Time Traveling Saviors

The tension in that college study hall was thick and jammed pack with people. High emotion and volatile language discussing the harm being done by humanity unto planet earth. The globe's ambient temperature was on the rise. The climate was changing and its equilibrium all askew.

Too many vital resources had been, and were still, carelessly dug up and pulled from the earth. The mere extraction process of these minerals and rare metals, that reckless and brusque human touch, resulting in tremendous amounts of vast billowing toxic effluent bilging forth. It was gross.

Those earthly cavities were being left wide open like gaping canker sores, or worse, talks of filling them with waste from landfills or who knows what. Like some ill fated compost bin. Totally unsustainable. Meanwhile, waste clouds emanated across the globe from the innumerable coal energy power plants, with ever more on the docket. How could someone not see how this was going to end?

As the discourse of the heated open forum reached a critical denouement, scattered crying was breaking out as some attendees had become overwhelmed. Their thoughtful dedication was so far advanced that their mental state was in collapse. No way could this environmental carnage be reversed to make the earth safe for future generations. It was already too late. 

Strongly enough did many feel, their dedication to save the earth, that they were committed to the mission of not prolonging humanity, closing the loop on those future generations. Their safety precaution, these collegiate waifs, was to have no children.

They would voluntarily end the troublesome cycle by simply ending humanity. They were willing to do their part by pruning enough branches from enough family trees, their goal, they collectively hoped, would yield the desired victory for the earth. Cull the herd. Damn the humanity.

The hysteria rose. The content of the discourse degenerated further to sloganeering and unintelligible emotional outbursts. The crying of some led to the crying of more, then many, with the occasional wail.

One person in the room, having been silent, patiently absorbing the distress of his neighbors. Maybe it was time to challenge the mood in the room with a particular thought he'd been banging away at, in his quiet moments of reflection. It had long played out in his head. It was, after all, the company line.

He found it soothing, this idea, especially when he felt precarious questions probing into this increasingly tremulous future. Maybe today he would bear it out, expose it for critical discernment. Share it with the group, field the challenge to allow the open-minded to titrate out their own conclusions. This was, after all, a prospective outcome to which he was directly involved.

A test by fire. 'Why not now,' he thought to himself finding, to his surprise, that he'd already stood up to command his say.

He gently cleared his throat, raised his hand, and hesitantly waved it in the air. A vague back and forth motion. No smile on his face, as he was not prone to public speaking and was wrestling with the discomfort of so many eyeballs upon him.

Their attention commanded, he had the floor, by the curiosity of his unpracticed poise, and he hadn't even spoken a word yet. Be careful, he thought to himself, not to convey condescension, no jocularity, and don't give away too much. They turned and looked at him. It went like this.

"Maybe there's another way."

"Another way for what," said one, snidely.

"For the future to play out."

"You haven't listened."

"I've listened. I think, maybe . . . I don't subscribe."

"Subscribe to what?"

"The idea that humanity ends the earth."

"What don't you get, man? How does this not end badly," a mischievous smile on the heckler's face, thinking he'd have an easy scamper over this naive dullard.

"Because of the time travelers."

He stopped here, as if, somehow, everyone would know what he was talking about. They didn't, of course. So out of the blue was his remark, a proposed solution so unexpected, that it took a few seconds to register. Then everyone started looking around at each other, as if looking to see if anyone else understood. Which they did not. Nobody did. Eyes resettled back to him.

"Dude, what are you talking about?"

"The time travelers."

"Who? Where and what are you talking about," his countenance spoke of trouble. His depth of climate discussions, none had ever gone in this direction. His voice wavering as dramatically as his compromised confidence.

"Time travelers will come to keep us going."

"Time travel. Not yet invented, dork. Ergo, there are no time travelers."

"Not yet, but it's coming. Humanity merely need keep this bus humming along well enough, and long enough, for science to advance until that invention of time travel."

Again with the pause, people looking at each other, then back at him. Still no smiles. No head nods of affirmation. Nothing signifying that this was a joke, which it was not. Were they being played, the collegians considered, the weeping whelps? They knew not, so the probing continued.

"What?" Someone had chimed in. Engagement still at hand.

"In the future when time travel is invented, time travelers will be sent with their advanced future technology and science. They'll apply fixes needed to their past to preserve the future. They'll preserve their own future, their very existence, these time travelers, humanity, by fixing our present situations, with their technological donations from the future,"

"Donations?"

"Their intentional and purposeful technological gifts of knowledge. They're called donations."

"Technology to fix what?"

