September 15, 2017

This day changed the world. No one knows why, except for a select, perhaps unlucky few. Most defining moments in history center on a death or deaths—assassinations, coups, wars, revolutions, executions. This day was no different. While morbid that humans so often use death as a historical marker, it makes logical sense. Death is the end of something or someone. It is the culmination of events that leads to an inevitable conclusion—an ending that begets a new beginning. 

For most historical events, no one focuses on the moments leading up to them. The reason is simple enough. They’re innocuous and seemingly unrelated, but after enough time, history reveals that everything is connected, and everything is important. Most people think “enough time” means a few years, maybe a decade, or at most a lifetime. That’s because people focus on things from their perspective, but what if enough time hasn’t passed?

It is widely accepted that history was written by the victors. If that’s true, it means history has one-half of the story at best, and at worst, it is full of lies. But which is it? The key to unlocking that answer—September 15, 2017.

***

It was a crisp fall morning and patrons enjoyed fresh coffee, handmade pastries, and other breakfast delights in an upscale café in Arlington, Virginia. In a faded red booth, two sisters in their mid-30’s, Dr. Riya Patel and Dr. Anjali Patel, finished their fruit plates and espressos. Of the two, Riya was more beautiful, but Anjali placed more effort into her appearance. A crimped hairdo, designer clothes, and meticulously applied makeup belied a deep-seated insecurity. In contrast, Riya, the older sister by three years, preferred a natural clean face and a simple ponytail. 

“You have to give me a hint,” Riya asked, as she popped a piece of melon into her mouth.

Anjali smirked, then sipped her coffee.

“You can’t tell me you’re working on a big scientific discovery and then not say anything.”

Anjali remained firm. “It’s top secret. Dr. Guthrie would have me fired.”

“Fine. I guess I’ll have to wait.”

Anjali enjoyed being the center of attention and couldn’t let go of the moment. She blurted out, “It has something to do with the hippocampus, but that’s all I can say.”

Riya mulled over the new information. “The hippocampus?”

“At least we think so,” Anjali corrected.

“Hmm. Hippocampus. Is it related to memory?” Riya asked.

Anjali smiled. Riya was warm.

“Something with savant syndrome?”

Anjali turned up her nose. “I said this was going to be really big.”

Riya rolled her eyes, feigning insult. “That could be really big.”

“It’s much bigger, but I can’t tell you until after our trials finish next month. This is going to change the world,” Anjali declared.

Riya sipped her espresso, now concerned. “Anjali, I hope this isn’t some fringe science thing.”

The conversation shifted from playful to tense—that simmering insecurity triggered by one small comment loaded with subtext. 

Riya had been looking out for her sister for years. Their mother died from cancer, and their father just months later. Most people might bemoan the cruelty and unfairness of life after losing both parents so young, but Riya threw herself into her schoolwork and caring for Anjali. By any standard, except her own, Riya was an unmitigated success. Her intellect and work ethic got her a full ride to Harvard Medical School, where she graduated in the top 1% of her class. She went on to become a preeminent neurologist and pioneered breakthrough methods to improve outcomes for stroke victims. She’d helped hundreds of people, but her achievements came at a steep price. Her work-first lifestyle left little room for personal relationships. The only person Riya loved was her sister, but her accomplishments made Anjali feel like she was never good enough. In recent years, the relationship had improved, but all it took was one unintended insult to set things back.

Anjali glowered at Riya. “You’re not the only one who can work on something important.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… you’re not positive it’s related to the hippocampus, and you’re announcing next month? Guthrie’s reputation isn’t the best.”

“Because he’s a trailblazer,” Anjali fired back.

“Once you get a certain reputation, it’s hard to be taken seriously,” Riya said.

Anjali bit her lip to stop it from quivering. “You don’t think I’m a reputable doctor?”

Riya reached out to grab her sister’s hand. “I didn’t say that.”

Anjali recoiled and sat back against the booth. “Maybe I didn’t graduate from Harvard like you.” Her resolve hardened as she spoke. “And maybe I’m not some superhero neurologist, but this is going to change the world.” She snatched her Strathberry black leather brief and stood to leave.

Riya’s head dropped. She didn’t want their breakfast to end like this. “Anjali.”

Anjali stopped.

Riya searched for something to say, but she was a terrible liar, and everything Anjali feared her sister believed about her, she did.

“I’m going to change the world, not you.” Anjali stormed out.

Riya stared at her coffee. This was a setback. She’d work through this and fix it like she always did. After one last sip, she signed the check and left. 

She’d make it up to Anjali next time.

* * *

With her leather brief by her feet, Anjali stewed on her morning subway commute. Why did Riya always find a way to put her down? A passenger in a ratty sweatshirt stood over her, holding a bottle of booze in a crumpled brown paper bag and belched like a foghorn. Anjali recoiled with disgust. Can the day get any worse? The subway slowed for its next stop. The drunk passenger lost his balance and fell on to Anjali’s lap. There was her answer.

A bystander in a gray suit with the exact same leather brief rushed to Anjali’s aid. He heaved the drunkard off Anjali. “It’s too early to be drunk, pal.”

“You know what they say? It’s five o’clock somewhere,” the bum slurred as he mixed back into the crowd.

Anjali thanked the good Samaritan. He nodded, grabbed Anjali’s leather brief, left his in its place, and exited. 

