Blake Schwendiman's Blog and Blook

Chapter 23

Thursday, 10 March 2022 – 9:00 p.m. SAST

Daniel sat in a corner booth. The nightclub was dark, loud and smoky. He was sandwiched between two regulars, both redheads. They, and four other women had swarmed around him the moment he entered – the scent of money was strong. Daniel dismissed all but the two. Red hair was his weakness.

The two women proved to be more than simply nice ornaments. They seemed to know everyone in the club, and how to reach the people Daniel sought. Within thirty minutes, several men had gathered. Two thick-accented Boers who appeared to be brothers fidgeted and spoke softly with each other in Afrikaans. They looked like they had just stepped out of a military operation – cropped hair, camouflage fatigues, cocked berets. Opposite them a small African stared coldly at Daniel but said nothing. He appeared to be a local, possibly Zulu or Xhosa. Two other men, both of whom Daniel suspected were English South Africans waited for Daniel to discuss the job. They were smaller men than the rest, but wiry and tough. The taller of the two was missing several teeth and had a large bruise under his right eye.

Daniel asked the ladies to fetch drinks then invited the five men to sit. The Boers bullied their way into the booth, shoving the African aside.

“Umnqundu,” the African muttered as he shot a glance at the nearest Boer. Daniel didn’t speak Xhosa, but he knew how to curse in Xhosa and he recognized the word.

Daniel made eye contact with each of the five, one at a time, ensuring that he had their attention. He placed a large stack of bills on the table. Eyes widened. “Simple job. Reconnaissance only. You will find a man. You will inform me. I will pay you. You will not be paid if the subject is killed. You will not be paid if the subject is hurt. You will not be paid if the subject is aware of your presence. Understood?”

Heads nodded.

“He’s an American married to an Indian.” Daniel withdrew a stack of images. Each image was imprinted on a firm card. The card was rectangular and rigid with a slightly beveled edge. On one side was a photo. The other side was completely blank but there was a small ridge running diagonally across it.

“This is the most recent photo I have,” Daniel continued. Each man took a copy and looked it over. “The first to find him gets paid. Fifty thousand U.S.” Daniel motioned to the stack of bills. “Any questions?”

“How do we know you’ll pay?” the shorter Boer asked with a thick accent.

Daniel chuckled and shook his head. “Are you daft, boetjie? The money’s right here.”

The Boer’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like Daniel’s tone. “Counterfeit.”

“Check it yourself.” Daniel pushed the bills toward the Boers. The smaller man grabbed the stack and thumbed through it. Daniel was sure the man couldn’t recognize a counterfeit if he saw one, but the Boer was satisfied and pushed the bills toward the taller Englishman.

“Goed.” The Boer said. “Good.”

Daniel reached to pull the bills back toward him, but the taller Englishman grabbed the stack and bolted for the exit. The African leapt over the back of his seat in pursuit.

Pop. From underneath the table, Daniel shot. He had chosen a green casing, a shock dart. The Englishman had covered just about ten feet, then seized and fell to the floor. The African stopped and stepped away. Daniel rushed to Englishman and rolled him over. He pocketed the cash then lifted the head of the Englishman.

The shorter Englishman appeared beside him. His face was flush. “What the...”

“Too much to drink,” Daniel announced. “He’ll be fine.”

Within a moment the Englishman awoke. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings. He tried to scramble away from Daniel, but found that his muscles didn’t respond.

Daniel whispered, “I will kill you the next time I see you.” He dropped the Englishman’s head onto the floor. “You and your friend should leave now.”

Daniel stood and returned to his table. The Boers and the African sat silently, waiting for Daniel to continue. “When you find the target, snap the picture in half. The card contains a GPS beacon. I will locate you. Don’t signal me without locating the target.”

Chapter 22

Thursday, 10 March 2022 – 10:00 a.m. MST

Ramesh lay on something unfamiliar and oddly hard and cold. His body tingled from his head to his feet and he was having trouble focusing. He heard two voices, distant, speaking in hushed tones.

“I was afraid of this,” said a man’s voice.

“You couldn’t have known how he would react,” a female voice responded.

Ramesh forced himself to focus. He opened his eyes. Valerie was crouched beside him, pressing a cool damp cloth to his forehead. He felt a tinge of nausea and his whole body was drenched with perspiration.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You passed out.” Valerie wiped his face. The coolness resurrected more of his senses. He smelled the pungent aroma of bile.

“Did I ... vomit?”

“Yes, but don’t worry about that. We’ll get it all taken care of. Just relax until you feel like you can sit up. Do you want anything?” The concern in Valerie’s voice was clear and so tender that Ramesh lay still just to enjoy her care and her touch.

“Something for the taste. Water, juice, anything.” He was embarrassed to speak, certain that the smell of vomit on his breath was surely horrid.

“Here,” Quinn leaned over and passed Ramesh a bottle of water. “Take it easy, though. Don’t move too quickly or we may lose you again.”

“How long was I out?”

“Less than two minutes.”

Ramesh forced himself to sit up. He sipped the water. The front of his shirt was saturated with vomit. He saw that he had made it about halfway from his chair to the elevator. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” Valerie answered. “It’s all fine.”

Ramesh pushed himself up to his feet.

“Easy,” both Quinn and Valerie called at the same time. Valerie leaned in to support Ramesh to a chair. He nearly sat when he saw that both his pants were also wet with vomit.

“I need to clean up,” he said, looking to Quinn.

“Absolutely,” Quinn answered. “We have showers in the restroom up here and I have several changes of clothing that you’re welcome to wear. Are you sure you’re okay now?” Quinn’s demeanor had softened significantly.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“Let me show you to the shower,” Quinn offered. He led Ramesh through his office and into his private restroom. At the back of the restroom there was a small dressing room, a shower, steam room and a sauna. “Take all the time you need. We’ll be waiting for you back in the conference room.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn returned to Valerie. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She was visibly shaken. “I didn’t expect him to be so ... I didn’t think he would take it so hard.” She looked at herself. “I need to clean up too.” She walked to her own office and closed the door.

Ramesh sat on a changing bench and removed his clothing. He folded them and set them aside, unsure where exactly to put them. In front of him was a vanity and mirror. At the side of the sink, there were four sets of clothing, apparently set out for him to choose. Ramesh was just slightly shorter than Quinn with nearly the same build. He didn’t feel that he was in the same physical shape as Quinn, but he was feeling pretty good for a fifty-three year old. He stared at himself in the mirror. The light flocking of white on his jet black hair was the only real indication that he was no longer in his thirties. He sighed. He tried not to think about what he had just learned.

He leaned in toward the mirror, supporting himself on the marble countertop. His eyes welled up as he thought of his beautiful Padumi and the twins. The twins were just over two years old. They had just started speaking – a mix of English and Hindi that only he and Padumi could recognize. They were so young. Perfect. A tear escaped. Ramesh breathed in deeply and stepped away from the mirror.

As he showered, his grief and sorrow turned to anger. He let them die. Hot water steamed. So young. Rage swelled. Who is he to decide?

Ramesh spun and slammed the faucet. His face burned as he quickly threw on some clothing. Barefoot, hair wet, Ramesh rushed out.

“You self-righteous, self-serving, selfish goreh!” Ramesh stood over Quinn’s chair, pointing a finger in his face. “Who are you to decide the fate of my wife ... my children?”

“Ramesh...”

“No. Don’t you talk to me in your condescending, self-righteous tone. You had no right. None. You cannot decide who lives or dies.” Ramesh struggled to get his thoughts together. He wanted to hit Quinn, but restrained himself.

“Can you?” Quinn asked.

“What?” The question disarmed Ramesh momentarily.

“Can you decide who lives and dies?”

There was a pause. Ramesh clutched his anger – he felt stronger with it. “Don’t you turn this on me.”

“That’s not my intent, Ram. Please. I know what you’re going through. Just sit down and let’s talk about it.”

“No. No you don’t know. I won’t sit down. No more talking. I came here ... you gave me no reason. And now I learn this? What do you expect me to do? Rush off to Durban? Why would I do anything for you?”

“Ram. I don’t expect anything. I was hoping you could help. I understand...”

“No, Quinn. You don’t understand. You don’t know. Your wife is alive. Your children ... they are alive. You have them. You hug them. You kiss them goodnight.” Ramesh choked. “Tell me, Quinn. Tell me if they were on that flight. Would you have let them die?”

