the labor of destiny
TRANSCRIPT
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The Labor of Destiny
III
He pulled on the brass bar of the door only to find it was locked. That didnt stop
him from pushing back at it, however. To his left he found a revolving door where people
were moving through. He took one step towards it and another into the oncoming slot,
holding his breath upon entering. The pane in front of him stopped abruptly, causing him
to crash into his own reflection; the pale, brown suit he got from his grandfather, the sea
green eyes from his mother. He reached a strong arm out to shake the handle with little
luck. Separated by glass directly behind him was a small boy whose foot was jammed up
against the door. With the palm of his left hand, he smacked the window. A reddish
glaze shot across the boys cheeks as his foot jerked back. He finally released his breath
as he stepped outside to the sound of muffled clanging copper piercing the air.
It was noon. The large clock face at the opposite end of the station made that
clear. There was a deluge of bodies by the ticket window shoving and forcing itself into
any cracks that might exist within the mass. He sprinted past them on the right to a flight
of stairs, ascending the first couple steps calmly, but then bounding up the rest. On the
second floor, he paused and spun all around.
Where was she?
The side he was headed towards, further from the track entrances, held relatively
fewer people. The barrel-vaulted ceiling above him looked like a kind of manmade
beehive with the little white hexagons pressing against one other. He sprinted straight
across the shopping center on the second level to another flight of stairs, bringing him to
the upper floor.
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Jamie? he shouted.
The backside of a small caf in the middle of the white granite floor impeded his
line of sight. He ran around it, pushing out names of holy men and their mothers,
bargaining through the gaps of his tightly clamped rows of teeth.
Hatch? His name hit his ears.
He rounded the corner and saw a newspapers crossword page spread across a
table too small for its user. His red headed wife was eight months pregnant and looked
every second of it. As she bumped into the table as she stood, knocking the red pen to the
floor, but was grasped her husband tightly before she could feel self-conscious.
How are my girls? Hatch asked softly without a need for response. She smiled
at him and nodded and placed her hand on his shoulder and drew her finger across his
collar up to the ends of his black hair that were starting to show a bit of pepper gray
around his ears.
Whats going on, honey? You sounded so worried on the phone, she said as she
looked down and touched her stomach.
Nothing to worry about. Here, sit down. He pulled the chair out for her as they
both sat. You have everything you need, yes? He knew his words didnt express a
worry-free attitude. Jamie, do you have everything? he asked.
Yes. She nodded.
Excellent, Hatch said, Were going on a little trip, okay? The black door
stood out against the far white wall behind Jamie.
Alright. She paused. But wont you tell me whats going on?
I will as soon as were on the train. I promise, darling. Hatch stood to his feet.
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Why are you wearing your grandfathers suit? She looked at him with a squint.
Ill explain it all on the train. Itll make perfect sense. He backed away and
turned to leave, but was stopped by her plea.
Hatch? Her hands tightened around the edge of the table.
Im coming right back. Just need those tickets. He took a couple steps toward
the black door and stopped his thought process, coming back to Jamie at the table. As he
ran his hand through the side of her hair and kissed her on the forehead, she snuck a
crumbled up piece of newspaper into his front pocket. He spun around and jogged to the
opposite end of the floor. Before he reached the door, he withdrew, read, and placed the
secret message Jamie had written him back inside his jacket pocket.
Emma.
He pulled the black door open and started marching down the long dark tunnel
ahead. At the end of this long stretch was a tall linoleum-faced door. Behind that door
was a rectangular room where he had spent most of his life. The room was a laboratory
originally given to his father as part of an experimental research grant connected to Union
Station. Hatch worked with his father as a young man, in hopes of one day continuing the
very same research. He inherited the lab when his father passed away; it was the only
thing he inherited besides the gold watch on his wrist. The watch itself had always been
synched with the stations central clock when his father had worn it. Now, it was some
minutes slow, due to the watchs necessity to be wound and Hatchs consistent
forgetfulness.
The lone halogen light signified the midway point. He knew this walk well
enough, but had no time to casually stroll. Nathaniel Patterson was in the lab waiting for
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him. Hatch had, after all, just left him there. As his fathers assistant and old Oxford
college mate, Nate had always been a trustworthy friend. Now, Nate and he were meeting
to run possibly the most important experiment of their lives.
The door at the end of the hall had a wooden nameplate nailed to it. It read,
Hatchet George Whistler, Pioneer of Physics. His father had replaced his old plate with
the new one, and of course, always thought of himself clever for the latter half of what it
said. Hatch reached into his pants pocket, pulled out his key, and let himself into the
laboratory.
Nate had been pacing rectangular laps around the crowded room.
Hatchet! Nate said, What on earth took you so long? This thing could happen
at any moment! Nate paused. Ah. I see you got the suit.
Hatch looked down at himself. The suit had wrinkles in the knees and elbows
with pockets in more places than he thought necessary.
Do you have the tickets? he asked.
