Time's Avenger

The streets of Cleveland, Ohio, suddenly darken at midday. Thunder rolls as sheets of rain pummel the sidewalks.

A giant funnel forms at the end of Corral Avenue. Believing it’s a tornado, shoppers take cover in the nearest stores.

The funnel spits out a man with orange hair, dressed in a silver jumpsuit. He nervously looks around, catching the eye of octogenarian Thorton Pinwhistle, who is standing under Foote’s Shoe Store’s awning.

A second man in a silver jumpsuit, with a blue pompadour, steps out of the funnel, his angry gaze locked on the other man.

The first man backs away.

“Nooooo!”

Laughing, the man with the blue pompadour pushes him into the street. The man with the orange hair falls onto his back into a stream of water flowing down the street.

The Greater Cleveland Regional Transit Authority's noon bus runs him over.

Blue pompadour’s fevered stare petrifies Thornton. He smirks at Thornton, then walks away.

The funnel spins out, disappearing. Within seconds, the intense rainstorm relents and the sun breaks through the bleak clouds.

                                               ***

Detective Trip Tate lifts the sheet covering the body.

“There was too much thunder and rain. He never heard it coming,” says Monty Love, the City Coroner. “That’s why I’m against electric buses. It flattened him like a strawberry pancake.”

“Why strawberry?”

The wiry coroner adjusts his round spectacles. “I like strawberries. They remind me of blood.”

“You’ve been at this too long, Monty. You’ve turned into a ghoul.”

Trip grimaces at the body's condition.

Stocky and barrel-chested, gifted with a resonant baritone speaking voice, but saddled with pudgy features and a receding hairline, fifty-two-year-old Trip Tate has been one of Cleveland’s top homicide detectives for twenty-seven years, yet he’s never seen an outfit like the one the corpse is wearing.

“The witness was a bit feeble, but he swore he saw another man in a silver jumpsuit deliberately shove the victim into the street,” Trip says.

“Then I don’t need to tell you that’s why you’re here. This guy was murdered.”

“Nice hairdo. What in the world would possess a man to dye his hair orange?”

“Ask the president. And it looks more like mango to me.”

“Okay, Picasso. Have you ever seen an outfit like this?”

“Yeah, on a baked potato,” Monty replies. “I cut off a piece and sent it to Forensics for analysis. All they could tell me is that it isn’t any fabric we’re aware of.”

“Did he have anything on him?”

“He had a watch and an I.D. They’re on the table.”

Trip examines the watch.

“The watch looks like a Rolex, but it’s not. In fact, there’s no brand name on it. It’s got a lot of small buttons on the side, and there’s no numbers to tell time by, only a blank window.”

Distracted by his paperwork, Monty mumbles, “Must be some sort of hybrid timepiece.”

Trip picks up a laminated card.

“It’s a company I.D. Strange design. Looks like it was printed in 3-D. It says he’s Claude Criswell and that he’s in the research and development department at Timeless Technologies. It’s got to be bogus.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His date of birth. It says August 24, 2227. That’s two hundred years from now.”

A knock at the office door draws their attention.

A well-dressed man smiles politely at them. Trip immediately notices his blue hair.

“Must be dye your hair as weird as you can day,” Trip comments.

“I’m Roman Rhodes. I heard a friend of mine was killed. I’m here to identify his body.”

“Give us a minute, Monty.”

Monty gives Roman a wide berth as he leaves.

“He has a strange identification card on him that says he was born two hundred years in the future. Care to explain?”

“May I see that?” Roman asks, pointing at the watch.

Trip hands Roman the watch. He taps several buttons, then presses the top one.

Claude Criswell’s body disappears.

Tate shakes his head in disbelief. “What did you do?”

“I sent his body home to his family.”

“How?”

“Inter-historical time travel.”

“Inter what? Do you mind explaining what that is?”

“This device is a Temporal Transmitter. In essence, it allows its wearer to time travel. It converts our bodies into particles that move through time and space. I set the dials to a date in the past or future, then press the ignition button.”

“I think that blue dye has seeped into your brain, Mr. Rhodes.”

“It’s my natural color. Most men in my century are born with blue or orange hair. The fallout from the chemical bombs we used in the last war altered our genetics. You should see the women in my century. Most of them are bald and six feet tall.”

“No thanks. Grace Jones always petrified me. I can’t believe our government sanctioned time travel.”

“They didn’t. At least not at first,” Roman replies. “The government knew the dangers of time travel and banned research into it. That didn’t stop private corporations from experimenting with it. Billionaire Manfred Lau funded the Temporal Transmitter. Lau didn’t do it out of altruism. He’s wanted to be President for years and is the type of snake who’d use the Transmitter to alter history for his own gain. Calling himself “Time’s Avenger,” one of the inventors stole one of the devices. Colton always embraced irony... As head of Timeless Tech’s security, it’s my job to track Colton down. Colton tried to lose me and my men by transporting himself here. One of my men, Claude Criswell, got here first. Colton killed Claude before I could jump to this time period and save him.”

“So, the three of you are from the future?”

“Yes. Claude and I have been chasing the Avenger for several days.”

“Why?”

“To keep him from changing history. What would your present be like if Custer had won the Battle of the Little Bighorn? Or if there were no internet or rap music?”

“I could live without the last two.”

“What if the South had won the Civil War or the Nazis had won World War II?”