“No.”

“Have you made every effort to protect them? Have they been in danger?”

“Yes.” Quinn looked down. These were the questions he knew that Ramesh would ask. He thought he was ready to answer them. He was wrong.

“And all this time you’ve been peeking into the future. Stealing. Building a fortune. Getting rich. Protecting your family. Did you never think of anyone else?”

“Actually. I did. For a long time I did. Brad always wanted us to do some good. And we did, honestly. But it was most important to Brad. Any time we furthered our business by lifting a patent from the future, Brad would have us do something positive. He felt that it balanced our lives. Karma or spiritualism or whatever. We would seek out something that we could do. Some big. Some small. We had a unique position because of our contacts at the government. Our defense contracts provided us with personnel that we could provide tips to. We tried to help.”

Quinn stood and paced over to his desk. He picked up a Darth Vader figure. He turned it over in his hands. “The problem is that every action creates so many reactions. The butterfly effect...”

“The what?” Ramesh had loosened a bit, but his tone still maintained its edge.

“The butterfly effect – chaos. Technically it’s sensitive dependence on initial conditions. What it means is that a tiny or insignificant event can possibly trigger an enormous set of events in the future. In our case, we tried to make positive changes by averting man-made disasters, but many times we made things worse.” Quinn twirled the Vader figure in his hands.

“Saving my family would have made things worse?” The thought sparked Ramesh back to defense and anger.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I couldn’t know. By that time, I had stopped getting involved. We had stopped getting involved.”

“Not completely,” Ramesh fumed. “You still protect your own family. You still grow your companies.”

Quinn sighed. “You’re right. We made a collective decision to stop getting involved in things that did not appear to have immediate impact on ourselves or our business. You’re right. It was and is still a selfish position. You’re right. It is biased and unfair.”

“And what about Brad? He just decided to stop helping?”

“Not exactly,” Quinn sighed. “He didn’t just decide to stop helping. He was trying to help. We had identified a catastrophe. A dirty bomb had been detonated near Orlando ... I mean to say that a dirty bomb was planned to be detonated in Orlando. We had details. We knew what day. We knew that it would arrive on a passenger ship.” Quinn looked up at Ramesh. There was recognition.

“But the bomb did not reach Orlando.”

“No, in fact, our intervention at first only had the effect of changing which ship was used. We intervened again, but it was too late. We identified the event too late and the plans were so far advanced that we could not avoid it. The terrorists simply updated their plan and detonated at sea. It was a complete loss. Fewer people were killed than would have been affected had the bomb detonated on land, but the impact was more personal.” Quinn set the Darth Vader down and walked back to his chair.

“Brad’s parents,” Ramesh whispered. He remembered that Brad’s parents had been killed aboard a passenger ship. It had been a devastating act of terror. Brad had been inconsolable. He blamed himself. Ramesh thought that Brad assumed responsibility because he had paid for the trip. He had no idea that Brad had been so closely involved in the tragedy.

Quinn sat with his head in his hands. He spoke to the floor. “After that we backed off. Brad never completely recovered. He became obsessed with creating a way to change the past – to fix all of our mistakes. When he left here with Sireesha and Daniel to establish the Naidu companies, Sireesha promised him that they would pursue his ideas. It was a lie. She wanted Brad for the political and financial clout he brought to her fledgling enterprise.”

Ramesh paced. He struggled within himself. In a surreal way, everything Quinn said made sense. But he fought with his own loss. He had buried those emotions so deeply for so many years that once they resurfaced he felt incapable of burying them again. But he did care about Brad. Their friendship was still as vibrant in his mind as ever, though he had not spoken to Brad for several years.

“You want me to go warn Brad?” Ramesh asked.

“Yes.”

“Of what, exactly?”

“I’m not sure, but I need you to find him. I need to know what he knows about Sireesha and Daniel today. Something big is happening and I think Brad may know what it is.”

Ramesh voiced skepticism, “That doesn’t sound like a warning. What do you really want? Quinn, if you expect me to help you after all of this...” Ramesh turned toward the elevators again. Quinn had reconfirmed his own self-interest. Ramesh spun and shook his finger at Quinn. “You know, Quinn, I really thought you wanted me to help. To help Brad. But all you really want is more information – information to help you. If that’s what this is, go get it yourself.” Ramesh turned and took several strides toward the exit. The door to Valerie’s office opened and she stepped out. She stopped, startled.

“Wait, Ram. Please,” Quinn called. “They’ve threatened me. Something is going to happen to Laura.”

Ramesh stopped. His shoulders fell under the weight of Quinn’s plea. Without turning, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Look at the display.” Quinn pointed at the wall opposite him. Ramesh looked up and saw the three kids again, those who had recently died. “This is why I have brought you here. The message.”

Ramesh nodded. “Explain this message.” He turned to the displays. Valerie walked behind him and sat near Quinn.

“These three would have married my children. The oldest boy there, he was going to marry my Jordan in about three years. That had about a ninety-three percent chance of happening. The girl, April, was going to marry Josh. Eighty-two percent. The Ortega boy would have been a professional hockey player and my son-in-law with about sixty percent confidence.” Quinn stopped short. Ramesh saw his eyes well with tears, but Quinn forced himself to stop and changed his expression.

Ramesh wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t know how to offer condolences on the deaths of potential future children-in-law. He did know that Quinn was obviously affected by the deaths and that Quinn clearly believed that they would have become his children’s spouses. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say. It sounded hollow.

Quinn shrugged. “There’s more to the message.” He walked over to his desk and pulled a picture frame from the top drawer. He handed it to Ramesh. There were two frames. On the left Quinn stood with his wife and three kids – a perfect family picture. On the right, the same picture was framed, but Laura had been digitally removed from the picture. “I received this by courier Tuesday evening just before I saw the news.”

“Who is it from?” Ramesh asked. He sat down and stared at the picture. The emptiness of the right-hand frame resonated inside him.

“There was no indication on the delivery. But it’s clear. Only a very few people could have sent these messages.” Quinn sat down and stared at the kids on the view screens.

Ramesh set the picture aside. He rubbed his hands together. “So. You need me to go find Brad. See what he knows. You want me to save your family?”

Quinn nodded.

“You want me to save your family. And you let my family die?”

Quinn looked up. His eyes were brimming. He nodded. Valerie watched the interchange. She had not expected the directness.

“Padumi.” Ramesh hung his head. “They were innocent. My babies. They didn’t deserve that. They’re gone. Everything beautiful in my life was taken away. It’s gone.” Valerie turned her head. Ramesh paused and gathered himself. “What makes you think I would help you?”

Quinn stared. In his mind he had gone over this conversation a dozen times since he decided to involve Ramesh. It was the only thing he was sure about – that Ramesh was the only person he could trust. “Because you are a good person.”

Chapter 21

Thursday, 10 March 2022 – 7:00 p.m. SAST

Daniel sorted through his duffle, grabbing the few things he would need later. He had spent the better part of the afternoon basking in the sun and working out in the hotel gym. Now he had work to do, and he had to look and dress accordingly. He knew the Durban night crowd well. He suspected that in the two decades he had been gone, the only things that would have changed would be the volume and the roughness. He expected both to be better.

He wore black shorts, loose and comfortable with enough bagginess to conceal his weapon and his cash. He normally carried a spare set of clothing, but he would not need it this evening. Under different circumstances he might find himself out all night or in another situation where a second set of clothes would be handy, but tonight would be short work. His shirt was contemporary minimal – just enough to satisfy the letter of the law for establishments requiring one. It covered only his shoulders and draped lightly onto his back. On the front, chain mesh loops ran from armpit to armpit at staggered lengths. He pulled some platinum chains from his duffle and connected one end of each to the rings in his nipples and up to the edges of his shirt. He found a few of his favorite lighted rings and chains and added them to his ears and naval.

He turned to the mirror and flexed. He looked good. He pulled one last item from his duffle. It was a small capsule containing an activator he developed. He crushed the capsule between his teeth and swallowed the pungent liquid inside. In moments the activator would circulate through his bloodstream and infuse his perspiration. The artificial enzymes were designed to activate the special inks used in his tattoos.

Ever the non-conformist, Daniel had nevertheless learned the value of appearance. For most business he found that his tattoos earned a disdain that was hard to overcome. Perhaps it was the number of tattoos, or the placement, or the subject matter. In any case, he found it easier to work in the traditional business community without tattoos. His work tonight was entirely the opposite of formal and he intended to make a different kind of statement.

