The Bureau of Lost Dreams

By Harlan Finchley

Being able to go back in time and put right a past mistake has always been an impossible dream, until now.

 

Shackleton Sheckley has unlocked the secret of time travel and his company offers clients a chance to take a trip into the past, but only for an hour. Afterwards, they will return to a new present day that has been created as a result of whatever they changed in the past.

 

Shackleton's latest client is Federica Albright. She hopes to change something she once did that she's always regretted, but, as she will learn, the result of tinkering with your past is never what you expect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Culbin Press
• Release date: May 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9781393799726

Book preview

At the Bureau of Lost Dreams

The strangely familiar man stood in front of a rusting filing cabinet. He was reading from an open folder over the top of his bifocal glasses. Dressed in a shapeless green cardigan, purple shirt and an orange bow tie, he provided the only color in the monotone room, the dull surroundings making his hideous clash of colors even more grating.

Welcome to the Bureau of Lost Dreams, XJ37, he said, raising his head. I’m Shackleton Sheckley, the proprietor.

Federica Albright edged on to the only available seat on her side of the desk, a rickety swivel chair. Tottering piles of manila folders surrounded the desk. A ceiling fan revolved too slowly to cool the oppressive atmosphere, its shadow passing across the moth-eaten carpet. On the desk, the Bakelite telephone was the most recent addition to an office unloved for years beyond counting.

I’d prefer Federica, and it appears I’ll have to step back in time to step out of time, she said with a smile.

Shackleton threw the folder on to the desk and sat down. He returned a timid, but welcoming smile.

Does that mean you’re completely sure that you want to undergo the procedure?

She shook her head. No.

With a wave of his hand over the imitation-oak desktop, a computer screen emerged from the desk. He pattered long fingers on the embedded keyboard and raised his head.

In that case, we should interview each other. Shackleton tapped his hands together. Fingertips nudged fingertips. You ask me for details of the procedure, and I ask you a set of probing questions to check your suitability.

Federica winced. She hated anyone prying into her life and in this case with good reason. She smoothed her blue skirt over her knees and crossed her hands on her lap.

What sort of questions?

I’ll be rolling back time to let you relive an hour of your life so you can act differently with the benefit of hindsight. As you may change what we believe is the history of the universe, I need to check you’re not a homicidal megalomaniac planning a fiendish scheme to achieve world domination.

Federica frowned. All right, ask your questions first.

Shackleton opened the folder on his desk and read the sheet of paper within.

So, XJ37, he read and coughed. I’m sorry, Federica, are you a homicidal megalomaniac planning a fiendish scheme to achieve world domination?

Federica ignored her nervousness and laughed. No, I’m nothing of the sort.

Shackleton slipped a gold-plated fountain pen from his cardigan and, with a flourish, drew a tick on the sheet of paper.

So that all seems in order. Shackleton closed and pushed the folder into the pile at the side of his desk. You’ll be pleased to know you have passed as I deem you suitable for the procedure. The floor is yours for the rest of the afternoon.

Federica had prepared for a difficult session proving her worth, while avoiding all the incriminating personal details. Robbed of this unwelcome task, she waved her hands vaguely.

What would you suggest I ask you? she said.

It’s up to you. For example, I get many journalists. They pretend to be interested while they research another ‘Mr. Sheckley is a fraud’ story, but they don’t get this far. Shackleton leaned forward and winked. My probing set of questions always trips them up.

Federica shook her head. I’m not from a magazine, although I have read several articles about you, but the science bits confused me.

Shackleton shrugged. Scientists usually want to debate quantum mechanics. This is rather tedious for the leading mind in the theory of time, in fact, the only mind. I also get science fiction fans. They want to debate causality loops and wormholes, which produces a deadly boring session as I’ve no idea what they are.

That doesn’t apply to me either, although I once saw a science fiction program. It had a man who lived in a box that was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside.

Ah, that’s a personal favorite, with some terrible science.

What do normal people do?

Normal people? Shackleton chuckled, a grating sound as if this was something he wasn’t used to doing. Many worry about whether they’ll alter the fabric of society when they go back in time. I have to let them know how unimportant they are to history. It usually leads to tears. For the rest, I suppose it comes down to a three-part process.

