Return To The Cosmos
A Tale of the Voyagers
by Tim Shannon, ©March, 1995
All materials copyright 1995, T. Shannon
and cannot be reproduced in any physical or electronic medium without the
owner's express written permission.
I remember shaking.
At first I thought it was from too much tequila or the food I got at the
taqueria in the Zona Rosa. In moments, I realized everything was rattling,
not just me. The sound was indescribable. The earth released a torturous
scream, as if it were being violated, ripped open by huge, malicious hands.
The air, already noxious with factory and diesel fumes, suddenly filled with
dust and smoke.
And screams. I remember the screams.
I saw a child, screaming, terrified, only a few feet from me. Suddenly, the
wall behind us was falling, tumbling down on top of her. Reaction in action,
no time for thought -- I lunged, pushed her aside, out into the open.
I remember the kiss of the first earthen bricks on my flesh; then blackness
closing over me.
I remember hands.
I'll never forget those smooth, slender hands, reaching out for me. I looked
up, the wall still crumbling all around, the earthquake still roaring in
my ears, and saw what I decided must be an angel. Time froze. The angel placed
her cool hand over mine. She (undeniably a she I realized) had long, lustrous
blonde hair and white, gossamer robes. She was holding what looked like a
pocket watch. She pressed a small stud on the casing of the watch and the
blackness washed over me completely. The last thought of my old life was,
"Time's up, I guess."
I dreamed of muffled explosions and stars in motion and trumpet calls.
I awoke. I say this to indicate that I was not dead, which surprised me.
Several parts of my body screamed in a way that said they wished they were
dead. I was lying on a soft bed in a dimly lit room. I sat up and moved to
the edge. It was then I discovered a fundamental law of the universe: big
mistakes are usually followed by big pain. I tried to stand. My head swam
in color and I joined the dust bunnies on the floor for a short spell. There
were no dreams this time, only throbbing between my ears.
Thus began my education at the Voyager Academy. In the months that followed
my rescue from the Mexico City earthquake of 1985, I learned more about our
fragile concept of history and about myself than I ever dreamed possible.
I learned a great deal about solitude as well.
The academy, the dormitories, the gymnasiums and grounds were vast, spacious,
rivaling any Ivy League institution on earth. The architecture and furnishings
were grand dichotomies. Everything resembled 19th and early 20th century
European fashions and yet were technological marvels. Gas lights glowed with
power neither fossil nor electric. Communications across campus were accomplished
with antique telephones which were nonetheless wireless and resounded with
a clarity bordering on telepathic. Teaching materials included books bound
in rich leathers and computer screens the size of a credit card, tucked
seamlessly into finely crafted wood desktops. Draperies and linens appeared
as silk and lace but to the touch felt like mercury: smooth, slippery but
not entirely substantial. And it was all for me.
As far as I could tell, I was the only student on the entire campus. The
staff consisted of only a handful of professors and instructors, a few janitors
and kitchen workers. Meals were taken in the cafeteria, always marvelous
formal affairs with china and crystal (at least that is how they appeared)
and multiple courses served by wistful, overstuffed matrons.
Eventually, I got up the nerve to ask my favorite teacher, Professor Garth,
about the arrival of other students. He answered that there would be none.
What about those who had come before? Sadly he replied that I would learn
soon enough. No matter who I asked, the answers were the same. Any attempt
at curiosity met with vague assurances that all would be clear someday.
So I spent my days improving my body and my mind and training for what I
knew not. My only real friend during that time was Susan, the angel who rescued
me. While her answers were as guarded as any I received from the other
instructors, she at least explained how I came to the academy.
"We're Voyagers," she explained. "We travel through time to help history
along, give it a push where needed. We recruit brave young men and women
like yourself who would have perished needlessly in their own timelines.
We give them a second lease on life. Our selection process is very thorough
-- we look for selflessness and courage and intelligence. Usually, we end
up with the cream of the crop, so to speak, the brightest and best."
"Usually?" I asked.
"Yes, but you'll see." Susan's gaze seemed to drift inward for a moment;
her smile faded at whatever memory she relived. "Anyway," she continued after
a moment, "I was brought here much the same as you were."
"From what year were you plucked?"
"Oh, let's see ... it was July 19, 1989. In my old life I was an actress,
though I hadn't done anything particularly famous. I was flying home when
my plane crashed. I remember an explosion, an engine; the plane rocked and
pitched violently. Then the passenger next to me took my hand and we leapt
into the cosmos; just as I did with you."
My mind reeled, trying to untie the twisted skeins of time travel. "How long
have you been here?" I inquired.
"Oh, ten, eleven years, I suppose. I've lost track."
"Wait, let me see if I have this right. You came from a time four years after
my own, but you've been here ten years longer than I have."
"That's right," she replied. I frowned in confusion. "You haven't studied
the paradoxes inherent in time travel yet. Be patient."
"As if I haven't heard that before. But, why does time need Voyagers? Why
does history need help?"
"Well, when time travel was first discovered, people used it indiscriminately,
popping back to meet famous historic figures and learn the unsolved mysteries
of the universe. Eventually, regulation was enforced, but not before a great
deal of damage had been done. Time is a bit like a pool. When you toss a
stone into any point in the water, it creates ripples which race across the
entire face of the pool. The stone settles, changing the shape of the bottom.
Even when removed, the sands settle out slightly different than before. A
time traveler has much the same effect. He may influence the course of history
subtly, in ways he is never aware."
"Then doesn't tossing Voyagers into the timestream just muddy the waters
even further?"
"Voyagers are given a map of how history should unfold in the original timeline,
the Voyager Guidebook. To extend the pool metaphor, our focus is re-sculpting
the bottom to bear as much resemblance to its original form as possible;
calm the waves. True, Voyager missions are not always executed with surgical
precision. There are many, many variables to consider. A Voyager has to be
ready for anything. And you will be."
Long months ensued. Without distractions, I studied furiously. (Susan would
have certainly piqued my interest, but I saw her intermittently) Finally,
I passed all the exams: written, oral and physical. One morning, after a
hearty breakfast, I was called into the Dean's office. I had never met or
even glimpsed the dean in all my time at the academy.
His offices were even more Victorian than the rest of the college, all polished
brass and hardwoods. Bookshelves lined the walls. Although the day was bright
and clear, the draperies in his inner office were shut tight, lest the gloom
escape. The Dean's assistant ushered me into an overstuffed leather armchair
opposite a huge writing desk. The highback chair on the other side of that
desk was turned away from me so that I couldn't see its occupant. Only a
small desk lamp glowed in the office; its light muted behind green glass.
"We have made a terrible mistake," a low, gravely voice said from behind
the desk. The voice gave the impression of great age, the weight of many
decades. "We have loosed a great evil upon all of history. Our Voyager Corps
is scattered on the winds of time. Many are lost to us forever. We desperately
need your help to find the only two Voyagers familiar enough with the Dark
One to stop him. We need you to find Phineas Bogg and Jeffrey Jones."
End Part One