Chaos' Beginning

By James Hall

Set roughly 500 years in Earth’s future, Chaos’ Beginning takes place on Mars, now a terraformed and settled planet. James Hall, a reporter for Mars’ New Chicago Times, encounters the man he comes to know as Eric Pohlman while doing field research for an article. Eric takes James under his wing and reveals to him the truth of the War of Insurrection, a war that the Terran Government had slowly sought to erase from human memory. Over the course of their interviews, James learns about the fantastic abilities of Eric’s people as well as the source of their power: nanites.
This break-out novel weaves together the interviews of Eric and James as well as events from Eric’s past and those of Chaos, the leader of the Insurrection. Follow along as James pieces together what really happened 500 years ago on Earth, Eric does his best to fight the rising tide of Chaos’ army, and Chaos slowly becomes more powerful while descending into madness.
Chaos’ Beginning is the first book in the Chaos’ Orbit saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Hall
• Release date: May 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476278704

James Hall

JAMES W. HALL is an Edgar and Shamus Award-winning author whose books have been translated into a dozen languages. He divides his time between South Florida and North Carolina.

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Acknowledgements

First of all I want to give a big shout-out to my editor, Ryan Nelson, and my cover art designer, Michelle Lawrence. Thank you both so much for your hard work and dedication! There have been difficulties along the way, from computers crashing and erasing near-complete edits to life in general getting too crazy; I know how both go myself. And yet, here we are. We made it!

I also want to thank all my friends and family for their enthusiastic support and feedback along the way. From the earliest reads all the way up to reading the whole novel, all of you gave me feedback that made me more determined to finish this project. Without your support I know that I would never have had the courage to see this through.

Special thanks go to my mom and dad. In your own unique ways you’ve helped shape me into the man I am today. I would list those ways, but then this novel would be twice as long. Suffice to say that without your guidance, love and attention I would not be where or who I am.

I want to thank every single one of my English teachers throughout my education as well as some inspiring and learned history professors of mine at the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay (UWGB). It is through all of your tutelage, and a fair amount of red ink, that my skills as a writer have been honed to where they are today. From my first research paper at Saint John the Baptist school to my independent study papers at UWGB, each and every edit has helped make me a better writer. Thank you all.

Second to last, I want to give special thanks to the two men who have been my best friends throughout the years: my brothers from other mothers. As you may notice from reading this novel, I’ve based a lot on our lives and our friendship. I know for sure that I would be a much different person had I not had your friendship to lean on so often and I certainly wouldn’t have the stories that I do upon which to base this book were it not for you. It is my hope that in seeing so much of our lives in this book you see my boundless gratitude for your continued friendship.

My final thank you goes out to you, the reader. This is my break-out novel. I’m self e-publishing it. That means that I lack all the bells and whistles of a commercial firm’s PR department. In other words, it is through you, humble reader, that this book will find success. If you like it, please tell your friends about it and connect with me on Facebook, Twitter and YouTube (see the last page for contact info).

And now, as they say in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Get on with it! So we shall. Enjoy!

Author’s Note

To you, the reader of this account, I have the following to say. First of all, if you are now one of us, welcome to The Cause. If you are an agent of Chaos, these pages will contain nothing new for you. If you have been passed this book by someone, consider yourself fortunate; they trust you implicitly. Such knowledge, such truth, such facts as are contained between this introduction and the Epilogue to follow are seditious and dangerous to the United Terran Government that, in theory, serves us. The Government itself is not rotten, mind you, but infected and stagnant. Old. The rot lies at the core. Such rot must be cut out. To do so, it must be exposed for all to see. Such is the purpose of this book you now hold in your hands.

If, at some time in the future, after all this has been settled you should find yourself openly reviewing this prose, feel lucky as it means freedom has once more been won for humanity.

I am the leader of New ATMO and I, along with both my comrades in arms, as well as those who fought the encroaching darkness hundreds of years ago, once more take up the banner and cause. We fight for humanity’s right to its own destiny, its own future. To self-determination.

I do what I can to explain such struggles here; though I know no words can do such actions justice. If you already know of what struggle I speak, if you have long been part of the ATMO Underground, whether a Heroer or not, this is your call to arms. I cannot be easily silenced. But a chorus is always louder together than one voice alone crying into the wilderness. To those of you who believe as I do, feel as I do, that the oppression, censorship and lack of freedom, of liberty, must end, read on. If you are content with the way the United Terran Government runs Earth, Luna and Mars, then toss this book away and forget you ever had it. The choice is yours. But I warn you, the future inexorably comes. My suggestion would be to be ready for its arrival.

-James Hall

Meeting Eric

As many of you know I am, or rather was after the events that have transpired, a reporter for the New Chicago Times. One day a few years ago I was conducting field research for a local interest piece I was doing on a local pub and eatery by the name of L&H. The bar got its name from its original owners, Laura and Hank. That day I had gone to talk to Hank Jr. and see what I could dig up that wasn’t in land or tax records. As it happened, I would find more than I ever could have imagined. As an aside, I did eventually finish the article. It appears in the first appendix of this book.