Nate skidded around the office and found the tickets in the drawer of Hatchs
fathers old desk. The mans hair, typically greased backward, gave off a silver luster as it
carelessly flopped side to side.
Here they are, but, Nate hesitated, what good will they do you back there?
Hatch had been staring at the covered object in the back of the room. He turned to
his friend and grabbed the tickets from him.
To know if its worked! I wouldnt want to come back and find myself in the
same situation, now would I? he replied as he stuffed the tickets into his inner coat
pocket.
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No. Of course not. Nate walked over to the covered object. Are you all ready,
then? Nate pulled on the corner of the cloth that had been covering the object. Not quite
the height of a telephone booth, a boxed machine appeared before the men. A titanium
lined skeleton split every glassy side panel into four quarter sections except for the front
door. The pristine shine of the metallic frame and transparent shell made their pupils
react instantly. Geometrically, it wasnt the prettiest of sights, square as it was. The
beauty was not visible from their point of view, however, but from the point of view it
offered them.
II
Years before, Hatchs father told his son about a particular theory he developed,
one that was rejected by his colleagues and other physicists. The theory held the
perspective of time as an eternally moving vehicle, one that dragged man along with it.
As father and son, they decided to test the validity of the theory, curious if it were, in fact,
possible to cut the chains that bound man to time. Their experimentation led them to the
creation they called the window; sadly, a creation that Hatchs father never lived to see.
The window allowed an individual to enter into it and journey freely through time, thus
becoming a watcher. The difference between a time traveler and a watcher is
uncomplicated; the time traveler interacts with history, the watcher does not.
It was six oclock that very morning that the invention was finally completed.
Hatch and Nate had been working through the night on a diet of energy bars and caffeine.
Hatch was determined to become the first watcher of time.
I think we just discovered time travel, Nate, Hatch remarked.
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You think we just did or we always have? Which one is it boy? Nate was a
believer in Hatchs fathers theory of time: The book of history had already been written.
I think we just did mate. Hatch said with a smirk. As the pioneer of physics,
Hatch always had a more aggressive view of time than his father, that is, he believed the
book of history allowed revisions and rewrites.
Im afraid we wont know until we test it. Nate looked from the corner of his
eye to Hatch. Hatch smiled back and opened the glass panel before him, took a seat
inside, slowly turning a black knob counter-clockwise that affected the time of his
destination.
Just a day in the future. We dont want to risk messing up the past, now do we?
Hatch said.
Promise me, Hatch. Promise youll still remain a watcher. If youre right about
the possibility of altering time, who knows what seam you could pull in the whole fabric
of the universe that would unravelwelleverything. Nates face drooped as he began
to pace the room again. The man had seen many more years than Hatch had, but Hatch
intended on changing that very soon.
Dont worry my friend. I dont plan on staying long, even if I do, you wouldnt
know it. Hatch smiled.
Before you go, Hatchet. May I tell you a story your father once told me?
If you must stop the first human being to irregularly traverse the span of time
itself, Hatch paused dramatically, I suppose.
You know your father, the great man that he was. The day he discovered how
time travel was possible, he told me this story: At the end of the golden age of
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cartography, there was a man chosen to explore and document the last remaining sect of
unmapped land in North America. Before he did so, he came to an understanding of what
his task truly meant. So he began to bring other cartographers to his view and ultimately,
to his cause: Leave the virgin land unmapped.
Nate stopped pacing and placed a foot upon a small stool in the room.
Those who believed that all land was under mans dominion, Nate continued,
did not see eye to eye with him. They understood his logic to be that once he had
finished mapping this area, cartographers would no longer be of any use. Imagine hearing
that there was one story left to be told, would anyone write it out?
Hatch began to tilt out of the machine as he sat on the edge of the bench inside the
machine.
They were not entirely right, however. He did not fear unemployment. Rather, he
cherished something about human nature that weve continually tried to give name to,
materialize, and conquer. You see, the cartographer believed that a map could no more
capture land than it could his own destiny. He lost faith in his own trade, and thus, did not
map it out.
And what happened to the land? Hatch asked, his upper body inclined outwards
towards Nate.
They got someone else to map it. It took them quite some time to map every
peak in that snowy mountain range. But it didnt matter, the cartographers point was
already made: What is a map but a singular, biased viewpoint?
Nate took a breath, as if to add an ending to his fathers story.
But now, Hatch, its like weve found a new world without closed doors. Well
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become historys great eyewitness to the stories that might have remained forever hidden!
With this machine, his job is yet unfinished in the infinitude of time, a task that is now
our own.
There was a stillness shared between the two for a brief moment before Hatch
broke the silence.
Well that is very interesting, my friend, Hatch tried to pick the conversation up,
But as you know, I havent gotten much sleep the pastoh, entire night, and Id really
like to just give this whole time travel thing a go, yeah?
Nate backed away as his eyes drooped downward.
Ah, Im just joking, old man, Hatch said walking up to his friend, Theres so
much possibility before us. And my father, my father was a great man, Nate. I know it.
This first trip, this is for him now. Hed be the one in this thing if he were still here.