He stared into the mirror for a moment. Slowly the tattoos on his abdomen and chest began to appear. Complex patterns of tattoos on his face and shorn head also appeared. He had invested hundreds of hours and a small fortune in developing the look for his facial tattoos. When fully opaque, the tattoos gave him an almost demonic appearance. In addition to providing the particular look he enjoyed, the tattoos also gave him a bit of anonymity. People who knew him without his body art were unlikely to recognize him with it. He stared at the transformation for a moment longer, then grabbed his bag and walked toward the door.

As he crossed the room, he received a call. It was Sireesha.

“I assume you’re there,” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Just so you are aware, I believe that Quinn has brought Ramesh in.”

“Who?”

“He’s an old friend of Brad,” she answered. “They have a great deal of history. I imagine that Quinn will send Ramesh to Durban soon.”

“Is he a threat?”

“If it is Ramesh, he is no threat. I am expecting some surveillance video to confirm that it is actually Ramesh.” Sireesha spoke with a cold confidence that Daniel had always respected.

“What is the impact to me?”

“None as yet. Just be available and be quick.”

“Fine.”

The line went dead and Daniel pushed his phone into his pocket. He was certain that his job in Durban would be finished quickly. He was at least a day and a half ahead of anyone coming from the states. He was not concerned.

Chapter 20

Thursday, 10 March 2022 – 10:00 a.m. MST

Bryan shuffled down the hallway. His eyes were solidly fixed. His normally unhappy demeanor bubbled and churned into a frothy anger. It was not in his job description to deal directly with the couriers and he was certainly not going to do it today. In the eighth floor break room, Bryan finally found his personal secretary.

“Margot,” he wheezed. “What the...” He stopped. He had recently been reprimanded for using objectionable language at work. “This parcel needs to be at off-site within the hour.”

Margot rolled her eyes and took the parcel. Bryan was religious about ensuring that critical data was moved to off-site storage. Each day it was an emergency, each day he made it a crisis, and each day Margot ensured that the delivery to the off-site storage was completed.

“Of course,” she said. She wanted to say so much more, but she refrained. It was a good job. She reminded herself of that often. “This is a little earlier than usual.”

Bryan squinted. He hated people most of the time. “It’s a separate backup. I’ll get the regular set to you at the normal time ... if I can find you.”

“I’ll be at my desk.”

“You’d better be.” Bryan smirked as he turned. He understood the pull he had at Q-Morrow. More low-level analysts, temps and interns had lost their jobs because of him than he could remember. He smiled.

Bryan returned to his office. The short walk was a marathon to his underutilized heart and lungs. He slumped in his chair and cracked open a can of soda. He turned to his display and found the message from his anonymous contact then entered a simple reply, “the package has been sent”.

Almost instantly a new message appeared. “Second half of payment will be wired on receipt of package.” Bryan smiled and wondered about his anonymous contact. He had done business with her several times in the past. He had always thought of the buyer as a woman. It was more intriguing that way, he mused.

Bryan had established an elaborate, but simple delivery system. The off-site storage facility was owned by a personal friend. From time to time, instead of sending data to be archived, he sent packages to be delivered. Occasionally, the packages were physical – things to be re-delivered by another courier – but more often the packages were digital – electronic files to be sent through an outside network. Bryan was fairly confident that he could circumvent Q-Morrow network security if he needed to, but he knew it was an unacceptable risk considering the simplicity of sending it through another network. The off-site manager would simply drop the packages off at the appropriate delivery service or digitally send the data and then pocket the cash that Bryan included.

By tomorrow morning, the data he had just sent would be in the hands of the buyer and Bryan would have another five figures in his personal account.

Not bad for twenty minutes of work, he thought to himself.

Chapter 19

Thursday, 10 March 2022 – 6:00 a.m. MST

At six a.m. Ramesh was awakened by the hotel concierge. The car would be available at six forty-five. He felt that he hadn’t slept at all. He showered and dressed, still feeling a bit embarrassed that he had arrived in Phoenix yesterday in such a disheveled state. It probably wouldn’t have bothered him, but he hadn’t planned on meeting Valerie.

He was ready to go at twenty past six, so he phoned down for tea. As he sipped Earl Gray on the balcony overlooking Camelback Mountain, he found that in spite of everything else he was experiencing, he did enjoy the view. The scent of orange blossoms carried on the light breeze. It was a perfect March day in Phoenix.

The car arrived at precisely six forty-five. In just over thirty minutes, Ramesh was entering the main floor of Q-Morrow headquarters again. The security officer greeted Ramesh by name in a friendly tone and directed him to the elevators.

At the top floor, Valerie greeted Ramesh. She looked even better than she had the previous day. Ramesh felt a pleasant peacefulness in seeing her. There was something about her that so much reminded him of Padumi. He drank in her smile. Her eyes lit him up and he felt more revived from her simple greeting than from all the cups of Earl Gray he had ever enjoyed.

“How did you sleep?” Valerie asked as they walked through the reception area.

“Very well,” Ramesh lied. He had no interest in burdening Valerie with his past.

“Are you ready for all of this?” she asked casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Ramesh and winking.

“I suppose,” he answered. “I’m not sure I know enough about all of this, but I suspect it will all become clear today.” He couldn’t believe he had just said that. He was as skeptical as ever.

“Yes. It most definitely will,” Valerie said. There was something more serious about her tone. Ramesh heard it.

Quinn sat in his spot in the conference room. Ramesh sat beside him and Valerie pulled up a chair on the other side of Quinn. Ramesh smiled as he realized that Valerie was going to stay.

Quinn started, “Ram, let’s recap. Remind me where we left off.”

Ramesh thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he could remember exactly where they had left things. He began, “The last thing that I remember discussing was how you used the future information to build your business. You said that you used lottery winnings and stock market information to develop the wealth you needed to buy your businesses.”

“That’s a bit of an oversimplification, but I may have given you that impression,” Quinn interjected. “I won a single lottery. I didn’t want to attract too much attention. Then I invested for a while. I found stocks with very good immediate upside and I invested. But that only took the company so far.”

“How do you mean?” Ramesh asked with renewed interest.

Quinn continued, “What would you say if I told you that this whole enterprise is based on theft?”

Ramesh laughed. “Absurd. I may not know much about your business, but I do know that everything you have ever released successfully has been years ahead of the closest competition. Who could you have possibly stolen from?” As soon as Ramesh finished his statement, his jaw slackened and his eyes widened. He realized in an instant the true potential of having a window on the future.

Quinn saw the recognition in his face. He explained, “We stole ideas from anyone ... everyone we could. We started with computer hardware and networking companies such as Ioline Networks and Transgenic Switch. After building out our technology companies, we switched to biotech. We stole patents from Krupp Biolabs and we stole the entire body of intellectual property from CTG Biowerks. Not to mention all of the small labs and individual researchers.” Quinn leaned forward and pressed on his temples, massaging them. He sighed.

Ramesh stared. “These companies, I have never heard of them ... It is because you put them out of business before they went into business...”

Valerie answered this time. “Exactly,” she said. “It makes your brain hurt if you think about it too long, though, doesn’t it?” She smiled. She had obviously come to be quite comfortable with the idea.

“It’s not right.” Ramesh spoke softly. “Quinn, what you have done is not ethical ... How is this possible?”

Quinn glanced downward and answered, “I know. At first I tried very hard to justify myself. I reasoned that if I stole something from someone before they even had it that they would never experience the loss and therefore no harm was done. But we did steal all of the ideas that launched this enterprise. We found patent documents for ideas that were decades away. There were research papers, company emails, and every other type of information you can imagine. It became clear very quickly that winning lotteries and playing the stock markets were insignificant compared to what we could do. And so it began. We killed fledgling companies by stealing their own ideas years before they would develop them. We stopped other companies from ever getting started. Like I said before, we built an empire by doing little more than stealing.”

Quinn paused again. Ramesh was silent. Quinn waited.

Valerie broke the silence, “But we’re not doing that anymore.”

“What?” Ramesh asked. He was lifted by her voice.