But I digress. While at L&H, Hank Jr. helped introduce me to some of his regular patrons. For a Wednesday lunch hour the place was fairly full. As I was chatting with a small group at one end of the bar a man walked in and sat at the other. His grey hair was spiked back in that way reminiscent of a hedgehog. Pulling up a chair the man sat and flagged down Hank. Despite a firm jaw line, the man appeared in his mid to late sixties. Once Hank was again free I caught his attention. As he approached I asked, Who’s that guy? indicating the newcomer.

Rolling his stogie in his mouth a moment before responding, Hank took a long draw from it, removed it, slowly exhaled and said, Greg Pace. He’s a professor over at New Madison. Comes in Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

Would he be a good source? I asked.

Hank laughed in his typical way, making it seem like the laugh came from his knees. Sure he would. But he never talks to anyone.

Not even you to order? I asked with a smile. Hank hadn’t been hard to dial in. As such, my comment hit home as it was meant to, eliciting another chuckle from Hank.

Fair enough, he replied. You’re stubborn enough; you might just get something out of him. C’mon, Hank added, gesturing for me to follow him down the bar. As we approached the man Greg, he looked up. His eyes passed from Hank to me, and then back down into his drink. I felt a slight tugging sensation on my head then, something I would come to understand later. At the time I simply ignored it as I pulled up a seat next to Greg.

Greggy, Hank said, resting a hand on the bar in front of the man. This here’s James Hall of the New Chicago Times. ‘S doing a piece here on L&H. Was curious if you’d be willing to talk to him.

Greg looked into Hank’s eyes, saying, Would you like me to, Hank?

I think it would help the boy’s story if you did, he replied.

Greg first turned his head toward me, keeping his eyes on Hank. Then, as he snapped his eyes to me, I felt as if someone had given me a dose of smelling salts. You’re right about one thing, Hank, Greg said as he continued to look into my eyes. The strange tugging at my head had returned. My talking to him will definitely do something to his story. Shall we, Mr. Hall? Greg asked, gesturing at the booth opposite us on the exterior wall. Nodding, I followed as Greg moved over. And how’s the meal looking, Hank?

Gonna be a bit of a wait today, Greggy. Lunch rush and all.

Greg nodded, saying at me, He always says that. Sometimes he’s right and I end up getting lunch to go. We’ll see how things go today. So, Mr. Hall, what can I do for you?

Well, as Hank said, I’m doing a piece on L&H. Are you familiar with my work? Greg shook his head. I was already starting to put him in focus, though. He wasn’t being completely honest. Well, I do mostly local interest pieces for the Times. Overall, I enjoy the work as it helps me to really connect with the people and community.

And what, pray tell, made you interested in L&H?

Well, Greg, it was the upcoming Exile Day. He had been about to sip from his drink, but paused with the glass almost to his lip.

What relevance does L&H have to that? he asked, finishing the motion.

"Well, by the land records I uncovered, enough. This bar sits on the oldest registered plot of land in Olympus Mons Province. And in talking with some of the other patrons, some of whom I assume you know have been regulars here for decades, they suggest that New Chicago grew up around L&H. Since New Chicago was the first settlement on Mars, it is the oldest surviving piece of human history here. Save, of course, for those stories about surviving members of the TDF," I added, intentionally using the shortened form of the Terran Defense Force’s name. I had a feeling that Greg knew something about the TDF and/or their exile here to Mars. Being a heroer, one who believes that the TDF were wrongly exiled to Mars from Earth, I tended to be able to pick out other heroers with a certain amount of accuracy.

Ignoring my comment about the TDF momentarily Greg harrumphed, "First settlement."

Well, that is unless you count Eric Pohlman and his ilk as settlers. But those exiles have long been written off as lost. If you don’t believe the wild rumors, that is. I mean, after all, when the founders of New Chicago began to arrive here almost 250 years ago they found no trace of those exiles, just a terraformed planet. And how could there have been any survivors after over two centuries without contact? Mars, when they arrived, was a wasteland. Worse than an inhospitable desert. Obviously they put something into motion here that made it habitable. But if they had survived, surely there would have been some sign of them. As I’m sure you know, all the settlers found was clear land and Earth-like foliage.

I caught a very slight knowing smile on Greg’s face. It was gone so quickly that most would not have even noticed it. There’s truth in that, Greg replied. So what are you hoping to gain from me, sonny? A little support? A quote for yet another rote piece on how we’ve made it without the TDF all these years and ‘see how much better we are for it?’ he said as he looked and gestured around the bar sarcastically.