Hatch stepped back into the machine and hit the switch to send him to the future.
The machine began to glow from within the glass panes and spilt light violently
throughout the room.
To Dad, Hatch said through the glass, And to a bright and glorious future.
Hatch became momentarily unbound to time. The experience was like that of
blinking without the ability to un-blink. It happened to him quickly, but for that moment,
he lost all bearings of self and surrounding, power and control. Then all at once, he
renewed his vows to time and rejoined it one day in the future. However, he did not come
into the room he had just left. In fact, there were neither ceilings, nor walls, nor any
rooms visible. Without leaving the machine, Hatch rose to his feet and peered out at the
proximate landscape, noticing that landscape was all that remained of Washington D.C..
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Any recognizable landmarks or monuments sat collected in large piles of concrete rubble
near where they once stood. Hatchs sight ventured to where the Capitol Building should
have been to the spot where his fathers desk was once also. He searched the nearby
ground with his eyes, looking for clues to what caused such a destructive event. The floor
around him was too dark to see clearly. It was then Hatch recognized the suns position,
not crumbling beneath the horizon, but cast-iron in the noon sky. Hatch fixed his eyes
closer to the ground. The darkness, he realized, was not a cast shadow upon the ground,
but one imprinted permanently upon it. Seeing this, Hatch slammed the switch on the
machine, releasing himself from any relation to time.
The man blinked and came back to the lab and time, where and when he had just
left.
Nate, Hatch said from within the machine.
Was it just brilliant, Hatchet? Nate asked, stepping forward.
It was Hatch tried to begin.
Oh! Of course, it was just the lab, Nate cut in, But Im sure it was still, as you
said, bright and glorious, yes?
It was all gone, Nate, said Hatch.
What? Nates hand paused on the glass door before opening it for Hatch.
It was all destroyed. The first watcher of time walked out of the machine.
What was? The lab?
Not just the lab, Nate. All of Washington. Hatchs eyes fell to the ground
expecting more answers.
What do you mean, destroyed? Nate asked, What could have done such a
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thing?
I think. I think it was a nuclear weapon, replied Hatch, There were these
shadows reflected off the debris in the area, but the sun was not set in the sky to allow it.
It was like the nuclear shadows that littered the ground in Hiroshima.
The photograph of the dead, Nate said, My god, we have to do something,
Hatchet.
What can we do? Hatch asked, Its unlikely the president will listen to the
pleas of two experimental physicists. Theyll throw us out as soon as we tell them how
we know. Time travel! Hatch laughed.
And what do we know? Nate proposed the question.
We know a nuclear bomb strikes Washington D.C. sometime tonight, Hatch
said, or today.
Nate stalked over to the desk, grabbed his leather briefcase, and started shoving
all the stacks of paper around the room into it.
Then we have to get out of here now, said Nate.
Hatch sat back into the machine as his gaze crawled up its metal frame that
glowed orange from his recent venture. The titanium crosses along the side panels had
always resembled shut windows to Hatch, ones that could possibly be opened.
That is, Hatch started, if theres nothing to be done about it.
What is it, boy? Nate said, halting his scurry around the room.
We can change it. Hatch paused. It might be a shot in the dark, but I think we
change it.
Change time? What do you suggest, we go back, infiltrate the possible terrorist
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faction, and disarm the nuke seconds before its detonation? Nate scoffed and continued
picking up papers.
No, Nate, Hatch said as he brushed the dust from the sleeves of his coffee
stained lab coat, We need to stop the nuke from ever being created. At the very least,
postpone it.
Thats preposterous, Hatchet.
Well, I may be crazy, Nate Hatch started.
No, do you even understand the consequences of such a thing? It could change
the entire outcome of World War Two and alter the course history as we know it today!
Its a good thing you dont believe in the possibility of changing time, Hatch
said as he paced across the room, And really, Nate? As an admirer of all things
environmental, I would expect you to be the first to say: a nuke-free world is a better
world.
Nate put his hand across his forehead and eyebrows and sighed in thought.
Go with me on this one, dear friend, Hatch said as he stepped over to the
blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk.
When I was young, my father took me on a tour of the area. But it wasnt your
usual tour of the capital. Rather, it was the same tour J. Robert Oppenheimer took himself
on during his brief stay in D.C.
Hatch set his chalk to the board and drew the numbers 1927.
On October 3rd, 1927, Hatch continued, Oppenheimer finishes his tour, coming
through Union Station in order to catch a train that evening to take him up to his studies
in Harvard.
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Hatch drew the number 2010 on the board and a line coming from it to 1927.
I will travel from our time to Oppenheimers, so that I may intercept the man
before he leaves D.C. Hatch finished.
And do what? Kill him? Nate asked.
If no choice remains. You must remember, it is Oppenheimer who is responsible
for designing the militaristic use of the weapon. If we can just inform of the sheer amount
of death it will cause Hatch turned to Nate.
We could convict the father of his sins, Nate finished his thought.
Why save merely ourselves, when we could save the world?
