1
Mel Roberts had another Vernors and sat back on the couch. He felt worlds better after having talked with Lizzie. It was amazing how much better a person could feel after having unloaded a heavily burdened mind; finally… someone to confide in — to… talk to…
But as he’d replayed the events of his life to Lizzie, well, somehow the recent events just hadn’t seemed right. Something was missing. He knew the reality of the facts themselves, but something about them just didn’t sit right. Yes, there had been a car crash — an accident — yes, his parents had been killed, and, yes, he had been left on his own, to forever fend for his parentless self, in his Family of One.
Was that so hard to believe?
So many others had survived on their own without adult guidance, and at younger ages… hadn’t they? And had he absolutely no other kin — aunts, uncles, nor cousins?—to help raise him? He didn’t know much about the law, but wouldn’t the state… or some agency… appoint someone to oversee him? There was just something weird about everything.
And there was more.
He’d only just realized it after the phone call, and it was something that quite disturbed him. He felt — and this was hard to even admit to himself — but, about his parents, he actually felt…
Emotionless.
“How can I even think such a thing!” he said, shooting to his feet.
But the thought was there… and there, he’d said it. Put it out into the universe, as his mom would have said (would — had she — really?). After the initial outburst at finding the upstairs pictures, he’d found that all familial emotion (substitute “love”; there was no longer any need to distance himself from the facts) actually seemed to have waned.
And while talking to Lizzie he’d never said anything about “love” (it’d occurred to him during the course of their conversation), and he’d felt extremely awkward discussing — using — the word. Feeling the actual emotion.
“Love”… it just wasn’t there.
How could he not love his parents?
Had they been evil? Deserved to die?
No. They’d been there his entire life, had been the best parents in the world, only to — one day — disappear. To forever be gone. Just like that.
How the hell could he not have any feelings toward them? About their abrupt departure from this world… from his life?
Mel stared at the television, his only family, now. Stared at the wall behind it… the walls surrounding him and the TV… the couch… the floor. Tried to let whatever intangibility might be drowning deep within him to bubble its way to the surface, where (he told himself) he could finally identify, grab, and categorize it. Make whatever it was that was wrong with him make sense.
Did he have any feelings toward his parents?
He sat in the flickering light of the television. Stared blankly through the television screen.
None. Nothing.
Not a damned thing.
2
John Fitzgerald Kennedy sat behind a high-end, highly polished, cherry conference table, with what looked like a dossier opened before him.
He felt on fire.
A clock ticked quietly in the background. To his right, on the table, was a partially emptied-but-still-damp-with-condensation glass of iced tea. He stared at it.
Diverting his attention to the pen he held, he thoughtfully rolled it about in his fingers, then looked to the hand itself. Bursting with incredible energy, and not at all sure why he did so, he tossed away the pen and shot to his feet, his entire body electrified.
My God, he thought, unsure of what to do with himself, as he paced a quick couple of steps back and forth. What the hell is going on here?
Kennedy looked about the room. It was familiar — the original conference room at The Center, circa 1970s. Kennedy rushed to the adjacent bathroom — to the mirror — and peered in at himself.
No. This can’t be…
John Fitzgerald Kennedy stared into the mirror. At an image that couldn’t possibly be — not in a million years. Kennedy alternately touched the mirror image and his physical face.
Blinked.
Stretched his mouth.
Felt and pushed about his nose and cheeks.
He was goddamned young again!
He took a step back, performed a confused and nervous two-step; emitted a surprised half-grunt, then again shoved his face before the mirror.
Touched.
Examined.
Flexed.
He looked around the bathroom, then slowly made his way back out into the richly paneled executive conference room.
Looked to his attire.
It was all as he remembered it — it had to be a dream — but it didn’t feel like one…
Good Lord… he was really young again!
How young?
He looked for a calendar.
There, on a wall.
Tuesday, June 5, 1973.
He was fifty-six years old!
He wouldn’t throw that outta bed. Definitely young enough for a previously seventy-seven-year-old man!
Back to the bathroom mirror.
As he again looked into that long-ago face he thought he’d never, ever see again, he suddenly grew short of breath in a microburst of hyperventilation and leaned over the sink. Momentarily closing his eyes, he managed to slow his breathing. Again looked back up into that long-lost visage.
As sure as he was breathing, the face staring back at him was his very own — that of a fifty-six-year-old man.
Time, it seems, had indeed — somehow — rolled back.
He flexed his arms, inhaled deeply, and stretched.
By God. It was real. It was truly no-shit real!
