Time Agency (2 page)

I remembered the brief instant I opened the briefcase. The briefcase held an important file, a file that would tell me exactly who I was and what I was doing here. I should have read it the moment I opened it. While a lot of my memory may be unclear, I was certain of one truth. The well-dressed man did not leave the briefcase by accident. He intended for me to read its contents. It was
my
picture on the file.

The well-dressed man was restrained in an interrogation room. Despite his obvious captivity, he looked immaculate. Every nail was crafted. Every hair had a place. Although his suit was standard agency issue, he wore it like it was the height of fashion. He knew the room quite well even though the walls were a void. There wasn’t a window, even a door. The only furnishings were a simple wooden table with two chairs. The table and chairs were his idea. He saw it in a movie once. When he was growing up, people would call him “Old Man” for enjoying archaic forms of entertainment like books and movies.

The well-dressed man was shackled to one of the chairs. The shackles were simply for show. He knew the cuffs couldn’t hold him, but so did his captor. The room with no door or windows would pose a problem but not an insurmountable one. The well-dressed man decided to wait. Maybe he could glean a little more information by playing it cool. His mentor would be proud of his choice not to act impulsively.

No one occupied the seat in front of him. His eyes wandered for a moment. He wasn’t surprised to find his mentor sitting in front of him when his eyes wandered back. She loved to put people on edge. Appearing during a lapse of attention put most people on edge, but the well-dressed man knew her tactics. She was a woman of indeterminate age, held power like a senator, charmed like a secretary, and wore the suit of a woman in power but was still feminine. She could be the well-dressed woman but didn’t fuss as much as him over appearance. The well-dressed man spent a lot of time on his appearance. To him, appearance was important. It was part of how the world perceived him. To her, appearance was a piece of a multifaceted human being.

“We both know the shackles are more for show, Jerry,” she said bluntly.

Jerry slid his hands out of the shackles. He rubbed them together. It was nice to be out. They began to chafe. “It didn't take you long to find me. You should think about being an agent.”

“Don’t joke,” she said. “What was in the briefcase?”

“My lunch.” He folded his arms.

She stared at him coolly. “Fugitive 07760 opened the case, but there was no data transfer.”

07760 needed to touch the file long enough to transfer the data. A lack of data transfer would be a setback. Jerry said nothing and did not show his disappointment on his face.

His mentor tilted her head and leaned forward. “07760 will never open it again because we have the briefcase.”

The briefcase appeared on the table in front of them. The well-dressed man betrayed his position by a tiny almost imperceptible shift on his face. She taught him well, but no matter how much training he received, sometimes his emotions betrayed him. Only his mentor would notice the betrayals, which is why she was doing the interrogation. But the game wasn’t lost. Jerry connected to the network in the room. Computer interface was easier to hide when the hardware transmitting the signals was in his body and interfacing directly with his brain. The network was firewalled, but he was skilled at hacking through firewalls. Jerry planned his escape, but first, he wanted more information.

Part of gathering information was reading the person who taught him to hide emotion. There was an emotion displayed on his mentor's face. He saw the slight shift in her demeanor. There was no way she would reveal herself accidentally. She must have crafted the emotional display. She wanted him to see it. Was that pride he detected? Was she even capable of pride? Jerry had more than enough pride for the both of them.

“How did you get the case?” Jerry asked calmly.

She looked him up and down. There was that slight change from a blank stare again. She may have been enjoying his interrogation. “We have our means.”

“So that means he’s received the information in the case, and it’s useless.”

“It's still locked.”

“Nanette. We know that’s not true.”

Using her first name upset her even though she was good at burying her emotions. She valued ranks over names. While she deserved every bit of her rank as mentor, he liked Nanette. Organizations like their agency in old movies used to have all sorts of complicated ranks, but as the technology was improved, the need for humans to take active roles decreased. There were three ranks: protégé, mentor, and supervisor. The ranking system dwindled from capital letters to lower case letters as people worked more like a team. Even though she was officially his mentor, their relationship was more like that of partners. Since Jerry wasn’t a last name type of person, he conversed with her without using names and used her first when he wanted to irritate her. Since she was in such good control of her emotions, her irritated face looked a lot like her deep in thought face. It was unrewarding pestering.

He reached out and attempted to open the briefcase. It was locked. A locked case meant the data was never transferred. It had a quantum lock that was tied to the quantum pattern of 07760, who could be the only person to open and close it. The quantum lock would dissipate after a data transfer. The well-dressed man didn’t believe 07760 would just abandon the case. The briefcase was the only clue the man had for his memories.