Nate still didnt entirely believe in the prospect of improving history, but there
was a time he didnt believe in journeying freely throughout it either. Hatch stepped back
into the machine. He rested his hand on the ignition switch.
Well, you dont think youre going back like that, do you? Nate asked, Youll
stick out like a man from an odd European country. Nates British expressiveness was as
poignant as Hatchs fathers had been.
He looked down to the dirty lab coat he was wearing.
My grandfathers suit, Hatch said, Ill go home, get the old mans suit he left
me, and heres how well cover our bases: If the plan doesnt work, Ill have called Jamie
at work and told her to meet me here, youll have bought us three train tickets, just in
case, to the furthest possible destination westward, and well have just dodged the first
nuclear strike on American soil, yes?
Nate observed Hatch as one does the workings of a broken clock.
You are insane, Hatchet Whistler, Nate said as he walked over to the time
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machine, throwing a long cloth over it, But, I suppose that does make you your fathers
son.
Nate ran to the desk to look for his wallet. Hatch remained stationary before the
chalkboard and became fond of the word son for the first time in his life.
Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Nate said, Go!
IV
As he sat in the great machine, it became Hatchs destiny to erase the nuclear
weapon from the pages of history; at least, he decided it was.
Hatch checked once more the time to which he desired to travel.
[3:00. October 3rd. 1927]
glowed from the control panel. He hit the switch. The sound like a million crickets
sounded and resounded in the small concrete room. The glass casing radiated from within
itself. In a white flash, Hatch disappeared and reappeared in a room foreign to him. He
stepped out of the machine. A king sized bed of oak lay beside the machine. Several
pieces of bright yellow plush lounge furniture decorated the room fashionably. He
recognized this place as the presidential suite from its picture hanging in the restaurant it
had been during his fathers time.
The suites existence fit his intended time destination. The physical spot,
however, was not anticipated by Hatch.
Perhaps it is like the electric rod to a lightning bolt strike, Hatch hypothesized, the
location drawing the machine to it.
Luckily, the room was not being occupied at the moment. He treaded cautiously
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over to the front door at the other end of the sturdy room and let himself out to an entry
hall. A bald eagle sculpture had its wings spread across the wall to his left. The birds
head was pointed towards a heavy oak door in front of him. On the other side of the door,
Hatch found himself surrounded by people dressed in clothing much like his own. Above
him, the beehive like dome spread across the span of the main hall. Hatch wondered what
other structures in the station would change before his own time would arrive.
It was indeed 1927, and Oppenheimer would be arriving any moment. Hatch sat
on a nearby bench awaiting the man who would come through the main doors, stay in the
terminal for an hour or so, and then head up north to Harvard on the train. He rubbed his
hands on his pants legs, wiping the sweat that had been collecting on his fingertips.
Before the anxiety could wrap its clammy hands around his throat, Hatch
recognized his target: the pallid white, bony face with an ashen suit and haircut that
screamed brilliance. Paper in hand, the man walked over towards Hatch and sat directly
beside him on the bench. Hatch cracked his neck to the side and considered the proper
way to start a conversation with the father of the atomic bomb.
Excuse me. Do you have the time? Oppenheimer turned to him and asked.
Brilliant, Hatch thought. Ah, um, yes. Hatch looked down to his fathers watch,
and then pointed to the clock on the far wall after realizing the uselessness of his watch.
Its three forty-five.
Perfect, the man responded with a smile, that leaves me fifteen minutes to read
my paper.
Fifteen minutes was all he had. Hatch wiped his cheek with the felt cuff of his
sleeve.
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Excuse me, sir. I dont mean to intrude, but have you read heard of this Amazing
Stories pulp magazine? Hatch asked as his foot began to tap.
My colleagues have told me some stories from it, interesting stuff, isnt it?
Oppenheimer replied.
Yes, very! Hatch tried to calm himself down, Did you hear the one of the
World Destroyer?
No, Im afraid not. Is it any good? Oppenheimer asked and angled his crossed
legs towards Hatch.
Depends on what you call good, my man.
Hatch began to formulate the story in his mind, summoning the sort of command
of the English language he recalled his father possessing.
It begins with a man. An academic, to be precise, who is called by his country to
organize and lead a group of scientists to create the super weapon, or as they later call it,
the world destroyer. Well, he answers the call of his country, denying the sways of his
past political persuasions, and leads this brain trust.
And does he succeed? Oppenheimer asked with raised eyebrows.
He does. Within the smallest blocks of man, he finds a cruel power, capable of
leveling cities. Ultimately, his country uses this force against warring states. But as all
secrets go, the country loses it to others, causing threats to escalate and stalemates to be
arrived at. However, a crazed dictator decides to use this super weapon for himself, and
attack the home of this academic man. Of course, the country fires back, which leads to
the secondary volley and so on and so forth. Thus, obtaining the name World
Destroyer, effectively wiping out the entire worlds population.
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But how does one give it that name if the world has been destroyed?
Oppenheimer asked.