Kennedy returned to his desk; sat in the leather-bound chair. Stared into the open space of the empty and richly adorned-and-lit conference room. Not only was he young again, but he was also back at The Center… which could only mean one thing…
He slammed the palms of his hands down on the desk and chair.
Both felt solid and real enough.
Stomped his feet on the carpeted floor.
Also solid, real, and appropriately hushed.
Pinched himself — okay, that hurt.
Kennedy took in as much of his surroundings and mental state as possible.
Did this feel like a dream?
No… it felt like he was seventy-seven-suddenly-turned-fifty-six, that’s what it damn well felt like.
Kennedy flexed and unflexed his hands, high on the energy of returned vigor electrifying his body and soul — even if vigor meant fifty-six versus twenty-six. Who was he to quibble? He was truly in his fifties — again — truly young again, but with all the knowledge and accumulation of his later years intact.
For what more could a person ask?
(Jackie…)
He felt like a god… when a sudden sobering wave of weariness hit him.
Did that also mean he had to re-live the entire past twenty-one years over again?
Kennedy’s shoulders slumped.
He didn’t think he had that kind of stamina — nor inclination — to do things over.
“Mister President?”
Kennedy looked up. Evelyn Lincoln — still his personal secretary — had poked her head into the room. She looked exactly as he remembered her, in her mid-sixties. And she hadn’t noticed anything odd or unusual about him, so he really must appear as normal as he’d looked in ’73.
“Mr. Sorensen to see you.”
And, yes, Ted had stayed with him, as well! They’d been a well-oiled machine in those heady, adrenaline-fueled days.
Kennedy quickly retraced his thoughts. Ted Sorenson. Why would he be here to see him? What were the pressing issues of the day? He shot a look back to the papers back on the conference table.
Interviews.
June 5, 1973—who were they interviewing?
Kennedy headed back to that dossier.
“Mister President,” Ted said, purposefully striding into the office and interrupting Kennedy’s return to the dossier, “sorry to bother you, sir,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement to Evelyn as she left, “but our candidate is here.”
Program One. Okay, think… yes, they would have been discussing appointees about this time, whom to put in charge of—
Rosen. Howard Rosen. Yes, they were supposed to interview one Howard Rosen.
“Ah, yes… Howard Rosen — send him in—”
Sorenson looked to him strangely.
“Sir, there is no ‘Howard Rosen.’ It’s Victor Black.”
Jesus Christ, Victor Black was the front runner?
It was as if his memory had done a sudden about-face remove-and-replace, and a totally new memory supplanted. A cold sweat enveloped him.
Black had been the man he’d appointed in ’73, and was the man he was apparently going to — or supposed to, anyway — re-appoint, now — today.
Shit!
Was he doomed to repeat history? Could he change things? Even if — in his mind — he knew he shouldn’t appoint Victor Black, would history allow him to take a different route… to change its course? And if he did, who was to say he couldn’t take over the program later, if not appointed now? He did have twenty years to do so…
“Sir?”
“Yes, Ted?”
“Black, sir? He’s just outside.” Ted looked to him, concerned. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, yes, ah, I’m fine, Ted, nevah bettah, and really, you should start calling me ‘Jack’…”
Kennedy had to watch how he reacted to things — especially regarding Black. He couldn’t betray his thoughts, what he knew. If he was going to change history, he had to do so on the sly, watch how he was going to change it, and, he couldn’t, by any means, ever show his hand — especially with Black waiting outside his office this very moment.
Black… the thought of meeting the man, here, appointing him, thoroughly disgusted him.
Whomever he was now — then — all those years ago — now, good Lord it was confusing — Kennedy knew what he would become and every fiber of his being revolted in its knowledge. Even if he’d meant well in ’73, during these interviews, Kennedy knew he was going to turn into the most vile and corrupt set of genetics on the planet.
“Bring him in,” Kennedy said, pensively folding his hands into a steeple on the desk before him.
Kennedy tried to recall all he knew of their encounter. What meeting would this be for them? First? Fourth? Damn, this was going to be tricky. He had a good memory, but, Christ, this was over twenty years ago!
“Mister President… Victor Black.”
Kennedy approached Black in his usual, outgoing and stately manner, extending his hand in greeting. It was all he could do to keep from retching.
“Mistah Black — Victah — it is a pleazah,” Kennedy said.
Victor Black, dressed in a dark conservative suit and a red power tie, extended his hand in return.
But, there was something decidedly different about him, from what Kennedy remembered… even way back then.