"Not at all, sir. On this rather auspicious anniversary I just thought it’d be nice to put things into perspective. I mean, if it weren’t for their founding work in terraforming this planet we could never have settled here. And as this is the oldest structure known to exist on Mars; it’s a logical point from which to springboard such a discussion. Greg harrumphed again, sipping from his glass. I’m curious, Greg, I said, switching tracks, Do you know Tim Fowler? He’s a history professor at NMU."

Can’t say I do. What does he teach?

Earth history. Specializes in the period from 700 years ago until the Martian settlement. Greg subtly stilled, his demeanor changing slightly. I was an apt pupil of his, especially interested in the study of ATMO. Greg’s grip on his glass tightened somewhat. Do you know anything about ATMO, Greg?

He stared hard into my eyes for a moment before saying, No.

You’re lying, I replied immediately and softly. I can read people. You didn’t flinch at my use of TDF. You knew damn well about their prior settlement here. And you’re also, I would suspect, a heroer based on your satirical portrayal of most Exile Day related articles. I happen to agree with you in regards to that, by the way. They’re all just rubbish.

Do you know what you’ve just admitted to? Greg asked me after a momentary pause.

Of course. In an age of censorship without oversight, when the Censors can make people disappear for almost anything, I just put myself on the hook. Greg, I have the feeling that you’re a heroer too and that you have much to share. That’s the only way our kind keeps history from being erased entirely. The only way we keep the Department of Censorship from utterly succeeding.

The Government provides us with all the history we need about the period surrounding the TDF’s time on Earth, Greg said, a measuring look on his face. What do you say to that?

The Department of Censorship provides us with a sanitized history. The TDF, when mentioned at all, are labeled traitors to humanity. Butchers. Never mentioned is the good they did. The help in rebuilding they began. Nor, I said, pulling my trump card, does their version of history tell the whole truth. What of the TDF’s true origins? What about Project Plymouth? Few among heroers knew anything about Project Plymouth, fewer still that it linked into both ATMO and the TDF. The Project, from what sources I had seen, was where the original leaders of ATMO first met. As a topic, The Project was one of, if not the, most heavily suppressed by the Censors. Even an errant Google search would certainly land a Censor team at your door.

Greg, in response to my mention of the Project, choked mid-sip. My god, man, he said between coughs. Even here you shouldn’t mention that name aloud. As I have said, The Project is highly censored. Why, though, L&H should be any safer in regards to the discussion of any heroer topic, I did not know.

Even so, I pressed, you know something about it or else my mentioning it would mean nothing to you. Greg glanced around the room quickly.

You know as well as I that these are not safe topics to be discussing in public, Greg said firmly, his gaze returning to me.

I agree, but would still like to discuss them if you were willing. My card, I said as I pulled an embossed business card from my notetab folio. Greg took it, flicking it with a finger from his other hand. Hardly anyone used physical business cards anymore, so it made me stand out. Now, though, if you do have some information you could share about L&H, I would be all ears.

Greg looked at me once more with his measuring stare. "Sorry, kid. But we’re done for now,’ Greg said as he rose, returning with his drink to the bar. I knew there would be nothing more to gain from pressing Greg just now. It was a reasonable response, and one I had run into before. Such a person as I was would be in a perfect position to be a Censor. With the Department of Censorship at its most powerful, one had always to tread with caution. Instead, I returned to the groups I had been chatting with prior to Greg’s entrance. As we continued to talk I worked in questions about the man Greg. The other patrons knew he was a professor at MNU and was part of the bio-physics department. Past that, though, they didn’t know much. As I circulated among other regulars, continuing to inquire about both L&H and Greg, I only grew more intrigued about the man. Many patrons said, only half-jokingly, that Greg had actually been around longer than L&H and could swear either seeing him in holopics from their parents or else remembered hearing stories of someone matching his description from further back.

For those readers less well versed in Terran-Martian history it is worthwhile to briefly touch on the subject. While a student at New Madison University, home of the Phighting Phoenix, my primary focus was clearly journalism. However, thanks to several excellent history professors I developed a keen interest in the subject. My senior project for Tim Fowler, one of my professors, brought together both my historical-research and journalistic sides. I had grown increasingly interested in the time period starting at the War of Noble Cause on mid-21st century Earth. Of course, ‘War of Noble Cause’ is the name given the Global Insurrection by the United Terran Government and its pet dog, the Department of Censorship. The War, started by a renegade element of the TDF, sought to overthrow the legitimate Global Terran Government. Eric Pohlman, in addition to James and Melinda Christopher, Adam Green, Meng Thao, Claire Jaecks, Jessica Broon, D’Andre Fremen and their organization known as ATMO, which formed the core of the TDF, stood in opposition to the Insurrection. However, by the end of the War enough propaganda had been brought to bear against the TDF that they were forced into exile on Mars. That was almost 500 years ago. When settlement of Mars began in true some 300 years ago, necessitated by the sudden attractiveness of Martian Mansions for the ultra-wealthy, the first settlers found no trace of the TDF exiles. Instead, they found a terraformed planet ready for habitation. My senior project for Tim focused largely on reconstructing both the pre- and War-era TDF as well as tracing their influence in more recent times. For reference, I have included that project as well as its sources in Appendices B and C.

