Chronex_Episode One: Pilot

“Isaiah. Isaiah!”

The words thunder from somewhere in the darkness. No, not thunder. Clanging. Snapping. A storm of foggy memories swirl in the void. My head throbs. I need to release the pressure from the storm. If I can't open the valve, my head will surely burst.

“Isaiah, honey. Come back to me.” The familiar voice echoes through my mental storm. Following the voice comes release. The breath mask is removed from my face, and fresh air caresses my raw skin. Unseen hands unclip the helmet and lift it off me. The void lifts.

The blurry outline of my fiancée holds me. “I’m fine. Fine, I,” I mumble. After two minutes of mumbling, the storm eases, and my vision returns.

“Hey, honey,” I smile.

“How did it go? Did you pass?” Aria asks.

“I do not remember. Give me a couple of minutes.” Realizing I am being cradled on the ground, I make to stand up. My legs teeter but take my weight. “Whew. That was rougher than usual,” I say. I stumble around our base and my memories. I stumble to the wall and brace myself. After a minute, everything clicks.

“Quick!” I shout to no one in particular as I race towards the table that holds our conference phone. Aria’s face scrunches into a bemused smile as I run to the table and fumble with the triangular device. I punch the keypad. 8 - 4 - 6 - 3.

The phone crackles to life with a series of beeps. Come on. Nothing. I punch the table in frustration. I was too slow. Just as I lose hope, the voice crackles through the phone.

“4 minutes and 43 seconds. Excellent recovery time. Welcome, Isaiah Crane Spencer, to Chronex. Henceforth, all standard communication from the agency will identify you as Agent 8463. Organize your team. Information regarding your first mission will arrive in 48 hours. Your first compensation, as agreed upon prior to your testing, will arrive at the same time. As you were, agent. Congratulations.”

The phone crackling goes out with a clunk. Finally, I made it. I look back to Aria and see my excitement mirrored on her face. Her eyes water with excitement as her feet carry her to my arms.

“We did it.” I breathe into her ear.

“Yes, you did. You’ve worked…”

“No,” I cut her off. “We worked for this. Thank you. You’re in this as much as me. Technically, you were approved before me. Missions Operator Aria Brown.” I punctuate my point with a kiss.

“Tentatively pre-approved. Confirmation was dependent on your passing. WHICH YOU DID!” She breaks from my arms with a celebratory hard push to my chest.

Aria continues, “We need to celebrate! How about that new swanky place close to your apartment? We can get dressed up. You can dress like the James Bond you are now.”

While her voice trails off, her hands keep telling the story as she pulls on an invisible tie around my neck.

“You know my missions will not be James Bond-level excitement, right?” I laugh.

“Shh. Don’t ruin this for me.”

Chuckling, I reply, “Let’s get going then. Especially if we have to change.”

Aria grins widely and bounces into action. I make sure everything is put away and grab my things. Aria fingers a code onto a number pad on the far wall.

“Clear to shut down?” Aria calls in accordance with protocol.

Once I reach her side, I respond, “Clear.”

Aria grabs the lever above the pad and switches it down. The room sparks with a loud woom. By the time the sparks hit the ground, our base is gone, returned to a specific moment in time. The shower of sparks fizzle out, leaving the two of us in empty darkness.

I reach out to where I know the door handle to be and open it. We step into the light of the Washington DC dockyard. The usual sights of the red sneakers hanging from the powerline and the Nationals stadium a couple blocks down greet us. Growing up, this area was not nearly so busy. The World Series had changed things.

Aria wordlessly locks the warehouse behind us. We walk arm-in-arm to the metro, before we split towards our different apartments to get changed. Once I am alone on the subway, I give in to my emotions. It feels like a drum is beating in my chest. A thunderstorm of excitement.

I did it. I am finally in. I have spent most of my life working to be an agent. I made my mind up as a child. Now, at thirty-five, I have finally achieved agent status.

No organic matter can survive time travel. I recount all the laws in my head. I have studied these laws my whole life. My father drilled the laws into my head during childhood. Up to his death, my father told me stories of what he had seen. He told me stories of seeing J.F.K., Martin Luther King Jr., and Winston Churchill. Famous figures are a common target of retroactive terrorist attacks.

My favorite story as a child was one that involved my father chasing a time interloper through a field of airships during the First World War. I knew I would not have any missions that exciting. Only the most experienced agents are allowed to travel beyond their lifetime. I was born in '89. I have 35 years to protect.

Churning in my stomach, along with the excitement, is fear. My father died in the line of duty. I do not know how. When Aria and I passed our initial rounds of testing and interviews, we were granted some low-level archives access. Aria found my dad’s folder. Nearly everything was redacted. Potential recruits and low-level teams do not get high-level access. All we were able to glean was that he died in action. 

That was just one of many frustrations and disappointments along the way. It has been hard. There came a time I thought I would never get the agency’s attention to even be recruited. If my father had not been an agent, I do not think I would have gotten my foot in the door. 

Memories of my father only confuse my feelings further. It feels like Aria took my excitement with her to her apartment. The longer I ride, the more doubts creep in. They are like voices in my ear, whispering that I am not enough. They tell me of my failures. They tell me that I am not my fa…

A voice comes across the speakers, interrupting my rumination, and announcing my stop. Memories of my father’s stories carry me back to my apartment. The voices do not stop haunting me until I see Aria standing outside the restaurant. As I approach her in her simple red dress, all doubts and fears fade.

---

Clank. Wheeerm! Pop. It is the next day. Sparks shower Aria and me as our base returns to our time. Ah. My eyes are used to the dark warehouse. The sudden burst of sparks and appearance of the base’s lights temporarily blind me. Abstract shapes swim across as my vision returns.

Our base is hard on the eyes of anyone who has not adjusted yet. A pitch-black warehouse, the size of a small hangar, holds our base. Where once was nothing, now hang bright LED tubes. Stainless steel tables, counters, and man-sized towers of electronics now litter the interior. In the closest corner are three squashy couches, none of which match. A large LCD TV sits on an entertainment cabinet.

