The Year 2290 - pt. 1

It's Sunday, so no classes are going on at the university. No people around, didn’t even see anyone near the dormitories. Haven’t seen any bots either. Empty campus, empty halls, just me and Ezri – since Ace stayed behind to be the lookout – in the College of Physical Sciences department of the school. Which means, I can freely kick and scream like a child without fear of getting caught.

“For crying out loud, blondie, stop being a brat!” Ezri scolds me as she tries to pull me away by the legs. My arms are around a pillar in the room.

“You are not sticking me through a time portal!”

It's been a struggle for the past 30 minutes.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you!”

“You’re probably trying to bring me to the future!” I attempt to jerk away my legs, yet fail.

“That’s it, we’re doing this the hard way,” she says angrily as she goes to pry my arms from the pillar. Despite my resistance, she succeeds, then promptly snatches me off the floor and over her shoulder, my lighter frame compared to her stronger one making it easy work for her.

“No, no! Put me down!”

“Shut up!”

The elevator ahead leads down to the basement, aka Professor Katz and his team’s famous research laboratory. Ezri blasts the keypad off its hinges with her gun, and the elevator opens. Takes a few minutes for us to travel downward, but it eventually dings, and we arrive at the lab.

It's ginormous, and loaded with machinery, some of which almost reach the high ceiling. Charts with complex mathematical equations and diagrams of molecules are placed sporadically along the walls and as stands on the floor. Beyond disorganized, a perfect reflection of the professor’s mind. The desks, curved and positioned in a circle around the lab, are stacked with papers, laden with microscopes and test tubes, and each have a large computer.

In the very back of the lab sits the star of the show – the Racer. Looks just like the one at the Convention, a giant ring encased with metal. I can imagine Professor Katz now, beaming with pride while boasting about the “amazingness” of his invention. Speaking of, that reminds me…

“What did you say to Katz at the Convention?” I ask in an annoyed mumble, still hanging over Ezri’s shoulder. “It was on the podium. You whispered something, and he looked scared.”

“I told him that I knew about his involvement with the golems,” she says, setting me on the floor. “He got paid a big check to give them the forms you saw at the Boundary and the Corvid.”

My hands clench at the news. “And you’re telling the truth?”

“You already know that Katz is responsible for arming the golems. Coincidence? No.”

At this point, who do I trust? The IPU has been keeping secrets, but is the Liberation that much better? Potentially less deceitful, but still, they’re killers. Besides, the thought of putting Ezri is any positive light makes my skin crawl.

Ezri presses the same button Katz did, the one in the middle. I go to run, but she grabs me by the hood and jolts me back. Electricity emerges like streaks of lightning from the ring, and when they meet in the center, there’s the pulsating orb again. Just like the night I first saw it, the orb grows and grows, and then the blinding flash of light – what results is a view like outer space. The Racer has been activated.

“They may look the same, but this prototype is different,” she says as she walks to the panel, still pulling me along. “This one can only go to the past, and double the limit of 12 years,” she taps some buttons and switches a few levers, the image in the Racer starting to change. “Has all the protections needed to keep us as observers, as well.”

No longer blackness, what we see in the Racer is, to my surprise, the outside of the Rosenwald Orphanage. But it’s not a wreck, it’s whole and in good condition – before the fire. The year shown on the panel is 2290.

Without saying a word, Ezri drags me into the portal. My head whirls, but I don’t lose balance. I’m suddenly bombarded with visions, but I recognize them. I saw these same things 10 years ago, and for a moment, it’s as if I’m a child again. Only for a moment, then my mind snaps back to reality – the portal behind me, and Ezri leading me onward.

“When we pass through time, it has to adjust,” Ezri says. “Time gets confused, almost – the same person is present, yet somehow in two bodies. So, to account, you’re essentially ‘combined’ with, in this case, your past self. Your memories of ten years ago are a lot clearer now, aren’t they?”

She’s right. I remember things as if they’re currently happening. I’m running in the playground, chasing after a squirrel – the squirrel runs up a tree, and I pout. Mom calls me from the picnic blanket, telling me to come and eat lunch. Dad’s busy again, it makes me sad.

“Is this what you see, Ezri? Everything your past self does?” I ask in wonderment.

