“Gentlemen!” squawked across the bus, bookended by the popping noise of a cheap tour bus PA system.
The nondescript babble of a dozen conversations faded as Frank fumbled with a microphone at the front of the bus. He looked out over the faces of nearly fifty bemused, annoyed, and/or conceited faces. Seated before him were the most brilliant Daves, the most accomplished Daves, the most spiritual Daves in the Western World.
And also, Razorback.
I hope one of these is the man the aliens want to speak with, thought Frank. Surely, among the astrophysicists, the theoretical cosmologists, the fringe quantum academics, and the…auto mechanic…one of these men has to be the Dave in the Contact Message.
“There’s a cat sitting between my feet,” called a voice from the back of the bus. Frank knew instantly it was Razorback. “Get rid of it.”
A gasp escaped from a man seated toward the front. Frank closed his eyes as a now familiar migraine stirred at the sound of Professor Ross’s incessantly outraged voice.
“Dave Jr. has as much right to be here as anyone,” said Ross, only half-turning in his seat. Frank figured that Ross didn’t want to give Razorback the satisfaction of a full personal acknowledgment.
“He’s just staring at me,” said Razorback. “Look, I like cats fine. But it’s not a great time.”
“I’d wager he’s seeing right through you,” said Ross. His voice switched to lecture mode.
“Cats like him are tuned into the elements of creation more than any other creature. He may very well be calculating a mathematical message for the aliens.”
“By the smell of it I'd say he’s calculating where to bury the messages he just dropped for you.”
“Oh my. Dave Jr, no!”
Frank keyed the mic, which spat a shrill electronic HUM through the bus. The collective Daves winced.
“There we go,” said Frank. “Agent Dubois, please find someone to clean up Dave Jr’s calculations before we leave.” He set his attention back on the seated Daves.
“Gentlemen, I want to thank you for your…”
“And cat,” said Ross.
“Gentlemen, and Dave Jr,” Frank rallied immediately. “I want to thank you for your patience and especially for your courage in the face of uncertainty. You’ve all been briefed as to what we’re here for. We are located roughly 45 minutes from Stonehenge, which is where we think the aliens will make contact. All we know is they want to speak to someone named ‘Dave.’ We’re hoping like crazy it’s one of you. But even if not, we’re hoping that your combined brilliance will be enough for us to communicate with the first extraterrestrial intelligence to ever make contact with humanity.” Frank paused to allow the solemnity of his words sink in. This was a moment like no other in human history. They would all share in it, partakers of an experience that will undoubtedly set humanity on a new path toward…
“The cat just pissed on the seat.”
“DAVE JR! No! Bad kitty!”
The bus roared to life and lurched forward. Stonehenge awaited.
* * *
The monoliths of Stonehenge were ringed by great security barriers, fifteen feet high and topped with razor wire, that created a 50-yard (being American for “meters”*) perimeter around the ancient site: a ring of steel encircling a ring of stone. Additional barriers lined the walkway that connected the site to the now fortified Visitor’s Center, creating a path for the scientists and international dignitaries who had arrived by the dozens throughout the day.
Outside of the barriers were thousands upon thousands of Contact Pilgrims, who had set up a sprawling tent city in quick order. The mass of humanity was remarkably peaceable. Except for an incessant push to be as close to the perimeter fence as possible, and the occasional grifter looking to fleece the good-natured pilgrims, nearly everyone seemed focused on the event to come.
As the sun began to set and the mid-January temperature started to drop, the bellowing honk of a bus and the distinctive wail of British police sirens heralded the arrival of yet more Important People. The Contact Pilgrims moved off of the road, which was choked with food trucks and idle pilgrims milling around waiting for aliens.
Two police vehicles nudged the throngs away from the entrance to the Visitors Center, clearing room for the Dave Bus. As it rumbled to a halt, the doors swung open. Frank stepped out, and immediately glanced to the heavens.
The skies held nothing but clouds, although a breach in the darkening canopy revealed a sliver of a skittish moon.
Frank looked at his watch. His office had informed him that Earth was closing in fast on what was likely perihelion within the next hour or so. He called out to the bus.
“Please, gentlemen and Dave Jr. We don’t have much time. We need to get to the site quickly.”
A cacophony of squeaking seats, shuffling shoes, and assorted middle-aged grunts preceded the shambling parade of Daves that soon stepped down out of the bus. Like Frank, they each silently swept the skies, looking for anything remotely extraterrestrial. Aside from the nearly set sun, they were in turn met with disappointment.
“Inside, please,” said Frank. “We’re going to walk through the Visitor Center and then to the monoliths. If they’re coming, it won’t be much longer.”