Federica sighed. Three sounds good. I’ll go for that.

I haven’t explained the process yet. Shackleton chuckled again. Firstly, you need to decide if the process is for real. If you change history, afterward you’ll have no proof of the procedure’s success, or that you ever came here. I could, as some articles have suggested, just drug or hypnotize you.

Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t do that.

Shackleton smiled. Thank you. Once you’re convinced of the procedure’s validity, you need to consider ethics. Have you the right to change your life and possibly in the process, change other people’s lives, too?

Federica nodded. I understand.

Finally, you need to consider whether the procedure is worth the cost. It is the ultimate in re-engineering your life, but you might get the same result, for the same cost, by starting a business, taking a long vacation, or perhaps having some plastic surgery.

Federica rubbed her nose and shuffled on her chair.

That’s a lot to consider.

Shackleton nodded and twirled on his chair. With a sweep of his arm, he waved at his poorly stacked piles of folders.

It is, so perhaps some case history might help. In each of these folders, there is a lost dream. I could tell you how my clients tried to change their lives and what happened when they returned to their newly created present. The stories might help you to decide if this procedure is appropriate for you.

How many stories will it take? Federica asked, expecting two or three.

That depends on how much you like to hear stories, but I reckon half-a-dozen should suffice.

What?

All right, ten.

Ten? Federica squeaked.

Shackleton raised a finger. My final offer is twelve, but no more.

Federica bit her lip. Twelve it is.

With an imperious wave, Shackleton gestured at his piles of plain folders.

So what would you like? Happy or sad, funny or tragic, scary or heart-warming? I have it all somewhere in these folders.

I’d like a romantic case.

Shackleton leaned back in his chair and picked up a folder at random. With a smile, he opened the folder.

It would appear that this one is just such a case – WS17, Justin’s lost dream. Of course, for client confidentiality I’ll alter all names, places, times and facts, but other than that, this is a true story of someone who stepped through my office door not five months ago.

"He came here not five months ago, so Justin came here some other time?" Federica picked at a bobble of fluff on her cardigan sleeve, ashamed at having been pedantic.

Shackleton tapped on his keyboard. Yes, I’ve changed all the details, except for what happened when I helped Justin find his lost dream.

Tell me, Federica found herself saying.

Shackleton leaned back in his chair and read from his computer screen. Within seconds, his melodious voice filled her mind with another person’s life, regrets and a lost dream he was about to rediscover.

Catherine and the Other Woman

Justin flopped into his chair in the living room and hid behind the morning paper. Protected in his cocoon, he heard Catherine shuffle from the kitchen and thump a fist on the doorframe.

What time is this? Catherine screeched.

This was a nightly question and, for some years now, the full extent of their evening’s conversation.

I don’t know, Justin said. Hidden behind the paper, he rocked his head from side to side, mouthing the words with exaggerated mouth movements. What time is it?

It’s too late, Catherine shouted.

Justin sighed. The two hours spent at his desk at Thorpe Enterprises building a paper clip chain from a box of clips wasn’t a good use of any dynamic executive’s time. Not that dynamic, or executive, described him anymore. Catherine had ripped those attributes from him long ago.

I don’t work late at the office just for you to nag me the second I walk through the door, Justin snapped. I’m reading the paper now because I haven’t had the chance all day.

With a shuffle of the paper, he again read the page he’d opened randomly. This page featured an upside down article on backpacking trips across the Andes. Maintaining as much dignity as he could muster, Justin dropped the paper on to the chair arm and turned to the slice of his wife visible through the doorway.

Her purple leggings and baggy orange tee-shirt combination were more elegant than usual. Catherine had been spending his money again.

You should get someone else to do the filing, Catherine said, running a hand over her curler-filled hair. Then you wouldn’t have to work so late.

Justin bit back an oath. How did she know these things? He had planned to waste time by filing tonight until the paper clip project presented him with the big challenge for the day.

I work late for us all, he said, his mind empty of any good retorts.

Often by this stage Catherine would give up on arguing, but at least once a week she dragged the argument on. She gestured upstairs, so he knew what was coming before she had uttered a word.

I reckon Kylie and Jason would welcome seeing their father more than having you work late.

