Category: Fiction Factor

The minute Pace Patton saw Diedre Grace’s America Pass, he knew it was a forgery. A very good one, but a forgery nonetheless.

“Lemme see here … says you are Citizen Grace, number 59834, Atlantic Territory. Where are you headed?” he asked, pretending to carefully examine her ID.

“Looking for work, sir,” she said, adjusting her faded green backpack. “It’s mostly dried up here in Norfolk, so I figured I’d head further north. Saw you pull over and was hoping I could ride with you a ways.”

Patton’s jeep had official government markings on it, and an America Pass was required for any passenger.

“Sure thing. I’m headed up the coast, so if you see a place you want to stop, let me know and I’ll drop you off. Just call me Pace, by the way. No need for formalities.”

“Copy that. Call me Diedre.”

After several miles on the road, the rider/driver dynamic between Diedre and Pace began to evolve into something else entirely.

First there were the obligatory, “Where you from?” exchanges, followed by vague niceties about their personal histories. The more they talked, the more Pace believed he was riding with a kindred spirit.

Feeling confident that he knew what the sturdy-built hitchhiker was up to, Pace decided to test her.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Diedre replied.

“Why are you really traveling to the north?”

Diedre was puzzled … she thought the question had been asked and answered during earlier “car talk.”

“Like I said, just looking for work. Only so much I can do on what’s left of the port in Norfolk, so I’m moving on.”

Pace wasn’t buying it.

“You just sound like a woman on a mission,” he said. “And if you are on a mission, just what is it? Most people going this direction want to find out about the Philadelphia Freedoms, and as you know, the government frowns on that particular pursuit, especially after the Uprising of ’29.”

Named after the old World Team Tennis Team from the 1970s that inspired an Elton John song, the Philadelphia Freedoms were allegedly a group of revolutionaries headquartered in Pennsylvania. Rumored to be plotting to infiltrate and ultimately overtake the Imperial America regime, state media contended that the entire movement was weak and disorganized, and had already been quelled.

Diedre was taken aback: Pace was on to her, and that meant the situation could get volatile at any moment.

“My mission is to make money so I can eat. That’s the mission of a lot of people these days,” she said, slowly moving her hand to the right pocket where her mini stun gun was hidden.

Pace pretended not to notice.

“It’s just little things you’ve mentioned here and there make me think you have bigger plans. Then again, maybe you’re just running away from something. Is your home situation bad? Are you trying to get a divorce and the guy’s standing in the way? Are you in trouble with the law? Have you broken the Patriot Code? I just want to understand.”

Early on Diedre had to catch herself because she felt at ease talking to Pace. Now, however, she was on the defensive. He had spent the drive buttering her up, and was probably taking her to the nearest work camp. He was, after all, driving a government-issued vehicle.

She tried to remain calm, but made sure her hand was firmly on her weapon.

“Never married, no family to speak of, no debts owed, no ties to the Mob, not on any government watch list – unless you know something I don’t,” Diedre said, avoiding eye contact with Pace. “Like I said, I just need a job. Plus, I’ve never been up north before and now seems like the perfect time to visit, especially with the Border War still hot. How about you? Are you just out looking for bounty money?”

Pace toyed with the idea of immediately telling Diedre the truth, but thought better of it. He wondered how long it’d be before she tried to turn the tables on him.

“Just making the rounds … like a good American.”

The elephant in the room – or in the car – was the fact that a thousand dollar bounty was available for anyone who rounded up a suspected revolutionary and turned them in at a Patriot Code checkpoint.

With her fake America Pass – and her assumption that Pace was an official of Imperial America – Diedre was either trying to hijack his vehicle or take him hostage in hopes of gaining information.

So Pace eased off the road, came to a stop, and turned off the engine.

“Before you zap me with your stun gun – yes, I know you have a stun gun – you should probably know this isn’t my vehicle and I don’t work for the government,” Pace said. “Well, I’m in the government, but I’m working against it. They just don’t realize it yet. There are a whole lot more of us than you might think.”

He then raised the sleeve on his left arm to reveal a tattoo of Elton John banging on a piano.

Diedre smiled.

“Subtle,” she said.

Pace nodded.

“I hoped you’d notice. Now … what do I need to know to know that we’re working together?

“Release date of the song was February 28, 1975,” Diedre said. “It was written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin for Billie Jean King. Now your turn.”

“B-side was I Saw Here Standing There,” Pace replied. “It was a live performance with John Lennon.”

The pair breathed a sigh of relief and shook hands.

“By the way, Pace is an alias. But I imagine you already knew that. My real name’s Fess Douglass. And you?

“Tubman … Henrietta Tubman.”

Douglass cranked up the engine and steered back onto the road.

Philadelphia was still a couple of hours away.

Freedoms? Well, those would likely take a bit longer to get back.