Around three-quarters across the building, is a large conference table. Sitting on it, the triangular conference phone used for communicating with our superiors. Around the table hang soundproof curtains, currently rolled up, out of the way. The table is comically large for our two-person team. We found that handmade table at an estate sale and blew our base budget on it. Everything else was agency supplied or very second-hand.

In the center of the room stands the pièce de résistance. The largest desk houses the main console that Aria mans during a mission. The center console overlooks my spot. A tank is stationed in the very center of the room. A set of stairs on wheels sits next to it. Above the tank hangs a large brass and chrome helmet. The helmet is covered in dials and hands. Two massive tubes along with a series of smaller wires, snake up to the ceiling and come back down to connect to various equipment around the room.

This is where all the magic happens. Organic matter can not survive traveling in time. Besides, even if it could, it creates a lot of problems if anyone snaps a picture of me at the wrong time. This is the solution. A helmet along with complicated equipment that I do not understand sends my neurological signals through time into someone else’s mind and body. 

That is only for the larger or more complicated missions. Simpler tasks do not require boots on the ground. Simple tasks can be done by sending a remote-controlled drone or rover through time. 

On the farthest wall is the only thing that is not transported through time when we close up. A cheap folding table holds a coffee pot, mini fridge, and microwave. Next to it is a water cooler. We discovered real quick that some food and beverages do not hold up well to time travel. Therefore, the refreshments table stays. Because it stays there at all times, we have painted a yellow box around the table. No equipment, documents, or anything non-food related goes past that line. We can not risk leaving something confidential behind for someone to stumble upon when we are not around.

I take Aria’s coat and drape it along with my own over the nearest couch. Next to a stainless steel file cabinet stands a large bin. Aria notices what I did not. The light over it burns bright red. Aria approaches the bin and opens the lid. She withdraws a three-foot-tall stack of files and binders.

I sprint over to help but am too late. Aria shuffles the stack to the conference table by herself. The comically large stack spills over the table. A light blinks on the phone as well. I scoot paper out of the way and press the flashing button. The familiar voice crackles to life.

“Team 8463. Your mission…”

I smirk as I imagine the next line being, “should you choose to accept it.”

“...Thursday, seventh, July 2000.”

Alas, life is not so whimsical. I would be lying if I said I was not saddened that real life did not match the movies.

The crackly voice drones on, “The Millennium Celebration Amateur Air Race. A week-long air race involving hot air balloons and powered paragliders to celebrate the new millennium. Chronological activity has been detected on the fourth day of the race. We believe explosive devices are being transported back in time to sabotage vessels and kill important US leaders. Many politicians and social leaders are present. Your primary duty is to track down all chronological outliers and ensure no life is endangered by temporal forces. Your secondary duty, if possible, is to gather as much information as possible about the perpetrator’s identity and origin time.

All necessary information is at your base now. Your Missions Operator will release this information as she sees fit. The Agency expects a success within one week base time. Remember your oaths. Godspeed Team 8463.”

The phone crackles ominously for five more seconds before thunking off. Ok. This is happening. My first mission. I look to my fiancée and Missions Operator. Aria tears her eyes from the phone with great effort and returns my look. Her face reveals a sense of overwhelming. I know better than to go by her face. I know Aria well enough to look in the eyes. There, I see the flicker of determination for which I am marrying her.

“Well,” I get the ball rolling. “Time to get to work.”

Aria scoffs, “You mean I work. You go work out and do your stuff while I do all this reading.” She gestures to the leaning tower of files.

“You’re right. Try not to be distracted by the view. I need you focused.” I wink and start running laps around the building interior. I embrace the exercise. The harder I run, the easier I sink into my own mind. Each step takes me farther into contemplation.

This is it. My first orders. A bomb? That was not what I expected. Nonetheless, I was trained to deal with this. This should be easy enough. Most chronological outliers, objects transported to another time, are mundane objects. Your random enthusiast discovers the basics and likes to play around. Field Agents, like myself, deal with the objects themselves. All information is gathered and reported to the agency. The agency then reaches out to said individual to stop. Sometimes it is a slap on the wrist. Other times, the agency will even recruit them. At least, that is what my father told me.

After days of reading and planning, Aria is ready. “Ok,” she slams down a seven-inch thick manilla folder. She continues, “Here’s the rub.”

I chuckle, “Do they seriously make folders this big? At what point are you just carrying around a cabin…Ouch!”

“No jokes mister,” Aria rebukes me. “I have spent three days going over this information and making rough plans. No touching.”

I massage my hand from Aria’s smack. “My apologies, miss,” I retort. I pay special care to enunciate the last word. Since when does she call me ‘mister’?

“Look honey,” Aria slaps the comically large file for dramatic emphasis. “I have spent THREE days on this. I am not in the mood for your jokes and snark.” Her smile betrays her words.

“Ok, coach. What’s the play?” I humbly respond.

“Millennium Celebration Amateur Air Race,” Aria continues. “A five-day race beginning in Polson, Montana, and ending in Mesquite, Nevada. Around 1,100 nautical miles. It is split up into five segments. Every day, the contestants line up and take off in the order they arrived. The launch has two stages: First, the slower hot air balloons. Second, the faster paramotorists.”

“Ok. Which one will I be in?” I ask.

“The latter. You will be in a paramotor.” Aria hands me a picture of a man flying a paramotor.

“In? That’s it? I won’t be in anything,” I laugh. “It looks like all I will have is a parachute and a fan on my back. This cannot be a real thing.”

“Actually, that’s kinda the idea. I’m honestly jealous. You get to fly untethered to any big thing. You are not in a big flying machine. You are the flying machine. You are flying, wind hitting you in the face. I can only imagine.”

“I wish I shared your enthusiasm for barreling through the sky with nothing but a parachute and fan. Anyway, who will I be?”