I’ll see them after I’ve read the paper, he said, lying.

All right, but if you read the paper the right way around, you’ll see them even faster.

He snorted and picked up the paper. Will Abigail be coming to see you tonight?

She’s coming at the weekend.

Justin gripped the paper, tearing away a slither. Catherine wandered away, leaving him on his own, as he would be until he arrived at work tomorrow. He sighed, regretting that he hadn’t gone straight to a bar this evening.

Recently, the hope of a glimpse of Abigail was the only reason he came home at all. To avoid dwelling on his disappointment, he slipped the paper to the floor. He checked the hallway to ensure that Catherine wasn’t hiding, ready to barge in and whine about something else, and then tiptoed to the writing desk in the corner of the room.

There at the back, under a pile of bills, was the letter. With hands shaking and his heart feeling as if it were in his mouth, he opened this morning’s letter to read again those few intriguing lines.

Dear Mr. Thomas,

I would like to thank you for your interest in the Bureau of Lost Dreams.

I found your lost dream to be of interest to me. I would be grateful if you would come to my office at 2:00pm, September 19 when I will consider carrying out the procedure.

Remember to bring the check for fifty thousand dollars, which is payable immediately, provided you can answer my probing set of questions.

Yours sincerely,

Shackleton Sheckley

Proprietor, the Bureau of Lost Dreams

Justin couldn’t believe it. He’d read that the odds were stacked against Mr. Sheckley accepting your application. Yet, here was this letter. This meant that either he was lucky, or Mr. Sheckley was a conman.

Justin tapped the letter against his chin and nodded. Tomorrow morning, he’d visit the bank and open a new account with one dollar in it. Then he would write the check for the procedure from that account.

If Mr. Sheckley was a conman, the experience wouldn’t be profitable for him, but if he was legitimate, the cost would be worth every cent. His procedure was cheaper than a divorce and the results would be more tangible.

Outside the old, crumbling building containing the Bureau of Lost Dreams, Justin edged closer to the hobo who sprawled in the doorway.

Give an old sailor a dollar, the hobo said, waving a bottle at Justin. A failed movie star and a bottle of squeaky polish to maintain. That could be you.

Justin bit back his distaste. He ignored the hobo’s inane giggling and leaped over his legs and into the building. Once inside, he walked down the dirty corridors. With each pace, Justin’s fears that he’d come to the wrong building grew.

Surely the most sophisticated technological advancement yet devised, a technique that ripped apart the fabric of reality – as the adverts promised – couldn’t operate from this disheveled building. Unless this was a con and Justin was the first idiot to have come here.

Inside the Bureau of Lost Dreams, with hands on hips Justin faced a ludicrously dressed man. He was standing amid various items of battered furniture and piles of folders were dotted around the room.

Welcome to the Bureau of Lost Dreams, WS17, the man said. I’m Shackleton Sheckley, the proprietor.

WS17, what’s that? Justin asked.

Mr. Sheckley consulted an open folder on his desk.

I’m sorry, Justin Thomas. How would you like to conduct this meeting?

Justin nodded and placed his hands on the back of the only available chair. With an ominous creak, the rickety piece of furniture just supported his weight.

I’d like to consider if you’re for real. If I’m convinced, I’ll try the procedure.

Mr. Sheckley stuck out his bottom lip, nodding.

That sounds fine to me. I’ll need to ask you a probing set of questions later, but for now, what are your concerns?

I’m worried about time paradoxes.

Mr. Sheckley frowned. "You’re not a fan of Space Rangers of the Twenty-third Century, are you? I get a lot of trouble from that lot."

Justin shook his head. "No, I never watch it. What I mean is, when I was at work yesterday I came across this website Time Travel Is Hooey. The site said you’re a fraud. Do you know the site?"

"I’m not a fan of the Internet. I can never find any useful information there, although I’ll admit to having a presence on the Xuxi, Maiden of the Galaxy forums."

Yeah, Justin said, widening his eyes.

After Xuxi had appeared on that talk show dressed in a dozen Christmas baubles and some tinsel, he’d spent many happy hours searching for details about that young lady, too.

Apart from that, I don’t dabble. Mr.