Quinn stepped in, “We’re not actively using the futurestream for research and development anymore. In that sense we’re no longer stealing from the future. But, to be completely honest, it’s no longer necessary. Because now all of the future ideas in our market space are being researched by our own companies. Whenever we look into the future of biotech, it’s one of our own companies on the patent. No sense in stealing from ourselves since most of the ideas are beyond our capability to implement anyway. That’s why they’re in our own future.”

“But the damage is done. You stole. You cheated.” Ramesh argued. He had built a healthy business for himself writing about corporate and interpersonal ethics. It was a slap in the face that Quinn, an old friend, was so desperately devoid of any ethics.

Quinn ran a hand through his hair and gave a half smile. “You’re right. And I live with that every day. And more.” He trailed off.

Ramesh furrowed his brow. “What more?” he asked.

Valerie shifted in her chair slightly. She had a sense of where the conversation was going and had hoped to avoid the topic, but Quinn had told her that it would come up. He was right.

“Humor me again for just one moment, will you?” Quinn asked.

Ramesh nodded.

“How do you change the future?” Quinn raised his eyebrows and waited.

“For you it seems rather easy. Just send a message into the future and make whatever change you need,” Ramesh answered cynically.

Quinn heard the frustration in Ramesh’s voice. He countered, “No. That’s not what I meant. And we can’t send messages through time, I just want to clarify that, but we’ll come back to that. What I mean is how do you change the future.”

Ramesh did not expect that question. His head buzzed with thoughts. He struggled to make sense of the question. “I am not sure how you want me to answer.”

Quinn broke the question down, “Let’s say you want to make a fortune in the stock market. You wish to change your financial future. How do you do it?”

Ramesh began to see the direction of the question and answered, “I suppose I would begin by first learning about the stock market. Then I would make decisions about which stocks to purchase and consult with others for advice.”

“Perfect,” Quinn interrupted. “The key phrase is that you would make decisions. You see, every decision you make affects your future and the future of countless other people. At the most basic level, all you have to do is commit to an idea and you will change the future. Depending on the idea, the outcome may affect just you, or it may affect you and your family. Or if it’s a big enough commitment, you may affect thousands of people.”

Valerie smiled at Ramesh and added, “Now, if you have a very good idea about the future outcome of a decision, how does that affect your decision?”

“It simplifies it,” Ramesh answered.

“Exactly,” said Quinn. “Would you like to see how it works?”

“Sorry?” Ramesh asked, unsure about the question.

“Would you like a demonstration?” Quinn asked again.

Ramesh shook his head, but said, “I suppose so.”

“Do you have an investment account?” Quinn asked.

“Yes,” Ramesh answered tentatively, “with Schneider Holdings in Fort Collins.” He didn’t have much in his portfolio as he had lost interest in planning for the future when he lost his family. It seemed futile.

Across the room, one of the displays lit and showed the account access screen for Schneider Holdings.

“Account number and password?” Quinn asked.

Ramesh hesitated.

“I’m not going to steal from you.” Quinn assured.

Valerie smiled and nodded to Ramesh, encouraging him. Ramesh provided the information and in a second they were all looking at his personal investment portfolio. On a separate segment of the display, several stock issues and prices appeared.

“These are the best stocks to pick today if you want a healthy return on investment to cash out in a year. We can look at best performers for a month, or just for today,” Quinn said. As he spoke, the display updated, showing a different set of symbols and their returns. “Let’s take a look at the one-year stocks.” The display switched again. “It looks like one good performer is going to be Genosoft AB. Even without being able to see the future, that seems like a good pick, but we can see the future and they’re going to provide a five-hundred fifty percent return over the next twelve months. And there’s a ninety-six percent confidence on that information.”

“Confidence?” Ramesh asked.

Quinn explained that his views on the future were based on a vast number of individual data values. “You see, we may have received as few as one packet of data or as many as thousands of packets that each contain a view of the same piece of information. Each packet may be from a different point in the future and each will have been affected by enumerable decisions. The future is not static and it is affected by decisions of people, executive boards, companies and it is affected by outside forces such as weather, geological or cosmic events. So we take all of the individual data points and assess confidence based on how many individual points we receive and how different those points are from each other.”

Ramesh shook his head, “I will have to think about that some before I am clear.”

“I’ll come back to it. The point is that if you want to make a decent return, you should definitely purchase some shares of Genosoft. Okay?”

“Do you want me to buy some stock right now?” Ramesh asked.

“No. I want you to decide to buy some Genosoft stock right now,” Quinn responded.

“Decide?” Ramesh was puzzled.

“Commit to me and Valerie that when you get home you’ll buy five hundred shares of Genosoft,” Quinn said in a completely serious tone.

Ramesh shook his head again, but responded, “If you say...”

Valerie interrupted, “Just commit to me that you’ll do it. Please.”

Ramesh couldn’t say no. It made no sense, but he committed to her that he would do it, and he smiled the whole time.

“Great!” Quinn clasped his hands together. “Now lets take a look at your future portfolio.” On another screen, information scrolled and bits of information appeared and disappeared briefly. “What do you think your account should be worth next year?” Quinn asked.

“It has been earning six to seven percent,” Ramesh answered, intrigued by the new display. When the display brightened, Ramesh saw a screen similar to the current account information, but the date was just over a year in the future. He stared at the balance. It was more than five times the current. He muttered in Hindi. “Is that real? How is that possible?”

Valerie responded, “You committed to buy Genosoft just now. So that means that when you went back to Fort Collins, or rather when you go back, you cashed out your current portfolio and bought Genosoft just like you said you would. I mean you will buy Genosoft,” she laughed. “It’s hard to keep it straight.”

Ramesh sat quietly. He attempted to process all of the information. “In truth,” he said, “I wasn’t going to buy the stock. Only after you showed me the value...”

“A paradox,” Quinn interrupted as he stretched his arms above his head. “I’ve never completely come to terms with the chicken and egg question. It just works.”

Ramesh stood. He paced a few steps then paused. He turned to say something, shook his head then paced some more. “You said there was more? Something more than just the theft of intellectual property?”

“Yeah.” Quinn’s answer erupted as more of a sigh than an actual word. He rubbed his hands through his hair. “Human nature, free will. I had always intended to use the futurestream to help people. You know, balance out the negative with some positive. I scanned the news, searched the future, sought the terrible and tried to make it right. And for a time, it seemed to work.”

Ramesh returned to his chair. Quinn’s mood had changed. Valerie looked more sullen. Ramesh felt his own mood thicken.

“But I found that I could never project the impact of my actions, so I stopped. I stopped playing superman and focused on my business.” Quinn looked at Ramesh. “There were so many times that I wanted to get involved to avert a disaster, to save a friend ... or his family.”

Ramesh felt a pit open inside himself. His head spun. “Dear God,” he whispered. The pounding in his ears increased. He stood. He spun toward the elevator. He tried to run, but his legs were disconnected from his mind. He only made three strides before collapsing on his knees. Blackness spun inward. Distant voices called. The blackness overwhelmed him.

Chapter 18

Wednesday, 09 March 2022 – 8:45 p.m. MST

From Q-Morrow headquarters to the Biltmore area in Phoenix was a relatively short drive, but it allowed Ramesh some time to reflect. He stared out the window and absorbed all the changes to the landscape since he had been gone. Tempe itself had become an enormous business and technical center riddled with high-rise buildings. The growth had also migrated west through Phoenix practically joining the two into one large corporate corridor.

Ramesh felt his heart skip as he saw the road signs indicating Sky Harbor airport. He hadn’t been there for years, but his last visit there had been the beginning of his emptiness. He tried to force the memories from his mind. He hated reliving the pain.

When he arrived at the Biltmore, the driver spoke briefly with the concierge and Ram was taken directly to his suite. He had never stayed at the Biltmore before and he had certainly never expected to be in one of its grand suites. He found that it was an unnecessarily large accommodation for his short trip, but he did enjoy the luxury. He quietly settled into bed and lay in the quiet while he let his thoughts drift.

Ramesh drove quickly as he made his way from his downtown Phoenix office to Sky Harbor airport. Fortunately, traffic was lighter than he expected on the 202 and he was making up for leaving a few minutes late. He was so excited to see Padumi and their twins. They had been away for nearly two weeks visiting Padumi’s cousin in New Jersey. Today was their forth anniversary. Ramesh had made arrangements for a surprise night out, something they hadn’t done often enough since the twins were born.

