Other Earths

A vast, slow, repeating sound registered in his awareness. Only after several minutes did he realize it was the sound of the adepts as they moved in their vats, each sending a ripple of water that wouldn’t have registered if not for its repetition in thousands of other vats. The room seemed to go on forever, into the far distance of a horizon tinged at its extremity by a darkening that hinted of blood.

His sense of disgust, even revulsion, grew as the little man ran out ahead of them, navigated a path to the control center, a hundred yards in and to the left, its blank, luminous blue glass set a story up and jutting out over the vats like some infernal crane. And still he could not speak, did not know what to say. The atmosphere was a strange combination of morgue, cathedral, and torture chamber. He felt a compulsion, if he spoke, to whisper.

The briefing papers he’d read on the ride over had told him just about everything. For years, adepts had been screened out at birth and, depending on the secret orders peculiar to each administration, either euthanized or imprisoned in remote overseas detention camps. Those that managed to escape detection until adulthood had no rights if caught, not even the rights given to illegal immigrants. The Founding Fathers had been very clear on that in the Constitution.

He had always assumed that adults when caught were eliminated or also sent to the camps. Some might call it the last vestige of a Puritanical brutality, but most citizens despised the invasion of privacy an adept represented or were more worried about how the separatist evangelicals had turned the homeland into a nation of West and East Coasts, with no middle.

But now he knew where his predecessor had been storing the bodies. He just didn’t yet know why.

In the control center, they showed him the images being mined from the depths of the adepts’ REM sleep. They ranged from montages as incomprehensible as the experimental films he’d seen in college to single shots of dead people to grassy hills littered with wildflowers. Ecstasy, grief, madness, peace. Anything imaginable came through in the adepts’ endless sleep.

“Only ten people in the world know every aspect of this project, and three of them are dead, Mr. President,” the black-ops commander told him.

Down below, he could see the little man, blue-tinted, going from vat to vat, checking readings.

“We experimented until we found the right combination of drugs to augment their sight. One particular formula, culled from South American mushrooms mostly, worked best. Suddenly, we began to get more coherent and varied images. Very different from before.”

He felt numb. He had no sympathy for the men and women curled up in the vats below him—an adept’s grenade had killed his father in mid-campaign a decade before, launching his own reluctant career in politics—but, still, he felt numb.

“Are any of them dangerous?” he asked the black-ops commander.

“They’re all dangerous, Mr. President,” the black-ops commander told him. “Every last one.”

“When did this start?”

“With a secret order from your predecessor, Mr. President. Before, we just disappeared them or sent them to work camps in the Alaskas.”

“Why did he do it?”

Even then, he would realize later, a strange music was growing in his head, a distant sound fast approaching.

“He did it, Mr. President, or said he did it, as a way of getting intel on the Heartland separatists.”

Understandable, if extreme. The separatists and the fact that the federal armies had become bogged down fighting them in the Heartland were the main reasons his predecessor’s party no longer controlled the executive, judicial, or legislative branches. And no one had ever succeeded in placing a mole within evangelical ranks.

The scenes continued to cascade over the monitors in a rapid-fire nonsense rhythm.

“What do you do with the images?”

“They’re sent to a team of experts for interpretation, Mr. President. These experts are not told where the images come from.”

“What do these adepts see that is so important?’ The black-ops commander grimaced at the tone of rebuke. “The future, Mr. President. It’s early days, but we believe they see the future.”

“And have you gained much in the way of intel?”

The black-ops commander looked at his feet. “No, not yet, we haven’t. And we don’t know why. The images are jumbled. Some might even be from our past or present. But we have managed to figure out one thing, which is why you’ve been brought here so quickly: Something will happen later this year, in September.”

“Something?”

Down below, the little man had stopped his purposeful wandering and gazed into one of the vats as if mesmerized.

“Something cataclysmic, Mr. President. Across the channels. Across all of the adepts. It’s quite clear. Every adept has a different version of what that something is. And we don’t know exactly when, but in September.”

He had a thousand more questions, but at that moment one of the military’s top scientific researchers entered the control room to show them the schematics for the machine—the machine they’d found in the mind of one particular adept.

The time machine.

The teachers are telling him about the weather, and he’s pretending to care as he continues to notice the florescent lighting as yellow as the skin that forms on old butter, the cracks in the dull beige walls, the faded construction paper of old projects taped to those walls, drooping down toward a tired, washed-out green carpet that’s paper-thin under foot.

It’s the kind of event that he’s never really understood the point of, even as he understands the reason for it. To prove that he’s still fit for office. To prove that the country, most of it, is free of war and division. To prove he cares about kids, even though this particular school is falling apart. Why this class, why today, is what he really doesn’t understand, with so many world crises—like China’s imperialism, like Iraq as the only bulwark against Russian influence in the Middle East. Or a vice president he now knows may be too old and delusional to be anything other than an embarrassment, and a cabinet he let his family’s political cronies bully him into appointing, and a secret cavern that has infected his thoughts, infected his mind.

And that leads to memories of his father and of the awful silence into which they told him, as he sat coked up and hungover that morning on the pastel couch in some sleazy apartment, how it had happened while his father was working an audience in Atlanta.

All of this has made him realize that there’s only one way to survive the presidency: to just let go of the reality of the world in favor of whatever reality he wants or needs, no matter how selfish.

The teachers are turning into animals again, and he can’t seem to stop it from happening.

The time machine had appeared as an image on their monitors from an adept named Peter in vat 1023, and because they couldn’t figure out the context—weapon? camera? something new?—they had to wake Peter up and have a conversation with him.

A time machine, he told them.

A time machine?

A machine that travels through time, he’d clarified. And they’d believed him or, if not believed him, dared to hope he was right. That what Peter had seen while deprived of anything but his own brain, like some deep-sea fish, like something constantly turning inward and then turning inward again, had been a time machine.

If they didn’t build it and they found out later that it might have worked and could have helped them avert or change what was fated to happen in September …Well, who could live with that thought?

That day, three hours after being sworn in, he had had to give the order to build a time machine, and quickly.

“Something bad will happen in September. Something bad. Across the channels. Something awful.”

“What?” he kept asking, and the answer was always the same: “We don’t know.”

They kept telling him that the adepts didn’t seem to convey literal information as much as impressions and visions of the future, filtered through dreamscapes. As if the drugs they’d perfected, which had changed the way the