The Last Time Traveler
Chapter One
Dawson Canada winter 1898
I knew that it got far too cold for antifreeze to stay liquid in the arctic, so I’d drained all the coolant out. That meant the engine was inoperable—but I didn’t need it to travel through time and space.
I sat at the driver’s seat of the step-van. That’s as good a place to steer and navigate through time as any other. Many of the controls were built into the wheel and pedals.
The windshield didn’t truly give me a window into possible touchdown sites. I’d warped the local time and space to give me a simulated fiber-optic periscope type view.
It was a bit blurry, pixilated and without the fine detail an actual window would have given me, but a true window was beyond my capability.
Nonetheless I managed to land a couple miles outside of town, at night and in a snowstorm. I also managed to avoid crushing any witches.
I was wise enough to wear warm clothing—multiple layers of silk, wool, leather and some synthetics. I had the best Mickey Mouse type cold weather boots that I could find, snowshoes and a good hand pulled toboggan.
I was in my early fifties and a year earlier I hadn’t been too fit. Knowing that I’d have to walk several miles in the arctic cold to get to Dawson, I’d trained diligently.
I’d lost over seventy pounds, more than doubled my twenty-repetition squat—since I’d been really out of condition to start—and worked up to walking several miles daily.
Even so, the walk would be demanding—but try as I might, I couldn’t rationalize materializing in the town.
I needed my blood pressure medicine, my diuretics, and anti-gout medicine and while I could get by without insulin, I was much better off with it than without it.
There was four months worth of medicine on my person—damned hard to get when you’re poor.
If, by chance, I got stuck here…
Dropsy isn’t a pretty way to die.
Well I’d need to really bear down and lose as many more pounds of excess fat as possible before the meds ran out—that would help a great deal, but maybe not enough.
I might be able to cobble together a crude time machine in a few months in the 1890s—if money was no problem. Doing it in Dawson in 1898 seemed highly improbable.
Being stuck here would be equivalent to a death sentence. My best plan was to avoid being stranded.
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Almost anyone who understands the equations can build a time machine. You can build one with vacuum tubes if you have to, but navigation will be really crude without at least 1980s level computing power.
I finished my first time machine in 2016 and even though I scavenged old computers and wove them into a network, I was too poor to buy bleeding edge components. Consequently navigation was a bit of a challenge.
Small time machines lack power, range, fine control and finesse, but a man would have to be rather wealthy to build a full-fledged time vessel.
I could have fitted my first machine into a van or an eight-by-eight foot garden shed. There wouldn’t have been much room for anything but time machine in the back of a van. I was afraid the garden shed might materialize on top of some wicked witch’s sister.
So I stuck it in an old Ford step-van with an eighteen-foot cargo area. It ran as rough as all Hell, but so what?
My machine would allow me to go two hundred years into the past or a bit more. Going that far into the future is a very dicey proposition, but more about that later.
The next step was to use my machine to create enough wealth to allow me to build a full-fledged time vessel.
Lets have a few words about time.
A long time ago, quantum theorists hypothesized the “Many Worlds Model”. According to this model, every time the universe comes to even the tiniest sub-atomic fork in the road, it splits in two and the multiverse contains every possible universe—exhaustively.
The Many World’s Model creates all sorts of practical and philosophical conundrums. Instead, universes split fairly frequently, but nowhere near one hundred percent of the time.
Like attracts like in the multiverse. The universes closest to you in multi-space—millions within the distance of an electron’s radius—are the ones closest to you event-wise.
People slip a little sideways all the time. In your original universe, you laid your reading glasses on your night table, but you slip into a universe where you left them on the kitchen counter instead.
That isn’t to say that people never mislay things or misremember events. Also, a pair of glasses dislocated that far is a fairly major point of departure. Move an electron the width of a human hair and within a few years the differences can snowball so drastically that you won’t even recognize your own hometown in the other timeline.
All those timelines bunch together into what we call the “Mainline”. Every so often enough differences accumulate that the Mainline bifurcates or divides—but each half or third or whatever is still Mainline.
Highly improbable events shouldn’t occur very often—but they do occur. If you could track events in the Mainline though, you’d find that even when an unlikely event is “due”—deterministically speaking—the Mainline acts to suppress it. That is one way that the Mainline stays Mainline.
It isn’t one hundred percent successful though. Weird ole stuff happens all the time. Phase two is to try hard to dampen the effects of the bizarre.