“Tucker Golt. Twenty-four-year-old amateur paramotorist. His body type and lifestyle should mean you have similar capabilities, which will be useful for your first mission. You are not used to having to adapt to others’ limitations yet. Golt should be an easy fit, relatively speaking.”

“Ok,” I examine the picture of Golt Aria handed me. “What else?”

“You will be starting near the back of the pack. This gives you time to examine everything as you pass them. Really sniff out where any outliers may be.”

“Why is this Golt fellow starting in the back if he’s supposedly good enough to pass everyone in the air?”

“Golt is actually really good. One of the expected frontrunners. He had some technical malfunctions that caused him to land prematurely on the third day to make repairs.”

“Great,” I mock. “Not only will I be flying at deadly heights with nothing more than a sheet and fan, I’ll be doing it with a broken sheet and fan. I’m real confident.”

“Shush. This will work. Or, I guess I can say it did work. Now, try to find as much as you can before taking off. You will have time to mingle with the other pilots before takeoff. Use that time wisely. Find what you can then. When in the air, be scanning for any more outliers. When you land, extract them. Then, mission complete.”

“What if the agency is correct about bombs and I can’t find them before we take off. Wouldn’t you expect them to go off while in the air?” I ask.

“Then you get to Bond it up with these.” Aria waves me over to another counter. “Your watch will be your main tool, of course. It is a replica of his watch but with some extra goodies packed in. If you need a refresher of what it does, see your field agent manual. It is the standard issue”

I pick up the duplicate watch. “You know, Bond gets Rolexes and Omegas.” I hold my watch up to my wrist. “Not dinged Timexes with a Phantom Menace licensed kid’s band.”

Aria rolls her eyes and snatches it from my hands. “Leave it be. It’s made to look like Golt’s watch. You will have plenty of time to wear it tomorrow. You will also have a dozen temporal bags.”

I look at the familiar bags. They roughly resemble a gallon-sized ziplock bag in shape. However, these are made of a reflective, metallic material. They look like someone tried to make bags from a thermal blanket. The opening of the bag contains a thick, plastic zipper.

“You will use the bags to contain any outliers you find. They will deactivate whatever it is and send it back here.” Aria pauses for a moment before picking up the final item. It is a small, metal rectangle. Shaped like a modern smartphone, it is three times as thick.

“This will be your third and final piece of equipment,” Aria says. With a flick of her wrist, the rectangle snaps into a gun. “Single capacity obviously. Any questions? You will have only the standard field equipment. Nothing special.”

“Understood,” I smile.

“Good. Then here you go.” Aria hands me a stapled dossier. “Familiarize yourself with this today. I’ve done enough reading. I’m taking a nap. I’m missing my anniversary for this. When this mission is all said and done, you owe me a great dinner.”

Aria leaves me, puts on a thick pair of headphones, and jumps onto the nearest squashy couch. “Wait. What?” I call.

---

The next day, I walk out from behind our changing curtain. I wear a skin-tight bodysuit. Various metal dots along the suit mark the connection points for my various vital sensors. Aria looks up from her work and smiles at me.

“Get into position and I will hook you up in a minute,” Aria calls to me.

I climb the metal stairs, up to the top of the empty tank. I step onto the metal grate covering the top. Aria has laid out all my various connectors in an organized pattern. I begin attaching them to the various points on my suit.

Aria finishes packing my gear into a large temporal bag. The bag makes a satisfying crack and snap sound as she seals it. Looking up, she sighs at the sight of me. She hurries up the steps and starts unhooking everything I have done.

“Protocol, my love. Protocol,” she smilingly berates me.

“You are literally hooking them up the way I had them,” I exasperate. “What was wrong with the way I did it?”

“Protocol. I am supposed to do this.”

I roll my eyes at her. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s do this.”

“I love you too. You are welcome,” Aria finishes the connections and kisses me on the cheek. Before I have time to respond in anyway, I feel the iv inserted into my arm. “You ready, honey? This is it.”

“Ouch.” I massage my arm. “Yeah. I love you too. And thank you.”

Aria smiles and holds my face. “We are really doing this.”

“Yeah. We are.”

Aria takes the breath mask and secures it around my face. “Double-check that it’s on well.”

I feel the mask and give a thumbs up.

“Good,” Aria breathes. Next, she takes the massive metal helmet. She slowly lowers it over me. I watch as Aria vanishes from my vision, replaced only by the black void. Aria secures it and climbs down the steps. She walks away from the tank and returns to her console.

Now that I stand alone, facing the void, my nerves flare up. With her face gone from my sight, the doubts and fears return. I am not ready. I can’t do this. No, I can. The next minute feels like it spans an hour as I argue with myself. 

The woman I love and trust most in the world is by my side. I can do it. My mental pep talk does nothing to assuage my nerves. Relief comes from beyond. Aria’s voice, distorted by all the equipment, rings in my head. “Are you ready, love?”

Muffled by the breath mask, I respond, “Yes.”

There is a loud clunk. The floor beneath me sinks. The first time this happened in training, I fell off the tank. Now, I am more than used to it. The grate slowly lowers into the tank. Then, I feel the waters filling around me. In only seconds, I am lifted from my feet and am suspended in the tank.

“Last chance. Anything wrong?” Aria’s distorted voice rings once again.

Hearing no reply, Aria flips a large switch. I hear a robotic voice count down, “10. 9.”

“Remember your oaths.” Aria recites the script to me.

“8.”

“No living organism can survive time travel.”

“7.”

“Do no harm to your host.

“6.”

“Protect history from those who would change it,”

“5.”

“Willingly and unwittingly.”

“4.”

“Fulfill your duty.”

“3.”

“Godspeed agent.”

“2.”

“I love you!”

“1.”

I smile. I do not remember that last line being in the script. I start to make a snarky comment when the dials and hands on the helmet spin and tick to life. Here comes my least favorite part. The sucking feeling, as if a vacuum was trying to remove my face. Second, the feeling of a fish hook snagging the back of my brain. Finally, I feel as if the hook is pulling my brains and eyes out through the back of my skull. I cry out but I have no body to make a sound. The moment the sensation reaches its peak, it is gone.

