The Future Past

By Mike Bowerbank

It started when a rookie American agent from the 21st Century got sent on what he thought was a routine mission to Canada to investigate a suspected arms trafficking ring masterminded by a nefarious weapons dealer named Arish Aziz. John Davis – the agent in question – was not to know that his day would go from bad to worse so very quickly.

He was briefed for his mission, but nowhere in the briefing was anything mentioned about him having to deal with a vigilante sociopath from New York City named Malcolm or the sociopath's Canadian ex-girlfriend Mary, who seemed to have some anger and impulse-control issues. It also completely declined to mention that John would start hearing a voice inside his head that addressed him in the third person.

His briefing also left out the fact that the entire fabric of reality as he knew it would be unravelled, and that he would end up in the year 1812.

This version of 1812 he found himself in was certainly very different from how he had remembered it from history class in high school. The United States and Canada did not exist, Great Britain was no longer so great, and a sprawling empire called New Georgia occupied most of North America.

A tiny sliver of territory on the northwest coast broke away from the Empire which resulted in the massing of New Georgian soldiers to the immediate south of them.

John, Malcolm, and Mary are stuck in the middle of it all and they need to figure out how to stop a war, and not just the one they are fighting with one another. They are further faced with wondering how this world became the way it was, and whether or not there is any way to set things back to the way they are supposed to be.

There are no shortages of riddles to solve and villains to deal with, but the biggest threats to Malcolm, Mary and John are themselves, as each has to overcome their own obsessions and preconceived ideas, as well as their rocky relationships with one other. Often, all it takes for history to take a drastic turn is one relatively minor event. One such event had occurred, and as a result their continent and reality were completely unrecognizable.

Can they discover what that event was? If they can, is there anything they can do about it? Or will their actions only make the world they knew forever irretrievable?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Bowerbank
• Release date: Nov 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201649241

Mike Bowerbank

I'm a Canadian author who has a fascination with what makes people tick. The dynamic between people and their chemistry can create some truly amazing interactions. I try to capture such moments in my novels.I published my first novel in 2015 and have been loving the journey ever since.I have a wonderful family. "Wonderful" in that I look at them and wonder... while they look at me and wonder... we are all full of wonder.

Book preview

Chapter 1

John Davis’ day began with the sound of a gun being cocked in his immediate vicinity, which by any measure is a very rude awakening. His head jerked up from the pillow and then his entire body froze in place, his heart pounding, as he realized the gun he had just heard was being aimed at him by a cold-blooded killer.

Worse still, he noticed that the gun being pointed at him was his own.

The sudden burst of adrenaline which coursed through his veins caused him to go from peaceful slumber to wide-eyed terror in an infinitesimal moment.

He had been sent on a mission on behalf of the ATF, or Bureau for Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms, which was also the agency he was studiously trying to become a member of. Waking up in this Canadian hotel room and looking down the barrel of his own gun was a level of terror Davis had never experienced before. The single most prominent thought in his brain at that moment was that this could quite possibly end up being the shortest day of his life if he wasn’t careful. His mind raced while his body continued being deliberately still, not daring to do anything that could get himself killed.

As if things weren't bad enough, the aforementioned killer was in the mood to make the situation worse.

Good morning, John, he said, breaking the silence in a voice that resonated with insincere cheerfulness. He steadily held the weapon just three feet away from Davis’ face and aimed at the bridge of Davis’ nose. I like your gun. The Smith & Wesson Model 4006 is a good choice, but you shouldn’t leave it where just anyone can find it.

Davis had kept his gun where he always did while he slept - under his pillow with the safety on. The problem wasn't so much where he hid his weapons as much as it was with people sneaking undetected into his hotel room and removing them from those hiding places.

John Davis couldn’t help but wonder how this person managed to get into his locked hotel room and lift the gun out from under his pillow while his head was still on it without waking him up. This was, however, only a brief thought, as the part of his brain that dealt with fear and potentially life-threatening situations took over and decided the immediate area of focus should be the man in his room actually holding the gun.

I’m curious about the gun, the man said. It’s not something the ATF would issue an agent, which means it’s your own personal firearm. That means you brought it into Canada illegally, which is exactly the sort of thing your agency is trying to stamp out. Maybe you made the wrong choice on Career Day in high school.

Davis continued being perfectly still. He felt as though any sudden movement would end his life.

You know who I am, right? than man asked.

Davis nodded slowly, his wide eyes not moving from the gun barrel. The little black hole at the end of the gun seemed disproportionately large from his vantage point.