Time travel heads the list of unlikely events. Once one travels through time, his days on the Mainline are numbered.
The Mainline strove relentlessly to push me out of the Mainline into the Outlier Timelines where the bizarre is commonplace and where both jokers and deuces are always wild. It took constant fine adjustments on my part, to avoid expulsion.
Whole timelines and large sheaths of timelines are also regularly shed from the Mainline.
This is not to imply that the Mainline is conscious or intelligent. Perhaps it’s merely some sort of sophisticated homeostat.
I could live with roaming the Outliers for the rest of my life, but first I had an agenda and it would be much easier to pursue in the orderly Mainline than out where the timelines looked like tons of multi-dimensional spaghetti thoroughly interwoven.
Going forward one day in time to find the winning lottery number is a very poor way for a time-traveler to get rich.
It isn’t hard to travel to your own future. What is very hard is returning to the precise past that you just vacated—and it’s been busily splitting off tens of thousands of nearly—but not quite—identical timelines while you were gone.
If you win the lottery, when you originally did not win it, you create paradox. Millions of dollars changing course abruptly creates just the sort of improbable turbulence the Mainline abhors.
One of the easiest ways to thwart you would be to shift you into a very similar universe where another number won. Not that the Mainline would hesitate to involve you in a major auto accident or make you the victim of a stroke, a robbery or drive-by shooting or whatever.
Playing the horses might work a bit better—but it takes longer to amass a huge fortune. People are going to note the shabby looking fellow who wins the daily double and the trifecta—every day.
Stocks take even longer and are more closely watched.
Cocaine and heroin were both legal—over-the-counter—in the early 1900s. And what do you need to make a profit dealing drugs?
You need customers—and many druggies would nark out their grandmother to get a month taken off an eleven-year sentence. Any time they get caught, they’re going to finger you—even if you weren’t involved in getting them caught.
Having the potential time traveler spend his last thirty years in prison works as well as a paradox suppressor as anything else so far as the Mainline is concerned.
Anyway, what would I buy 1900 cocaine with? The clerk would think this holographic money we use nowadays was some sort of counterfeit currency.
Maybe, if you had some of the old money, folks might take it without noticing the dates. How often do you look at the date on your dollar bill?
Buying silver dollars and gold coins to take back to 1900 wouldn’t net you much of a profit. That would necessitate multiple trips—giving the Mainline plenty of opportunity to screw you up.
But during the Klondike Gold Rush in the late 1890s, fresh eggs were going for their weight in gold.
Making a few pounds of gold disappear from the Klondike shouldn’t cause any major paradoxes. I’m sure a bunch of gold has been lost and never recovered all throughout history.
Anyway, I’d put the gold back in circulation in 1979 once gold hit $700 per ounce.
A few miners would eat a little better than they otherwise would and I’d profit.
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I was weary when I got to town, but I was maintaining.
I asked a few ragged prospectors which inn was noted to give a fair shake—and watched them closely to try to spot shills.
There were several sleds outside and a couple shotgun armed guards.
“Your gear will be safe here,” one of them told me.
“Who buys supplies?” I asked him.
“Tell one of the barkeeps that you want to speak to Leon,” he said.
“Friends, it’s almost Christmas isn’t it? A man can lose track of time. Have a small token of my appreciation for watching my kit,” I told them.
I gave each man a small drawstring bag with small orange, some chocolate stars, a small bag of coffee and a plug of pipe tobacco.
I saw each man’s eyes widen in surprise when he glanced inside.
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I wasn’t fool enough to go into a big-money deal like this unarmed—but on the other hand, I didn’t have unlimited funds to arm myself.
There was a Smith and Wesson 5906 9mm in a front crotch carry. I’m not big on the stopping power of the 9mm, but it comes close to being adequate with 148 grain +P hollow points—and I had ten fifteen round magazines for back-up.
I figured that if I had to shoot my way out of something, that the rapid rate of fire would be very intimidating to turn of the century miners—not that I believe in indiscriminate hosing.
I backed the slightly bulky semiauto with a couple four-inch S&W .357s—model 19s.
Leon turned out to be a really big man—well over six feet and well over three hundred pounds. He looked like an NFL lineman. Contrary to the stereotype for Klondike miners, he was clean-shaven and he wore a suit.
