Below is a short story written for a prompted competition – meaning, I had to fulfill certain parameters. In this case, the theme was time travel and the story had to include an earthquake and a clone. I’ve left it pretty much as submitted, with only minor edits. Of course I didn’t win, I never expect to. However, I do enjoy the challenge of fulfilling a brief.
The main criticisms of this story was the lack of conflict and it’s similarity to the movie Terminator. Which I find interesting because, while I know I watched the movie, I don’t remember much about it. Besides, isn’t the theme (spoiler) of complications from meeting yourself or your ancestors pretty much time travel 101?
Enjoy.!
George’s world was dark. Though he seemed to remember the day starting bright and promising. Then, in a blink, the lights went out. Actually, it was more like a cacophony of audio and physical input that resulted in his current condition-pain and a blanket of black. Whatever darkened his world, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He laid silently, limbs akimbo, waiting.
After a few moments, George could differentiate shapes in the darkness. Accustomed to square, linear, austere surroundings, this jumble of irregular blobs and mess of debris unnerved him; a sensation he was unaccustomed to. He tried moving, but another sensation radiated up his arm, one he rarely experienced: pain. Unprepared for it, he cried out.
“Hey, Al, I heard someone! We’ve got a live one over here!” cried a voice George didn’t recognize.
George bit his lower lip, a habit he had picked up from watching Dr. Hanning. Was he supposed to answer back? Who was the voice? Where was it coming from? He tried scanning the surrounding area again, tried to distinguish up from down, top from bottom. Dislodged when he moved, rubble and dust smattered his face, as if someone had thrown a handful of dirt at him. While searching through his information bank for clues or memories of similar tests or experiences, he coughed, the dust overwhelming him.
“Didja hear ‘at?” the voice said again. “Tread carefully, fellas, there’s someone down there.”
“What’a they doing in the library?” asked another voice.
“How should I know, Al?”
George felt the pieces of rubble around him shift ever so slightly and watched through squinted eyes as the light changed. Swirling dust clouded his vision, but he could fully see his predicament. He was stuck under a massive block of marble. A smaller column had broken the large piece’s fall, protecting him from being completely crushed. He was pinned, painfully. And oddly, there were books everywhere, mixed in with the larger rubble, as if the large marble pieces cleaved into books as they crumbled. George knew that wasn’t possible. This wasn’t the lab. He was befuddled and didn’t like that feeling.
Suddenly, the slab above his face was gone. He turned his head sideways to avoid the falling bits of debris and blinding light. Blinking, he saw two men wearing coveralls and covered in dust and grime standing above him. One of them removed his newsboy hat, revealing a strip of clean skin across his forehead. He wiped the back of a grimy hand across his face, marring his clean skin with a streak of grey dirt.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” the man said, replacing his hat. “You okay down there, buddy?”
George didn’t know how to respond. “I, uh,” he said, searching for words. “I seem to be stuck.”
The two men howled with laughter. The non-hat-wearing man leaned on his shovel while the other man propped his hands on his knees and leaned closer. “Yep, you’re stuck, alright. But we’ll get you out.”
“What happened?” George asked. He didn’t see Dr. Hanning anywhere. The lab was gone, replaced by what was once a marble walled building with heavy drab shelves and masses of books, a library of some sort.
“Quake. Big ‘un too, by my reckoning,” the hat-wearer said, carefully shifting rubble.
“Most of downtown’s fallen,” said the other man. “Seems Lady Luck was with us, though.” He too was carefully shifting the wreckage, chucking books over his shoulder with abandon while moving the larger pieces of debris inch by inch, as if they were explosive, trying not to dislodge others.
“Lady Luck?” George didn’t recognize the name. He was pretty sure Dr. Elsen’s first name was Sarah.
“Yep. Plenty of damage, but so far, most people we find are still kicking.”
George’s legs were painfully pinned, immobile. “Kicking?”
The two men wanted to keep George talking. If he was talking, he wasn’t dead. “Yes, siree. The fuzz are busy over at the joint, keeping track of all those jailbirds trying to fly the coup. So, me and the boys from the Legion stepped in to help.