“Mr. President — it is an honor.”
Their hands locked in a firm greeting, but as Kennedy looked into Black’s penetrating gaze, he could have sworn there was more there than just first-meeting introductions. Maybe it was Kennedy’s twenty years of experience and maturity since this event, but whatever it was — and whether or not he had recognized it on their first meeting all those years ago — Kennedy uneasily sensed that there was more to those deep, dark eyes — and they were dark — than belied the soft and respectful tones of their current encounter.
Black, it appeared, was also hiding something.
3
Well, that’s simply insane, Mel thought, staring into the TV. How could he not have any feelings toward his parents?
He was simply in a state of shock. That had to be it. He’d been through hell… the flurry of the situation, the doctors, hospital, autopsies — the funeral. He was simply mentally and spiritually exhausted. That had to be it. It wasn’t that he had no feelings toward his parents, but that he felt so much pain and loss that he was, plain and simply, exhausted. Shattered. It was bad enough to have your parents die, but to have them die in a violent car wreck… to imagine what they’d gone through in their final moments on earth… the pain, the agony… it just stretched the emotional limits of any family member.
And then to find yourself totally and utterly alone. On your own. Where previously there had been the constant hum and banter of activity throughout the house… now it was just you, kid. You, the TV, and a dark room. No one to talk to, talk at… no one with whom to eat dinner… watch TV, or play games.
No one to parent. To guide.
You expect to see or hear them at every turn, to hear them call out your name at any moment:
“Mel! Take out the trash!”
“Mel… did you finish your homework?”
“Mel — would you help with the dishes?”
But, no — none of that any more. Now, it was just…
Mel. And the SCI FI channel.
Mel sipped iced tea.
Iced tea?
He looked to the glass.
No, it was Vernors.
He lifted the soda and examined it. Grunted.
That was weird.
As he took another sip, he chuckled and rubbed at his nose, wiped at his cheeks as bubbles ran up inside his nostrils. Smiled. It felt good to smile. He set the soda down. Looked back to the television. Something Wicked This Way Comes played, but the movie was presently fading into a commercial. 1-900-PsiKick. Man, did they have a monopoly on this station, or what?
Come… call us, the New Age-y disembodied Caribbean dialect beckoned, we have all the answers to all your problems (complete with the “this is adult entertainment only” disclaimer at the bottom of the screen). The screen filled with neat looking stars and planets, and synthetic, New Age-y, music. And with this special offer, the commercial continued, you now have your first reading absolutely free! We know psychic hotlines are a dime a dozen, that’s why we’re so convinced that once you try the PsiKick hotline, we’ll make a believer out of you! We’re giving you your first reading — free — in its entirety! For up to twenty minutes! No strings attached! Call our number now, 1-900-PsiKick! Our psychics are standing by!
Then the commercial cut to shots of several individual (so-called) psychics, doing their thing, all complete with exotic accents. Mel wondered how many of them were faking it — not only their accents, but their abilities. He thought of Madame Nostradameus. Lizzie. Had she been faking her ability along with her accent? She’d said she was for real, had even profusely apologized for faking her Romani accent — but how much of that could he believe? If she lied about one thing—
He had to believe her. The feeling he picked up from her was that she had been telling the truth.
Was he in the habit of trusting his feelings?
God, it was like he had to totally relearn everything about himself!
He was so tired of questioning every little thought and deed… but she had given him her home phone. He’d never thought any of those people running across the screen of his TV set would ever do something like that with a caller. That had been gutsy on her part. She didn’t know him from Adam — or maybe she did; she was supposed to be psychic — and had taken a chance, for which he was eternally grateful. It had felt so good to be able to talk with her, and he really wished he could call her again. She should be working,
(our psychics are standing by!)
shouldn’t she?
As he watched the commercial fade out, another took its place… an odd little commercial. Simple white words on a black background said:
When was the last time you phoned a friend?
And was gone.
“Okay,” Mel grunted, “I get the hint.”
4
President Kennedy sat through the 1973 interview with Victor Black as if he’d just downed a gallon of pure, high-grade Columbian caffeine. The three of them sat around the conference room table.
Would everything play itself out exactly as it had already done? Could he really change the outcome? Did just the mere reemergence of his presence change things? He couldn’t get around it, he owed it to history to change it — to at least try. Black was not someone he wanted in the history books, in principle nor footnote.