Its not a story written from first person, but a prophecy, my good man.
Hatch looked at the great scientist with his scrunched forehead and his gaze
deliberately profound.
After a period of silence and thought, Oppenheimer looked back at Hatch and
asked, So you think its possible then?
He paused, Possible for rational man to create and harness thisthis molecular
power?
Hatch looked at the man with an intense stare. It is only rational man who could
understand such a beast.
This is incredible stuff, isnt it? All inside a magazine, you say? That story could
inspire men to well to move mountains! Oppenheimer said.
Yes, but Hatch tried to speak.
Of course, this is a fantastic story, but just what if there were this kind of power
to be found within the atom like you say? What would it take to unlock it and change the
world around us?
Hatch expected fear from the man, not inspiration.
The clanging of copper sounded loudly four times. Oppenheimer stood up and set
down his paper.
This was a very enlightening experience, my friend. Rest assured, I will tell all
my colleagues at Harvard of this story. Oppenheimer began walking away to the
gateway as Hatch stood to follow.
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Wait! Hatch exclaimed without thinking.
And what will Albert think? Oppenheimer laughed to himself mid-stride.
Sir! Please wait! Im afraid theres more to it! Hatch tried to catch the man.
They both sped through the white gateway arch that led to the track platform, but the
ticket checkers would not allow Hatch passage without a ticket. Oppenheimer, however,
gave them his and proceeded toward the front train car.
Sir! I beg you, this is a matter of life and death! Hatch yelled as the crowd took
specific notice to him.
It always is, my friend, Oppenheimer said back as he boarded the train, If
youre ever by Harvard, look me up! My name is Robert. Robert Oppenheimer! The
train rolled away as the great scientist called from the cars door.
I know, Hatch said under his breath. He felt the rustling of paper from within
his jacket pocket. There were two tickets still within it. They had not disappeared as he
had hoped. In fact, Hatch became convinced that if he had not come to this time and
place, there be no tickets at all. Did Oppenheimer really have the right to be called the
father of the atomic bomb?
Out of desperation, Hatch placed his hand on the ticket mans shoulder, giving it a
forceful shove downward. But before he could reach the crawling train, the hand of
another officer behind him stretched forward and yanked him backwards by his coattail.
Get off me! Hatch screamed with unholy fear, I must get through! The two
officers pinned him to the ground as he watched the train exit the station. Attempting to
twist and tear his own body from their hold, Hatch thought of others bodies, ones he was
responsible for making still, and one he was responsible for making move.
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I
Emma. I want her name to be Emma, he said.
His mothers name had been the same.
Is your name Emma? she asked.
His ear was a detector set above her belly button, combing the silky surface in
search of a response from their buried treasure.
I wish you didnt have to leave me all alone in the world tonight.
She played guilt like she did poker: poorly.
You know how important this work is though, darling.
He played poker in a similar fashion.
Is there just one more moment, she affronted, one small, insignificant moment
that you can spend with your budding wife before you go off and change the world and
all that?
Each and every moment only with you. Well have time to Treasure?
Ooph. Emma, huh? Ill think about it.
He returned the kick with a kiss from his smiling lips.
Well have time together. All of it, its all yours.
V
Now I am become Death, he said on the station floor, the destroyer of worlds.
With a free hand, Hatch pried the hold of a policeman from his shoulder and with
his other hand he reached for the mans sidearm.
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Back off! Hatch yelled with a raspy voice as he secured the gun in his grasp.
The men backed away, raising their hands in the air. He scrambled clumsily past the men
and fired two shots at Oppenheimers fleeing cab. His vision sharpened through the crust
of tears and fury to see that he had missed his target.
Easy there, the officer forced out in a calm voice.
Stay here! Dont follow me or I will shoot, Hatch said, spinning around with
both hands clenched tightly around the gun. He ran back through the gateway arch he had
come through, tucking the gun in his jacket. No one had noticed the disturbance on the
other side. He found the heavy door and walked briskly to the presidents suite door
across the hall, checking and double-checking his hold on sanitys reins. The brass handle
on the suites door was locked from the inside. It would not budge. He looked back for
any pursing policemen, pulled the gun from his jacket, and shot at the lock. No luck. He
shot again, hearing screams from outside the room. He jiggled the handle and gave the
door a hard kick. Its solid frame splintered back at the handle. The machine waited for
him at the other end of the room.
Stop right there! A police officer had heard the sound and followed him.
Hatch ran for the machine, jumped in, and closed the door behind him, slamming
the ignition button before he had time to check his destination. The policeman rushed into
the room just as a bright light touched every surrounding surface. With the flip of a
switch, Hatchet George Whistler unlocked himself from the shackles of time and ran
freely into the future.
The room was black. Hatch clumsily opened the glass door, tripping out of the
machine, landing on his hands. He noticed a harsh light coming from underneath a door
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in front of him. His sense of smell told him he was in a dense lemon forest. Everything
else told him he was in the maintenance closet of Union Station. The room was barely
large enough to fit the machine in. It moved just as freely through space as it did time, a
facet Hatch did not entirely understand.