Good, the man replied levelly. You’ve done some of your homework, anyway.

The man’s name was Malcolm Marksmann, and he had a reputation for brutality, harsh vigilante justice, and extreme sarcasm; but no reputation for patience whatsoever.

Davis was currently of the opinion his assignment to investigate a weapons trafficking ring was off to a less-than-stellar start. His eyes made a cursory glance up to the white tiled ceiling and he envied its non-involvement with the current situation. John then looked into the cold eyes of Malcolm while the rest of Davis’ body remained motionless. The single bead of sweat which by then had formed on his forehead was also not moving. The only sound in the room at the time had been from the air conditioning vent in the ceiling, and even it had chosen that particular moment to shut off. It seemed as though even the air in the room had stopped moving for fear of being noticed.

Davis was only twenty-four years old, but he had thought of himself as quite mature, as 24-year-olds are often wont to do. He believed he had a good grip on the world and had felt nearly invincible when he entered the ATF training program. Driven by his ambition, Davis believed he could be running the entire bureau by the time he was thirty, which to him and almost every other twenty-four-year-old, seemed so very far away. All those feelings of invincibility and lofty ambitions now seemed like a lifetime ago, although he had only just held them the night before.

There is a very particular feeling of clarity which envelopes a person when they find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun; especially when it is being held by someone who wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. Suddenly your entire life becomes focused on what’s important and on the ‘big picture.’ It seemed a big deal to him yesterday that his plane had arrived quite late at night and that there were delays in getting his luggage. Prior to that, it had seemed important that he and his roommate back home were arguing over whose turn it was to take out the trash and load the dishwasher. None of those memories were anywhere near his consciousness now. None of it really seemed to matter at all. If things went badly, they would never matter again. He tried to stop thinking thoughts like that, as they were distracting him from thoughts of staying alive on a moment-by-moment basis.

Every one of those moments in John’s world now seemed punctuated by rapid heartbeats, each one pounding like a kettledrum inside his body. His head throbbed. His throat felt dry. He was both too frightened and too careful to move.

John found it increasingly difficult to concentrate, as a flurry of millisecond bursts of his life kept passing by. He tried hard to focus his mind on thinking of any possible ways to get out of this situation alive and in one piece. Every single possibility he came up with all hinged upon whether or not the man in front of him was going to be merciful, when the person in question had no real reason to be so inclined.

It is only when your life can end in a single moment that you treasure every single second that you get in your life. John was maturing on an emotional level very quickly.

This wasn’t much of a challenge, Davis, Malcolm said, stating the obvious. He shook his head in a slow, pitying way. You have a lot to learn about... well, about everything.

Malcolm very slowly lowered the gun and then tossed it onto the foot of the bed at Davis’ feet. John saw that as an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

Davis scrambled forward in a desperate dive for the gun, yet Marksmann didn't so much as flinch. He then twisted himself onto his side, gun in hand, and got it pointed at Marksmann who remained unflinching.

You’re under arrest, Davis tried to command, but it lost some of its effectiveness due to his voice cracking like an adolescent’s. Malcolm gave him a pained look as he cocked his head slightly and raised an incredulous eyebrow.

Davis became all-too aware something was wrong with his gun. He could tell by its noticeable change in weight.

You took the clip out of it didn’t you?

Malcolm nodded, with a bored expression on his face.

Davis blinked hard and winced.

So, I’m holding an unloaded gun right now.

Malcolm nodded again, just enough to be perceptible.

You realize of course, Davis said slowly, how utterly humiliating this moment is.

Probably slightly less than being seen in those boxer shorts you’re wearing, Malcolm remarked with a look of exaggerated displeasure.

Davis slowly lowered the empty gun and tossed it with some disgust and resignation back onto the bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, which were now starting to tremble slightly.

If the gun were loaded, it would have been a felony for me to have pointed it at you; not that I tend to worry about that sort of thing, Marksmann calmly replied. I took the bullets out of your gun more for your own protection than mine. You pull this out against Arish Aziz and you’ll be dead before you take aim.

Davis looked at the gun lying on the bed beside him and frowned, almost as if he expected it to feel some pang of guilt for letting him down. He sighed, completely deflated.

So, what happens now? Davis asked resignedly. Are you going to kill me?

Malcolm chuckled and then gently tossed the magazine of bullets he had removed from John’s gun across the room towards the far wall and sighed. He saw Davis’ brief calculating glance at the bullets and slowly shook his head and patted his jacket which concealed the shoulder holster he was wearing. Malcolm was known to carry two M-9 Berettas with him everywhere. Davis knew there was no way he could reach the bullets and get his gun loaded and ready before Malcolm slowed him down in a painful and perhaps fatal way.