I blink and look out of another’s eyes. I am kneeling. I look down at my hands. Huh. I’m white now. Then, the gaps start filling in. I remember memories that are not my own. I was bending down to double-check my gear.

“Thanks, love,” I whisper to no one.

“That is why I am here,” Aria’s distorted voice replies in the back of my head, distant and ethereal. Her job, when I am on the field, is to monitor and slowly reveal the host’s memories to me as I need them. She is the thumb on the spigot. Let all the memories and instincts of the host flood in at once and risk brain damage to both me and the host. Trickle the memories in too slowly, and I would be lost during my mission. She mans the valve, choosing when I need to remember what.

I finish checking my gear. Fingers that are not my own move with a skill that is not my own as they confirm everything is where it needs to be. Before I stand up, there is a flower of sparks next to me and a crack.

A temporal bag lays on the ground. I look around to make sure no one is watching. The area is packed. People are everywhere, double and triple-checking their own gear before flying. Everyone is so focused, no one is paying me any attention. Safety in numbers. Hide in plain sight. I pick up my temporal bag and unzip it.

Inside are all the gadgets Aria showed me yesterday. I pull out a watch and hold it up to the one on my wrist. Identical. I take off the genuine Timex with the Star Wars band and replace it with my upgraded duplicate. Once I pocket the remaining gear, I zip the original watch inside the bag and say, “Returning.” The bag vanishes with a crack and plume of sparks.

“Received,” Aria’s disembodied voice replies. “Your whole area is hot. You need to narrow the outliers down on your own.”

“Copy that,” I respond.

I stand up and stretch my borrowed body. Tucker Golt is not as tall as me. Tucker, definitely not short, is still two to four inches shorter. I guess Tucker is six foot even. I am standing on a large, grassy plain. Up ahead of me are hot air balloons, preparing for takeoff. I pick up a small rock and walk towards the back of the group. It does not take long. Once there is no risk of hitting anyone or anything, I throw the rock as hard as I can. Nice. Tucker has about the same strength as me.

Satisfied with my unscientific test of abilities, I begin scanning the areas, taking in all of my fellow contestants. I raise my watch and begin to punch hidden buttons on it. The temporimeter within the watch crackles to life. After taking a minute to calibrate and filter out my own temporal radiation, it starts to vibrate and crackle.

How many outliers are here? Reacting to the way the watch vibrates, I count at least six different outliers. Picking one at random, I follow the trail of radiation. Finally, the watch screams. I should be standing on top of it.

Dirt. Just dirt. I kick my foot in the dirt and overturn a tarnished quarter. I pick it up and read the date on it. 2000. Crap. Just as I start to drop it, the watch screams. I closely examine the quarter. “Strange.”

“What is strange?” asks Aria’s ethereal voice.

“This quarter was made in 2000 but it’s too tarnished to be here naturally. Someone sent a 2000 quarter back to 2000.”

“Why?”

“I have to check the others.” I run, following the other trails of radiation. A piece of asphalt, a turquoise rock, an empty Coke can. “They are all mundane objects.”

Aria waits before responding, “No bomb, then?”

The familiar doubts threaten their return.  “No. No,” I trail off in thought. “No. Unless we are dealing with someone the agency has already dealt with. Someone who would know we would come and set up a diversion to distract us.”

Hundreds of voices pipe up and cheer in unison. I look up to see the cause. My initial thoughts are of some explosion, but the crowd sounds happy. The hot air balloons take off in the distance.

Aria’s disembodied voice follows up, “So not an amateur, then.”

“Maybe. Either way, I need to get into the air.”

I sprint the short distance back to my paramotor. I call into the void, “We can get that stuff by rover, later. I need to get into the air and find where this bomb is. Fast.”

Muscle memories belonging to the host, released by Aria, guide me. I quickly lay out my glider and strap my equipment on tight. The glider resembles a crescent-shaped parachute. It attaches through long cords to my backpack. A large motor with a fan blade propels the glider through the air. Straightforward. Elegant.

Handles on the cables serve as the means of steering and brakes. Once I am sure everything is properly attached and laid out, I grasp the handles and stand in a stance of readiness. Forty-five minutes. I wait forty-five minutes before my turn to take off. Engine on, I dead sprint in my borrowed body. The motor on my back roars to life. I pull hard on the brakes, causing the glider to catch air. The lack of wind slows my launch. Finally, my stride hits only air.

I am flying. Aria is supplying the necessary muscle memories and skills from my host to do it. For me, it is less of flying and more like pushing up on a video game controller and watching the pre-programmed results. I will it and the skills and muscle memories of my host do it.

I continue to pull the brakes until I reach a height that satisfies my host’s instincts. I stow the handles and take a minute to take in the beauty of my surroundings. I am flying hundreds of feet above the earth with only what is on my back.

Aria’s voice rings in the back of my head, “I am very jealous. I wish it could be me.”

I chuckle, “It is incredible. The part of me that is me is freaking out a bit. The part of me that is Tucker feels perfectly at peace.”

Despite myself, I laugh. The adrenaline rush of flying temporarily silences any doubts and fears.

“When you get back, you have to take me out on one. Maybe our honeymoon?”

“Ha! Yeah…no,” I retort. “Look, it is inevitable that some of the skills and muscle memories remain but not enough for that.”

“We’ll see,” Aria changes the subject. “Detecting anything up there?”

“Nope. No readings. Not among the paramotors. I need to catch up with the hot air balloons and fast.”

I regain the handles and speed up. I fly the engines on full power and angle downward to pick up speed. It does not take long to catch up with the balloons. Before long, I zig and zag between various hot air balloons. I listen for the slightest sound from my watch to alert me to any temporal radiation.

Nothing. I decide to swing around and double-check the previous balloons again. With a flourish and skill from Tucker, I spin. The world lurches and spins around me. Despite myself, I release a gleeful roar as I barrel roll. I come out of my barrel roll, facing the other direction. As I am making another pass around a humble yellow balloon, it happens.