“What about you, mac? You gotta name? Bit early, even for a bookworm, to be at the library, ain’t it?”
The library. That explained all the books, but not much else. The lab didn’t have a library, not that he knew of, anyway.
“George. My name is George. Last thing I remember, I was in the lab with Dr. Hanning.”
“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed the bare-headed man after shoving a piece from George’s chest. “Where’s your clothes Mac? What are you doing in a library at this hour naked as the day you was born?”
“I’m sorry,” George said, thinking back. He tried flexing his legs, tried noticing if he had pants on. It felt like he did. “Dr. Hanning was running tests. I have trousers on,” he added, as if it were perfectly normal to be found bare-chested in library wreckage at seven in the morning.
“Where am I?” George said. “Where is the library?” He was beginning to think this was a test. He needed more information.
The hat wearing man scratched his head, his hat bobbed. “Sounds like you’re a mite screwy after the bash to the brain. Not to worry, though, the docs’ll fix you right up. My name’s Al.”
He chucked a few books over his shoulder, hollering in the same direction. “Hey fellas, over here! We got us a live one.” Then, turning back to George, he said, “You’re in Santa Barbara, California. It’s June 29th, 1925. Mr. Coolidge is president.”
“You shouldn’t give him all the answers, Al,” said the bare-headed man. “Let the docs test him proper like. At least he knows his name. They’ll want to know what else he remembers.”
“Awe, you worry too much, Ed. They know everyone we’re digging out is gonna be addled like this fella. It’ll get sorted.”
Able to tilt his head and wiggle a bit more, George attempted to sit up, but the pain prevented him. He could hear others now, digging nearby and having similar conversations. Under it all was the wail of sirens, but they sounded different to him, not mechanical klaxons with which he was familiar. These were the bee-ooop bee-ooop sounds he heard in the old movies he watched with Dr. Hanning, who always enjoyed correcting the outdated medical scenarios.
Two more men came into George’s periphery. Al directed them as they heaved the largest slab from the pile atop George. Pain jolted through George as the weight was released and blood rushed into his crushed legs. He screamed and blacked out.
When George came to, he was lying on his back on some sort of cot, covered with an itchy, drab, and heavy woolen blanket. He closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side. Slowly opening them, he recalled what happened, or at least what he had been told happened. Nothing made sense. What he had been told and what he remembered were two very different things.
All he could see were cots like his, wooden frames with canvas stretched taut, massive lumps of wreckage, former buildings dotting the landscape, and women wearing nursing uniforms like the ones he had seen in the history reels and old movies dashing about.
“Where am I?” he croaked. It still hurt to move, but he could wiggle his toes and move his arms.
A nurse stopped next to him and smiled warmly. “Hello, George. Glad to see you’re awake. We’re waiting for the ambulance. They’re sending you to the hospital in Goleta.”
“How did you know my name?”
She patted his arm reassuringly. “Al told me. We’re doing all we can.” She looked at the clipboard on his cot and frowned. “Do you have a last name? Or next of kin we should notify? Lots of people are still searching for loved ones. Thank the Lord there weren’t more deaths, but people are scattered.”
George struggled to think. Next of kin? Did he even have a last name? He couldn’t recall Dr. Hanning ever mentioning one. He raised his hand to his head and rubbed his temple. His head was pounding. That man, earlier today, had said something about his head not being right. That made sense. A concussion would do that to someone. He wasn’t thinking straight. He concentrated on what he knew, piecing bits together.
“Hanning. Dr. George Hanning,” he said after a pause.
“Ah,” said the woman, relieved. “Then you know how bad it is. You’ve got two broken legs. Doesn’t appear to be any internal bleeding, though, so that’s good.” She flashed him another warm smile.
“Right,” he said, returning her smile. His was weak and unconvincing. “What’s your name? I need a distraction.” She was a round-faced brunette with a slender nose. His memory was coming back to him. His assistant was a brunette, a beautiful woman named Elizabeth. He worked in a lab.
“Bessie. Any next of kin?” she asked again, remaining professional.