Sorensen had already indicated and Kennedy had concurred — at least in the original version — that Black was a virtual shoe-in. He had plenty of qualifications, a highly sensitive two-year CIA stint in the Asian theater, was an excellent, highly decorated remote viewer at The Center, had taken on increased responsibility in his remote viewer unit, and nailed the interview with insightful spot-on answers to each and every question. Almost too perfectly.
And there was that other thing that just wouldn’t go away… what Kennedy had seen when Black’d first showed up “today,” in this version of that “original” interview, anyway.
That look.
And whenever he cast a sidelong glance to Kennedy during this interview, and Black hadn’t thought he was looking — or maybe he did and was just letting him know — his look screamed Look pal, you’re not the only one here for a second time. I know what’s on your mind. Don’t even think about changing things. Just fulfill your role like a good little historical pawn, and let things roll along like they already have… and we’ll both be on our way…
But, the more Kennedy sat before this man, the more fidgety and hot he grew.
He had a bad taste in his mouth.
These thoughts — his very thoughts — he knew, were not a part of the initial interview twenty-one years ago, because if they had been, he’d never have appointed Black to the position. So, new developments could emerge, things could change — in the past — his new behavior proved it. He was here, now… and his thoughts were different from those in ’73.
So, maybe this was his chance.
And how had Black been so “knowledgeable” during that — this — interview? He hadn’t remembered that. This Black was different from the original one — he was certain of it.
So, Black was also — somehow — in on whatever was going on. If that was the case, then Kennedy had no choice. He simply could not afford to allow history to continue on as it had — or would.
Goddamn, this was maddening.
He had to change it, was morally bound to. There was, simply, no other option. He had to seize control.
As if suddenly awakened from a dream, Kennedy felt the wrongness of the situation in all its entirety; felt the wrongness of the situation in all its philosophy. Even if it cost him his own place in history — or his life — he knew what he had to do. Hell, he’d already been seventy-seven — had already lived a full life. Now, he was a seventy-seven year old in a fifty-six-year-old body. It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t his imagination, he was actually goddamned fifty-six years old, and was actually goddamned back in the original conference room at The Center, in 1973. Tossing dialogue with Ted Sorensen and Victor Black — his future sworn enemy — and he had absolutely no idea how any of this had happened. He actually felt the chair against his butt, felt the fear constricting his chest… and the fact that he was very, very thirsty.
He cleared his throat.
Yeah, thirsty.
It didn’t get any more real than this. This was in-his-face real. The air crackled with tension, the fate of the world’s future — in very real terms — resting on his every move. He had to act now before things even had a hint of once more heading south. He remembered how the interview had ended. It had ended with Ted casting him a knowing look, as he and Black rose to their feet and came together around the conference table, Ted surreptitiously announcing that Mr. Black, you have the appointment. And it was about to happen at any moment.
Black quickly, casually, cast him another sidelong glance.
He knew, didn’t he? The bastard actually fucking knew.
Kennedy shot to his feet.
As he did so, everything flew into slow motion. In his mind, Kennedy’s thoughts raced, and he heard the words as they had been so casually uttered twenty years ago issuing from Ted’s mouth, though the slow motion had slowed down Ted’s lips and delivery. Well, Victor, I think that about wraps it, he was beginning to say. Kennedy desperately needed to interrupt those words, but felt his body was sprinting through a swamp. As Ted and Black got to their feet, Black looked to him, and in slow motion Kennedy saw Black smile a wicked, knowing grin.
An actual sneer.
Black then began to turn to him and slowly reached into his inside jacket pocket.
Kennedy knew that running through water or not, what he was reaching for inside his jacket meant him no-good. Just as Kennedy knew he had to risk not only history, but his life, Black had, apparently, already made that same decision. There was something inside that jacket with his name on it, and Kennedy knew it — and knew that Black knew he knew it — but was still willing to risk his life to keep history as it had already been.
But how could that happen, if Black ended up giving up his own life?
The questions hurt the mind to even consider, and he had no time to wax philosophical. Kennedy wished for something, anything, to interfere and upset Black’s plans. He had no idea what to do — only that he had to act. He was changing history if he did anything differently, risking everything, considering the impact Program One had had on the world—
Especially if he was wrong.
Ted, totally oblivious to what was going on, was now in midsentence, half-way to the standing position, when Kennedy unceremoniously catapulted toward Black, who, still sneering, was also still reaching into his jacket lapel, eyes riveted on him as he approached Ted.
(Well, Victor, I think that about—)
As Kennedy launched into Black, images of Blackett Strait filled his mind, perhaps the last time he’d ever had to be a man of action — physical action — and he was not about to shy away from the challenge. During his lunge forward, Kennedy grabbed onto Black the way those drowning and injured men he’d rescued in that straight had latched on to the floating PT-109 debris — and he seized and openly embraced the presented opportunity.