Three stops later, Anjali hurried out of the subway station toward a bland commercial real estate complex subdivided into multiple units. Companies renting these spaces were either scraping to get by or hoping to hit it big one day. Anjali’s employer, Guthrie Research, was both.

As she entered the building, two beefy security guards, Daryl and Bobby, greeted her. Anjali flashed her ID badge and strutted by. The security was unusual for a corporation in this type of complex. She opened a door that led to the office bullpen, an unimpressive area filled with cubbies separated by cheap sterile walls. This room was not the reason for the guards.

Anjali reached a nondescript desk. Her space contained a computer screen on one side of the desk, stacked manilla folders on the other, and a white coat hung on the wall partition. She tossed the briefcase under her desk as a man in a similar coat, Dr. Cushing, passed by.

“You’re late,” he said and continued on his way.

Anjali grabbed the hanging coat, slipped it on, and darted down the hall. She approached the door marked “Image Lab.”

The Image Lab contained three monitors. Cushing sat in front of the first, which displayed a computer rendering of a human brain. Anjali plopped herself in front of the second, which tracked a patient’s heart rate and blood pressure, even though there was no patient in sight. Wayne, a nerdy bearded middle-aged man with a potbelly and sweater vest, stood beside the third monitor, a black screen. The technology in this area still didn’t justify the security detail out front. The only other feature in the Image Lab was a window into the next room.

“Any bets on what we’re going to see today, Wayne?” Anjali asked with a sly grin.

Wayne rubbed his hands as he considered the question. “I’m feeling something BC.”

Anjali raised an eyebrow. A bold prediction. “We’ve only had two of those. Ten bucks says AD.”

A stern, male voice interrupted through the intercom and ended the office fun. “Did Dr. Patel finally arrive?”

Anjali blushed as Cushing responded affirmatively into the intercom. 

The voice declared, “We’re administering the stim.” 

The heart rate displayed on Anjali’s monitor increased. Erratic scarlet lines pulsated into the brain rendering on Cushing’s screen, and a tiny area in the center turned a bright crimson.

Wayne’s monitor flashed, and an image faded into view—a Nordic boat with a dragonhead on the bow.

Wayne stared, slack-jawed. “Would ya’ look at that?” He ran his fingers over the screen. “This never gets old.”

Even Cushing and Anjali couldn’t help but stare at Wayne’s screen.

“You don’t have to be a historian to know that’s a Viking ship,” Cushing said.

“Is that AD or BC?” Anjali asked.

Eyes still glued to the monitor, Wayne held out a ten-dollar bill.

Cushing pressed the intercom, “We got one.”

The voice responded, “Okay, we’re stopping the stim. Have Dr. Patel meet me in my office.”

Cushing eyed Anjali. Trouble. She stood up and gazed through the window into the adjacent lab. Two doctors attended to a sedated man in his forties. He reclined in what looked like a futuristic dental chair and had three metallic probes attached to his head. This was the reason for the security.

As Anjali exited the Image Lab, she bumped into Dr. Guthrie—the voice from the intercom. In his early sixties, Guthrie had salt and pepper hair and acne scars from when he was a teen. It gave him a weathered look that matched his gruff personality. “Dr. Patel, come with me.”

Guthrie led her down the hallway to his office. He maintained the appearance of chivalrousness as he opened the door for Anjali, but once inside, all façade of politeness vanished. He motioned for her to sit in the chair. It was not a request.

Once seated, Anjali glanced around the messy room. Despite her years of service, she’d not been in here before and was surprised to find such disorganization from a man she both feared and respected. Dr. Guthrie remained standing to make Anjali feel as uncomfortable as possible. It worked.

Anjali jumped in to explain, “Dr. Guthrie, I’m sorry I was late. I was…”

Guthrie held up his finger to silence her. He had no interest in excuses. “Do you understand the significance of our discovery?”

Anjali nodded.

“No. Do you truly understand it?” Guthrie asked again.

Anjali stammered for a response. She had already acknowledged she did. What more did he want?

“We have scientific proof that we have past lives.” He let that sink in before proceeding. “That will fundamentally change everything about our society.”

“I know, and I’m honored to be a part of this groundbreaking research. I’m sorry for being late. It won’t happen again.”

Guthrie stared at Anjali. Something more significant than Anjali’s tardiness had upset him. “If anything leaks before we’re ready, it could compromise the entire study.”

“I understand,” Anjali replied.

“I have reason to believe otherwise.”

A knock at the door jolted Anjali.

“Come in,” Guthrie commanded.

The door opened and Daryl, one of the security guards, entered carrying Anjali’s leather brief. He placed it on Guthrie’s desk.

“IT monitors all computers,” Guthrie explained. “Yesterday, classified files were downloaded to a Zip drive from your computer.”

“That’s not true,” Anjali protested.

Guthrie continued to stare at the brief. “Open it, and let’s find out what’s inside.”

“Dr. Guthrie, I’d never do anything to jeopardize this study,” she pleaded.

“Open it, Dr. Patel,” Guthrie ordered. He was not going to ask a third time.

On the verge of tears, Anjali’s fingers trembled as they unhooked the clasp on her brief. She lifted the flap and peered inside. “Oh, God.”

Guthrie’s head slumped. She was guilty. Or was she? She was scared, but not of being caught. She was scared to death.

Guthrie motioned Daryl to take her into custody. As he grabbed her arm, Daryl glanced inside the brief. His eyes widened in horror, but he didn’t even have time to scream. 

Boom!

A bomb exploded.