The watch screams to life, detecting temporal radiation. “Bingo,” I chime to myself.

“You find it?” inquires Aria in my head.

“Yes. I believe I have.” I circle the unbecoming balloon, taking it in. There is one pilot. The pilot is holding a strange device. I watch as the balloon pilot waves his device until it points at me. The pilot confusedly looks from the device to the paramotorist who circles him like a vulture. Unfortunately for me, a look of dawning understanding crosses the pilot’s face. He quickly starts strapping something onto his back. I realize too late what is happening. The pilot hangs a parachute glider out of the basket. Then, he does the impossible. The pilot sits on the edge of the basket and falls backward out of it.

For one moment, I panic that the man will plummet to his death. Then, his glider fills with wind, and his dive turns into flying. “No. Not something. Someone! There’s someone else who has traveled back in time,” I exclaim.

“What!” Aria matches my incredulous shout.

“I do not know who or how, but I am not the only traveler here. Someone else has traveled back. And he just jumped out of a hot air balloon.”

“Is he…”

“No. He’s wearing his own paramotor. He somehow detected me.”

The interloper is now spinning around, orienting himself behind me. I crane my neck to look back. “We might have a problem here! He’s chasing me. Give me time!”

Aria answers my cry with action. “Hurry, honey. It is dangerous if I do this too long.”

Suddenly, the world slows for me. Aria is slowing the flow of time for my mind. My mind is operating at a different rate of time than the rest of the world. It is the secret weapon of Chronex agents. It can only be used a couple of times per mission and for short periods of time only, or you risk brain damage and seizure.

I scrunch my face and force the doubts out of my mind. This is not the time for fear. I can not afford it right now. I need to focus or I die and many others.

I use this gift of time to get a bearing on the situation. I am being chased through the skies by a time interloper. This temporal trespasser somehow has his own means of detecting temporal radiation and found me. I catch the sun reflecting off something on the interloper's foot. I strain to make it out. My mind is working at a different rate of time, but my eyes are still tethered to the normal flow of time.

There is a delay between my willing my eyes to move and them actually moving. Finally, they move and I can focus on the reflective object. A knife! The interloper has taped a knife to his foot. He is going to cut my glider. Before I can think of a plan of attack, the world begins to accelerate to its natural speed.

“Crap!” I shout.

“What? Did the time help? I’m sorry, but I could not drag it out any longer. For your sake,” Aria explains.

“Well, my sake is about to plummet to my death if I do not do something!” I scream to my fiancée.

“Focus! Think of a way out,” Aria says in a would-be-calm voice.

“Ok. Ok.” I breathe. Exercising my quick thinking and Tucker’s skill, I pull hard on my brakes. Physics yanks me upward. I use the sudden change in speed and elevation to roll over my attacker and come out behind him. My gun. I make to grab it while I am behind the attacker. No. Idiot. We use other peoples’ bodies. I can’t hurt an innocent person who did not ask for some interloper to take over his body.

Instead, I turn and send myself into a controlled, spiral dive. If I am going to be cut out of the sky, I am going to make sure I am close to the ground. I continue to spiral until Tucker’s instincts tell me to pull up. The world stops spinning and levels out alarmingly close. Do not panic. I want to be close. I quickly pull up to avoid a tree. Why couldn’t this mission be boring?

Apparently, I am flying over a mountain. Suddenly, the ground ends with a cliff, and I am once more in danger if cut out of the sky. Where is he? I pull the brakes once more and roll over. I position myself in the direction of the cliff as I make my way back to the safety of the ground. Slow down and land. If I can get him to land, then I will have the advantage.

Unfortunately, my attacker has other plans.

I brake once more and pull up. I narrowly avoid my attacker’s run at me. It does not matter. The attack run served its purpose. I was already going slower in my attempt to land. What my attacker forced me to do was pull up. The ground is no longer safe. I look over my shoulder at the ground growing more distant and malevolent by the second. I am practically flying at a snail’s pace now. The attacker, who was already at full speed, has turned around and is back on my tail.

I hear the attacker’s motor. I try to swing out of the way but am too slow. My opponent’s knife cuts my glider. I lurch as my glider collapses. I see the ground and have only a moment to accept my failure before jerking back and spinning. The attacker’s knife had pierced my glider but failed to completely cut through. My glider is caught around the interloper’s foot and both of us are dragged down. I tumble helplessly as the earth spins closer and closer.

I close my eyes and brace for the inevitable end. Sharp pains lash me as I am jerked around. I am spun around by unseen forces before I crash into the ground with a devastating crunch. Pieces of my motor fly in all directions. I open my eyes wide and gasp for the oxygen that was knocked out of me. Sharp pains course through my spine and whole body. I hear soft sobbing somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

Blurred by tears, I see my attacker spiraling. The stranger swings upward, lurches, and falls as his glider collapses. I can tell that my attacker did not fall far. I need to get up first.

I try to move, but pain hinders me. I feel something wet on my side. I force my hand to my face, expecting to see red. It is clear. My nose tells me it is gasoline. My motor must be completely broken.

I try to move the rest of my borrowed limbs. They scream and protest but obey.

“Isaiah! Isaiah!” cries Aria in the back of my head. How long has she been crying my name? With all the pain, I barely noticed.

“Yeah,” I gurgle.

“Oh thank… oh thank goodness,” she cries.

“I’m alive,” I finally manage. I have caught my breath.

“Are you ok? I’m trying to read your vitals. Give me a second.”

“I think I am broken.”

“It looks like nothing is broken. You might have a slight crack in your clavicle and some serious whiplash and bruises… but nothing major. Small miracle.”

“Are you sure? I feel like everything is broken.”

“I do not doubt there is a lot of pain but I do not see anything major. Here, let me help.” In response to Aria’s word, the pain reduces greatly.

“How?” I murmur as I finally feel like sitting up.