The familiar copper clash struck the air. It was noon. Again.
Why this time, he wondered. He imagined an earlier version of him running up
the stairs to meet Jamie like he had done once already. And after that, he presenting the
idea of the nuclear bomb to its creator gift-wrapped as Hatch had done already, too.
The dark room was engulfing him. He undid the shirt buttons constraining his
neck and wiped the sweat carving canyons down his forehead. His breath began to rise
and fall rapidly as the thought of a billion dispossessed souls pressed hard upon his
shoulders. He caught his falling head in his shaking hands, drooling snot and tears onto
the felt collar of his grandfathers jacket.
What to do next? An option ran through the battleground of his adrenaline-infused
mind for every death he was responsible for. There was little chance Jamie knew she had
married the greatest mass murder in history. At once, a thought injected itself into his
mind: his earlier self was not the same man as he. Hatch opened the guns chamber.
There were two bullets left. One had the name of an innocent man tattooed across the
casing.
Hatch took one slow breath, fighting off the tightening of the room, and pushed
on the handle of the door in front of him. The door was stuck. His leg coiled behind him
and gave the door a swift kick to no avail. Backing up to the machine, Hatch ran to the
door, crashing his shoulder into the center. It gave less than an inch. Looking between the
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crack, he saw three wooden benches that had been stacked against the door, so he
repeated his strategy, ramming the door at a lower spot on the door. His body slammed
into the aluminum door again and again, and inch-by-inch it jerked open. With effort, the
crack became one foot wide, just enough room for him to squeeze through.
The maintenance room was on the same side of the station as the caf was, but it
was two floors below. With long strides, he made his way past the crowd of people in
line for tickets to the bottom stairwell. He made it up the first one, and gave pause at the
base of the second. Hatch knelt and looked within his jacket at the gun in his hand,
tapping the butt of the weapon against his upper thigh while he attempted to steady his
breath. The gun caught a snag and tore at the fabric of his pants, leaving a small hole by
the pocket.
He persisted up the stairs, walking quietly to the back of the shop unseen. He
could hear his and Jamies voices within the crowds, but no words were coherent. The
sound of chairs scratched across the granite floor. As he peeked around the right side of
the shop, he saw his earlier self walking to the far black door. Jamie stood and started
walking towards where he was hiding. Hatch managed to sneak around the other side of
the caf as she passed it. He looked back at her with a troubled mind, wondering where
she was going, bag in hand.
He shook his head and began to follow the man who had just entered the black
door. Hatch reminded himself what was at stake over and over again. He tripped on his
untied shoelace, catching himself with his free hand. The other still held the gun. Hatch
continued through the door and saw the figure brush quickly under the yellow light in the
middle of the hallway.
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Plott 22
Any hesitance in the figures movement, Hatch decided, he wouldshoot.
Instead, the other man, as Hatch decided to call him, had picked up his pace and
was nearing the door where he would let loose the gates of hell. Hatch sped up as well.
As the other man stopped at the door, Hatchs arms extended forward. His quivering
finger wrapped around the weapons trigger flexed tight. And with it, a bullet propelled
through the air and found rest within the other mans skull. The door to the lab flew open,
as he dropped. A bright light from ahead violated the dark hall before him. Hatch sprinted
into the room, stepping over the mans body without a closer look.
What? Hatch said.
Nate jerked his head around facing Hatch standing in the doorway.
Well, that was quick, Nate said to the bewildered Hatch.
YouButWheres the machine? Hatch said as walked up to Nate, grabbing
him by the sleeves of his shirt. Nates eyes shot open, noticing the blood trailing into the
room through the door.
What have you done, Hatchet? Nate said back with a fixed jaw.
I asked where the machine is, Nate! Hatch released Nate pushing him away
towards the desk.
Youve just left with it to go save the world. Nate looked back at Hatch with a
puzzled stare.
No. Ive just stopped myself from going back and telling Oppenheimer about the
secret of the nuclear bomb, Hatch said.
No, boy. Youve just left. I watched you with my own eyes. Nate replied.
Then tell me, who the hell is this man, Nate?
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Hatch walked back through the door, dragging the limp body of a man into the
room. Nate stumbled over to him and examined the dead body. His suit was identical to
the one Hatch was wearing. Everything about the man was identical to Hatch, including
the color of his eyes.
This cant be real. Nate covered his cheeks with open palms.
Who is this, Nate? You say its not me! Who is this?
Hatch knelt down to the dead body. He looked at the pant leg, noticing a tear in
the thigh just as his own pant leg. The mans hand was within his inner coat pocket.
Hatch pulled it out, causing a pistol to fall out with a crash onto the cold, concrete floor.
He scavenged the jacket pockets for clues, but found only the note Jamie had written him
earlier that day. The golden watch on the mans wrist was the same as Hatchs, but it was
over an hour ahead of his own.
This man wasnt me, Nate. Im going to be this man.