No turning back now.
It was as if his body had had a mind of its own. Kennedy, jaw set and gaze burning into Black, willed himself to hurtle fast and hard into Black before he could pull whatever it was from inside that lapel pocket — prayed to God that he be allowed to set things right and in the least damaging of ways to history and its people. Even as the slow motion kept things at a manageable pace, Kennedy’s mind continued to race, and he saw how Black had finally recognized his intentions. In that instant, Black’s expression changed. Kennedy’s only hope was that he got there first, and he prayed so hard he swore he popped a vein.
Fifty-six-year-old ex-President Kennedy landed squarely and forcefully into forty-five-year-old Victor Black, ramming into his left shoulder, forcing him backward into the table and chairs. The two then tumbled with a hefty thud! onto the carpeted floor. Kennedy heard a “pop” as he ground into Black’s shoulder. With one hand, Kennedy forced Black’s hand — the one part way into his jacket — away, and with the other deftly swept inside the lapel and went for whatever was there. But in order to do that he had to twist his body into a better, more commanding position, and in doing so (he internally smiled), ground harder into Black’s shoulder. He felt and heard a distinct and sickening crunch and snap. Kennedy had one brief moment to stare into Black’s eyes as he landed with his full weight on top of him. He could feel the venom Black willed into him, the tautness of his body, but ignored those as his hand found its target, wrapped around it, and in one swift-and-dexterous movement removed it from the pocket — barely in time to avoid Black’s own attempt at thwarting his offensive. For a fraction of an instant Black and Kennedy eyed each other, frozen in time. Images of brutal hand-to-hand mêlée flashed through Kennedy’s mind, one where he and Black were again combating each other…
But, in the end, it was Kennedy who’d gotten to the weapon first (in that mêlée — or this conference room?).
Black had tried another attempt to grab it back from Kennedy, but it was at this point that Ted Sorensen had sprung into action and was presently assisting the President to his feet. Kennedy quickly slid the purloined object into his own jacket pocket, as Sorenson’s hands went to his shoulders. He didn’t know if he’d actually sneered back to Black — but had felt as if he had… and it was a good feeling.
“Mr. President! Sir! Are you all right? Sir?” Ted begged, sizing him up.
As Kennedy was “righted” back to his feet, Black got to his, and backed away from the President, head down. Confused, Ted eyed both men, checking for injuries.
“I’m, ah, fine, Ted—”
“What happened?” Ted asked, “Are you all right, sir? Mr. Black?”
Black continued to back away, wincing as he straightened out, and briefly glared the hatred of Hell itself at Kennedy.
“Well,” Kennedy began, and he found it quite amusing at how easily he formed that smile on his face as he lied to Black, “I, ah, do apologize, Victah — Ted — but I had a sudden Chahlie Horse and, well, it goht the better of me — so, sorry, Victah—”
With heavy restraint and internally heightened amusement, Kennedy could see the barely contained rage that smoldered just beneath Black’s equally benign façade. He was good, Black was very, very… good.
“My sincerest apologies,” Kennedy finished, again, extending his hand to Black. “Hope I, ah, didn’t break anything.” Black hesitated but a fraction of a second — none of which Sorensen seemed to have noticed — but Kennedy did.
“Ah, Ted, Victah, I’m afraid this old wahr injury of mine begs attention.” Kennedy turned to Black. “Victah, I hope I didn’t injah you — we’ll have ourah medical staff look you ovah.”
Black worked his shoulder then abruptly halted the movement. The man was clearly in pain, Kennedy saw with measured satisfaction, but was also clearly no stranger to controlling it.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Black said, his countenance casual.
“Good. Then, we’ll, ah, keep in touch and inform you of our decision,” Kennedy said.
Without waiting for a response from either man, Kennedy abruptly departed the office… faking a limp.
He’d done it — he’d successfully interdicted Ted from outright giving Black the job, and removed the weapon Black had been intent on using on him. The fact that Black had even considered employing such overt means spoke volumes of him and his intentions. He had no qualms about fucking up either himself — or history. But Kennedy’d successfully diffused the situation and thrown the hugest of monkey wrenches into Black’s schemes. He couldn’t begin to wipe that smile off his face.
But, it wasn’t over. Kennedy held no such illusions. If Black was able to go back in time to try to change things once (for that matter, both him and Black), who was to say it wouldn’t happen again…