Ramesh slowed as he approached terminal four. He had planned on parking in the short-term lot, but as he approached he found that emergency vehicles were blocking access to the upper-levels of the terminal. He slowed as traffic began to bottleneck. He checked his watch. There was still just enough time to circle the terminal and find different parking.

He moved to the outside lanes which seemed to be flowing a bit better. As he passed in front of the terminal he saw groups of people standing, huddled around the various information terminals. There was a solemnity on their faces that caused Ramesh’s heart to sink. He intuitively felt that something was very wrong. He fumbled with his car stereo, searching for any news. He found it.

A radio journalist spoke, “... possible terrorist attack. We are still receiving information. We know for sure is that a flight bound for Phoenix from New York’s JFK airport has gone down ...”

Ramesh stopped his car. He jumped out and ran into the terminal. On the screen he saw images of wreckage, fire, a torn airplane fuselage. He stood in stunned silence for a moment then collapsed to his knees.

Ramesh woke with a start. The sound of his own screaming voice still rang in his mind. He sat up in bed. For a moment he could not recall where he was. He looked around the unfamiliar large room. Then it came back to him. He was in Phoenix, in the Goldwater suite of the Biltmore. He rolled out of bed and walked slowly to the sink. He splashed warm water on his face, erasing the streaks of tears from his face.

He leaned forward on the counter and stared at himself in the mirror. “What am I doing here?” he asked himself. He sighed and turned back toward the bed. It took several moments for the images of his dream to fade. He tried to push it out of his mind by thinking of his conversation with Quinn, but that only made his mind race. He lay awake for about an hour before he finally drifted to sleep again.

If you are fortunate enough to have been born before 1980, you grew up in a golden age of children’s toys that existed before safety experts reduced playtime to a small set of non-toxic, learning-enriched, hypo-allergenic, organically-grown, oversized, politically-correct, plastic toys. We had real wood Lincoln Logs, erector sets, and a bazillion toys with tiny parts, buttons, snaps and other small pieces. I’m quite sure that my brother swallowed more hardware than food between 1973 and 1976 – I still remember what a thumbtack looks like in a stomach X-ray.

I miss electric trains. Train sets intended for children today consist of oversized plastic track segments and battery-powered plastic train cars. My first train set was the kind that inspired real imagination and provided hours of imaginative and constructive play.

The hours of play was not so much because I was so incessantly creative, but because it usually took several hours just to get the thing working. Old electric trains required careful setup because the electricity used to power the engine was carried along the track pieces. Therefore the track had to be assembled enough to create a closed circuit for the power supply. The power itself came from the wall outlet through a black box called a transformer. The transformer had two electrical connectors in the front onto which wires were attached (usually with a screwdriver). The wires then ran directly to the track. The process of attaching the power usually went something like this:

1.      Plug in the transformer.

2.      Breathe in a whiff of sweet, sweet ozone as something inside the transformer burned up.

3.      Locate some wire. This usually involved taking something else in the house apart.

4.      Find sharpest knife in kitchen to bare the wire at each end.

5.      Attach the wire to the transformer.

6.      Attach the wire to the track.

7.      Accidentally break the wire; get the knife; bare the wire; attach it again.

Once the power was attached and the track assembled, if all went well, the engine would power up as expected and the next phase of play (seeing how fast the engine could go before running off the track) would begin. Otherwise there was a long period of testing required. Many times the problem would be a break in the track or a bad wire (which sometimes happens when you yank wire out of an old clock radio). Sometimes the problem was in the engine itself. Being ever the curious child, I would exhaust every possible option before giving up on the engine. On this day, I may have gone a bit too far.

I had checked and re-checked my wiring and connections, but the engine would still not turn. I had even tried the ever-faithful method of banging the engine on the table a couple of times to ensure that it was in good working order before I decided to roll up my sleeves and take my solution to the next level.

I was not quite as inventive as James E. West, but I was always intrigued by electricity as a young person. I had learned that there was a flow direction in a direct-current circuit and I understood negative and positive connectors on batteries. Armed with that wealth of knowledge, I took it upon myself to solve my electric train power problem in a way best understood to man: simply add more power.

I spent the next hour gathering every nine-volt battery in the house. Then, using a complex wire-and-tape system, I carefully connected all of the batteries together in a long series. Next, I added the train set power transformer to the series and created a mammoth power factory that likely could have provided the annual power requirements for the Republic of Nauru.

I attached my power supply to the train track and carefully set the engine. I was sure that when I applied the power, I was going to set a new indoor land speed record in the HO scale electric train category. I slowly applied the power. Nothing happened. I jiggled the wires and tried again. Nothing. I banged the transformer on the table. Still nothing.

As every male human knows, the best way to check the charge in a nine-volt battery is to put it on your tongue. Because both the positive and negative connectors of a nine-volt battery are on the same end, it is quite simple to quickly touch the battery on the tongue. If it is a fresh battery, there will be a small jolt sent through the tongue proving that there is still sufficient power to do whatever a nine-volt battery is intended to do.

Being human and being male, it occurred to me that I had gathered a large collection of bad batteries from around the house and since I had forgotten to test each one individually and since it would be a lot of work to re-wire them again, I decided to test the entire group at the same time. Oh, and they were still wired in with the transformer that was still on and still plugged into the wall.

For a brief moment I thought I could see through time. I don’t remember feeling pain in the traditional sense; I remember having what I can only describe as a brief out-of-body experience as I collapsed to the floor. Fortunately for me the circuit between the wall socket, the batteries and my tongue was broken with my fall.

I never did try to get that train working again.

In the mid 1980’s the High School Graduation requirement for Madison High in the area of Physical Education was two semesters. Being in the physical shape I was at the time, any PE class was a nightmare for me. I was also born with the dexterity and coordination of a land manatee, so participating in group sports had no appeal whatsoever. Fortunately there were two classes that would fill the graduation requirement that I felt would provide me with the least opportunity for embarrassment: social dance (which naturally included a segment on bowling) and swim class.

Swim class was for the most part a fantastic choice. Swimming is generally a non-contact, non-team sport. It was perfect for me. Each day the class would board a bus to the Rexburg Sports and Fitness Club, quickly change into appropriate swimming attire, then swim laps, lounge in the hot tub and perform other swimming-related activities. It was not a learn-to-swim class, but a fulfill-a-PE-requirement class. The only requirement that I can recall was that by the end of the semester we would have to swim twenty laps under a certain time.

The day of the test arrived. Being in the fine physical shape I was, I completed the laps in just barely under the maximum time allotted and nearly last in the class. I was thrilled. But I was exhausted. There were only a few minutes remaining in class time, but I decided the best course of action would be to relax for a moment in the hot tub.

I have often wondered why human life doesn’t come with a standard list of guidelines in a handy pocket reference. If there were such a book, I’m sure one of the entries would be:

Bad Ideas Related to Hot Tubs: Using a hot tub to relax can be a refreshing way to wind down at the end of the day. However, it should be noted that extensive periods of bathing in a hot tub can be disadvantageous. One should never bathe for extended periods of time or immediately following strenuous exercise as the heated water will eventually cause all of the blood in the human body to collect in the feet and legs, leaving the brain in an oxygen-deprived state.

I had no such information, so when the time came to rush off to clothe and return to the bus, my upper body apparently contained little or no blood whatsoever. Never having had the experience before, I was entirely unaccustomed to the sensations that were about to follow.

I was able to make my way safely into the men’s lockers and through the showers. As I donned my briefs, however, I was beginning to feel a bit nauseated. I had barely pulled my pants up when I decided that I had contracted some rare twenty-four second flu virus and would need to go home.

Let me pause to describe the sensations of having nearly no blood in the brain (passing out). First, rational thought becomes impossible. The body reverts to a very simplistic command set. Second, sight and hearing become impaired. Depending on the severity of the condition, sight and hearing may cease to exist at all.

At the time that I decided to make a call home that I was sick, I was in the earliest stages of passing out. I had pulled my pants over my briefs but I was entirely unable to figure out how to use a zipper or a button at that point. I walked out to the main desk of the club, shoeless, shirtless and near vomiting. There was a vague humming in my ears and the room seemed dark, but I eventually found the clerk and asked to use the phone.

The clerk indicated that I could use the phone. I asked where it might be found. The clerk stared at me for what felt like a very, very long time and I could see the puzzled look in her eyes as she told me that the phone was on the desk right in front of me. I looked down and thanked her, then for no reason I turned and walked away from the phone.