The oranges, spices, tobacco and chocolate were just window dressing. What I really wanted to sell was my eggs.
I gave samples and amounts and he negotiated a price. Gold was carefully weighed out and I was given charge of the bags—otherwise I was afraid of some sleight of hand bait-and-switch.
Leon had armed guards accompany me back to my step-van with instructions not to let me go until they’d verified my inventory.
When we got close to the truck, the proximity alarm screamed like a banshee being raped by a sasquatch. Recorded voices demanded that whoever was prowling around, go away.
There were sirens and flashing lights. I suspect that the lights would have been more effective at night though.
At any rate, the uncouth noises thoroughly rattled the nerve of the porters—as I’d intended that it should.
They just might be planning to rip me off. Throwing would-be robbers off their game is good strategy.
I watched them unload and take inventory while standing with an AR-15 at port arms, my back to my step-van.
God alone knows what sort of weapon that they thought that I was holding.
“We’re satisfied,” the foreman told me.
“All of you stand in front of the window there, where I can see you,” I said.
I felt safe in taking my eyes off them momentarily with the windshield between us.
I threw a burlap sack through the open door.
“There is a goody bag in there for each of you, for working hard and for not trying to rob me,” I told them.
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I had the gold dust assayed and exchanged it for an equivalent value of certified bullion in 1915. I ended up with a bit over forty pounds of gold.
(12 Troy Ounces per pound) X ($700/Troy Ounce in 1979)= $336 000.
Not exactly nouveau rich, but I went through 1979 twice more, never risking over half my money at one time and buying gold futures—leveraged to the hilt.
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Phase two had me go to 1820 and commission a huge antebellum mansion built.
It was a big house, built redundantly strong and long lasting—back when everything was built to last anyway.
My mansion had a basement and a sub-basement. It had three surface stories and a generous walk-in attic.
It had quite a few secret rooms, secret passages and secret hiding places. It was also thoroughly wired for 12 volt, 120 volt, 220 volt and 440 three-phase.
What! No they didn’t have electricity back then. They did have master craftsman who could run wires and hook them to fuse boxes if you supervised them closely. They didn’t need to know what the wire was for.
Attribute it to superstition or eccentricity.
I paid the men generously not to talk about the house—but I knew some would anyway. A man’s word counted for more back then and fewer talked than those that did not.
By the time the War of Northern Aggression ended, there were few if any craftsmen left who’d worked on my mansion. Any rumors about secret passages and peculiar wire structures would be nothing but vague urban legends by then.
The mansion was a time machine in its own right and if I let it sit unmolested from 1820 till my “Eternal Present” in 2016, it would be a hundred and ninety six years “long” in time—which would make it far smoother handling.
I was working on a system where the whole house could “hang” just outside of real space, with just a relatively tiny “footprint” in real time.
A word about the “Eternal Present”: my present was in 2016 and it moved a day farther forward for every twenty-four hours that I lived.
There is a qualitative difference between “past” and “future”.
The first time that I traveled in time, my own “Present” froze. 2016 will always be my “Eternal Present”.
I could go into the big mansion anytime that I wanted to—just so long as I didn’t use it as a time machine.
It was so big and rich though, that it garnered unwelcome attention. I checked it every so often and kept ownership through a number of shell-companies through the decades.
Then I had me another fine, but far more modest dwelling built in my hometown in 1840.
Medical School was only a couple years back in the 1840’s. Hell, so far as that goes, one could practice medicine without a license back then.
I took some first-rate surgical tools, some very good microscopes and stained specimen slides along with beaucoup glassware.
All I needed was a couple contemporary courses in microbiology and a very few pounds of veterinary grade penicillin and streptomycin. Then I advertised very discretely that I could cure Syphilis and Gonorrhea.
I told my patients that the ingredients for my cure were extremely rare and that I’d be swamped if word got out generally.
Victorian gentleman weren’t given to boasting about their latest bout with the clap—so I was on pretty firm ground there.
I helped some poor people gratis, but generally I charged a stiff but fair price for the miracle I offered.
And knowing the general trend history would take, I had a fairly good guide to which investments would prosper.
I tried to lay low and hope the Mainline left me alone for a little while longer.
I was getting old.
My next step was to ride a smaller time vessel to 2016 and use my mansion time machine to inch my way into the future far enough to find a workable rejuvenation therapy.
It as that or get old and die.
.....RVM45
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