The Recruit

By Bob Liddil

The first time I saw the ad, I thought it was a joke. It read, “Time traveler wanted. Must be fit, quick-witted, and open minded.”

I chalked it up to some hoaxer trying to see if people really read “Help Wanted” in the classifieds, then tossed the paper and went off to get myself a Big Mac.

But the more I thought about it, the more the ad bugged me. Science fiction had been my life as a kid. One of my first and favorite authors was H.G. Wells, whose novel, “The Time Machine” fueled my childhood dreams. That, plus I needed a job.

I finished my burger, downed the rest of my coke and went looking for another paper.

I recognized the address the girl who answered the phone gave me. It was in a seedy part of town, filled with old warehouses and abandoned railroad spurs. It was populated in the daytime by winos and junkies. I wouldn’t even try to speculate what I’d find there at night, because no promise of job or cash would ever get me down there after dark. Fortunately, she said they would see me right away. I didn’t bother to go home to change clothes. I went straight over.

I was halfway through filling out the application form when a man walked into the interview room. He was uncommonly tall, dressed in black with a white shirt and black tie; a light skinned black man who could have been a double for Will Smith. He motioned for the cute girl sitting on the other side of the interview table to amscray, and then lowered himself into the chair in her place. I completed the form, while he just stared at me. He never cracked a smile or uttered a word. When I slid it across to him, he scanned it briefly and placed it back on the table.

“What brings you here, Mr. Wilson?” he addressed me formally in a rumbling, calculated tone.

I looked him in the eye and answered, “I’m looking for a job.”

“Not adventure? Not a chance to live out a childhood dream?”

“I’m broke and unemployed.” I said truthfully. “If it’s legal, and if I get paid, I’m into it.”

“There is some risk involved.” His tone, and his demeanor were unaltered. The words did not sound like understatement.

“Then the pay will be good, I imagine,” I responded.

“Come with me.” He rose and left the room without looking back to see if I followed, as if he expected that I would be right behind him. And I was.

Ever see the “gadget room” in a good Sci-fi movie? Blinking lights, computer consoles and that unmistakable hum of power everywhere creates an ambiance of scientific competence designed to lull you into thinking that the mad scientist knows exactly what he is doing, especially with all that gear feeding him information. Well the room I followed my new employer into was just the opposite. It was dusty, dank and decaying and smelled of dead rodents. And it was dark around the perimeter. Only the middle was lit – and what the light played down onto made me stop and rethink my reason for being there.

I saw a raised metal platform with visible rivets, on top of which seemed to be bolted a metal chair. There were leather straps positioned to restrain movement of arms, legs, chest and head. It looked like every picture I had ever seen of old fashioned execution devices from the 20^th century. It looked like an electric chair.

I stopped dead in my tracks, making a clicking noise with my shoes as I did. My escort stopped also, turned and said, “Mr. Wilson, if you do not wish to continue, I can escort you to the door.”

He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved something. “Just a quick signature on this non-disclosure agreement,” he added, “and a small check can send you on your way.”

I waved him off. “Tell me about this.” I said.

Now it’s not that I am gutsy or brave or even stupid. I just didn’t get an “I’m going to trick you into letting me electrocute you” vibe off the guy. He had my attention.

He chuckled. “You know, Mr. Wilson, you’re the first one who didn’t take the money and run.”

He turned and began walking again. I followed him up the stairs and onto the platform, where he fished out a small electronic device on a chain from his coat pocket and hung it around my neck. Then, he beckoned me to sit down, which I did.

“The straps are for your protection.” He said, as he began to fasten me in. “The first time is always the roughest for new recruits and we have found that this holds down the injury rate.”

My heart was pounding. I was fighting against panic. My best effort to maintain a calm outer appearance was not going well. Meanwhile, he was giving me instructions.

“Don’t hold your breath.” He was saying. “A bubble of air will surround you during your journey, so try to breathe normally.”