As a matter of fact, Davis, smirked Malcolm, I am not going to kill you this morning, and for two reasons. One, you’re not my enemy – you’re just some clueless kid. Two, if things go wrong and I happen to die later this morning, then I don’t want to have to see you if there’s an afterlife.

Malcolm backed slowly towards the hotel room door, keeping his eyes on Davis. Marksmann was not a particularly large man. He stood about five-foot ten inches tall, and had a medium build with dark brown hair, fair complexion and steel-grey eyes. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, faded blue jeans with a slight tear on the right knee, and a black t-shirt with a pair of sunglasses hanging off the neckline.

Malcolm’s specialty wasn't in the brawn department; he was a sniper, and a frighteningly talented one at that. He was also disturbingly resourceful and, from what Davis had been told, always seemed to be one step ahead of whatever law enforcement body happened to be chasing him.

When Davis was first assigned to work on this mission, Avery Goddard – the man who recruited him for this task – told him about Malcolm as part of the briefing for the assignment. Goddard had warned him that while he was investigating the alleged firearms ring that he may encounter a sniper and he mentioned Malcolm’s name. Davis figured his boss was putting him on. He thought it incredulous a marksman would actually have the last name of Marksmann.

Unfortunately for him, his boss hadn’t been joking and was why he was in this particular mess and experiencing something due north of pure terror.

Malcolm continued backing away until he came to the hotel room door and he put his hand on the doorknob. He paused briefly in contemplation and then looked directly at John Davis.

"Look, you’re not even a proper rookie, yet; you’re still just a trainee. A week ago, you were still in Glynco, Georgia, less than a third of your way through your 27-week training course. I know this is your first assignment, but I don’t really know why you got it. They pulled you right out of your classes and sent you here. Did you ever ask yourself why they would do that? Did you really think you were ready for prime time so early on, especially a major assignment like this? I’m almost curious to know more about this little mystery, but as a low-level flunky you’re not worth any more effort on my part. As an adversary, you’re not worth the bullet."

Wait, Davis urged. As much as he wanted Marksmann to leave, there was one thing he had to know. Did you say you think you’re going to die today?

Kid, I think I am going to die every miserable, goddamned day of my life, but today in particular it’s a very strong possibility, yeah. Malcolm took his hand off the doorknob and leaned against the wall. I have an appointment later this morning with the same bastards you’re here to investigate. They’re a lot more capable than you; you do know they’re more capable, right? It may not go so well for me either, but who knows? You should let me deal with these creeps – just stay the hell out of it. If you show your face to these guys, they will kill you, and they’ll do it with as much pain involved as possible. That would be entertaining for me to watch, but less so for you to experience. Go back home, kid, and live long enough to collect a pension. Just whatever you do, don’t follow me.

Marksmann opened the door, stepped through it and closed the door gently.

It was over. He was gone.

Davis suddenly noticed he hadn’t been breathing properly until that point, and was now feeling quite dizzy. He drew several deep breaths and then started to shake as his body dealt with the excessive amounts of adrenaline which was hanging around looking for some place in his body to be useful. He felt sick to his stomach.

Davis had really liked this hotel until now. It was a good suite in a city he had never been in before. He felt fortunate that the Agency booked him into such a cozy room in a city as spectacular as Vancouver, in Canada’s south-westernmost corner. His hotel suite was smallish, just one reasonably-sized room and a small bathroom, which made it practical and modest. The view from his room was nothing short of breathtaking. From the window, you could see across the busy harbour, which was back-dropped by a range of majestic mountains. Vancouver had about two million people, which made it about the same size as his home town of Phoenix, so he found it a somewhat familiar size. However, it was now forever tainted in his mind as being the place in which he experienced the most humiliating moment of his life.

He wants me to go back home? Davis whispered to himself. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let him get away with that.

He picked up his gun, retrieved the ammunition clip and donned his jacket. His mind replayed some of Malcolm’s words and it helped transition his emotional state from abject terror to focused fury.

There’s nothing anyone can do to me that is any worse than what he just did.

He ran towards the door and realized he was still in his boxer shorts.

Damn!

Davis ran back towards his bed, underneath which was his suitcase. He pulled it out and opened it, furiously pulling out clothes he could don quickly. He threw the clothes on the bed and began to get dressed as he did the dance of the nervous, the rumba of the impatient, and both were intermixed with the polka of the full-bladdered.

