiliar surroundings. He had something ingrained in that reaction. Paranoia seemed to be a part of him, which meant that the hostility and anger he had been feeling were part of his personality. But something about that didn’t resonate within him. His internal vision of himself didn’t match the shape that left in him.
God damn it … Personality reconstruction is a painful experience. I want to know who the hell I am.…

As the absolute reality of the situation struck him, Chris snickered and then his control snapped and it turned into a deep belly laugh as tears turned into streams. The release felt good but a small part of him remained, an inner self, retaining control, which wished this were all a delusion. That he was back in ‘his’ time, penned up in some asylum, out of touch with reality.

He tried to make the image stick, but it slipped and faded into nothing.
This is real,
he told himself over and over as he lay in the bathtub absorbing the ambient heat in the room.
This is real. This is real. This is real. And I am trapped here.

He lay there for a long time, until he started to get cold. Then he stood up and showered, rekindling the warmth in his bones. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that, without memories, he would be just as out of place in ‘his’ time. It was all the same when you had nothing to base it on.
I guess
, he thought¸
if there’s anyone who can handle the world after sleeping for forty-one years, it would be someone who couldn’t remember what it was like before
. Chris laughed again.
Unless, of course, I really am crazy.

He got out of the shower, opened the bathroom door to release the steam, and toweled off the mirror. “I’m seventy-four years old,” he said to the mirror, but it sounded absurd as he looked at himself. Shoulder length, dark brown hair, shiny with moisture, sat atop a scruffy face with a strong jaw line and hard, gray eyes. For some reason they reminded him of Dr. Jameson’s eyes—cold and void of emotion.

Chris scratched his chin.
I guess I woke up before they could give me my daily shave.
He still had three days before he met the doctor at Little Paris.
Might as well make myself presentable
, he thought as he dressed himself in his only set of clothing, still damp from the rain.

He could tell from the darkening of the gray light outside that night had fallen and he looked at the clock—a regular digital buzzer alarm clock with red numbers. Six oh-five. He considered waiting until morning to run his errands—the city seemed dangerous enough during the day, but he felt unconcerned. He had an inexplicable feeling of … waiting in his stomach. He didn’t know what he waited for, but he felt a weird certainty that until it happened, nothing could possibly happen to him. Anyway, he was restless.

“I guess forty-one years of sleep will do that,” he said to no one as he locked his room door behind him. “Anyway, how bad could it be?”

2873: James Garret’s Laboratory

Garret put down the stolen file and rubbed his eyes, trying in vain to blink back the exhaustion. He caught a ragged breath. They had sent his wife single handedly up against the greatest paradox in history and expected her to win. In a lot of ways, it was murder.

Expecting one person to be able to tip the balance of historical imperative by that much was beyond sheer stupidity. It bordered on willful blindness. James had a nagging suspicion that Director Warren, predecessor to the current Director Arbu, had known what he was doing. At least he had lost his job over it. But the trivial price that had been exacted was far from enough.

Still, something about this did not add up correctly. The math worked well enough, but not perfectly. It was almost as though.… He scratched out the formulas on his relative paradox theory, inputting the data from Wanda’s file. And there it was. He could not build the relativity frame correctly for the information contained in the file. So, something was missing, something about the time frame she had been operating in.