"Don't know, but future humans will know. They'll time travel backwards to the past and leak out future technology to spark invention or environmental developments. That's how humanity will save itself, and the globe, by prolonging its own longevity."

"First off, you're nuts. Second off, first rule of time travel is that you can't change the past." Some amongst them remained unruly, a smugness suggesting that they'd gotten him, which they had not.

"There'll be no changing of the past, only changing of the present. Well, their past, the time travelers, but our present. That they can do."

"That's changing the past, dude."

"Nope. It's changing our present, as it occurs. There will be no altering of the past. No history books to be reprinted or updated. So no, past is not being changed."

Again people looking at each other. A few nervous snickers. Were they being played? Or swayed? Has all their environmental alarming been for not? Are time travelers in our future? Not yet ready to yield, were some. Additional challenges hit the floor.

"How would they get back to their own time if the time travel technology doesn't exist in the present?"

"They wouldn't get back. It's a one-way trip, like that dog sent up to space by the Russians in the '50s."

"I thought it was a monkey."

"The monkey was in 1983. The dog was 1957."

"Stop with the dogs and monkeys. Back to the human time travelers. If they exist, or will exist, at some point they'd be found out. Why haven't we encountered any?"

"Encountered time travelers? Who says you haven't?"

"Well, I mean, dude, where are they?"

"If a time traveler were to admit that they were a time traveler, an unwavering argument, escalation-inducing vigilance, because it was truth, what'd happen to them?"

"They'd sound crazy."

"Agree. Anyone claiming to be a time traveler, and not steeply backpedaling from that beachhead with alacrity, they'd probably sound crazy. Add the lack of present day documentation and ID numbers . . ."

"So humanity is being saved by crazy people?"

"They'd probably not be crazy initially, the time travelers, like when they first arrive in our present. But the stress of time travel would have to be tremendous. I bet that'd be a lot of G-forces hitting a brain. That'd maybe push them there, into crazy territory."

"Again, so we'd be saved by crazy people."

"The contention is that they're not crazy when they arrive. But the time travelers would have a time challenge, not just for their travel, but the efficacy of their mission. They would likely need to complete their mission of future-knowledge transmission, their knowledge donation, before they go crazy induced by the biological stress of time travel."

"I think he's making sense," was a distinguishable remark amongst the mutterings from the back of the room, and like the sweet susurration of slicing a thick tray of brownies, a few 'yeahs' started to make their way forward.

Still though, many people were not certain if he was joking. The guy showed no give. I'll be damned. He believes it, thought some collegians. He believes that time travelers are really going to save humanity.

"How does he know so much," asked one.

"Wait, are you one of them? The time travelers? He's gotta be, right," posed a second.

He paused, then muffed a weak, "Well, that'd be crazy," failing to hide a smile, which did more reaffirming than denying. Whispering could be heard throughout the room. The converts accumulated, but all were not yet swayed.

"I don't think you know what you're talking about," halfheartedly challenged another, piously prolonging the idea that he who is most upset about the climate loves the planet the most.

"Maybe I can't explain. I just know. It's like, I can't explain quantum computing, but my lack of ability to explain doesn't prevent quantum computing from actually existing, because it does, and I can't." 

The probing died down. He had held his ground, possibly with too much vehemence. Truth is, he knew his side of the discourse to be true. He was, in fact, one of the aforementioned time travelers sent back to save humanity.

He sat down, gathered his things, and awaited a distraction where he could safely extract himself without commotion.

His mission had been successfully peddled. His mind would soon give way to the encroaching insanity induced by the bodily ravages of time travel, a known debilitating consequence.

He and his time travel cohort had cognitive tests to conduct daily, furnished by Operation Command. Because that daily testing is designed to confirm a time traveler has started that final descent toward insanity, the enthusiasm for that test dissipates like the carbonation in a long left open soda can.

He was months deep into his mission, the knowledge donation safely conveyed to those present day humans best positioned to advance that knowledge forward. The means by which conveyance was made was nebulous, but necessary and effective.

With that portion of his mission concluded, he was not eager to confirm his inevitable mental struggle. His sanity was slowly and certainly leaking out of him like a bucket with a tiny drip. Only, that drip would expand until it ran out like an open water faucet, until there'd be nothing left. At least, that's how he imagined it. That was his future, what remained of it, he figured, so why rush it.

His thinking had lately grown loose. A test could confirm it, but really, why now. So, with his accustomed deliberateness, he deliberately stopped his daily sanity testing.