There was a large glass display case on the opposite wall that contained trophies and ribbons of some sort. I walked toward that wall as the last remnants of reality slipped away. I remember hearing the crash that occurred when I hit the wall.

Have you ever had that dream where you find yourself at school wearing nothing but your underwear? The good thing about the dream is that when you wake up, you realize that it is a dream. In my case, I was having a nice, quiet oxygen-deprived nap and a perfectly wonderful dream. When I awoke, I found myself in a frightful place with twenty or thirty of my classmates staring at me. I was there, pants undone, praying that this reality was just a nightmare inside a dream and it was clear that I had (once again) underestimated the opportunity for embarrassment in a situation.

I called home sick.

At the gym last Tuesday night I decided to (once again) step onto the scales and confirm my physique. I weighed in at 220 pounds again and happily returned to my evening workout. Being just about five feet, nine inches tall, this weight ensures that I am comfortably in the obese range of the body mass index (BMI) standard.

Before I had achieved this level of health, though, there was a time that I was actually quite overweight. I refer not to my childhood, but to a period later in life just after graduating from college. I had taken a job in Goodyear, Arizona and since I lived in Chandler, I spent just about an hour each way commuting to and from work.

My typical day played out something like this:

1.                           Arise at 5:30 for a bowl of Grape Nuts.

2.                           Shower and don some fashionable attire

3.                           Spend one hour sitting in the car.

4.                           Sit at desk for four hours writing computer code.

5.                           Break for lunch – typically all-you-can eat buffet style.

6.                           Sit at desk for four hours debugging computer code.

7.                           Spend one hour sitting in the car.

8.                           Dine out with wife – typically not buffet, but all I can eat.

9.                           Watch Star Trek.

10.                       Sleep.

With a schedule so filled with activity, I was stunned to find that within just a few short months I was no longer the svelte young man who had just exited Arizona State University. Initially I wrote off the condition to fluid retention caused by the recent increase in my caffeinated soda intake. Later I began to wonder if I really was big boned as my mom used to say when I was younger. It wasn’t until I experienced one of the painful side-effects of obesity that I backed off my daily intake of deep-fried chocolate sandwiches and added a bit of exercise to my daily routine.

I think that one of the more unfortunate lessons I learned was that the media doesn’t provide a complete picture on the dangers of obesity. Of course I was aware of the standard stuff:

1.      Metabolic syndrome

2.      Cardiovascular disease

3.      Diabetes

4.      High blood pressure

5.      High cholesterol

6.      Etc. (see website)

I had been aware of the above risk factors since high school health class, but being in my twenties I suppose I regarded these as very long term problems and since long term for a twenty-something is about thirty-five minutes, I felt that I had some time to get my weight under control.

What I learned, however, was that there were also some very short-term risk factors that affected my day-to-day behavior and ultimately changed my patterns. The first was what I have come to call “Brief Support Failure and Backlash”. This is a condition that is created by rapid weight gain and is related to not purchasing appropriately-sized underwear (briefs). If not properly monitored, the elastic waistband of many popular underwear types can deteriorate and become hazardous to the skin. I found that many times, the frightening popping sound of the elastic tearing would be following by a sensation not unlike being struck by a rubber band. Additionally, after prolonged abuse, the waistband becomes completely ineffective creating the never-ending need to adjust the briefs.

The second side effect I found was that I was spending far more time dressing. Perhaps if I had simply purchased appropriately-sized pants this wouldn’t have been a problem, but considering my state of obesity denial, I wasn’t ready to super-size my trousers. I simply adjusted my schedule to allow for the requisite time to perform the rituals required for buttoning my jeans. Typically this ritual involved at least three phases. First there was the one-leg-at-a-time phase that most people experience. I would then take a brief rest to catch my breath. Next there was the lie-on-the-floor-and-button phase. I found that by being on the floor on my back gravity worked in my favor to somehow make fastening the button possible. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I was infinitesimally closer to the center of the earth and therefore had a greater pull of gravity on my stomach, or perhaps it was simply that I had no energy left from the one-leg-at-a-time phase to stand. In any case, once phases one and two were complete, the final phase, engage-the-zipper was always rough.

There have always been several techniques to complete the engage-the-zipper phase. I found that my favorite was usually the bounce-up-and-down-on-the-balls-of-my-feet technique. This technique usually worked. The precise methodology was to first begin a small but consistent bounce with a cadence of about one bounce per second. Once that rhythm had been established, I would then pull upward on my zipper during the down-stroke of my bounce. Again, based on complex facets of Newtonian physics, all of the motions worked together in a harmony to achieve the final phase of trouser fastening.

In rare circumstances (and on the occasion of my unfortunate lesson), the aforementioned technique for engaging the zipper would fail. My typical backup response was the pull-for-all-you’re-worth technique which involved nothing short of brute force. The problem with this technique is that the zipper itself was not designed for it. Zippers typically have a gripping surface area of about one-eighth of a square inch, clearly insufficient for any real torque. Additionally, there is a small lock on the back of the zipper slider. The lock is nothing more than one or two small pieces of metal that jut out against the teeth of the zipper to hold the slider in place after zipping.

On the morning of my story, I was engaged in the third phase and using the pull-for-all-you’re-worth technique. I had already attempted the bounce-up-and-down-on-the-balls-of-my-feet technique to no avail and had become fairly frustrated. I stopped to rest for a moment and catch my breath. I dried my sweat-laden hands again and took a sumo-wrestling stance. I reached down and grabbed the slider, firmly embedding the locks of the slider into the skin on the side of my index finger. I pulled.

Apparently finger skin is less resistant to force than the metal in typical denim jean zippers. When I pulled, the lock on the slider simply tore through the flesh of my finger creating a small gash that ran the length of my finger from the first knuckle to the second.

I had salad for lunch.

There is a sweet spot in humor that occurs rarely when the facets of a good subject, good timing and good delivery all coincide. Finding a good subject is often not difficult, but delivering that subject very well at an appropriate time is often elusive to the human race. There are many good jokes (both physical and verbal) that fail for poor timing or poor execution. When either of the latter fails, the result can range from simply a joke that no one finds funny to the embarrassment of the joker. In my case, embarrassment has always been the typical result of my humor attempts.

At Madison Junior High school in the mid-1980’s, band and orchestra were the most commonly chosen elective classes in the school. The decision about which to take was made in sixth grade. Many students had been prepared by parents or older siblings and made an informed decision about which of the two electives they would choose. I had no older siblings and was therefore blindsided by the choice when presented to me. Doing what any uninformed sixth-grader would do, I chose an instrument at random from the very few instrument names that I recognized. The choices were French Horn (never heard of it), Percussion (if I had known then that this meant drums I would have chosen it), Saxophone (not interested), Tuba (nah), Sousaphone (what??), Trumpet (too common), Trombone. I chose trombone because I had both heard of it (humming seventy-six trombones in the big parade) and knew nothing about it. Perfect.

Teaching our junior high school band was likely the best band teacher ever in the history of band teachers (even better than Mr. Holland), Mr. Beck. Mr. Beck was the best band teacher because he could play any instrument in the band and he ruled the classroom in such a way that every student knew exactly who was in charge. When Mr. Beck lifted his baton, every eye in the band was on him. When he cut a song, it was cut – no straggling notes, no messing around. By ninth grade, Mr. Beck had produced a young band very capable of performing just about anything he chose.

Occasionally, just to mix things up, Mr. Beck let us have a little freedom in class. On some days we could sit anywhere in the classroom rather than with our instrument group. On one such day the band was practicing for an upcoming competition and I had chosen to sit in the trumpet section next to my best friend Soren. Being in such a mood, I decided that it was an appropriate time to exercise my humor.

First I sought a humorous subject. This was easy. Being fourteen years old, the obvious subject was flatulence. Not only was this a perfectly hilarious subject in itself, I had always been particularly adept in the area.

The next question to answer would be the question of delivery. Again, the band room provided all of the acoustical benefits to creating a superlative flatulent event. Not only were the overall acoustics of the room ideal, but we were also provided with molded plastic chairs which inherently amplify any embarrassing noises created when sitting. The subject and the delivery seemed ideal.