Thus, largely thanks to Tim’s openness to me in being a heroer, as well as his support during my research, I became an adamant supporter of The Cause. Likewise, the chance to do research as part of my job on a place like L&H that was clearly so connected to the history that flowed from the TDF intrigued me. And since those of us who were heroers and supporters of the Underground were growing fewer in number every year, thanks to renewed and increased scrutiny by the Censors, meeting another of our kind was incredibly important. Especially finding one who knew about Project Plymouth. As I have already mentioned, very few people have even heard of the Project, fewer still that it somehow ties into both ATMO and the TDF. For all these reasons the man Greg intrigued me to no end. I had to find out more about him.

While I was talking to yet another group of regulars, I saw Greg tell Hank something then get up and leave. Catching my attention, Hank gestured me over to the bar. Excusing myself, I went and sat next to where Greg had been. Told me to give you this, Hank said, sliding a Jameson and Classic Coke my way. Don’t know that I’ve ever seen the man buy anyone a drink before. Must’ve made one hell of an impression on him, Hank added as he walked away to talk to another patron. It was the same drink Greg had been enjoying. I lifted it, the napkin underneath sticking for a moment before fluttering down to the bar. As it did, it opened to reveal writing.

Hank? I said, lifting the napkin while setting down the drink.

Yes? he drawled as he came back over.

You know where Greg lives?

Over on Lime Kiln Road, I think, Hank replied. There on the napkin was written ‘242 Lime Kiln. 10 AM sharp.’

You said he comes here Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays?

Yup. Somehow manages to keep a teaching schedule restricted to those days and stops here afterwards.

Thanks, Hank, I said, slamming the drink, suddenly needing it. Getting up I added, I’ll send over a copy of my final draft before it goes to press.

Sounds good, Jimmy. Don’t be a stranger.

I won’t, Hank. And thanks again. I could feel the drink beginning to work even as my car pulled itself out of the L&H parking lot toward my apartment. I had to dig, find out what I could about Greg Pace. He had left me the sort of invitation I had wanted. The man had information to share, that much was obvious. And if he knew of Project Plymouth that information would be worthwhile.

Once home I logged into my work’s databases, pulling on those stores to find anything about Greg. Professor at MNU. Knew that. Doctoral degree granted internally. Former employee of S&N Industries in their bio-computer division. A heavily redacted article popped up. As a journalist, a certain amount of such digging was permitted by the Censors, or else just looking up such an article would raise a red flag. What remained in the article described some sort of research into ‘illicit technology,’ cultivated by a group of independent scientists headed by Gregory Pace. Not only was he a heroer, but one who had survived being on the Censors’ radar for some decades. It only reinforced for me that what Greg could share with me would be very important. How important, though, I could not have imagined at the time.

My First Visit

While researching the man Greg Pace I could find no way to contact him. People, of course, had their personal number, mail address for virtual correspondence and the like (once called mobile number and e-mail address), but Greg apparently had neither. Mainly, I would have liked to have such contact information to, as I usually did, confirm our meeting time. However, I’m still not sure if I would have could I have. The invitation was, after all, a rather secretive and informal one. In any event, I arrived at Greg’s house at 10 am, sharp. On ringing the doorbell, I could hear movement within. Someone on the other side of the door was doing something with pieces of metal and wood. Looking at the door, I realized that this house had the old mechanical locks that opened with keys, latches and tumblers. Quite distinctive. The door swung open and there stood Greg from L&H.

Dr. Pace. Do you have some time today that we could talk? For long seconds he simply stood within his home staring at me. Finally he stepped aside from the opening and gestured inside. I entered, removing my hat after the second threshold, and took the place in while he refastened the door’s locking mechanisms. Maglocks, I thought, are so much more convenient and secure. The inside of the house felt as Spartan as the outside despite being well furnished. From the entryway I could see through a doorway into Greg’s kitchen which had a standard grow-garden in it. The light that sustained the plants seemed to flicker ever so slightly. Toward the back of the kitchen I could see a table up against the rear wall of the house, situated in front of a window that overlooked a yard with several fruit trees. To my left was the man’s living room, with but two chairs facing each other across a small coffee table. A large bay window, partly veiled by a privacy field, looked out onto Lime Kiln Road and the typical traffic thereon for this time of day. Against the far wall was a large floor to ceiling tiered shelf of plants. Some looked purely ornamental, others seemed like various types of herbs including rosemary, sweet basil of the purple variety and parsley, among others I could not at a glance identify.

To the left of the kitchen I could see stairs leading to the second level with a dining room just beyond. At the table were two chairs, opposite each other on the short side. No real adornments were on the walls, save a standard weather clock. What furniture there was, while exquisite in design, was very plain in trimming. Possibly the best way to describe the house was ‘minimalist.’