“It is.”

I try to recall exactly what 8-year-old me is going to do next, but I can’t. My actions are only seen as they occur, leaving me no way of knowing what will go on in even the next 5 seconds – unless it’s something I actually remember without the effects of time travel, of course.

“Come,” Ezri says.

There’s a banner over the orphanage’s entrance gate that says, “Annual Charity Event.” Kids are playing outside, and orphanage workers socialize with prospective parents, some of whom drop money in a jar. This year’s activity is a mini-golf tournament, based on the golf course set in the yard with a cartoony “monster land” theme, and droids dressed as referees.

“You brought me all the way here to see orphans?”

“One orphan, in particular.”

We head through the gate, completely unseen. I even brush against someone by accident, but they don’t react. We really are undetectable, but I can still feel things – the hot summer heat, in contrast with the coolness that greets us when we pass the building’s threshold. Most people seem to be outside, but there’s talking down the hall – an old woman and a child.

Stopping at the doorway, Ezri insists we eavesdrop on their conversation. How nosey, but she still has me gripped by the hood, so I can’t refuse.

“You’ll need to be on your best behavior today, alright?” the woman says to the ruddy and freckled little kid.

“Yes, miss,” he says while chewing on a fingernail.

“I mean it, now. We know you’re a sweet boy who doesn’t mean any harm – but most folks won’t react well to some things you tend to say.”

“Even though it’s fun, miss?”

She clicks her tongue. “All fun and games ‘till you get yourself in trouble, young man. People aren’t very… Understandin’, these days,” she puts her hands on her hips, seeming troubled, but she smiles. “But I’m sure you’ll be good.”

The kid doesn’t return it. He just walks off outside, still chewing. Ezri makes us follow.

We sit on a bench, continuing to watch as the scene plays out – most notably, Ezri wants me to pay attention to the boy. He doesn’t interact as much with the other children, instead spending time by himself where there’s fewer distractions, and seems to be fascinated by one of the goofy monster figures in the course.

Still don’t know what’s so important about him.

At the gate, a limousine pulls up. Out steps the vice-president during 2990, Miss Scarlet Jones. Last time I heard of her, she was still traumatized. The charity attendees clap as she makes her way into the grounds, golems at her side. She waves and smiles, a confident air surrounding her.

Ezri’s eyes are locked on her.

Jones steps onto the short staircase leading up to the building, then a microphone is handed to her. Clearing her throat, she says, “Thank you all for coming. This year’s charity event is sponsored by the IPU, due to Rosenwald’s brilliant achievements in creating stable families across the Capital and outer territories, in numbers we’ve never seen,” she allows the onlookers to clap, her smile turning bigger. “Thus, they have greatly contributed to the harmony of this country.”

Ezri bumps my shoulder. “Look,” she says. While Jones goes on with her speech, the kid picks up the monster figure, tossing it over himself like it’s a costume. Cute. He strolls over to the front, somehow avoiding bumping into anything, and stops at the crowd.

“Oh, would you look at that, it’s a little monster!” One of the adults says.

The kid growls playfully, bringing out laughter.

“I guess we all need to be careful,” Jones says, still grinning.

The kid gets closer to the sound of her voice. In a pretend, “beast-like” voice, he snarls out, “I’m going to kill you.”

In that instant, the mood changes from lighthearted to uncomfortably alarmed. Everyone’s eyes are wide, some take a step back. The vice-president’s smile has turned into a frown, one that is both disturbed and offended. The golems jump into action, pulling the figure off the boy, so forcefully that it knocks him over.

I slowly stand up, watching as the situation escalates. “Malicious intent detected,” the golems say in unison.

The old woman who we saw inside rushes into the scene, her expression frantic. “Please, I apologize on his behalf! He was only trying to play around—”

“Is that what you call ‘playing around?’” Jones snaps. “The boy should know better. He meant it.”

“No, no, ma’am! You see, he’s… I know it’s quite uncommon nowadays, but he has autism, and—”

“What’s his name? Spit it out, now.”

The woman takes a big gulp. She looks at the boy nervously, her eyes full of sadness – but she turns to Jones, and holding back tears, she says,

“His name is Brandon Saski.”