Next I had to focus on timing. It was imperative to deliver the event at a precise moment in the musical score such that it would be clearly heard by Soren, but muffled from the classroom at large. I was interested in humor, not embarrassment and considering that I was only a few years from the corn dog incident, I wasn’t completely comfortable with my social status at the time. There were some eighty students in the class, most of whom I was still trying to impress.

I waited and focused on my delivery. I had discontinued playing, but I was still carefully watching the music for my predetermined perfect moment. It approached. Three bars remaining. I focused. Two bars remaining. I lifted slightly. One bar remaining...

Fate has a phenomenal sense of humor. At the very instant that I began to bear down on the methane bubble in my lower intestine, Mr. Beck cut. He simply shot his baton downward in the well-known signal to stop playing and the band did exactly that.

One final personal note rang out against the new silence of the room. It clearly was not the sound of a trombone.

One hundred and sixty eyes fell on me immediately.

It took me about 0.0004 seconds to decide how to respond. I pointed at Soren and shot him a disgusted glance.

Having kids is not for the weak of heart or the easily embarrassed. I’m not talking about actually having kids in the sense that they are already part of your life. I’m talking about having kids in the sense of getting them into your life. After my wife and I had been married for several years we decided that it may be in our best interest to seek medical advice regarding our biological ability to have children. We had been doing the standard stuff (watching for the stork, quietly knitting booties, etc.) for some time, but no children had arrived.

Naturally, my wife went first. She got some referrals for a good gynecologist and made an appointment then she dropped the bomb. She asked me to go with her. Being a man (and barely even that), I had very little experience with doctors in general, but as far as I knew I had never been to see a gynecologist before and it was scary. My wife reassured me that we would only be going for a consultation to determine the next steps in discovering our problem. I reluctantly agreed.

On the day of the appointment, I nervously took a back seat in the conversation between my wife and the doctor. They seemed rather comfortable with that approach, so switched from speaking English and began using a dialect of female anatomy that I was unable to interpret. It was near the end of the appointment when I was beginning to think that I would be spared any direct questioning that the second bomb was dropped.

The doctor turned to me with a smile and said, “If we’re going to go to these lengths to test your wife, it seems only natural that we should also test you.”

There was a long silence in the room. Most of my personality had retreated to a safe distant place in a sunny corner of my brain that had no connection with the reality of my current surroundings. What remained was only barely capable of sustaining my autonomous nervous system and my blinking reflex.

The doctor continued, “It’s a simple procedure and it’s all basically done in the lab.”

Having had no formal interaction with a doctor other than childhood immunizations to that point in my life, I did what any normal red-blooded American male raised on extensive episodes of Star Trek would do. I hypothesized that by simple procedure the doctor meant that I would be scanned at a distance by a medical tricorder and that the results would be interpreted by either a Vulcan or an android. This seemed reasonable to me so I acquiesced to the testing.

“Good,” replied the doctor. “We’ll send you home with a container and you can bring in the sample any time. Just call and let us know when you’ll be returning it.”

I smiled and put on my best I-have-no-idea-what-you-mean face and walked out of the office with my wife. She checked out at the desk and retrieved a labeled plastic container which she handed to me as we left the building. Naturally I waited until we were in the car before I asked her to explain the purpose of the container I was holding.

My wife must have been driving on our return trip from the doctor’s office, because after receiving an understanding of my upcoming simple procedure, I lapsed into a state of semi-consciousness that required a great deal of reassurance to overcome.

I spent the next two weeks of my life trying to build a medical tricorder to avoid the upcoming simple procedure, but to no avail. It seemed that no matter how many Star Trek episodes I watched, there just simply wasn’t enough practical information to piece together such a device.

On the day that I had planned to return the container to the lab, I took a sick day from work. I was, in fact, quite ill, but it turns out that it was all psychosomatic. I was fine the next day.

I woke late and called the lab. They gave me some final information. First, I was to present the sample at the lab within sixty minutes of collecting it. Second, I was to keep it warm during transport. I hung up the phone and dry heaved for about fifteen minutes.

As I prepared to go to my car to make the drive to the lab, I slid the container under my left arm pit (the nurse-recommended method for keeping the sample warm) and tried my best to affix my just-going-golfing face before leaving the apartment. As nonchalantly as possible, I speed walked to my car and drove off. To this point, I was quite sure that nobody had spotted the container buried under my shirt.

I drove quickly, but not so quickly as to attract the attention of any law enforcement. I was quite sure that getting pulled over with something reluctantly hidden under my arm would generally be a bad thing. I played the scenario out in my head as I drove:

OFFICER: “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

ME: (nervously) “Because I have something concealed in my left arm pit?”

OFFICER: (reaching for weapon) “No... But now that you mention it, what is that?”

ME: “Nothing.”

OFFICER: “Out of the car! Hands on the roof!”

ME: “I’d rather not.”

OFFICER: (shooting)

NEWS ANCHOR: “In a bizarre incident in Chandler this morning, a young man was shot when an officer – assuming the young man had a weapon hidden under his shirt – fired upon him. Later analysis found that the man did not actually have a concealed weapon but was actually carrying an infertility test sample to the lab. He’s dead, but his name was Blake Schwendiman. Did you hear that? Blake Schwendiman was carrying a sample under his arm pit.”

NEWSROOM: (laughter)

I slowed down.

The third bomb dropped on me when I arrived at the so-called lab. In my mind, the lab would be in a hidden location, most likely in a place that was always dark. I expected to drive to a hidden location, press a button on a rusted call box, wait for a squeaking gate to open, put my sample into a secret drop box, and then drive off casually. That’s not how they set it up.

The lab, if it even exists, was not where I actually left the sample. The address brought me right to the front desk of an OB/GYN office. I checked the address again then wept softly as I realized that this was actually the right place. There was no time left to fashion any kind of disguise and in any case, the only things in the car were empty soda cans and a stack of fast-food restaurant napkins. These items weren’t sufficient to create a reasonable disguise.

As a man, it is highly unlikely that you have ever entered the waiting room of an OB/GYN office at any time in your life. Apparently it is not a place that anyone ever expects to see a man enter because when I did, all of the cheerful banter ceased and all eyes were on me. Most of them had a look of he-is-obviously-lost on their face, but all of them were obviously interested in how I would proceed.

It was probably only twelve feet from the door to the front desk, but if memory serves, it took nearly a decade of my life to cross the distance. I was certain that everyone in the room could hear the beads of sweat trickling down my back as I walked, so I tried to muffle the sound by dragging my feet.

When I finally arrived at the desk, I placed my clearly-labeled container as inconspicuously as possible in front of a confused-looking receptionist and tried to smile. Rather than actually announce my purpose, I first tried to use my mind powers to communicate with the receptionist. This either did not work or the receptionist was intentionally sadistic and asked, “Can I help you?”

I tried one more time to use my mind powers to answer, “Please, I’m dropping off a sample. Just take the container, read the label and then discreetly take it to the lab.”

“Can I help you?” she asked again. I noticed the curling of her lip as she glanced at the container. She knew exactly what it was.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I was asked to drop this off for the lab.”

She picked up the container and held it aloft. “Hey, Kathy,” she called out across the room to a nurse who may not have actually been named Kathy. “What are we supposed to do when we receive a ...”

Upon pronouncing the next word which I shall omit from the retelling of these events (which ironically is a word that rhymes with squirm), the entire room erupted in muffled laughter and humorous commentary. That moment in my life was the only time that I expect I would have actually been more comfortable if I had been providing a stool sample.

For what it’s worth, the results of the testing were not positive, but receiving that information was far less traumatic than the process of obtaining it.

In my formative years, I received several bits of information that I took as truth (around which I established a great deal of my personal belief system) that later turned out to be not completely true. Here is a short list:

1. Time will not actually flow backwards if there were some force that would cause the earth to begin rotating in the opposite direction. This tidbit of information was initially confirmed by my mom after we watched Superman back in the late seventies, but I found out (much later in life) that the earth’s rotational direction has nothing to do with time. Until I found out the reality of time, I lived my life in such a way that if I ever made a catastrophic mistake I knew that at least I could spend the rest of my life working out a time-travel scenario based on either finding Superman or somehow affixing large rockets to the earth. Life was simpler then.

2. Acne does not go away at age twenty-one. This factoid was provided by my friend Bob. I secretly hope he still has acne.