Greg walked past me and gestured to the chair in the living room whose back faced me as he went into the kitchen. Can I get you something, Mr. Hall? Something to drink?

Water would be just fine, thanks, I replied as I set my messenger bag down next to the chair. A simple high-backed gliding recliner upholstered in tan suede. I heard Eric pouring water from a pitcher before he returned to the living room.

So, Mr. Hall, what exactly did you come here hoping to discover? Eric asked me, handing me the glass of water and emphasizing the clay coaster on the end table to the chair’s left.

Today I came with an open mind. I know you’re a Heroer and was curious what historical goodies you have collected over the years, I said, then taking a sip of the water as I sat down. The water was somehow the best water I had ever had. It was only water, but somehow it had just the right touch.

Heroer. Let’s get off on the correct foot there, Mr. Hall.

Please, Dr. Pace, call me James. He smiled at that.

Then call me Eric. I hadn’t seen Eric as part of the man’s name in any on- or offline source.

Is that a nickname of yours?

I’ll explain later. For now just call me Eric.

Okay, Eric. So how should we get off on the correct foot, then?

I’m not, as you say, a ‘Heroer’. I had read him correctly, of that I was sure.

With respect, at L&H you reacted like you were. And only Heroers have put enough study into the TDF to even know about Project Plymouth, let alone that it at all relates to the likes of James Christopher, Eric Pohlman and the rest of the TDF leadership. Surely it was a cosmic joke of a coincidence, this man telling me to call him Eric.

That is a fair assessment, yes. And you certainly did surprise me. Before we go any further, though, how can you be sure I’m not a Censor? Just using my knowledge of the past to catch another heroer scum? The thought had occurred to me, however …

Nothing in your personal history or affiliations indicated that, I said. Plus, I had a feeling. And anyway, I said off-handedly, most university people dislike Censors even more than the general public. The thought of censorship goes against academic open-mindedness.

We simply know enough to know their danger to society. But I return to my previous statement. I am not a Heroer.

Then you’re a TDF Agnostic? I asked. I had heard of such people, those that let facts speak for facts and held no personal opinion about the TDF and ATMO’s role in human history.

Oh, no. No, no. I definitely hold a very firm belief about the role the TDF played in human history. Seeing it with your own eyes tends to have that effect.

I gurgled a reply around a gulp of water. Seeing?! You have recordings from the era? Nothing visual survived of the TDF. The Government’s Department of Censorship had seen to that over the course of time. Only descriptions from newspapers and obscure texts presented any evidence that they had actually existed at all. And the existence of such sources is what forced the Censors to continue to operate and to continue to re-create history.

Well, that’s not what I meant, no. But I do, yes. Just not readily available right now.

Of course not. A thought suddenly struck me. Greg.

Eric.

Sir, how can you be sure that I’m not a censor? Admitting to me he had such materials would be reason enough for him to vanish forever were I a government Censor.

I have better and more reliable powers of observation than you. It’s not that I don’t suspect that you’re a censor. It’s that I know you’re not. Something in his tone of voice made me believe that he actually did know.

Okay. Fair enough. My mind began to race. The smugness Eric portrayed, he had something very, very important to share about the TDF and he knew it. What I knew at the time was that whatever he would share with me would change the very course of my life. Then what exactly did you mean by ‘having seen?’ Are you prescient?

You’re asking if I can see the future like tarot-card readers or psychics? No. Their foresight is a brand all its own. And very peculiar it is, too. The man before me seemed lost in thought for an instant. James, I’ve been waiting a long time for this day to come. You cannot fathom how long. While some aspects of Martian life were harder on humans than was Terran or Lunar life, Greg’s age was still his age. His eyes, though, began to betray something to me. An age appeared in his green eyes that seemed to go well beyond his years. And for a moment his whole head of hair seemed to flash jet-black. But then I blinked and his hair was as it had been.

What do you mean? We met only yesterday.

You met me yesterday. I have seen this meeting coming for centuries. I simply could not predict the exact date it would happen. That type of prescient accuracy is beyond even my savant abilities. There was definitely a twinkle of something, excitement perhaps, in his eyes.

Greg.

Eric.

I’ve gotta say, you’re beginning to sound a bit unbalanced. Not meaning any offense, but is there a medication you should be taking?

How badly do you want to know the absolute truth about the history of the TDF? The real history, he asked, leaning forward. I offer you a choice now to walk away, for things are only going to seem stranger and more surreal the further down this rabbit hole you climb. I may seem off-balance now, but I assure you that I’m not. So again, just how badly do you want to know what really happened all that time ago? His question itself brought about a certain fight-or-flight response in me. But my curiosity was unquenchable, as it always had been. This man before me wouldn’t be a tenured professor if he was completely off his rocker, so he knew something. And any image or recording from all those years ago would be enough to warrant some present risk.