Damn, Davis yelled again as he hopped to the bathroom while pulling on a sock.

––––––––

Outside of Davis’ fifteenth floor hotel room and standing on the balcony, the raven stepped away from the sliding glass door. He was happy the curtains had not been fully closed so he didn’t miss the show.

This pleased the raven to no end.

He unfolded his wings slowly. Gracefully, with great dignity, and then with a few powerful strokes, was airborne.

He floated upon the warm Autumn morning air, in a gradual and circular ascent. Ravens were certainly not rare in the Pacific Northwest. They were, however, certainly not common above the downtown core of a large city; ravens typically prefer forested areas where there are fewer humans around.

This, however, was a particularly rare and peculiar raven, as it was not only out of its normal habitat, it was also an albino.

Perhaps the most unusual thing about this great white bird was that it had glowing blue eyes and intelligence well beyond that of the genus.

Beyond most of humanity as well.

This creature had been around for many centuries, although it had only just become a raven for the first time about an hour ago, and was quite enjoying itself.

Chapter 2

Malcolm rode down the hotel elevator to the lobby, still pondering the little mystery. The ATF sending in a guy like Davis was a reckless and most puzzling move. John Davis seemed a decent kid and Malcolm didn’t want to see him get killed. Malcolm also felt it was worth revealing his presence because if he’d made the impression he hoped he had, Davis would be more careful. If Davis was angry enough after that humiliation, he would end up having Davis as his unwitting backup while he - Malcolm - chased the bad guys. The irony of it all made it all seem worthwhile to him, because that was just the kind of twisted bastard Malcolm was.

He stepped off the elevator and walked towards the check-in desk, where a man in a navy-blue suit and polished silver buttons standing behind the counter gave him a questioning look. Malcolm gave him a thumbs-up sign and the man nodded and smiled. When Malcolm reached the desk, he handed the man a plastic hotel room access card.

Thanks for arranging that, Stanley, said Malcolm, tossing Stanley an envelope. Take your lovely wife Caroline out somewhere special this weekend.

I will. She will be disappointed she didn’t get a chance to say hi, Stanley deftly slid the envelope into his breast pocket. It was nice to be able to do something for you for a change.

How are the kids? asked Malcolm. Jennifer must be starting Kindergarten this year if I remember right.

Yeah, she did indeed, Stanley beamed proudly. And Josh is in Grade Two.

Time goes by fast, doesn’t it? Malcolm smirked. Last time I saw them Jennifer was only just walking.

Yeah, time flies. Thanks again for everything you did for her, Stanley shook Malcolm’s hand firmly. Those treatments you paid for saved her life.

Stanley’s eyes were beginning to mist up. He was a man in his mid-thirties, and he was large, barrel-chested and quite muscular. He had the appearance of a bouncer, but had teddy-bear eyes and a gentle soul. Having children had really softened the man.

You’ve thanked me so many times already I’ve lost count, Malcolm smiled. Besides, I didn’t really pay for it. You should thank the drug den I stole it from. I’m just glad Jennifer still has a clean bill of health.

You and me both. Will you be coming to Jennifer’s birthday next month? Stanley asked with genuine hope. She always asks about her rarely-seen godfather.

If there is any possible way I can be there, then I will be, Malcolm answered, trying not to betray his current view of his odds on surviving the day.

That’s great, Stanley replied cheerfully. If you do, you know you can also bring—

We’re not together any more, Malcolm interrupted again and then shrugged. Sorry, Stanley, I should have told you last time I saw you, but you and I were busy tending to your daughter's health issues, which were a lot more important.

Sorry to hear that, Stanley shrugged back, somewhat embarrassed. I thought you two would go the distance. Take care of yourself.

You take care, too, Stanley, Malcolm replied, ignoring the rest of Stanley’s response.

Malcolm walked out of the downtown hotel and decided to get a coffee at the café across the street. It was one of those trendy coffee shops which made a business out of copying the concept of the big coffee chains that have sprung up on every second corner in most cities, but which were running epidemic in coffee-obsessed Vancouver.

The early autumn weather was quite pleasant; a bit breezy but still sunny with a temperature that was comfortable without committing itself to either too-warm or too-cold. He loved the smell of the ocean, which wafted through Vancouver’s downtown core; it reminded him of the invigorating smell at Rockaway Beach and Coney Island – his two favourite places from his childhood – back home in New York.

The smell also brought a tinge of bitter sadness, as he remembered who used to take him to Coney Island on those hot summer weekends of his youth...