3. Welding is easy. This is the subject of my writing.

In 1987 I found myself in what I would later cite as the worst job ever. Without exhaustive research, I still consider that job to be in at least the top ten of worst jobs, but I welcome your comments. There is no official title for the work I did, because most of the words that describe it were mostly crude and therefore it couldn’t be printed in the employee handbook. I worked at a decorative bark and rock production facility in Rexburg, Idaho for $3.35 an hour.

Unlike money, decorative bark does actually grow on trees. The problem is that decorative bark doesn’t grow on trees in those handy plastic bags you can get at your local super-mega-discount home store. That’s where the aforementioned bark production facility comes in. Bark arrives (from the forest, I assume) in large trucks. It is then moved into a very large metal bin called a hopper which is connected to a series of tables, choppers, elevators and other complex and highly dangerous equipment. My job was to stand beside one of the large sorting tables and quickly remove debris from the bark as it moved along the conveyor. Debris as I quickly learned is the stuff on the forest floor that gets mixed up with the bark and includes, but is not limited to: glass, cans and other trash; rocks, rills and other naturally occurring non-bark; and small forest creature carcasses no longer suitable for moccasin creation.

Surprisingly, the monotonous work of separating bark from anti-bark was not the worst part of the job. The worst part was fixing problems with the equipment. Most problems involved high-powered electric motors, enormous wood choppers and other mechanical structures used for cutting, crushing or moving tons of bark per minute. Most of the fixes required more than just a screwdriver which was the only tool I had ever been certified to use.

Within moments of being hired, I was thoroughly assessed by someone who I assumed was some type of management:

MANAGER: “You speak Spanish?”

ME: “No.”

MANAGER: “Me either.”

This conversation was apparently all that was needed to determine that I was indeed capable of the job and checked out on all the tools and processes of the job. No further instruction or questioning was apparently required as I was then sent immediately to my post and given my safety training:

MANAGER: “This red button here shuts everything off. If something goes wrong hit this red button here. Unless you somehow get sucked into the conveyor and can’t reach the red button. If that happens, hit this bar. It shuts everything off.”

ME: “Do people get sucked in often?”

MANAGER: “Nah. There was one fella though. Conveyor grabbed onto his jacket and yanked his whole body up on here. Pulled him straight down in. Took us a while to cut his clothes off to git him off. He don’t work here no more.”

After safety training, I was set to work. I made it through the first few weeks with no debilitating injuries and relatively few life-threatening situations. In fact, in the whole time I worked there I never lost a limb (or even a digit) nor did I ever get sucked into the sorting conveyor. It was at the point that I started feeling comfortable in my job that the world turned against me.

Late one afternoon while trying to determine whether I had found a squirrel or a chipmunk (I never could tell the difference) on the conveyor, I heard something unusual in the area of the hopper. Considering that the decibel level of the system was somewhere between inside of tornado and Krakatoa, I was pleased that I could hear anything at all.

I shut down the system and began investigating. What I found was a broken link in one of the very large chains used to pull unsorted material from the hopper. I told my manager. This was when I was presented with the third untruth mentioned above.

ME: “The chain on the hopper is broken.”

MANAGER: “Yup. Broke right here.”

ME: “Pretty bad?”

MANAGE: “Nah. Just weld it back together. Should only take you a couple of minutes.”

ME: “ME?”

MANAGER: “You’ve welded before, right?”

I had to assume that his assumption was derived from my skills assessment interview, but I was quick to correct him.

ME: “No.”

MANAGER: “Welding’s easy. I’ll show you where the equipment’s at.”

We walked to the equipment shed where I was instantly checked out for welding:

MANAGER: “This truck here always has the trailer with the arc welder. Just drive the truck over there and git the trailer real close to the hopper. Then come back here and turn on the welder. Clamp one of these onto the chain – that’s your ground. You know what a ground is? Good. Then take one of these rods and clamp it in this other one and just touch it on the chain and you’re welding. Oh, make sure you wear this helmet or you ain’t gonna see nothin’ fer a couple a days.”

Fortunately for my manager, either I wasn’t aware of OSHA at the time or it hadn’t been invented yet. In either case, I could find no reason to dispute the request to weld, so I continued.

Apparently, in real life, welding is a skill that actually requires professional training. There even seem to be trade schools dedicated to the subject. In 1987, though, I was without the training, the information to know that there was training, and even without the Internet where I would have learned that what I was about to do was a very bad idea.

I returned to the hopper with the welding equipment and proceeded according to my training. First I attached one large alligator-looking clamp to the chain. Nothing exploded, so I continued by turning on the power supply. The deep resonating hum of the generator sparked a deep-rooted personal fear of electricity that caused me to take pause and quickly evaluate my situation:

1.      I have no idea what I’m doing.

2.      I make $3.35. How would I replace that kind of income?

3.      I have no idea what I’m doing.

I continued. I clamped a welding rod to another alligator-looking clamp. I donned the welding helmet. At this point I was entirely befuddled. If you have never had the opportunity to wear a welding helmet, I recommend you try it at least once. I had thought that it would be similar to wearing an oversized pair of sunglasses – it’s more like sticking your head into a black bucket. I could see nothing.

I took off the helmet and positioned myself right next to the broken chain link making a mental note of where I wanted to weld, then put the helmet back on again. I paused to inhale and exhale a few times then tried to strike the chain with the welding rod. Nothing. I lifted the helmet.

New plan! I decided to strike the welding rod against the chain with the helmet up, but I would drop the helmet immediately when the rod sparked.

I breathed. Tap. Tap. Spark!

When I finally stopped writhing around on the ground and pulled my hands off my eyes I realized that I had not been permanently blinded, but there were two dark spots in my field of vision that would certainly distract me for several hours. I evaluated my position again:

1.      I have no idea what I’m doing.

2.      I make $3.35. How would I replace that kind of income?

3.      Is there any benefit to me if I am blind? Probably not.

4.      I have no idea what I’m doing.

I continued again, this time firmly committed to the concept of welding helmets. After banging the welding stick around blindly for several more minutes I finally got a spark again. This time, however, the welding rod welded itself to the chain and I found myself unable to pull it off. A new level of fear overtook me as I imagined that sometime in the very near future the entire welding rod would burst into bright light leaving me nothing more than a fairly good-looking head behind a welding mask. In panic I reached up with my free hand and pulled on the welding rod. Hot!

When I finally stopped writhing around on the ground and got a good look at my hand, I realized that my burns were fairly minor. I evaluated my position again:

1.      I have no idea what I’m doing.

2.      I make $3.35. How would I replace that kind of income?

3.      Is there any benefit to me if I burn off a limb? Probably not.

4.      I have no idea what I’m doing.

I continued again, this time with a great deal of practical welding experience. When I finished about an hour later I surveyed my work. Random chunks of metal were dispersed in the general area of the broken link and by some unlikely chance, some of it actually landed on the broken link and piled up in such a way as to make it relatively unbroken. I determined that my job was finished and returned the welding equipment to the shed.

I walked proudly back to my post, carefully using my peripheral vision to guide me as I still could see nothing directly in my path.

Chapter 17

Wednesday, 10 March 2022 – 11:00 a.m. SAST

Daniel walked quickly through the crowd in the concourses of Durban International Airport. He carried only his small duffle. He had not been in Durban for nearly twenty years. It was familiar. The warm, humid salt air and the sights and sounds were familiar. Culturally, however, things were different. The airport had changed names – it had been the Louis Botha airport when he left. The new facility was nicer, more modern, but also more politically correct. He was sure he had not seen so much signage in Zulu before.

Stepping outside, Daniel was transported back in time as he took in the sights, sounds and smells of Durban. He glanced around for a limousine service and initially saw only a line of Kombi taxis. Their drivers stood huddled in a group arguing loudly in Zulu. He turned away from the taxis and walked along the edge of the sidewalk until he found a suitable executive car service. He didn’t need a limousine, he simply knew better than to risk the suicide of Durban’s Kombis.

In moments he was seated in a comfortable leather-trimmed car, sipping a complementary glass of wine from the Stellenbosch vineyards. He enjoyed the short drive into Durban, marveling at the changes to the city. He had instructed the driver to take him to the Royal Hotel in Durban.

The Royal Hotel was as majestic as he had remembered. He had never stayed there, but he spent plenty of time in the entertainment district nearby and knew it well. He was certain that he would be able to hire the right people from this area to get his job done. After checking in, Daniel made his way down to the beach for a few hours of relaxation. The people he needed wouldn’t be found until much later.