In the meantime he occasionally amused himself intermingling with the hysterics. It had been mostly listening until this afternoon. This was his first time daring to speak truth. What could it harm, he thought? They'd just call him crazy, which he was, or would be soon. The consequences of time travel.

Sasquatch, Time Traveler

[photo credit: New York Times archives]

[Somewhere in the 22nd century . . .]

Jim was a proud young man. Not prideful in an egocentric way. Not embarrassing, loud, look-at-me arrogance. He was proud of where he'd gotten professionally, position attained, but not blinded by it. The healthy stuff of a young person who knows they've earned their esteemed spot and they're on their way in life.

He was one of a tight nit team of eight well respected time travelers. Government-sanctioned top secret time travel missions. It's what they did. Do what it takes, never stop. The kind of team camaraderie where you stick together because nothing else matters when everything's on the line.

During group meetings he would sometimes look around the room at the legends, and he was one of them. His peers. As the years roll by, looking ahead, young aspiring professionals will look admiringly at him the same way he looked at his colleagues.

Just thinking that word to himself, colleagues, he shivered. The disbelief, yet, he did believe, because he'd gotten there under his own competence. That's the level of pride. Pride in the work he was tasked to conduct. It induced a desire to do his best at every opportunity.

The thing with such jobs, it was often said, you work hard and you play hard. To the others in the room, it wasn't just a tired old trope. It was an unspoken motto. A lived ethos.

He was the newest member of the team. Less than a year, but still they called him New Guy. A kind of hazing, that moniker. Until they knew he would pass management's lengthy probation period and, more importantly, passed the team's unofficial vetting, building to its culmination.

Today was more of the same. Meetings, a data debrief, and history lessons down to the tiniest minutiae to prepare for the next time travel mission. If you're being launched back to the past, went the thinking, the time traveler had better know that past, and know it well.

Then, just like clockwork, because this was a perpetual stream of missions where precision timing was of the utmost, there was a break for lunch precisely at noon.

"It's 12:00. We'll break here for lunch. We're back in 30 sharp," said the trainer who then broke for the door and exited without taking questions.

When your occupation is time travel, being off by a few seconds could yield a time travel delivery error in excess of several years. So when the training leader said they'd break at noon for a 30-minute lunch, they knew they had exactly until 12:30.

While the morning had been just like every other day, this afternoon was not going to end like every other. The dynamic in the group was on the cusp of change.

"Hey New Guy," said the prior new guy as the door closed after the trainer's departure, "We have a team-building exercise scheduled for lunch today."

"What do you mean," asked New Guy, "there's nothing on the schedule."

"Open the closet door," said the prior new guy, ignoring his question, struggling to maintain a straight face.

New Guy stood, smiling at being the center piece, bashful and respectful amongst his peers. He walked to the rear for the training room doing as requested.

"What's this? An ape suit," asked New Guy after opening the closet door.

"Squatchian. Not ape," said one of his veteran colleagues.

"A what," New Guy not understanding the difference between the two.

"That suit is Bigfoot. Sasquatch," clarified the veteran.

New Guy reached for it. Stroking a furry arm, nervously. What was he going to have to endure this time, he thought to himself of the prior embarrassments he'd been tasked to complete in the name of unofficial team-building.

"Put it on," prior new guy said.

"What? No. Not a good idea," New Guy backing away from the closet.

"Hurry up. 27 minutes until lunch ends," said another seated veteran, taking a bite of his sandwich, his sack lunch, this whole thing playing out like a lunchtime show for his entertainment.

"Guys, I don't know what you're thinking, but management would be pissed at unsanctioned tomfoolery," said New Guy weakly, knowing he wasn't going to like whatever he'd be asked to do.

"New Guy, if it was unsanctioned, why would it have been in the closet where anybody could have seen it," mischievously posed another, having placed the Bigfoot suit in the closet before class, where it had remained hidden only by chance, because the trainer didn't open the closet all morning, and the other time travelers knew not to open that door.

Another veteran chimed in, "This is about trust, New Guy. We've all done it. Now go. Strip down to your undies and socks. Put it on. The clock ticks."

"When it's on, including the head, step into the travel orb," said another, the most senior time traveler, the unofficial and ceremonial team leader.

He knew he was beaten, did New Guy. He couldn't fight back against these ones. But he could complete whatever dick move to which they'd subject him. And New Guy, for all his sophomoric, obsequious compliant mindset, he would trudge forth maintaining his good cheer, continue showing his worth to the team, and be done before 12:30.

Just get it done, he told himself. He loosened his tie and undid his shirt. Here we go.