Follow the white rabbit, I said. He leaned back in his chair, looking like a commander on a spaceship bridge.

Then I do have two things to show you, he said, opening a drawer of the end table to his right. From it he pulled a piece of paper and what appeared to be an old print photograph. These are delicate due to age, he said, carefully leaning forward, handing one of them to me. The piece of paper was a birth certificate. On it was written clearly Eric Aaron Pohlman. Born: 5 May 1980 CE. Suddenly my heart was in my throat and beating at what felt like 200 beats a minute.

It’s a fake, I said, my hands beginning to tremble.

It’s real, Greg replied in an assured voce dulce.

No. It’s a fake, I repeated, still staring at it. Eric Aaron Pohlman had been the XO, second in command, of the TDF while their co-leaders, James Christopher and Meng Thao, had been alive. Upon their deaths Eric assumed the mantle of command through the time of the TDF’s exile to Mars. During the War of Insurrection against the United Terran Government, years after the Coalition Wars, Eric had been deemed the hero of the Battle of Thermopylae. He had led the counter-attack at Thermopylae that stopped a flanking maneuver of one of Chaos’ highest subordinates. In addition, he had been the commander in charge of the Battle of Chicago which, arguably, saved the United North American Government, that is the former nations of Canada, the United States of America and the United States of Mexico. Eric Aaron Pohlman was, really, the face of the TDF. And here on this fragile piece of paper was his name and an ink print of a tiny foot.

I would offer you a current print of my foot, but I know that after all these years it wouldn’t match anymore. My head snapped up, my eyes locking with his. My mouth went dry.

Absolutely not. I tilted my head off to one side, my eyes growing large. First you claim to tell me that this is authentic, read not even a fake. Then you also claim to be this man? This human being? No. I can’t possibly believe that. It’s simply been too long.

Of course it’s been. Here. Look at this. But be careful with that, he said, pointing at the birth certificate. What he handed me next was a somewhat faded photograph of eight people posing in front of a sign that read ‘NAR Defense.’ My mouth felt like a desert. There in the picture was a man of jet black hair and green eyes. I slowly raised my eyes. The resemblance was striking. If it weren’t the same man sitting in front of me then it was a direct descendent. And one to whom fate had played a steady hand in creating. My hands shook.

The one under my left arm is James Christopher. Under his left is Melinda Christopher. To my right is Adam Green. In front of us, from your left to right, are D’Andre Fremen, Jessica Broon, Meng Thao and Claire Jaecks. Of course, there’s no real way to corroborate that. As far as I know among the Heroers there has never been found an actual photograph of any of us. But I can tell that you recognize the company sign. I did. NAR Defense was the company started by Eric, James, Melinda and Adam after Project Plymouth. Meng, D’Andre, Jessica and Claire had been brought on as equal partners some time later.

You’re trying, I managed to say before my voice stuck in my throat. I swallowed several times, my gaze passing between the birth certificate and the photo. You’re trying to tell me, I managed, gazing back up at Greg…Eric…with a look of complete disbelief. I could not have been more shocked or confused had the man in front of me told me he was Jesus Christ, Buddha, Muhammad and Zeus all rolled into one. You’re Eric Aaron Pohlman?!

I believe that’s what I’m trying to get at, yes. After a momentary pause and shake of his head he added, I had seen that face a thousand times before, but to see it in person…I mean, I wish you could see the fucking shit-confused expression on your face right now! I bet you’d love to ball those both up and throw them back in my face right now, wouldn’t you? he asked, smiling. I had been thinking that. But you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because what if I’m not the biggest scam artist this system ever saw? Tell you what, he said getting up, patting me on the shoulder. I barely noticed, staring slack-jawed at the document and photo in my hand. I gotta take care of a few things at MNU. Why don’t you take those with you and have every inch of them scanned and carbon-dated? They haven’t sat in a time-spensor field a day of their existence. Come back here some time tomorrow. You should be able to get test results back by then. And tuck those away somewhere safe. They’re fragile!

My movements, stashing the two objects in the pages of an old print book I happened to have in my bag, as well as walking out to and getting in my car, are still like the near-lost memories of a waking dream. My vehicle’s drive to the University itself was clouded in a haze. Somehow I found my way to Tim Fowler’s office and managed a knock at his door.

Come in, came the absent-minded reply. He was looking at something on his tablet. When I didn’t enter he repeated, Come in, then looked up. His face lost most of its color. By the gods, James. What happened?!

Only somewhat aware of his question I simply said weakly, What?

You look like you’ve seen a ghost, man! Come in and sit down. He came around his desk and helped me into a seat there, facing him. Through the windows of his office I could see students walking to and from class, clumps of them talking as they went. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their dark green leaves a reminder that they weren’t an Earth-native tree species.