“I am restricting the amount of information you are receiving from Tucker’s pain receptors,” Aria explains. “Not strictly promoted but not illegal. Be careful. Pain exists for a reason. Just because you cannot feel as much pain, do not forget that Tucker’s body is damaged. Do not overdo it.”

“Tell that to him,” I struggle to my feet and look up. My attacker is already on his feet and swiftly approaching me on foot. This interloper did not fall as far. He clearly is not as hurt.

I make to step towards my foe but am stopped.

I look around and see my glider tangled in a tree. I then look down at myself. I am covered in cuts and gasoline. Broken pieces of my motor litter the ground higgledy-piggledy. I try to piece together what happened. He cut my glider. I fell but I did not fall. He must have gotten caught on my glider. We spiraled downward, slowed down by his encumbered but intact glider. I hit the tree. I’m guessing that spun me around and slowed me down. I guess he probably freed himself from me and tried to pull up, but it was too late.

I quickly lose the paramotor remnants from my back and stumble toward my aggressor. The other man is limping. Good. Do not want you too unscathed. I draw my disguised pistol and snap it into shape.

“Freeze!” I command, gun pointed at the interloper’s chest. “By the power vested in me by Chronex, halt and give yourself up!”

The interloper ignores me.

“I said stop!” I fire a warning shot at the interloper’s feet.

“Ha,” the interloper laughs but does slow to a stop. Panting, he rebuts, “What now? I know you only carry one round guns.”

So he knew more about the agency than I realized. Does he know everything? “Do you know why?”

“Because you do not want to kill an innocent who happens to be possessed by someone else?” the interloper mocks.

Good. You don’t know everything. “No. Because one is all we need.” I smile and step to the side. I pull the trigger a second time. The bullet rewinds. It flies back into the air and hurtles toward the gun. Nothing stops the bullet’s path as it cuts through the interloper’s shin. The gun kicks back as the bullet returns to the barrel with a kachink.

The interloper stumbles and shouts. The man grasps where the bullet grazed him. “Clever,” he snarls through gritted teeth. “You could do so much good with your power. Instead, you act as tyrants!”

The interloper punctuates his shout with a lunge. I uselessly fire another warning shot. Both men know that I will not risk killing an innocent, even if someone else is in their body.

I pivot and avoid most of the blow. I squeeze the trigger again as the gun is knocked from my hands. The bullet rewinds and returns to its gun. The knockback without anyone holding the gun sends it flying twenty yards.

It is a grapple. Mindful of the cliff to one side, I try to throw him off. “You do not understand what you are doing. You could hurt the person you are controlling! You do not have the…” I reason with my opponent.

“Right? You do not have the right. Did you ask permission before traveling?” he objects. “Do you have consent?”

I start to retort but catch an elbow to the jaw. I can’t shake off this guy. I finally come to one last idea. I fall backward. I bend my knee and place a foot under the interloper’s gut. I roll backward and kick upward, carrying my opponent up and over me.

The interloper is caught off guard and thrown off the edge. Aria is watching and slows the world for me. In slow motion, I roll over onto my stomach and reach out with both hands. I catch the trespasser’s hand as he falls off the cliff. The weight drags me partially over the edge. Time around me returns to its usual pace. I lay on the ground, partially hanging off the edge as my opponent dangles from my grasp.

“You idiot!” I snarl as I try to wiggle back and pull the interloper up. “This person you are in is probably alive in your time. You are risking innocent lives!”

The interloper grunts. Holding onto my hands, he tries to climb up with his feet. “Don’t worry. My brother is long dead by now,” the interloper strains.

I pull hard, and the interloper climbs. After much effort, the interloper struggles back onto the edge. Both of us collapse to the ground, catching our breath. I slowly sit up and roll onto my hands and knees. I subtly slide my right hand over my watch.

The interloper matches my stance. We look into each other’s eyes for a second. Then, everything happens at once. The interloper lunges at me, fists drawn. I bring up my right hand and catch the one fist. My watch, hidden in my palm, latches around the interloper’s wrist. “Now!” I shout to the heavens.

“Got it!” Aria yells from the recesses of my brain.

I feel the sparks from the watch burn the inside of my hand. There is a loud crackling. The interloper’s second fist freezes an inch away from my face. The interloper’s eyes roll backward, he twitches, and falls to the ground unconscious.

“I’ve successfully blocked any temporal signal in his body,” Aria informs me. “Whoever he is, he has been forced out of that man’s body. If we are lucky, we might have even caused a surge on his end, potentially frying his equipment.”

“Will he be ok?” I ask as I look upon the unconscious man.

“Yeah. I mean, I do not know about his injuries from your crash. As for being possessed by another from the future, I think he should be fine. I doubt he will remember anything from today, however.”

I bend down and search the man’s pockets. I pull out a wallet and look for identification. “Ethan Cohen. Born in 1980. Tell me what you can about him and his family.” I pause long enough to return the wallet and take my watch back. “There is still a bomb out there. Somewhere.”

I scramble and look around. I need to get back in the air. My own paramotor and glider are useless. Completely shattered. I look in the distance and see Ethan’s paramotor lying on the ground where the interloper crashed. I jog to it. A quick check reveals everything looks fine. Just some cosmetic damage. I quickly equip Ethan’s paramotor. I bunch up the glider and stow it under my arm. I walk over to my own smashed paramotor and search the pockets. Tucker’s memories tell me where it is. I pull out a flare gun.

I return to the unconscious Ethan’s side and fire the flare into the air. “Sorry I cannot do more. I have to go.” I drop the flare gun to the ground and bend down. I remove my watch and return it to my wrist before walking away. I search for my gun. When I find it, I collapse it with a flick of the wrist and pocket it.

Letting Tucker’s skill guide me, I lay out my new glider and start the engine. I firmly grab the handles and dead sprint. I pull the brakes with all my strength and run as hard as I can towards the cliff. This is hard without any breeze. The glider bobs behind me but does not fill with wind. I guess I have to improvise. I close my eyes and run off the cliff edge. My stomach churns as I drop. For a second, I think this is the end. After all I have survived thus far, this is the end.