“Are you going to save us the time and tell us what’s in it?” she asked.

“Sorry, I forgot,” he said.

If she proceeded with the standard punishment, she would never get the information inside the briefcase. At least Jerry had some time. He waited for her to talk. He knew there was something more he could learn from her, but he couldn’t quite understand exactly what. The key involved understanding the emotion on her face. Without context, a furrowed brow could be love, hate, frustration, or any number of the myriad of human emotions. Because she was trained to bury her emotions, Jerry had to work extra hard to figure out what she was feeling. Her emotional state was critical to understanding how much information Jerry could glean from her.

He shared more than a professional relationship with her once. Not only was it an indiscretion, but an insult to the agency. He didn’t care as much about his job but didn’t pursue the relationship because he knew the job was important to her. She was skilled at distancing herself through professionalism, so she only validated his existence via achievement and study.  He worked hard and sometimes wondered how much of his hard work was for her. But as the years passed, he thought she didn’t care. The indiscretion was just a temporary lapse in hormonal control for her and unlocked a world for him.

So why did she care now? There was emotion on her face, in her body, and a part of her very being. But he could not place it. Maybe she was attempting to communicate non-verbally. Jerry also had a habit of wishful thinking. The problem with non-verbal communication was that it was perception based. Jerry’s “old man” movies taught him that the perception of emotion could change with a shift in music. He saw a movie about a shark, and the main character was terrified of the shark. Another filmmaker re-cut a preview of the movie to look like a buddy shark flick. The climax of the original film ended with the main character screaming in horror. The re-cut film turned the main character’s horror to love and admiration with a change in music. Nanette’s emotion could be taken in many ways. He decided to let it pass. She could be using their emotional history against him.

“Here is the footage from the security camera in the bookstore,” she said. The wall lit up, and it showed footage of 07760 attacking the clerk. There was something deadpan about 07760’s eyes. It was like he was on autopilot.

Jerry was surprised. He was certain he wiped 07760 of any programming.

His mentor indicated the case. “Tell us why he attacked that man,” she offered. “They will consider your cooperation and maybe even offer probation.”

Jerry’s control of the situation slipped away. 07760 attacking the clerk meant that the programming was more thorough than Jerry thought, or that Jerry had misplaced his trust. Either prospect was troubling. Jerry needed to get out. His escape options were very limited. Luckily enough, Jerry had been part of the design team for the new interrogation rooms. His mentor eliminated any backdoor exits or entrances to the interrogation room security Jerry left behind before locking him in. That didn’t stop Jerry from taking advantage of another co-worker’s design flaw. Jerry sent a command through a network hole he dug during their conversation. A backdoor into the security system opened an escape route.

Nanette blinked, and Jerry was no longer in the room. He appeared in front of a fruit stand at a grocery store. A fruit stand wasn't Jerry's first choice, but it was the best window available. Time travel was different than everybody thought. Science fiction writers from the past depicted time travel as this ability to appear anywhere in the world at any time. The reality was that time, like any other medium, was rock hard in places and almost liquid in others. The only way to travel back was to step through when the time barrier was liquid. The most liquid moment left Jerry at a fruit stand, and on cue, 07760 entered and spotted him. Jerry knew it was only a matter of minutes before Nanette tracked him down again. If she caught him, the agency would be more careful with his network access. Jerry needed a plan. He began to pick fruit.

I needed to find some answers, so I looked for a library or a school. A professor would know what to do. They always knew what to do. Why did I know that? Did I ever go to college? I thought I did, but it felt like another life. I felt as if I had intuition, but my memories were locked away. They were vague shapes and hazy images.

The city was surprisingly empty at night for being a major metropolis. If I were to guess, I’d probably be in New York or Chicago, but I really couldn’t tell. None of the streets looked familiar, and they seemed off from the normal sense of what a street should look like. Avenues and streets stretched out in front of me. I didn’t know what the local university would look like or where it would even be. So I may have been walking in circles, or maybe it was a straight line, and the streets were designed to keep a person going in circles.

The strange part about walking most of the night was that I did not feel tired or hungry. I ate most of the fruit that I had shoplifted from the store, not because I was hungry, but more because I was bored. By not having any money, I was forced to walk to every destination. I couldn’t take the subway. My body didn’t seem to mind. It felt great despite the lack of sleep or food. My awareness was much better than before. I didn’t feel drugged anymore. My brain perceived every sight, sound, and smell.