The mural in front of the Dream World/Your World Institute was a feast for the eyes, a canvas of vibrant colors and various shapes. Stare at one part of it long enough and the imagery seemed to move, sometimes forming the shape of two people sharing an ice cream cone while snuggling on a bench, and other times simulating miniature dachshunds running through fields of green.

It was always different, depending on the eye of the beholder.

Located in what had once been an urgent care clinic, the DW/YWI had become something of a cultural phenomenon. Podcaster Snacker Burlington – who rose to fame claiming to have been abducted by aliens only to kill them, commandeer their spacecraft and fly back to earth – had been promoting the company on his program for several months. And why not?

After all, he owned it.

And according to the DW/YWI scientists he has hand-picked, clients are able to enter an ethereal plane that allows them to, quite literally, live a dream.

“Folks,” Burlington bellows to his millions of followers, “we at DW/YWI don’t just offer temporary relief from the struggles of daily life, but a life-changing adventure in a dream world of your own making. When you wake up, you’ll be a completely different person. And better yet, when you finally pass away and go to the Great Beyond, you’ll return to your dream state for eternity. Guaranteed.”

Burlington stressed to listeners that his highest calling was to get word out about DW/YWI through the Right Time Podcasting Network.

“I can’t wait to make my own dreams come true forever at DW/YWI,” he’d say. “But I feel I owe it to both my employer and you, my loyal patrons, to continue to speak truth for as long as my ratings remain high – and I remain healthy.”

Although one might think the cost of participating in such a project would be prohibitive, that wasn’t the case at all. To become a client, a person needed only to agree to appear in future promotional segments for the podcast and share testimonials about their experience “living the dream.” And based on those testimonials, the satisfaction rate was 100 percent.

Gully White – standing at the entrance of DW/YWI – had been ready to sign up from the moment he first heard about it.

A loyal fan of Burlington, he used to listen intently to earlier podcasts when the “Earl of Burl” shared startling revelations day after day. One of the biggest was that the state of California was merely a hologram and its 40 million residents didn’t actually exist. White believed everything he heard from the verbose host, so when he weighed the pros and cons of becoming a DW/YWI client, he didn’t hesitate; there was absolutely nothing to lose.

As soon as White opened the door to the facility, he was greeted by a smiling attendant adorned in a pale orange lab coat.

“You must be Mr. White,” said the small, ruddy-faced man, whose name tag read BRIDGES. “We’re so excited to have you here! Would you like a glass of water, or perhaps some hot tea?”

White declined, preferring to get straight to business.

“No, hoss, I just wanna fill out my paperwork and jump right in if I could,” White said. “I’ve settled on what dream I want to live and everything.”

Bridges led White to a small table that displayed the contracts required to become a part of the DW/YWI program. White didn’t bother to read over the details on the paperwork – he simply scribbled his name and began looking around.

“So, do you give me something to put me to sleep and then hook me up to some machine or something?” White asked the attendant. “I can already tell you what I want … blonde girlfriend, 36-24-36, two cars – one a Corvette and the other a Jaguar – a big mansion right on the ocean, maids and a butler. And 30 – no, 40 – billion dollars.”

The attendant grinned.

“Come this way, Mr. White.”

The two men walked to the back of the institute and came to a small, brightly-lit room. Inside was an exam table, stool and handwashing station with a small clear jar of green liquid.

“Have a seat, Mr. White.”

“Do I need to get undressed?”

“Oh, no, no … just have a seat.”

White sat down, and slapped his knees with his hands.

“OK,” he said. “I’m ready.”

Bridges grabbed the liquid, shook it vigorously, removed the lid and handed it to White.

“Drink up, Mr. White. I know it doesn’t look very inviting, but it has no taste at all.”

White knocked out the liquid in two gulps.

“I guess I’ll be getting sleepy pretty soon, huh?”

White took the empty jar and placed it back on the handwashing station.

“Actually Mr. White, you’ll be dead in, oh, about another 10 seconds.”

White’s eyes glazed over and he fell onto the floor. Bridges leaned down, placed his fingertips on the client’s neck, and no pulse was detected.

Bridges opened the door to the exam room and Burlington entered.

“Good work Bridges … that seemed easy enough.”

“It was, Commander. Truthfully, they’ve all been relatively easy. It was genius of you to assume the body of Burlington. They’re true believers, so they’re easy marks.”

Burlington picked up White and put him back on the exam table.

“This human worked at a hardware store, so let’s put a worker drone lifeforce in him,” Burlington said. “The company will get a better worker, and we’ll be a step closer to taking over the planet and building a new Enceladus. Oh, and let’s set up a testimonial for next week.”

Burlington turned to leave, and then chuckled.

“Hey, Bridges … it’s hard to believe how we’ve taken over in such a short amount of time, isn’t it?”

Bridges looked at White’s lifeless body.

“Not at all, sir. More than 15 million humans follow Burlington’s podcast religiously. If he says he can make all their dreams come true, they believe him.”

Reggie had just finished his final wind sprint of the day when he noticed a man pacing back and forth on the edge of the practice field. He looked familiar – extremely so – but the youngster wasn’t in the habit of talking to strangers.