New Guy had not yet been tapped for his first time travel mission. His learning to this point had all been in theory. Book smarts. He'd had no practical application. The way his teammates were going on, though, this was going to be his first time travel mission, and it would be as Bigfoot.

"Again, remember, if you see somebody, anybody, you're OK to look at them, but do not stop walking. They're like coyotes, the humans you'll hopefully see. They're cautious and more scared of you than you of them."

"What if they're a bunch of them," asked New Guy.

"Then, like coyotes when they're in a bunch, just don't get caught," his teammate's smiling rebuttal.

Another chimed in, "If you see mud, walk through it. Leave good clear footprints. Just walk, no running. It'll leave more precise prints. Those 20th century humans always go nuts over footprints."

"You'll have not quite two hours on the ground their time. For us, it'll be eight minutes. So quickly, suit up," prior new guy directed officiously.

"Two hours. It's a long time in the Sasquatch suit, but do not take off the head. No clear unobstructed breaths of air. Breathe through that head piece. Take a big drink of water before you go. You'll need it," one veteran after another offering hints and tips from their own time traveling Bigfoot experience.

"OK, good, you look true. Get in the travel orb. You're being launched to the Pacific Northwest, the forest. It'll be the 1990s. Highly unlikely anyone will have high-quality photograph equipment. So, if you're photographed, it'll be grainy as hell, and compelling. You'll be fine. Just keep walking."

"Guys, this joke has gone too far. I've never actually time traveled yet," said New Guy as he sheepishly stepped into the travel orb, hoping this was a bluff and would soon end. It would not.

"Relax. After this, you'll still lack any official time travel experience," called out a peer from across the training room.

With that, the prior new guy buckled him into position in the orb's seat. A few final remarks to help assuage New Guy's fright.

"I don't think," New Guy with a goodly dose of terror in his eyes before being cut off.

The travel orb's door was shut, locked, travel meter set, the launch button turned green, and was pressed. They felt the peripheral time travel WHOOSH in the training room.

This had all gone surprisingly well. A tight, though sufficient, 17 minutes still on the clock. New Guy's peers talked about him while he was running through the forest of Washington state. It helped them to ease their nerves, the jocular discourse, not that any of them showed nerves, not in their position and amount of training to slake such things.

"I've been looking forward to this. I've liked New Guy right from the start," said one veteran.

"Tell us about your time. You were the first." They all looked at the most senior colleague.

It went like this every time. A respectful deference to the senior member of the team. They'd all heard it before, except for the prior new guy because he was running through the forest as Bigfoot during the last telling. This would be his first time hearing the lore.

A pause. A sip of water. "All them before me, they told me all the same stuff. How they'd all gone and done it too. Those bastards, they lied. I was the first in the Bigfoot suit. They told me afterwards they weren't entirely sure they could get me back. They said they were pretty sure, thinking that might settle my post-time travel shakes."

"Did you know," asked prior new guy.

"I didn't know anything. I thought they'd all done it, just like they told me. I just knew there was no way I was going to say no to them. The way I looked up to them. They were legends. I was like their little brother," continued the team leader.

"But when I got back, they all had a tremendous look of relief on their faces. When they successfully brought me back. That's when I knew. None of them had done the thing. I had been their guinea pig. Well, their Bigfoot."

There was more at stake here than a time traveling Sasquatch. Absolutely, this was against protocol, and the huge energy drain every time the travel orb was used.

Regardless of protocol, this was important. This stunt. This prank. It's how each new guy was formally accepted as an equal part of the team. This was about trust. Knowing that no matter what, you and your colleagues shared something that went beyond the classroom. They needed each other. And something as dumb as this, the Sasquatch run made their bond undeniable. When your life is on the line, as it was every time you strapped into the travel orb, you needed to know who was with you.

There were eight of them in the room. Well, including New Guy who was presently running about the forests in the Pacific Northwest. Eight, but they operated as one. And nobody was going to disrespect them, unless they chose to disrespect or correct one of their own, and then, in private so as not to compromise their shield of camaraderie.

"Who's watching the clock," asked the senior member of the team, signifying that time to reminisce had concluded.

"I'm watching, 40 seconds until we draw him back," said prior new guy, enjoying being part of the team without having to be the New Guy.

"OK, clock's tight, but we got this. New Guy's going to be dazed when he returns. Get the Squatch suit off him, help him dress, he'll be mostly limp. Jefferson, take the suit to the trunk of your car. Quickly, but without attracting attention. Stash it. No trace. Here we go."