The city was really quiet at night. I occasionally heard the clank of high heels and dress shoes, none of which belonged to the well-dressed man. Sometimes I’d hear the crackle of neon lighting from a storefront or club. And very occasionally, a car would drive by. For a massive city, I would expect more noise. In fact, I haven't heard a siren since the bookstore. I would expect more police activity at night rather than a complete lack of it. I should be thankful that I was in a well-kept city, but the lack of filth and crime made me uncomfortable. It was like I was expecting a savage post-apocalyptic wasteland, but instead, I got block after gentrified block.

I imagined the professor I would meet at the college. He would invite me into his office, offer me a drink, and explain everything to me. After a while of chatting about life, philosophy, and art, he would tell me about a procedure for getting my memories back. I’d stick my head into some electrodes, and he would tell me it would hurt. The shock would burn, but I’d feel a rush of energy as all the memories would come flooding back to me. I’d find out that I was a secret agent, captured by the enemy, and had to take a memory-wiping pill. I barely escaped with my life. The well-dressed man was my contact in some shadowy organization.

None of my fantasy explained why the file in the briefcase had a picture of me in it, but I figured once my secret agent memory returned, I'd know how to contact the well-dressed man. Either way, I’d discover why I was here, where here was, and what I should be doing. I guess I could have asked another person about the location, but I didn’t want to know yet. I’d rather find out myself. Were secret agents stubborn? I guess they had to be.

I saw a sign that pointed toward a university. It wasn’t much help as far as figuring out what university because it simply said
university
with an arrow pointing to the right. Finally, I would have everything answered. I walked a couple of blocks and came to a big gate. I peered through the ornate iron gate to what looked like an old campus with a large square, and buildings that were constructed before my grandfather’s conception. The professor I sought surely must have a lab in the basement of this place. If only the campus were open, I could find the basement lab. It must have been later than I thought but still I wasn’t tired.

I sat down in front of the gate mulling over my next step. If I was a secret agent, then I could assume there was a reason why I was here, lacking memory. The sluggish haze I first felt yesterday was probably drugs wearing off in my system. A hospital would be open this late. I could have them test for drugs. That would at least let me know something, but a hospital seemed risky. I felt like I didn’t want to contact anyone official until I knew more about myself. There were other ways I could find out more information about my condition. If the memory loss were from a major surgery, then I would be heavily drugged. Surgery would mean a bandage.

I checked myself for bandages. I dug my fingers into my hair that was still well groomed, rubbed my chest and back, felt down my legs, and even checked my genitals. If a campus security guard arrested me for indecent exposure, maybe I would get inside the campus. Then I would use my secret agent skills to break myself out of campus security. Although, avoiding police or any security was probably in my best interest. I should have smelled from the lack of shower, but I couldn’t tell. The anxious sweat soaked into my clothes but didn’t leave an odor. I sniffed my armpits very deeply. There was no smell. I checked for stubble on my face. There was none. I should be way shabbier.

I was clean like the city. Why was I expecting filth? The city smelled fine. The air was crisp like when a breeze rolled in from the ocean. But it wasn’t natural. I was in a major city. There should have been a myriad of bad smells, but all I sensed were good ones: the fresh fruit of a grocer, baked bread of the café, and the sea breeze scent of the city. I didn’t smell car exhaust, oil, sewage, mold, rot, or filth. During my entire walk, I didn’t see a single piece of trash. There were dumpsters with waste, but even they were very tidy. They didn’t have a single speck on them. There should be a stain on the side of every dumpster: a rotting milk container spilled by a careless employee, a shattered booze bottle tossed at the dumpster carelessly, or urine from a man who couldn’t hold it. But there was nothing. The sidewalks were also perfect. There should be at least one piece of gum squished into a round black bump on the sidewalk.

That’s when I realized that I didn’t even see a single homeless person during the walk. Homeless people always lived in the cities. They survived on the refuse and charity of others. People in this city obviously lived a cushioned life. It was as if the grit of the city was stripped away, or perhaps it was like the homeless people of the city were stripped away.

I figured out one aspect about myself. I was a pessimist rather than an optimist. If I had been an optimist, the lack of homeless people and cleanliness of the city would make me think the city was a great place because they must take care of their citizens. But I was a pessimist because homeless people didn’t just stop existing. They had to go somewhere, and I imagined that wherever it was, I shouldn’t find out or at least not be discovered as a homeless person.

Maybe I wasn’t a secret agent, but a banker who angered the wrong people. The file in the briefcase could be my portfolio. They would leave me on the street with no money and a wiped memory. What choices would I have than to become homeless? And everyone knows what happens to homeless people. No, I needed to get some clothes before I began to look homeless. I may look fine now, but it would be only a matter of time before I started looking homeless. Maybe I was paranoid, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong with this city.