George’s face looked pained as he thought. “No, none that I can recall.”
Bessie patted his arm, “Maybe you’ll remember later. You’ve had a nasty concussion. Shall we put your description on the notice boards?”
“That would be fine. If anyone knows more about me, that would be helpful.”
“Very good,” Bessie said. “I need to move on. Must check on the others.”
Something about Bessie tugged at George. She was beaming at him; his heart felt as if it would explode through his chest.
“Will you come visit me in the hospital?”
“Of course. That’s where I work, normally, when there isn’t a disaster.”
George spent months in the hospital. Rolling around the ward in his wicker wheelchair was one of the high points of his day. Diagnosed with amnesia, his memory remained elusive, but his scientific mind got him through the day; collecting data on the other patients, asking them questions, reading their charts, and aiding the doctors on their rounds. He also requested medical books and held lengthy discussions with any doctor that would take the time.
Bessie’s visits were another high point. She visited frequently, as promised, often carrying armloads of medical texts. George marveled at her own medical mind and aptitude. She was soon typing his reports as well as thesis for the other doctors, editing and improving them through her own knowledge.
“Here are the books my favorite egghead requested,” she said one afternoon as she entered his ward.
George adored seeing her out of uniform; a knee length pleated tennis skirt and tunic was her casual outfit of choice. She kissed his forehead before depositing the pile of tomes on his bedside table. He stacked the finished books on the floor. That was their system; incoming on the table, finished on the floor.
“You’re a peach, Bessie,” George said. Over the weeks of visitation, they had become a couple, and George couldn’t be happier. He was smitten.
Bessie smiled and sat in his empty wicker wheelchair, propping her feet up on his bed, properly crossed at the ankles. Always conscious about saving her good stockings for work, she didn’t seem bothered by the run that striped the side of her leg from the buckle of her shoe to her knee.
“So, when are you getting out of this joint?” She could just look at his chart, but she enjoyed hearing him say it.
“Next week.” He squinted at her, seriously. “You sure everything’s copacetic? I can find a place. Wouldn’t want to put you in a jam.” George still struggled with slang. Much about his life felt as if it were some sort of training exercise, a reconnaissance mission to learn vocabulary, social cues, manners, and mores. He felt bisected, like a visitor anchored and tethered to this place and time by something he couldn’t identify.
Bessie waved her hand dismissively. “You can’t remember your digs, and most of Santa Barbara is gone, anyway. Besides, no other dame’s claimed you,” she said demurely. Something about George felt right. Though he was the one with amnesia, the moment he woke up on that stretcher, she felt as if they had always known one another but she had forgotten how.
“I know you’re right, but how about we fix it, Bessie?”
Bessie raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “How?”
George reached under his pillow, retrieved a blue velvet box, and tossed it to her playfully. His face hurt from grinning. He, too, felt they had always known one another.
Bessie caught the box, her face contorted in surprise. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
The hinged box revealed a white gold filigree ring with a single square-cut diamond. It was small, all he could afford, but the elaborate details stretched its beauty.
“Marry me,” George said, still grinning. “I’m stuck on you, and I think you’re stuck on me, too.”
“Where’d you get the loot?” Bessie removed the ring, gazing at it adoringly.
“Doc loaned it to me. Said he knows I’m good for it, sees a bright future for me, and us.”
Bessie moved to George’s bed, snuggling close. “Of course, I will, Georgie! You’re my guy.” She leaned over, kissing him on the lips. He closed his eyes, holding her as close as possible. For the first time since being pulled from the rubble, he was content. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember anything before the earthquake. Everything was going to be okay; Miss Elizabeth Reed would be by his side.
Dr. Hanning and his research partner, Dr. Elsen, stared at the screen before them. This clone had grown as projected during the simulations, reaching maturity in months, instead of years, then slowing its own aging process to that of an average human. They couldn’t look away from the data, fearing it would disappear if they blinked.
“Uh, are you sure it’s a good idea? Calling it…er…him, George?” Dr. Elsen asked, chewing on her pencil. A nervous habit she was trying to break. She frowned and put it back in her lapel pocket.