The eyes of innumerable Pilgrims watched as the Daves queued up and squeezed through the police and security barriers. Many couldn’t help but notice that, despite an impressive assortment of ethnicities and appearances, the men flowing from the bus all looked rather alike, in that they all looked the part of an academic. Except for one. The last of these men appeared a little out of place. While the vast majority of Daves sported a dizzying assortment of academia hairstyles (ranging from Einstein chic to Picard bald), facial hair that usually looked like an afterthought, and an incredibly diverse collection of eyebrows sprouting all sorts renegade hairs, the final man off the bus looked as though a Hell’s Angel’s tough guy had gotten lost in the midst of Star Trek convention. That and he seemed to be walking with an exaggerated allow motion affect, like an astronaut in a movie.
Oddly, a cat was walking next to him. It was rubbing against his legs in that feline manner to communicate affection by trying to kill him.
*The ”meter” is a quaint European measurement that almost no one outside of the United Kingdom and the rest of the world uses.
* * *
The young man had dodged every one of Dave’s swings, as if it was choreographed, practiced, then performed in the street like a public rope-a-dope exhibition, minus the ring, and the ropes, and a skilled boxer to throw fists. But otherwise, just exactly like that, in that it did include a Dope. Dave had gassed out pretty quickly after five or six punches, and he did not have another swing left in him.
“I know that I suck at fighting,” said the young man. “Good thing I never got any better.”
Dave was breathing too hard to wonder at the oddity of that remark. He bent over, hands on his knees. “What…hhhh…the hell…hhhh…are you…doing here?!” he finally gasped out. “You’ve ruined my whole life, jackass. Am I crazy now?”
“NO, no, no. Nothing as simple as that. It’s just like, you know. Um. Time travel,” said Young Dave.
Dave stopped breathing altogether for a moment, and stared at the form of a memory he loathed so much. This was too much. “Time travel? Oh. Well. That just explains everything. Why not? That’s why I’m rich and drive a flying car from the future. Pull the other one, kid. Pull the other one.”
“Let’s just sit down for a minute, okay?” Young Dave looked around, and brightened as his gaze settled on a row of food trucks. “Let me buy you a sausage off that Charles, Mary, Oliver, and Thomas Dubois food cart over there. I’ll explain while we eat.”
Dave winced. Memories gushed into both his brain and his stomach and he briefly relived the effects of eating that kind of garbage years ago when he had been stationed in England. But the young him was already walking, and Dave needed answers.
The thing about crowds of anything not hunting is that they attract predators. The African veldt, home to a vast variety of ungulates and other mammals traveling in groups, find themselves being stalked on the perimeter by predators. This is true throughout the entire universe, even in civilized societal social gatherings. Actually, especially in civilized societal social gatherings. Anyone who’s ever paid $50.00 for a concert T-shirt, or $3.00 worth of plastic flashlight for $75.00 at a child’s show in a stadium, or perhaps $3,000 plate dinner to press psalms with a candidate, has experienced this predation.
At the moment, Old and Young Dave were about to be predated upon by one of the worst of the predators, the pork-based food cart.
“So,” Young Dave said around a large bite of “pork-based food product” pie, “you see, as soon as anyone invents time travel, then time travel exists on all points in the timeline. Remember the guy that was found murdered in the bank vault?”
“Nope.” said Old Dave, hesitantly nibbling at the crust of his own pie. He had lived long enough to regret food choices. “Never heard of it.”
“Oh. Must not have happened yet. See, what happened was this: this dude invented time travel, I forget his name. He went back in time, told his younger self what to invest in, and who to marry, and a variety of other things. The Young Him, rather than listen to everything the Older Him said, knew that it would be a very bad idea to mess up the timeline, so he threw himself into the books and learned ahead of time how to invent time travel, assuming since he figured it out once, he could figure it out quicker. Once he figured it out, he traveled forward in time, abducted himself, traveled into this time-locked bank vault just moments before it opened on a Monday and shot himself…well, his older self…in the head. He then traveled away back to his time setting the gun down 3 feet in front of himself with only his own fingerprints on it, leaving the cops to figure out exactly how a guy who had been in a vault that had been locked for 3 days managed to apparently commit suicide and die of a gunshot fired from three feet away moments before the vault opened.”
Old Dave set down his sausage pie, not sure if he was hating it or Young Dave more at the moment. Young Dave pressed on.
“So it’s now enforced that when you time travel, you can only visit yourself if you are moving forward on the timeline, so you don’t alter history.” said Young Dave, managing to get through about two thirds of the pie before apparently also realizing he’d probably made a very bad mistake. But with this, too, he pressed on. Older Dave had yet to get to the filling.
“So I can talk to you?” said Older Dave.
“Yep.”
“But do I have to?”
“Well, you should. I know me, and I think you’re going to screw things up. It’s about the port.” said Young Dave.
“We’re hundreds of miles from any port.”