Hatch stood up, staring at the golden watch in horror. He tore it off the mans
wrist and threw it at the wall, the sound breaking of glass crashing against the concrete.
Nate walked over to the gun on the floor, and after examination, found there was
indeed only one bullet remaining. He also carefully inspected the red-lettered newspaper
note from Jamie next to it.
Do you still have the machine? Nate asked.
Yeah, Hatch said as he sat down on the floor, Its in a closet in the station.
Then, what I think is best for you right now is to go see your father. The man
knew more about the way time worked than both of us together. Nate walked over to
Hatch and put a hand on his back, And you need to go quick, theres not much time left
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for us.
No. We need to leave. Ive already made a mess out of time, I dont want to see
my father
Hatch, Nate stopped him, Im going to take the next train out of here, but you
you need to go see your father. Knowing the man he was, I doubt hell be terribly
opposed to the idea of you being there. After all, there is all the time in the world
sometime else, yes?
Hatch nodded reluctantly. He backed out of the room without saying any parting
words to Nate. All the while, his eyes focused on the lifeless body lying at the foot of the
door, his lifeless body lying still on the floor.
VI
Hatch made it back to the maintenance closet without any sight of Jamie in the
station. He stepped into the machine and turned the dial to display
[12:00. June 1st. 1973],
the year his father received the laboratory. Off he went in a blinding white flash,
appearing within a similar small, concrete laboratory. A lone occupant sat behind the
wooden desk in the rooms corner. Hatch stepped out of the machine and beheld his
father for the first time in ten years. The man had a beard down to his collarbone the
color of television static, a pasty white lab coat covering a flower-power-ridden lime
green shirt, and a hairline as definitive as Hadrians Wall.
May I help you? Hatchs father stood from his chair, placing his hands on his
desk in protest. The metal nameplate on the table read, Jonathan Verne Whistler.
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Dad. Its me, Hatch, he said as he stepped out of the machine, Listen, I know
you must have an infinite amount of questions for me, but right now, I need your help.
Excuse me? his father replied with a British accent as untarnished as it was the
day he moved to the States.
Im sorry, Ive sped through this whole day. Hatch caught his breath. Dad.
Look at me. Im your son. What am I doing these days? Going to high school? Here
Hatch walked over to his father and gave him the gold band from his wrist.
Look. This is your watch. You left this to me after you Hatch stopped.
After I died? Hatchs father held the watch in his open palm.
Yes, Hatch replied.
His father rose to his feet, examining the watch.
That does make sense, his father said, It is the only way I would have let you
touch the thing.
A smile formed in the mans face as he gave back the watch to Hatch.
Not to mention my fathers suit as well. He went around his desk and wrapped
his arms around his son. Oh, is that a tear in the leg?
Nothing a tailor cant fix Hatch was surprised he was defending himself from
his fathers inquisition after all that time. Anyways, I suppose I should congratulate you,
we finally made the machine.
His father walked over to the machine and traced a finger down the titanium
spine.
This machine has always been made whether I have yet to do it or not. Times
evidence is very convincing,
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Here we go again, Dad. Hatch sat down in the chair in front of the desk as his
father walked around to sit in his own chair. Listen, spare me the arguments growing up.
Heres how time works:Iwent back in time.Igave Oppenheimer the idea for the nuclear
bomb.Iam the reason ones going to detonate in D.C. thirty years from now. Alright?
That sounds rather grave, son, His father said, itching at his beard habitually.
But let me ask you this: Was the nuclear bomb in existence before you went back?
Well, of course. I mean Hatch was interrupted.
No. Think about this, Hatchet Whistler. Was the bomb in creation before you
were?
Yes. Yes, it was, said Hatch.
You didnt go back and change time, my boy. Youve always done what you
did.
Hatch deflated into the seat.
Then tell me why I should go back to my time if I know Im just going to be shot
by former self right behind that door. Hatch pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket and
used it to point to the front door. Must that always happen as well?
His father leaned forward in his chair.
Hatchet, there once was a cartographer who thought maps were rather limiting
creatures, he paused, What if I told you that history was a similar beast?
You mean that Ive only seen one perspective of my own future, Hatch asked.
Precisely! Its not the complete picture!
Hatch let his head drop back as he sat and put his hands to his chest. He heard a
ruffle of paper shuffle beneath his jacket. The tickets were still in his possession.
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Jamie. He stood. The chair fell behind him, resounding loudly against the
concrete. My God. How could I have been so selfish, Hatch said as he walked over to
the machine.
What is it? his father asked.
I have to go back. Even if it means He bit his tongue. I need to go back to
save my wife. I think thats why I go back, but not why I continually allow myself to be
shot.
It would seem you have a goal. His father paused briefly in thought and
continued, The question is: could you, Hatchet Graham, settle for the rescue of a few
souls, when you have redemption of the humanity just on the other side of the door?
Jonathan Whistler grabbed his sons shoulder firmly. History may remain a
closed window, but destiny. Destiny shatters windows and trades them for another.