After a second-long drop, the glider catches air and bears me upward. I am back in the air, flying. The time on the ground cost me. Even the hot air balloons were in the distance. I will have to burn fuel by flying at full speed to catch up. Not only do I have to catch up, but figure out what I am catching up to. I am sure that the bomb has to be on a hot air balloon but which one?

“Ethan Cohen, born 1980, deceased 2003, age 23. It looks like he was a paratrooper, along with his brother, in the war in Iraq. His brother made it out. He did not,” Aria’s disembodied voice rings in the back of my head.

“Brother?” I ask.

“Aaron Cohen, three years younger than his brother, followed his brother and hero’s example. The two of them shared an obsession with the air.”

“Ok. That explains some things. Any participants in the race connected to the war in Iraq?” I inquire.

“Go to the balloon colored like the American flag. It has a bald eagle on it,” Aria shouts from the back of my head. Her voice sounds nervous and strained.

“On it.” I see the balloon. It is in the middle of the pack. It is not close but not far away. I fly towards my target. I channel Tucker’s skill to go as fast as possible. Every second is a reminder that a life hangs in the balance. The bomb can go off at any time.

I am finally caught up with the balloons. I weave in between them, giving them the 30 feet minimum distance that a foreign memory tells me. I ignore shouts of protest as I fly closer to some balloons than their pilots like. My red, white, and blue target draws near. Before I can figure out how I am supposed to check for a bomb while in the air, my engine dies.

No! No! No! I panic. Out of gas! I am dead in the air. I am still gaining on the balloon but I know soon, it will get farther away. Momentum can take me only so far. What do I do? The balloon edges closer, slows, and starts pulling away.

“No!” I cry.

“Isa…” Aira shouts.

“I know. I know!” I interrupt.

Desperation births inspiration. I remove my watch. I thumb a button and the watch band stiffens. In a final act of desperation, I fling my watch at the balloon. It spins through the air and strikes the balloon’s basket. The watch bands snap and latch onto the side. As I drift away, I call to Aria, “Hit it! Dead zone. No temporal signal gets through.”

“Ok,” Aria’s disembodied voice strains. A couple of sparks emit from the balloon. “Done. Do you really think that will work? What if there is a timer or something.”

“I think so. I think he wanted to trigger it himself. He wanted to do it himself. He had a detonator on him. If I’m right about my hunch, we are dealing with a very capable person who would have to do everything himself.”

“Really? You got that from a couple of lines in a fight?” Aria inquires.

“No, but that is all I can do. I have to rely on the idea. If he was willing to travel his conscience back, it means he wants to do this himself,” I continue. I have to rationalize. I must convince myself because I truly do not have any idea of what else I can do. “He wants the satisfaction of pressing the button. This is personal. If he was being honest about his brother and that wasn’t a lie to throw us off, then I do not think he would rely on a timer. I figure his backup is a button back in his time. When you created a temporal pulse back on the cliff, cutting him from his stolen body, I’m guessing you caused a surge on his end to block the equipment. Just to be sure, the second pulse coming from the watch will permanently prevent it from detonating.”

“I hope you are right.”

“Me too,” I sigh.

I keep using the brakes, trying to put as much distance between myself and the ground as possible. My mission is not finished yet. I still need to make it to the finish line and recover the bomb, my watch, and send them back to the present. I need to do a final sweep as well before I can return to my own time and body.

I sweep the rising landscape. There. I spot the hot air balloon that the interloper in Ethan Cohen’s body had jumped out of. Without a pilot or wind, it had drifted until it crashed to the earth. I angle to the left and circle the abandoned balloon. I gradually control my descent and land. Using Tucker’s skill, I try a running landing. The events of my mission catch up and my borrowed knees buckle.

I scramble in the dirt as I untangle myself from my glider. I pull in the parachute glider and roll it up. I unbuckle my equipment and drop it to the ground. It takes a lot of work to pull the balloon basket upright. The work is rewarding. Inside, I find the large device that the interloper used to identify me. I place it in a time bag for Aria to examine. With a spark and crack, the bag returns to my time. After a quick inspection of the basket, Tucker’s experience tells me that the balloon is still operable.

Many hours later, I arrive at the landing zone in Ethan’s balloon. It is not a smooth landing, but I keep the basket upright. First responders ambush me to check my wounds. I guess I should not be surprised. Tucker’s body is covered in cuts and bruises. I limp away and escape the medical officials. The setting sun casts a glare that smears the details of the other hot air balloons. Eventually, I see the red, white, and blue. I limp to the basket.

There. I reclaim my watch and search the basket. There. One of the sandbag anchors had a strangely rectangular shape inside. I quickly glance around for watchers before I open the sandbag and withdraw a paper towel roll-sized cylinder.

“Bingo. Bomb found. I’m sending it in,” I call. I seal the bomb in a temp bag and send it back to base with a shower of sparks.

“Ok. Filtering out your own, it looks like the area is clear of temporal radiation.”

I smile, “Good. Prepare for exchange.”

“Copy.”

A bloom of sparks and a temporal bag drops in front of me. I pick it up and see Tucker’s original watch inside. I switch my gadget-filled duplicate for the original. I drop my gear inside the bag. With a zip, crack, and poof of sparks, my gear returns to my time. I don Tucker's original watch and close my eyes.

“Bring me home,” I breathe.

The pain of Tucker’s body is replaced by the feeling of a hook in the back of my brain. Then I feel as if my brain is dragged out of the back of Tucker’s head. Intense darkness and popping ensue until it suddenly ceases.

I feel my own limbs. I look into the black void that is the inside of my helmet. I slowly sink to the ground as the tank empties. I feel the water retract in time. Aria’s hands unbuckle my helmet and remove it. Aria’s face is blurred in my vision. The breath mask is removed and fresh air touches my raw skin.