When at last he had me completely secured, he stepped away from the chair and depressed a stud on the device similar to mine that hung from his own neck. From above me came a mechanical humming sound as a glass bell lowered from the ceiling of the room. He must have read something in my eyes because he added, “Don’t worry. It’s all completely painless.”

The glass bell, secured by its own weight surrounded me completely. Any and all background noise was gone. It was as silent now, as death itself where I sat.

Suddenly, I heard a hissing sound from above. A plume of pressurized green gas jetted downward toward me. Every muscle in my body tensed rigidly and I involuntarily struggled against the bindings, but to no avail. Within ten seconds, I was enveloped.

“Don’t hold your breath.” His words came back to me. I relaxed completely and inhaled deeply, putting myself in his hands.

The chamber erupted in a multi-tongued bolt of lightning that cumulated in a white hot flash. I had just enough time for one more breath. Then, everything vanished.

My next sensation was one of no chair under me. Where I had been strapped, now I was not. Momentarily disoriented, I fell backward. Everything was black until I realized that I had tightly squeezed my eyes closed against the lightning. When I opened them, I found myself staring up into crystal, blue sky.

Nausea hit me like a medicine ball in the gut. I rolled up onto my knees and expelled the fast lunch I’d just spent my last five bucks on.

“God!” I groaned, spitting out the last of it, as I drew myself upward.

“You alright mister?” The voice came from behind me, was that of a kid and took me so completely by surprise that I jumped like a startled cat. I whirled around so fast that nausea overtook me again and I staggered, but did not fall.

Standing in front of me was a young boy, about 13 or so, dressed “rural” is the best way I can describe how I saw it at the time. Beyond him, a grassy hillside sloped downward for hundreds of yards, bordered perpendicularly by a railroad track.

“They’re coming.” The boy cried excitedly, in a thick southern accent. “They’re coming.” And he pointed.

From my vantage point, I could see up and down the tracks in both directions, and what I saw chilled me to the bone. Two trains on the same track bore down on each other from opposite directions. What’s more, I stood on the high outside perimeter of a crowd of thousands, sitting, standing, waiting or partying, more or less oblivious to the impending disaster.

I stood rooted to the spot as the crowd let off a huge cheer; standing as a body and waving as the two smoke-belching locomotives bore down on each other at an exponentially increasing rate. On a platform, no more than 40 yards from the tracks, a photographer stood waiting to record what could only be a train wreck.

He didn’t have to wait long. The two engines came together with a resounding crash, followed by a thunderous eruption of steam as one, maybe both the boilers exploded. Smoke and steam shot into the sky and spectators suddenly found themselves dodging falling debris.

I pushed the kid to the ground and dove after him as pieces of exploded steam engine whizzed by. I buried my face in the dirt and waited for something to hit me. But nothing did. Then everything went blank.

“You can get up now, Mr. Wilson.”

I didn’t completely comprehend the sudden silence that the voice broke because it was almost instantaneous. But I did recognize the voice. It was the familiar sound of my employer. I sucked in a deep breath and got to my feet.

The two of us were inside a large, well lighted, windowless room, devoid of furniture. The floor and walls, even the ceiling were padded.

“The train wreck happened in Crush, Texas, before the turn of the 20^th century.” He said. “It was a staged event. The boy whose life you saved grew up, married and fathered 6 kids.”

“And here?” I said.

“This is MIT, year 2430.” He answered. “You are in what we call the ‘catch room’.” All virgin travelers land here after their first jump. And their first jump is always to the train wreck.”

He held out his hand. “My name is Bob.” He said. “Let me show you around campus.”

It was a lot to take in all at once. But I figured whatever I would be facing from this point on, could only get better. Bob was already in the hallway outside the catch room when it hit me. The word “paradox” suddenly popped into my head from my days of reading sci-fi and I blurted, “What if I hadn’t knocked the kid to the ground?”

Bob just laughed. “That’s why we use that event to do the temporal ricochet to bring first-timers forward to now.” He said. “Standing up or flat on his face, he never gets a scratch.”

Reading the relief on my face, he added, “Welcome to the future, recruit.”

That was how my first day went as a time traveler.