“It’s too late now. That’s what we’ve called him from the first tests and data dumps,” Dr. Hanning said.
“But naming him after your grandfather?”
“Figured since it…er…he looks like me, I should use a family name.”
Dr. Elsen blinked.
“That’s weird, isn’t it?”
“A little. But let’s be honest, this entire experiment is weird.”
The unrestrained clone, George, stared at them from his position on the chair, a large mechanical contraption. Every day was the same; review yesterday’s data dump, test his new skills, receive a new data dump. He enjoyed the skills tests, but the data dumps were tiresome.
Dr. Hanning bit his lower lip and approached the clone. “Morning, George.”
“Good morning, Dr. Hanning,” George said. “Will today be different or just more data dumps? I’d like to go outside the lab today.”
“Interesting,” said Dr. Elsen.
Dr. Hanning nodded. “Almost sounds like boredom. Check the scans for brain growth.” He turned to George. “Let’s get through the data dump first. Today’s information will be all about you.”
“About me?” George said.
He sounded so much like Dr. Hanning, Dr. Elsen found it unnerving. She pulled Dr. Hanning aside. “Do you really think this is a good idea? Giving it, him, that kind of knowledge?”
Dr. Hanning bit his lower lip. George looked on, unmoving. “He’s a clone, Sarah, not a robot. If we want clones to pass as truly human, don’t they need some sense of belonging? A history? Personality traits?”
“Yes, but,” she hesitated, “I’m just not sure giving him a backstory is the best idea.”
“What do you propose? We tell him he’s being grown like an ear of corn? That he’s my twin with amnesia?”
“I’m not sure that was the best idea, either.”
“We’ve been through this with the ethics board. We couldn’t use anyone’s DNA without their permission, so we needed a volunteer. I volunteered.”
Dr. Elsen inhaled. “I know. I just find it creepy. You’re over there staring at me.” They turned to see George watching them. He smiled and waved. “And you’re standing here, talking to me.” She pointed animatedly to the spot where he stood.
Dr. Hanning exhaled. “I find it a bit creepy, myself.”
Stepping towards the chair, he said, “So, George, we’re going to give you some memories today.”
George tilted his head like a dog listening to its owner. “Memories? Why do I need memories? Don’t I already have them?”
“Right, yes you do.” Dr. Hanning continued after clearing his throat and ignoring George’s question. “It’ll be just like a regular data dump. You’ll learn about your family. Your wife Elizabeth, your children, the whole bit. You’re a doctor, like me.”
“Like you and Dr. Elsen?” George smiled; this was the first time they had given him a purpose for being himself. He thought he’d like being a doctor.
“Yes. Like me.”
Dr. Hanning aimed the laser at the back of George’s head, then walked behind the protective shielding with Dr. Elsen and started the machine. It whirred to life; information flowed into George’s brain in a glistening stream of light.
Drs. Hanning and Elsen were so enthralled watching the computer monitors, they didn’t feel the tremblers or notice the vibrating machinery. With a crashing of metal on metal, and boulder smashing cacophony, the building rocked and shook. A fissure opened in the floor, causing the data stream laser to spark and explode in a blinding flash. The data stream remained for a brief four seconds.
In those seconds, Drs. Hanning and Elsen glanced up, watching as the world split. Blinding light ripped the chair in half and George fell through the fissure. They watched him tumble through time, painfully crashing onto the floor of the library that had stood on this ground before the earthquake of 1925. They recognized it from the photo in the lab’s lobby. Then the library crumbled, collapsing over a bare-chested George, a clone they had been working on for nearly a decade.
Their world stopped rocking. Gob smacked, they stared at each other.
“Uh, Mark,” Dr. Elsen said after the dust settled. “I think that was an earthquake.”
Dr. Hanning gulped. “Yup.”
“And I’m pretty sure we somehow sent a clone into 1925.”
“Yup.”
Dr. Elsen scratched her head. “And I think he’s your grandfather.”
“Yup,” Dr. Hanning said, having come to the same conclusion. Then he fainted.
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