After five minutes of shuttered gasps, my vision and memories return. Aria looks tired with bagged eyes, frizzy hair, and coffee breath. I look up and see the mission timer on the wall. Twenty-one hours, thirty-six minutes, and 12 seconds. What was only eight hours in the past was much longer in the present. Apparently, she has spent nearly a day manning the stations, doing whatever I needed, seemingly only pausing to make coffee or get an energy drink. I know she can basically pause and walk away anytime she wants like a video game or movie. She could go to bed and come back. I know Aria too well, however. She is not going to rest while I am in danger.

“I love you,” I breathe as I hold my fiancée close, feeling her warmth. She is the reason I am alive. She granted me the necessary knowledge and time I needed to survive. Our first mission was nothing like I imagined. At best, I expected a boring journey through time to stop pranksters from teleporting cell phones and modern artifacts into the past. At worst, I expected exciting hunts and puzzles. I never imagined I would fall from the sky after losing a fight and chasing bombs. In short, I always expected to be in control and to have the advantage.

---

“So Agent, what do you make of your interloper?” It is the seventh and final day of my allotted mission time. My director, Jason Lamberson, is on my television. I have moved our base’s TV to the conference table. The soundproof curtains are lowered and I am giving my mission report to my superior.

“Aria did the research and we think we have a name, motive, and epoch.” I open my copy of the same folder that my virtual guest holds. “The target of the attempted bombing, Henry McGill. A Nevada politician who makes it big. He leaves his elected office and becomes a big force in the Bush campaign. Bush gets elected and McGill gets in tight with DC bigwigs from both parties. Perfect arrangement. He gets rich and powerful trading information and making deals for politicians. All the power, none of the public polls or voter approval to worry about.

Then, 9/11 happens. Everyone connected to the administration is reeling. They’ve been punched in the jaw and needed to prove they were still the biggest bully in the playground. Furthermore, Saddam Hussein has long been a pain in the administration’s back. So McGill gets an idea. Punch Hussein back, harder than they were punched. Was Iraq behind or affiliated with 9/11? Does not matter. They look similar and the West is terrified of any threat from the East. So spin the myth of weapons of mass destruction and then you have your punching bag. The opportunity to replace an influential leader in the Middle East with a puppet, bring partisans together over a common enemy, give a show of force to prove they’re still the baddest in the yard, create a chaotic situation in which people will grow more dependent on him, and a war would mean an increase of weapon sales. Conveniently, McGill had just bought large stocks in most of the major companies with which the military had contracts. Five birds with one stone.

McGill does his thing. He puts the idea in all the important people’s ears. Eventually, he even has Bush and Blair on his side. Unfortunately, the war in Iraq does not go to plan. We destabilize the country, allowing Al-Qaeda to get a foothold there. The war drags on longer than expected. A lot of people die.

One of these people is a paratrooper by the name of Ethan Cohen. Immediately following 9/11, Ethan and his brother Aaron enlist. With their experience in the air, they make the ideal candidates for a paratrooper division. Seeing how long it had been since aerial divisions had been used, this made them great additions. Only one problem, Ethan dies in action. Aaron survives. He has a couple of breakdowns, the second of which gets him honorably discharged in 2005. Fast forward to 2017, he disappears. Can’t find him. No trace, physical or digital. Some evidence, as you can see in your folder, suggests Russia while some suggests Switzerland. Of course, we know 2016 is around when both of those countries make several discoveries regarding the possibility of time travel. So, which one? Who knows.

Based on our conversations during our physical altercation on the cliff, which you already read, I believe the interloper to be one Aaron Cohen. Somehow he knows of us, Chronex. Leaving facts and drifting into speculation, my team suspects Cohen wants to save his brother and brothers-in-arms from the war. Bush, Blair, or someone of that caliber would be too obvious of a target. Obviously the agency would be watching a president and prime minister or any of their cabinet for temporal activity. McGill, Cohen probably believed, would be small enough to not attract Chronex’s attention while still preventing the war.”

I finish my point and look into the face on the TV screen. After a long pause, Lamberson responds, “So you are dealing with a contemporary. Someone from your epoch is traveling in time, attempting terrorist attacks. An enemy who can travel through time without damaging his host is more serious of a threat than the agency anticipated. We will have to deliberate. This is serious. For the time being, your chief objective, in between missions, is to research this Aaron Cohen. I am issuing you and your team to carry agency timepieces and firearms at all times. Be observant. We, you have an enemy present in your time.”

After the meeting, I roll up and return the soundproof curtains to the ceiling. Aria starts toward me when she is stopped by a buzzer and a light above the delivery bin. She opens it to find not a new mission briefing, but a new timepiece and weapon for both of us. Aria hands me mine. I look at my new gadget-filled watch. An Omega Seamaster.

I should smile. Instead, I pause and gaze into the watch. The hand ticks on. I don’t track how many ticks pass. Since returning to my time, the adrenaline has faded, replaced by a relentless anxiety. New doubts and fears merge with the old. Feelings of inadequacy and fears about my father now churn with fresh uncertainties. Aaron’s words echo in my mind:

Am I doing the right thing? Was my father on the wrong side? Am I?

Aria interrupts my brooding with a gentle tug on my arm. She guides me to a mirror as I absently fasten the watch around my wrist. I look at our reflection, and for the first time in days, the anxiety lifts. I exhale, realizing how long I’ve been holding my breath.

I watch Aria’s reflection as she straightens my tie and collar. “Are we doing the right thing?” The question feels like releasing an invisible weight.

“No,” Aria responds without looking up. “Doing the right thing would have been taking me out on our actual anniversary, not days later.”

“I am sorry.”

Aria, caught off guard by my tone, looks up at my face. “Of course we are.”

“How can you know?” I immediately ask.

“Because I trust you.” She buttons my coat and turns to face the mirror. “Come now, Mr. Bond. You owe me a dinner.”

As I look at us together, reflected in the mirror, my lips crack into a small smile. I trust her too.