Malcolm stopped himself and instantly pushed his sorrow into anger. That would keep him focused on what needed to be done and serve as a reminder to him as to why he was doing it.

He continued along, picking up his pace, and he seemed to be completely unnoticed by anyone else on the busy sidewalk.

Malcolm was of the opinion that the locals in Vancouver were overly smug about the city's natural splendour, and it was their seeming self-absorbed narcissism which made it the perfect city for doing his business unbothered. Vancouverites, he had come to learn, were so wrapped up in themselves as well as their city’s storied magnificence they were utterly unaware of how much trafficking, smuggling and gangland crime went on right under their noses. Perhaps it wasn't that they were unaware, he mused; it could be just pure denial.

He further believed that you could probably wear a large neon sign reading Hello, I am a terrorist and I’m going to kill someone and most people wouldn’t notice you. Those that did notice you would organize a demonstration in support of your freedom of expression and somehow blame the police and various global organizations for your plight.

As cities went, he thought Vancouver wasn’t bad, aside from the weather which was mostly wet. He knew that he also had quite a bit of history here, but he really didn’t want to think about that at the moment. It was a complication he knew he would be having to face soon enough.

He came up to West Georgia Street, the crossing of which can be quite an ordeal as the locals sometimes take right turns like they're actually trying to hit you as you go, they then look quite surprised when they see you in front of them at the last second. He stepped down at the walk signal and caused some right-turning cars to stop quite suddenly to a cacophony of honks from the cars behind them. Malcolm just shook his head. To him, life was always one big game of chicken and he always assumed the other person would blink first.

Was it stupid to come out here or brave?

The answer, Malcolm knew, would depend on the outcome. Whenever someone goes against heavy odds, people don’t judge right away, because they aren’t completely sure how it will turn out and they want to hedge their bets. They instead ask questions such as are you insane? or do you have any idea what you’re doing? You can’t judge too early; you have to see the results first. If the person succeeds, you can then say they were incredibly brave to stand up and defy the heavy odds and prevail out of bold determination. If, on the other hand, the person fails, you can then say it was incredibly stupid and misguided and what the hell were they thinking going up against odds like that? Human nature is fairly predictable in this area.

Although he knew a lot about human behaviour and was rather skilled at predicting it, he still didn’t actually comprehend what passed for logic throughout humanity. He could not, for example, wrap his mind around the concept that in Vancouver, you could be arrested for the act of popping open a can of beer on a public beach, but at the same time, there was a legal heroin injection site in the downtown eastside.

It reminded him of back home in the old neighbourhood, where one lady in the tenement house across the street would spend her entire day spying on everyone in the area from her living room window. When she ventured outside, the only thing she ever said to people was that they should mind their own business.

Malcolm stepped onto the curb at the other side of the street and walked down an escalator and into a coffee shop just inside the underground mall. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to nine. He still had time. He walked up to the counter and ordered a coffee. This seemed to confuse the lanky teenaged boy with the goatee behind the counter. 

The server asked, What kind of coffee you want?

What do you mean what kind? asked Malcolm with a puzzled look on his face and in his special ‘talking to idiots’ voice.

The barista smirked then took a deep breath and sighed. We have lattes, special blends, mochas, cappuccinos, and espressos. What will it be?

Just plain coffee, Malcolm waved his hand dismissively.

The server looked at him as though he’d ordered in Swahili.

You know... coffee? Malcolm exhaled sharply and rolled his eyes. Look, they harvest these little beans, usually in equatorial parts of the world, dry them out, ship them here where it’s ground up and put into those stupid tiny bags. People then pour very hot water over the ground beans in a process referred to as ‘brewing’. Am I going too fast for you or are you with me so far?

The clerk nodded intently. I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but so far it’s really cool.

Malcolm was used to dealing with political high-rollers and powerful people who used language as a sophisticated weapon. He often had to mentally gear down in order to discuss things with people he considered simpletons, and right now he felt as though he was talking to their king. He pointed behind the clerk to a pot, which contained something which vaguely looked like the colour of plain coffee.

I’ll have a large cup of whatever that dark brown liquid is over there, Malcolm said as calmly as he could manage, feeling a slight headache coming on.

The clerk smirked at Malcolm. That’s not plain, sir, that’s Colombian Regular. What size did you want?

I’m pretty sure I asked for a large, repeated Malcolm. Yes, this was definitely the onset of a headache.

So, you want a Groot then? The server beamed.

Groot is a size, is it? Malcolm asked. "Or is it some sort of headache remedy,