Close the door, I managed. Tim obliged. I looked at him and saw the concern on his face. I furrowed my brow, suddenly confused by that concern. I’m fine, I uttered dismissively. To myself I thought, what does he have to be concerned about me for? I was just told by a man that he…by a living man…that he was the Eric Aaron Pohlman of the TDF. An organization that had been banished to Mars over 400 years ago. A man who, according to the birth certificate in my bag, would be almost five centuries old. The thought itself seemed rational amidst the irrationality of the moment. Much as the idea of laying down and going to sleep seems perfectly reasonable to someone who has just suffered a massive concussion. I was talking to someone, I began as I pulled out the book from my bag. He gave me these. I extracted, ever so gently, the birth certificate and picture, setting them side by each facing Tim Fowler on his desk. He glanced at one, the other, back and forth, quicker a third time, then shot back from his desk, standing and supporting himself on the window edge behind him.

"Madre de dios," he whispered.

I met his eyes and asked, Who do you know in the Temporal Physics Department that can be absolutely trusted? We need to carbon-date these.

* * *

Before we headed across campus with our precious cargo Tim had me relate everything of my meeting with Eric to him. He had become as speechless as I had been. The concept alone of a founding member of the TDF still being alive was, if not absurd, beyond reasonable belief. From what was known of the TDF armed forces, they were somehow enhanced humans. No records yet existed on ‘enhanced’ how, but it tied back into whatever James, Eric, Adam and Melinda had done at Project Plymouth. Could part of it have been extended life? Eric appearing to be in his late fifties could mean something like one decade of age for every century lived. Medical science is currently very good at extending life, but nowhere near that good. And in checking quickly with the Biology Department’s administrative assistant on the best person to talk to about human longevity, we hit a dead end: Greg Pace. Eric.

Upon arrival at the science building we were greeted by a man by the name of Amid Saliba. Tim Fowler told me that he was a casual Heroer who had dabbled in minor research. His real passion, though, was temporal physics, a field these days that encompassed such talents as precise carbon dating. Tim assured me that while Amid may recognize the importance of Eric Aaron Pohlman, the company in the photograph should ring no bells. In other words, what we were about to ask Amid to do could be passed off as an historical find, for Heroers and non-Heroers alike.

My friends, hallo! Hallo, Amid greeted, shaking our hands in turn.

My friend, Tim replied. This is James Hall. He was an undergrad advisee of mine. I had shared with you his findings on the TDF. I shot him a questioning glance. Why did you think I asked your permission to share it if I felt safe doing so, James? It was very solid work.

"Ah, that James. Yes, yes! I thoroughly enjoyed the paper. Come, come. Let us proceed to my lab. There we can talk about these old documents we have. It is a short walk. This way, Amid said, beginning to lead us back into the building. Tell me James. Are you also the James Hall writer for the Times?"

That I am, sir.

Ah-ha! Yours is my favorite articles in the paper! Always so insightful and well researched! Must have been good teaching, eh? he asked over his shoulder, winking at Tim.

Could be. But not from me. He was always falling asleep in my classes!

Hey! I countered. I only did that when you were boring. Or on a day that ended in ‘y.’ We arrived at Amid’s lab. He closed the door and engaged all the privacy fields on full, blocking out the outside world and creating that extra-white glow that accompanied the whited-out windows, bouncing all the room’s lights back inside.

Now, my friends, what do you have? I very cautiously pulled the book from my bag, extracting the certificate and photo from it.

I was given these today. The man who gave them to me claimed that they are authentic. I need to know if they’re old enough to be so.

Amid lowered his glasses on his nose and studied them both. Why some people still opted for glasses instead of corrective surgery was beyond me. Yes, yes. At first glance quite old. He gingerly touched the birth certificate. Very old. This name…I recognize it. Is this the TDF man from your report, James?

That is what the man tells me, I said, glancing at Tim out of the corner of my eye. Amid kept his gaze fixed on the documents.

So you’ll be curious not only about the documents, but the ink too, then, huh?

Pardon?

Well, the paper itself could test old enough to be from the correct time, of course. But the ink could test otherwise. So you’d want both tested?

Yes. I suppose so. Can you help us do that?

Am I capable? Yes. Am I willing to help fellow Heroers uncover some piece of our history? Without question. Are you willing to leave this in my possession for a day? I will keep them safest and secret, Amid said, glancing up at me without moving. I met his glance, looking at Tim. He gave me a slight nod; the man could be trusted.

Sure. Yeah, I replied. When do you think you could have the results to me?

It will take a bit longer to do the tests off the official. Wouldn’t want anyone getting wind of this. Still, the computers should give me a result no later than 9AM tomorrow morning. That fit my schedule. It would give me what I needed in time to have new, informed questions ready for the man claiming to be Eric Pohlman.

Okay. Sounds good. Would you like my card so that you can contact me?

