Quantum Poppers (28 page)

‘Get John out
of here. Get the twin back to his room. I’ll speak to him later.’

He reached the
door which had closed shut.

‘What is it?’
called Max once more. Bartley opened the door and paused momentarily to look
back at the room. For a moment John thought he may burst into tears as his eye
landed on each individual in turn.

‘We could be in
big trouble. I think Tony’s going to try and bring Emma back.’

And with that
he slammed the door. His footfalls could be heard as they increased in pace.

‘Who’s Emma?’
asked the twin in the most casual voice John had heard him yet use.

4040.13

First thing
tomorrow I will attempt connection to a wormhole of which I haven’t created. As
theorised, I believe the background interference recorded by The Device is
additional, most likely natural, wormholes not of my creation. I intend to lock
onto one of these and see where and when it takes me.

4041.01

It’s now eight
hours since I wrote the above. I am hesitant to proceed, but that’s what I must
do. The Device has opened up some almost never ending questions, dwarfing the
answers I was hoping to initially find.

Separating the
wormholes was a delicate process at first. Like trying to catch a single fish
in a barrel swarming with thousands. At first nothing caught, but then after
practice and fine-tuning, being able to lock on to one was possible. The art
turned out to be recognising a target, reaching in, and grabbing that
particular reading in one foul swoop. Much more difficult than it sounds. But
with practice, plus an inordinate amount of power that I don't think the
facilitators will be able to turn a blind eye to, I managed it. Not only were
destinations opening, but closing, seemingly at random. I then discovered this
not to be the case - they were closing the amount of time for which they had
been initiated. As I registered existing wormholes already open so too new ones
appeared. One for instance would register six minutes in the past, only to
vanish (annihilate?) six minutes later. Quite what happens to any subjects that
might have gone through I dread to think. Like a musician awaiting a beat, I
finally managed to:

a) register a
newly created wormhole (destination)

b) lock on and
convert with The Device

c) send myself
back to its creation point

This sent me
back both in time and once again in space.

I found myself
in a wide-open area. At first the jump was disorientating. Going from the
enclosure of my lab to the open space of a desolate green field brought on an
agoraphobia I wouldn’t wish on anybody. The sun, reflected off the green grass,
was headache inducing to the extreme. I had to shield my vision to allow my
eyes to accustom to their new surroundings. It was when my eyes were closed
that sounds began to register. Mostly of a sweeping breeze and the affectionate
shrieking of children at play. That’s what I hoped as I lowered my hands, and
not the frightened screams of children who had just witnessed the
materialisation of myself within their midst.

I was in a
park. As I focused, the seemingly unending boundaries of fences and houses
faded in around me. Random bushes of thorns scattered the largely unscathed
greenery and two separate games of football were in action, totalling a dozen
players, jumpers and bikes used for goalposts. A further fenced off area housed
slides and swings which were frequented by young children being mollycoddled by
overburdening parents. The only reaction my appearance appeared to instigate
was a dog which barked in my direction before being yanked back by an owner who
didn't give me a second glance. This was probably how the scene played out on
any sunny school-free afternoon. Kids embracing a rare freedom and adults
indulging them in pastimes I’m sure they secretly wished they could partake.

I took all of
this in before I noticed the one solitary child standing only yards away. His
back was turned to me, and his shoulders were shaking. I didn’t need to hear
his rising sobs to know he was freely letting violent tears flow.

At this point,
you must remember, I had just appeared on a strand, naturally created. I had no
idea whether any subjects had joined me from the quantum plain. I had joined
this strand thirty seconds after its creation. What I discovered next is a
revelation, an unexpected side effect which could significantly alter the
findings and future of all my research. Another person had jumped back.

I had to act
quickly. If my calculations were correct we had at most five minutes remaining
before this strand collapsed and we were both sent back to replace our plain
shadows (again, I didn’t realise this at the time, but looking back now,
knowing who this child is, speed was of the essence). I circled him in order to
be in front, went to speak, and noticed panic in his eyes. He was lost, but not
in a geographical sense.

‘What’s the
matter son?’ I asked, maintaining a calm I wasn’t sure would last.

‘My brother, I
want my brother.’ It turned out this boy, no more than eight, had been walking
through the park ten minutes ago to meet his brother who was waiting on the
other side when, bang, he had jumped back to this past, where he had been six
minutes previous. He spouted this out with no pause or concern for the way it
sounded. He stated it as fact, he had experienced a physical jump but with no
form of reference of time was unaware he was currently six minutes in the past,
behind his brother and behind a temporal representation of himself.

‘It's ok,’ I
attempted to reassure him. ‘I’m here to help.’ A heroic quality welled in me.

‘I want my
brother. I want to go home.’

‘Don’t worry,
you’ll return shortly.’ My desire to hound and question the boy subsided and I
knew my duty was to do as he asked - offer safe passage home. If we managed to
make it home without incident (destroying the universe) then my questions could
wait. ‘Do you live around here son?’

'Yes, the other
side of Maple Drive, behind Boxtons.’

‘And is that a
person or place?’

‘He’s both,' he
said, with a look which told me this was something obvious I should know. He
had stopped crying and my attempt at reassuring conversation had calmed him;
allowed him to accept that whatever may have happened, he was safe, and in a
familiar place.

‘And what’s
your name?’ I asked, aware of our time on this strand shortening – weakening.
‘Billy, Billy Robinson.’