The orb fired up. The light went on over the opaque travel window. Prior new guy opened the door and Bigfoot was there, strapped in, not moving, which was normal. New Guy was limp as a rag doll with muddy feet.

Like a well practiced machine, the veterans knew what to do. Two colleagues lifted him out and held him up. Two more removed the suit, duffel bagged it, and tossed it to Jefferson.

"Six minutes and 18 seconds until training resumes. Jeff, go."

"Get him dressed. When he can, get him water. He's gotta be thirsty, our lovely whelp."

New Guy slowly came around. A huge relief to all knowing they'd done it again. Now, to keep management from finding out.

The lead trainer was a wily one. In fact, he'd been one of them. He knew all the pranks. He'd been subjected to, and carried them all out when it was his time. But he was on the other side now. Management.

When employees are promoted up, it's only natural that the relationship with their prior peers become attenuated. Professionally so, not in an antagonistic way. It worked like a protective sheath, protecting both parties. The employees could pretend that nobody's trying to get anything past management, and management could pretend the same, allowing them to maintain face. As if a sliding one-way mirror now separated that dynamic. The difference, the one-way visibility switched back and forth. Management stuff, only the trainer could see. Pranks and jackassery, only the time travelers could see, hiding their antics from the trainer, if possible.

While the trainer would have suspicions, there'd be no proof. What could he really say without incriminating himself and his participation in previous antics during his time? That challenge was soon at hand.

At 1:52 minutes before resumption, New Guy was dressed, seated, and looking very pale, mumbling and groaning, not yet coherent. His tie was on, askew.

At 33 seconds the trainer entered the room. He immediately assessed, keen observant eyes, so important in this profession. Then he guessed, correctly.

"Is Jim OK, what happened to him?  . . . Oh hey, did you guys . . .," cutting off his question while approaching New Guy, not daring to say what he knew, though without proof.

"Did what, sir," someone egged him on.

Walking to New Guy, "Jim, are you OK," knowing he wasn't, but hoping he might be. He opened the closet door. It was empty, no Sasquatch suit.

Then Jefferson entered the room.

"Jeff, you're late," blurted the trainer uncharacteristically losing his cool, his frustration getting the best of him.

"Sir," pointing at the digital clock reading 12:30.

"Where've you been? To your car," asking, but knowing from his own experience.

"Down the hall for a soda," holding up a can, a well planned article of subterfuge.

"Sit down, Jefferson," pointing at him aggressively, before continuing to the team, "Dammit. I know what you did to him," said the trainer, all riled up with a thick vein protruding from his forehead.

"Did what, sir," another veteran, unfazed by the tense query, having lived through enough mayhem during his own real-life time travel gambits to appear above reproach in the face of heavy fire.

"Don't you and your 'Did what.' Have some respect for your position. The trust put into you. Don't abuse it," feebly offered the trainer.

"Sir," still playing the part with no give, the whole team straight facing the exchange.

"Listen, you jackasses. Every time that travel orb is fired off, it consumes enough nuclear uranium to run a nuclear submarine for a year," blathered the trainer filled with such pedantic insight.

"That's what, about the size of a soda can," Jefferson retorted, again holding up his can, then taking a sip.

"A liter bottle, but that's not the point. That's a tremendously valuable resource," the trainer defending his high moral position.

"Sir, there's tons of that stuff in the warehouse across campus. That U-235 was a big deal in the early 21st century, before that technology breakthrough," said another. They all knew it. The stuff had been ample for more than a generation, and its safe handling figured out.

"I know about the breakthrough. Just, this is a tremendous waste of resources and expense. . . . This ends with him," pointing at Jim while looking at the group of time travelers.

"What ends with me, sir," New Guy having finally regained himself.

And just like that, it was settled. They all knew, in that moment, that it would certainly not end with him.

"Let's get back to our lesson plan," said the trainer, leading his retreat by taking his position at the head of the room.

Sitting up and straightening his tie, Jim shed the New Guy monicker that afternoon, his given name having been reinstituted with his team-building acquiescence. At some future time, he would strap in the subsequent new guy outfitted as Bigfoot.

Until then, the time travelers opened their tablets to the appropriate lesson. If they behaved this afternoon, they knew it would all go away, like a belch in a robust breeze, these rascals. The trainer would pretend it never happened. He didn't want this blemish on him. Besides, not like he could stop it.

[I'd been thinking lately, take any earthly mystery or urban legend, it can be explained by time travel. Simply pick one, ask 'How could time travel . . . ', then write the sequence of events. This is the first such effort. Maybe more to follow. -wdk]