“Nonono. The port buried under one of the stones at the henge.” Young Dave, again, “When the aliens talked to me. Us. Whatever. They told us that the stone over the port seemed to be about 453.592 kilograms off from the Factory Specifications and would have to be repaired if there was anything to be done for us.”
“Stop,” said Older Dave. “I know for a fact that you…I…was nearly black-out drunk when whatever happened that night happened.”
“This is true,” agreed Young Dave. “This is why I decided to make the jump here, to make sure the bad head space I was in, or we were in, doesn’t, um, you know. Destroy the world.”
Older Dave dropped his pork pie. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work.
“Yeah, I know. A lot of pressure, right?” said Young Dave. “So listen, as near as I can remember, there are a couple of really, really important things you have to do.”
Older Dave licked his lips. He knew there was a massive gap in his understanding of what the moment required of him. It didn’t reassure him that the individual lecturing him on what he needed to do was someone as unreliable as, well, him.
“So, there’s a portal under one of the stones?” asked Old Dave.
“No. After they talked to us, and told us which one it was, they left. Then you dug up the bottle of port and drank the whole thing. I believe your exact words…”
“OUR” Old Dave interjected.
“Yes, our exact words were, ‘Play silly games with me boys, that’s fine, but tell me where you keep your stash, it’s mine. And I’m a poet because fine rhymes with mine.’ We also said something about it being a really fine wine.” finished Young Dave. “I wanted to drop in to be sure you remembered.”
“Nope.” assured Old Dave. “It must have been some really good port.”
“Look, I only put so many quarters in the machine. I’m going to have to head back soon. Don’t forget the slab replacement. You have to make sure that Stonehenge is complete. Why exactly, I’m not sure.”
“You mean you were so drunk you don’t remember,” accused Older Dave.
“WE were so drunk.”
Suddenly, Young Dave began to, not so much disappear as such, but rather to just be less noticeable.
“Wait,” said Old Dave. “When do I need to fix Stonehenge?”
“Before the aliens get back. I think.”
“That’s supposed to be tonight,” said Older Dave.
“Oh crap!” said Young Dave. “Carl and Elvis are not going to be happy with you.”
“WITH US!” shouted Older Dave, taking another swing at his fading younger self. “And who the heck are Carl and Elvis? Then a thought struck him.
“Pam was crazy and totally not worth the drama.” he shouted to a now grimacing apparition rapidly fading into the scenery. Several people walking by with pies of their own looked at him. Older Dave smiled weakly for just a moment, but then stopped. He felt the blood drain from his head.
In the distance, blue lights were suspended several hundred feet above Stonehenge. Dave broke out into a run.
* * *
“Get away,” groused Razorback as he stepped through the security checkpoint. He tucked his foot under Dave Jr. and flicked him to the side. The cat disappeared into a jungle of khaki-clad legs. He sighed, grateful to be able to walk without tripping, and looked around the foyer. The first thing he noticed was that the walls were covered with educational materials explaining the history of Stonehenge. More importantly, he saw that some thoughtful person had set up a coffee station for the Command Post, and all that separated him from a steaming cup of black medicine was about two dozen portly academics. Razorback cracked his neck, then his knuckles. It had been well over 72 hours since his last caffeine fix, and he felt that he might need to visit harm on anyone standing in his way.
Just as he prepared to tunnel through them to get to caffeinated bliss, the Daves surged forward, exiting the other side of the Center. Razorback knew that they were heading to the Stonehenge site, but that could wait for 5 freaking minutes so he could get a cup of coffee. He rushed over, grabbed a cup, and filled it to the brim. Steam wafted up, while the deliciously bitter smell made his throbbing headache pause its incessant pounding. He sipped. It was strong and harsh, like a solid kick to the head. It was perfect.
He took a longer sip and savored the feel of the caffeine pouring into his bloodstream like an invading army. The January chill retreated a bit, and for the first time since getting beaten and drugged by FBI agents and Black Sams thugs, he felt a surge of mental normality. He sniffed, and looked down. Were those donuts?! Realizing he hadn’t eaten much either, he started cramming confections into his mouth, then chasing it down with his coffee. It was sheer bliss.
CLONK.
Razorback froze in mid-chew, donut debris littering his beard. At some point over the past few seconds of sugar and caffeine frenzy, he had failed to notice that a scintillating blue light had filled the Center. He swallowed.
CLONK.
He turned, looking toward the glass exit doors which lead to Stonehenge. A half-dozen agents stood motionless, silhouetted by the blue light. Razorback stepped forward, and nearly broke his neck and he tripped and hit the ground in a spray of coffee. Dave “Razorback” Mitchell cursed in pain, before seeing Dave Jr. sit beside him.
“Meow,” he said. And then walked forward to the exit doors. An agent opened it, and the cat began disappearing into the growing light.
CLONK.
Razorback noticed Dave Jr’s tail flick as the clonk sounded.
SO deep!