‘Well, Billy. I
can assure you, in about one minute you’ll be back where you belong. I’m not
going to lie to you, there will be more questions, more confusion, but if you
like, perhaps we can answer these questions together.’

He continued to
look lost, unsure whether what I was saying was a comfort or not. But it was
true; when this strand finally broke he would be whisked away to wherever his
shadow on the plain had taken him – there, confusion and fear would reign. I
would offer help and guidance once tracked down. For both professional and
personal reasons I’ll be returning there tomorrow, looking for Boxtons near a
Maple Drive, and our friend Billy Robinson.

‘What do you
mean,’ he asked, ‘more confusion to come?’

‘I’m afraid so,
but I’ll find you, and help if I can.’ For some reason this genuinely calmed
him. I believe the intrigue of the situation outweighed the fear in his young
inquisitive mind.

‘In my class
there are two Billy Robinsons.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, he lives
on Royster Street, so he gets called Royster Robinson.’

‘And where do
you live?’

‘Bartley Road.’

There was no
warning. No mounting cry. No rising magnitude of saturation or degradation to
our surroundings. Just a sudden white light into which everything fell before
we were both yanked back to ourselves on the plain. Me to my lab and my new
friend Billy back to his own self (I hope). I will track him down, perhaps we
could help each other out.

Billy Robinson.
To his friends, Bartley.

4202.3

Well that could
have gone better. I’m sure Bartley will turn out to be no problem; after all he
is a child, why wouldn’t he be? As expected, the parents will be a little
harder to convince.

The drive to
Saltspear took an hour. It would appear that a lot of the signals I am decoding
are a little more local - it would be interesting to see with further tests how
widespread this phenomena is. Global? I see no reason why it shouldn’t.

Bartley Road
was a quaint cul-de-sac tucked behind the largest hardware store I have ever
seen. Boxtons (both a man and a place) appeared close to collapse, yet the car
park was heaving. Never judge a book by its cover they say, or a hardware store
by its frontage.

Thankfully,
with the road being small, it didn’t take long to find my destination. The
first house I knocked at pointed me in the right direction. I won’t lie, it was
a hesitant indication. I was a stranger walking the streets asking for the
family name of Robinson. I could have been anyone (I was), but with a hesitant
wave I was shown the way to number nineteen Bartley Road. A terraced house
with, from what I could see from the front (and confirmed once viewed through
the barrel of the interior), barely a garden; no wonder Bartley had been down
the park when I found him. Children need room to play.

It was the
boy’s father who answered - around forty, only a little older than myself. I
had no idea what to say. How could I introduce myself? ‘Good morning Mr. Robinson.
My name is Dixon, I am an amateur time traveler who has come to have a chat
with your son. We met when he was stuck in the past and I would like to help
him if I can.’

I froze, even
now, after hours of thinking it over, I still don’t know what I could say.
Perhaps it would have been different if Bartley himself had answered, but these
things aren’t always meant to be. With a defeated shrug I apologised, told him
I had the wrong house, and returned to my lab. Thankfully, confirmation of
young Bartley’s continued existence was confirmed. I had sighted him towards
the back of the house over his father’s shoulder. I believe he spotted me.

Bartley, if you
are reading this, I wish I had contacted you sooner.

4385.4

It is now four
years almost to the day since I attempted to visit Bartley, but after weeks of
agonising I’m not too sure who I can trust. He would be a teenager, but part of
me thinks that will make things easier. I’m not going to make him a full time
partner yet, but I need to discuss this with someone. Someone who understands.
Someone who won’t flee at my deranged ramblings. Perhaps I’ll show him the bulk
of this journal so far. Or perhaps, even I reading this back would find it the
ramblings of a mad man. At least I have the truth of what I have seen with my
own eyes, and so too does Bartley.

This all comes
down to the sheer volume of people I am now registering unwittingly opening up
wormholes to the past and unknowingly (and surely in some case knowingly)
jumping back and forward in time. It could be my imagination but I am convinced
the disruptions are becoming more prevalent. Is this my fault? I don’t see how
it could be, but one thing is for definite: all these people jumping is a
recipe for disaster. With the volumes now jumping back and forward, there is
too great a chance even for two to land on the same strand, and then the
universe is doomed. With the increased possibility of simultaneous connection
on a global scale I see no other possibility but global annihilation with this
continual anti-matter and matter connection. It is simple science, the temporal
plain will not be able to support it.

I therefore
will make it my outright duty to do what I can to help mother earth. I will
devote my findings into retrieving as many people back from the past as
possible. I will make it my lifetime’s mission to preserve life, allay to the
best of my abilities the possibility of paradox. My studies into a newer and
portable Device (note: The Device itself will never be portable, but some kind
of portable extension) is close to fruition. Yet money is an issue. The
university will not fund me for much longer. Why don’t I just tell them? I
simply don’t know who to trust. If I am going to begin retrieving people stuck
in a past to allay possibility of paradox, then the more people who know about
this the greater increase there is of paradox. If this notion got out I dread
to contemplate the consequences globally. I don’t think society would cope.

That sounds
extremely egotistical of me; what I mean is, until I decide who to open this up
to from a mass marketing point of view (it will have to be governmental,
wouldn’t surprise me if there are already a collection of hidden departments
within that we are never told about) I need to talk to someone - set free my thoughts,
my fears, and let’s not forget the excitement of all this. My experiments were
never meant to lead me or anyone to fear. At least Bartley has witnessed with
his own eyes. I will track him down once more, I will tell him everything.