Hatch struggled to comprehend anything other than what he had seen with his
own eyes, that is, his forthcoming death. He sat down into the machine and rested his
hand on the propulsion switch before looking around him. The titanium frames wrapped
around the glass, glowing yellow as they cooled down. The way they resembled windows
on all sides made Hatch dwell on how all windows, like history, must always remain
open or closed, static or flux; thrown rocks and new windows had never come into play.
Im not a tragedy, not in the end, am I?
His father let out a sigh and stared at his son for a moment before nodding and
walking back behind his desk. From his drawer, he pulled out a ball-peen hammer and
returned to the machine. Hatch shifted his glance quickly from the hammer in his fathers
hand to the machines glass casing surrounding him. To Hatchs surprise, his father
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pulled up a stool, and took off his own gold watch, placing it face-up on the wooden
surface and set the hammer by its side.
Hatch, his father said walking closer to the machine door, We have yet to
comprehend mans destiny to the furthest degree! We do small things; everyday, in fact,
that allows us to see glimpses of that end, even though we may not yet know it.
He looked at his son, his gaze bridging polar minds to an equatorial point. Hatch
held the hammer in his locked fist. With great force, he brought the hammer down upon
the timepiece, shattering the crystal face and denting the metallic frame inward. The
watch on Hatchs wrist bore the same consequences.
One day, son, we find a way to divorce ourselves from time. Start giving destiny
a reason to be unfaithful.
His father reached into the machine, pushed Hatchs hand down onto the switch,
and slammed the door before him. The glass illuminated from within to without itself,
revealing every wrinkle and blemish on his fathers face. Hatch thought he witnessed a
tear trail over the mans cheek, but was thrown forward in time before he could be sure.
VII
Like the rising sun through a windowpane, a light on the other side of things
caught Hatchs attention. The surging noise of a horn, however, disrupted his curiosity.
He looked through the glass floor at his feet and saw a set of parallel strips running
beneath him as he expected. Without wasting time, he leapt out of the machine and
watched as a train plowed through the glass hull, leaving no trace of it ever existing.
Hatch fell back on the concrete floor as the rest of the cars passed him. His eyelids
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opened and closed incessantly until he was alone in the tunnel. The paper tickets inside
his pocket reminded him they belonged in the hands of his wife.
Hatch bounded onto the boarding area to the surprise of the crowd awaiting the
next train. He sprinted through them, past the white archway, and into the central area of
the station. A man with a suit like his own sped past him as the noon bell rang. Hatch
twisted to the left before the man could notice him. Instead of following, he continued
down the way to the door of the maintenance closet. People standing around watched
inquisitively as he stacked three benches in front of the door. It would buy him the time
he needed to give Jamie the tickets without being interrupted by a hasty bullet through
the skull. Hatch retraced his steps to the upper floor where the caf was. Jamie sat alone
at the table. Making his way around, he approached her from behind and rested his hands
upon her shoulders.
So Emma, yeah? he said.
Hatch! she replied, swiveling slowly in her chair, back already?
He delicately kissed his bride on the mouth before putting the tickets on the table.
Turns out they were in my pocket the whole time.
Hatch smiled as he pulled the newspaper note she wrote him from his pocket and
placed it on the table before her. With destiny on his mind, he reached down to the floor
to pick the red pen, and used it to write a message on the side opposite hers:
Nate:
If the picture is not yet complete,
Send me to my father.
I need you to get on the train and wait for me there, Hatch said as he wrote,
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Theres still something at the lab I need to take care of.
Hatch walked towards the black door at the far end of the floor. His shoes tapped
against the floor like the sound of a clock hand. He opened the door and walked faster
down the hall. Within his jacket, his hand was wrapped around the pistol. A single bullet
remained inside its chamber. He felt the presence of another without the aid of sight.
Thoughts fought for his attention, but only one image held:
A map that fully captured the sun-strewn, snow-scattered mountains, with its
cliffsides permeated by fields of rose quartz, bed sheets of limestone, glassy panes of
black obsidian, and flowing veins of precious gold.
Hatch reached out for the doors handle, but it slipped away from him and faded
to black before he could fully capture it.
VIII
The door flung open as a heavenly light emanated through its frame. Another
Hatch entered the room, jumping over the dead body at the foot of the door. He raised his
voice at his assistant about a misunderstanding.
Who is this, Nate? You say its not me! Who is this?
Hatch knelt down to the dead body. He looked at the pant leg, noticing a tear in
the thigh just as his own pant leg. The mans hand was within his inner coat pocket.
Hatch pulled it out, causing a pistol to fall out with a crash onto the cold, concrete floor.
He scavenged the jacket pockets for clues, but found only the note Jamie had written him
earlier that day. There was a golden watch on the mans wrist that was not only broken,
but the crystal face had been shattered apart as well.
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This man wasnt me, Nate. Im going to be this man.
Hatch stood up, staring at the golden watch curiously. He took it off the mans
wrist, and held up to Nates face.
Nate, Hatch asked, Didnt my father once have a watch like this?