My friend, we both know that to be a bad idea, knowing what you are asking me to do. I will get the results and these documents to Timothy, who can return them to you. Ours is always a game worthy of some caution, no? Such an assessment put my mind at ease about how Amid would handle the tests. Although, to be honest, if the results turn out the way I think they will you may hear my shouts wherever you may be, Amid said with a chuckle.

I thanked Amid for his help and we parted ways, Tim heading back to his office and I back to my house. That night I found myself unable to have any sort of restful sleep. My brief meeting with Eric kept rolling itself over and over again in my head. I tried every mind-clearing technique I knew to force my mind away from the issue at hand. None worked. What if the birth certificate and photo turned out to be old enough? While time-spensors were common, time acceleration didn’t exist. If Amid came back with evidence that the certificate and photo were the proper age, did that prove that Greg Pace was really Eric Aaron Pohlman?

For that one last night uncertainty remained for me. I couldn’t be sure if the man Greg Pace was Eric Pohlman or not. I also couldn’t be sure what it would mean if he was. After all, for a hero of centuries ago in Earth’s history to still be alive, especially in a time when the Terran Government was doing all they could to suppress the very idea that he had even existed in the first place, what better counter evidence could there possibly be?

Such thoughts kept racing through my head all night as I contemplated the impossible reality that stood before me. As light shone through my windows I began to ask myself what I would say to the man if his claims were substantiated. What could I ask such a man? Tell me everything from the beginning? Nearly 500 years could not be easily related like that! No, I would have to focus the conversation, guide it toward specific ends. Try to fill in the massive gaps that history had left. This and more I sat diving | with my head at ease reclining | on the cushion’s velvet lining | with the lamplight gloating o’er, goes Poe’s poem. Here I lay, still awake, facing that raven.

I finally rose and made some coffee. Much would be needed to get me through this day. Where mathematicians may turn coffee into proofs, today I would turn coffee into truths. I had arranged with Tim Fowler to meet him for some early morning coffee on campus prior to heading back to his office to see the results. He, like I, had been kept awake all night by possibilities of the thing. Before meeting me he had stopped at his office to secure the envelope Amid had indicated would be there waiting for him. Not wanting to open it in public, we likewise wanted it kept close until we did. We made our way back to Tim’s office where he broke the seal on the envelope. Inside were the certificate and old photo, now sealed in protective coveralls. A letter and fact sheet had also been slipped inside. The letter read:

I burned the midnight oil, so excited was I of this! Shortly before 6 this morning the computers finished their analysis. On the included fact sheet you can see for yourselfs the results. To have such important documents in my hands has brought me indescribable joy! These both are indeed from the time period we seek. The birth certificate, ink and all, matches the date thereon inscribed. The photo is from 32 years later. I do not understand its significance, but assume one of you will. Please to share such with me when you find it! The coveralls I have placed on these will not prevent carbon degradation and so will make future carbon dating yet possible. They will, however, protect both documents from the typical atmospheric contaminants all old documents face. Keep these safe my friends! They are a great find for the cause!

Yours,

-A

So there it was. Neither Tim nor I could say anything for some minutes. We both kept rereading the letter to make sure that we had not misread it. The birth certificate was real. The photo was real. We had before us real evidence, hard evidence, primary evidence, that not only had Eric Aaron Pohlman existed, but that the rest of the senior TDF officers did and that they had all worked together at NAR Defense, a company that had actually existed.

Finally, with an eye on the clock I said to Tim, I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting him again soon. He looked up at me.

I don’t ask you to take me with you. But I would like to hear about it afterward.

Yeah, I replied.

What’re you going to ask him?

Actually, Tim, I don’t know yet. There’s so much.

I know. Just do me one favor today? Be sure to tell him how important he is to us, huh? I mean, you don’t get to talk to a legend just every day.

Will do, Tim. See ya later. I left his office and headed once more to Eric’s house. Did doubts still linger in my mind? Of course. While the birth certificate and photo were the right age, no one alive could truly verify their authenticity. But I wanted to believe that he really was Eric Pohlman. That somehow he really had survived all these centuries and really could answer my questions. Then, just as panic began to set in as I realized I had no prepared questions, no clear direction for this meeting with Eric, I found myself in front of his house once more. With the coverall documents in my messenger bag and a fully charged and prepared notetab, I mounted the steps to Eric’s front door and rang the doorbell. I heard someone stirring within and soon enough I heard the mechanical sounds of latches and tumblers as the locks of the door were being released. The door opened.

Thermopylae

Shells were whizzing past, mortars advancing toward us. We hadn’t expected an attack from behind; they must’ve found the old path through the hills. Tim Mayflower and I had hastily arranged a skirmish line. But even so, if we couldn’t stem the tide of the rear-flank, the base would be lost.

Can we get any reinforcements, Eric? Tim asked over the comm; he held command of our left.

No. They’re still attacking in force at our front. These must be their reserves. Every last one of them. This had to be a desperation move. After four