Now 15, he had been taught to be wary of people he didn’t know, especially when he was alone. So, he took off his cleats, wiped his face with his towel, snatched the football off the ground and prepared to walk back to his house around the corner.

“Hey, Reggie,” said the man, giving a quick wave. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Reggie was wary but hardly scared; the man appeared to be in his mid- 60s and walked with a slight limp. Still, he ignored the hail and continued his journey.

“Reggie, please,” said the man. “You know who I am.”

This time the young athlete was compelled to approach the person. He wasn’t sure why … it just felt like there was no reason not to.

“Can I help you with something, sir?”

“Sir?” said the man. “Sir’s what we call our dad. It’s me, Reggie. I’m you … you 50 years from now.”

Reggie fixed his eyes on the man’s face and could tell that he did, indeed, look like a much older version of himself. He had a broad nasal bridge, oversized ears and a small mouth compared to the rest of his face. The resemblance was remarkable, as though his yearbook photo had been run through an online age changer program.

“What do you mean you’re me?”

“I’m from 2075,” said the man. “I’m part of the Chinese Academy of Sciences Time Travel Project … CASTP is what it’s more commonly known as. They created the first time travel wormhole in 2068 and they’ve been perfecting it ever since. I volunteered to be a part of it.”

Reggie shook his head.

“That’s a cool story, bro, but you should probably find your DeLorean and head back to the future. I need to get home.”

“Wait,” said the man. “I know you don’t believe me, but let me prove it to you. Last year, you asked Cindy Stackhouse to the fall dance. You really wanted to ask Marie Houser, but you knew your best friend Jacob – Jacob Simms – had a crush on her and had been talking about asking her since school started. Because of that, you backed off. You ended up double-dating at the dance and had a terrible time because you couldn’t stop thinking about Marie. And afterwards, when everybody wanted to go to Grace Marquette’s party afterwards, you pretended to get sick so you could go home. You just couldn’t stop thinking about Marie. And then when you walked into the house, Ferdinand, your cat – our cat  – had barfed in the hallway and you stepped in it.”

Reggie’s eyes widened. The man’s details were spot on.

“How … how do you know all that?” Reggie asked.

“Because I’m you, my dude. I lived it. We lived it. You’re gonna get home today and mom’s gonna have fresh oatmeal cookies for you because she always makes cookies on Wednesday. And she calls you ‘Regirito,’ which you kinda like unless she calls you that in front of your friends, then it embarrasses you.”

The man went on to describe events and thoughts that no one could possibly know, and Reggie was astonished at the accuracy of it all.

“This has got to be some kind of trick,” Reggie said. “I don’t know how you know all this stuff and it’s creepy, man. But there’s no such thing as time travel.”

The man sighed.

“There is and there isn’t. There wasn’t in 2025, but there was in 2068, which means – now – time travel has always existed. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

“Next Monday morning you plan to walk into Peabo Tolliver’s music store and tell him you’re quitting your guitar lessons so you can concentrate on football. Don’t do it. I know you don’t wanna hear this, but you’re gonna blow out your knee in the season opener against Markham High. And then you’re gonna end up having surgery, and you’ll blow out the same knee again your senior year. And it’s gonna be really, really bad. You’ll never play football again. Not in high school, not in college, and certainly not the NFL. But if you give it up now – and stick with guitar – maybe when you see me again, I won’t be limping. Maybe we’ll be talking about music.”

Reggie tried to speak but words wouldn’t come. Instead, all he could muster was a weird moan that seemed to grow longer – and louder.

“Regirito! Son! Wake up!”

Reggie opened his eyes and saw his mother hovering over him. He was soaked in sweat and felt his heart racing.

“Are you OK, buddy?” she asked. “I heard you moaning all the way in the kitchen. Must’ve been a heckuva nightmare.”

Reggie looked around his room and – after a few seconds –realized he was  awake.

“It was crazy, mom,” he said. “It was strange, but it seemed so real. I had time traveled back to warn myself about … it’s stupid.”

Reggie’s mom leaned over and gave him a kiss on top of his head.

“Well, you’ve had a lot on your mind,” she said. “Sometimes when you get stressed out you get nightmares. So, have you decided … you know, whether you’re gonna give up guitar?

Reggie smiled.

“You know, if it’s OK with you, I think I might just give up football,” he said. “I really like playing guitar. You can’t play football forever, but you can play guitar forever, right?”

“Very true kiddo … very true. And I’d rather you make hits than get hit. Anyway, your dad’s making pancakes. Why don’t you come down and get a stack.”

Reggie sat up in bed, stretched, and eyed the Stratocaster placed on the guitar stand. Even though the dream wasn’t real, it still offered good advice.

“Oh, by the way,” his mom said, leaning in the doorway of his bedroom, “there was a package on the steps this morning addressed to you. It’s from something called the Chinese Academy of Sciences. Any idea what that’s all about?”