“Okay, I see your point. You’re chasing a murderer across time…”

“Yes. Colton also tried to kill his partner, Corbin Criswell. It was hard to believe, given that Corbin and Colton had always been inseparable. But the project changed Corbin. Corbin, Colton, and his wife, Moriah, worked together to develop the Temporal Transmitter. Corbin Criswell may have been a genius, but it turns out he was a bit lacking in the moral fiber department. He saw dollar signs and was seduced by the fame their invention would bring. He told the government that Colton and Moriah intended to sell the device to our enemies. They were arrested as traitors and scheduled for execution.”

“Since your government had deemed time travel illegal, that should have put the kibosh on the project. What happened?”

“The government suddenly became very interested in the device after Corbin convinced them it would work. Corbin petitioned the government to use Colton and Moriah as guinea pigs, since they were going to die anyway. The tests left Moriah a vegetable. She died in Colton’s arms a few days ago, triggering this tragic chain of events. Colton has vowed to erase the project from history.”

“And Corbin Criswell?”

“He’s in protective custody. That hasn’t stopped Colton, who’s sworn to kill Corbin Criswell’s relatives and anyone associated with the project. Claude Criswell was Corbin Criswell’s stepson.”

“I get it. If Colton goes back in time and kills Criswell’s relatives, he might not be born. How did he escape?”

“He used a timeless old jailbird trick. He pretended to be ill. The guards opened his cell, and he murdered them with a shiv he’d fashioned from a plastic spoon. He then took one of the guards' time-travel devices. We do have one advantage, though…”

“That futuristic silver getup he’s wearing?”

“No. Under normal circumstances, the Temporal Transmitter can provide a traveler with a change of clothes that fits the time period they’re in. The storm that coincided with Claude and Colton’s arrival interrupted the Transmitter’s ability to alter their clothes. It can also assess the situation, provide any equipment a traveler may need, and locate someone wearing the device. The Transmitter leaves an ion trail. Unfortunately, that trail works both ways.”

“So, Time’s Avenger might come after you.”

“Exactly. But if I have someone with me, someone he can’t detect, we might be able to capture him.”

“Sorry, Roman. I’ve got a job tracking down more mundane criminals in the present.”

“Without your help, there might not be a present.”

Roman dangles the Temporal Transmitter before Trip, who sighs and reluctantly takes it.

                                               ***

Raff Forbes, the Chief of Detectives, runs his hand through his snow-white hair. A dead ringer for sour-pussed President Andrew Jackson, Raff has run his department for thirty years, doesn’t suffer fools, and has no patience for people who believe in ghosts, reincarnation, UFOs, or time travel. A native of Bug Tussle, Texas, Raff is affectionately known as Foghorn by his men because his accent and his habit of emphasizing a point by repeating it remind them of the bombastic cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn.

“You do realize how ridiculous this all sounds, don’t you, son? I said, you understand that it sounds crazy, right? I’m not gonna assign one of my best detectives to a blue-haired stranger who thinks he’s mastered time travel. I need proof that this Temporal Transmitter contraption of yours is legit, you understand, son? I said I need some sort of verification. Can you tell me who shot John Kennedy? Where D.B. Cooper is?”

“Some events in history have touched too many lives and can’t be undone,” Roman explains.

“That’s a huckster’s explanation if I’ve ever heard one, son. I say, it sounds like you’re wafflin’.”

“How about testing the device?” Trip suggests.

“Good idea,” Roman replies. “Is there a moment in your life you wish you could revisit or change?”

Raff’s brow creases. “…The assassination of Senator Lincoln Maharis outside of his campaign headquarters on August 8, 1996, when he announced his bid for President… And he’d have made a good one… Happened durin’ my third year as a detective…A witness said a man carryin’ a gun concealed in an umbrella did it. He escaped before we could nab him. It’s been hauntin’ me ever since.”

Roman adjusts the Transmitter, pressing the ignition button.

Raff looks up at the banner stretched across the building’s façade, reading “Vote for Lincoln Maharis, he’s of the people, by the people, and for the people.”

Raff glances at Trip and Roman, who are pointing at a man holding an open umbrella in front of them.

Raff pounces on the man. Wrestling him to the ground, he quickly handcuffs him.

“It took me thirty years, but I finally nailed ya, you dream wreckin’polecat!”

“What’s the meaning of this?” the man asks in a clipped English accent.

“Don’t play innocent. I stopped ya from shootin’ Senator Maharis!”

“Give me back my umbrella! I have Xeroderma pigmentosum!”

“You got what, son?”

“I shouldn’t be in direct sunlight. It severely damages my skin. But I was willing to take a chance and come here to show my support for the Senator.”

Trip twists the umbrella’s shaft, opening it.

“There’s no gun hidden inside.”

A shot rings out as Senator Maharis exits his headquarters.

Raff’s head droops.

“I told you, some events can’t be changed,” Roman says, setting his Transmitter for the present.

                                               ***

“You sure you’re up for this assignment, Tripp?” Roman asks. “You look like you’ve had your share of donuts.”

“I’m pleasingly plump, but nimble. So, where is Time’s Avenger now?”

“Tombstone, Arizona. October 26, 1881.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“It’s the day the Earp Brothers and Doc Holliday killed Billy Clanton and the McLaury brothers at the O.K. Corral.”

                                               ***

Trip and Roman step out of a temporal time funnel across the street from a narrow lot near C. S. Fly's photography studio.

Four men dressed in black, like Wild West morticians, stand in the lot with their backs to Trip and Roman. They face five flamboyantly dressed, ornery cowboys.

“…We’re too late…,” Roman says.

“What do you mean? Let’s go!?”

“See the cowboy with the ice-blue eyes who looks like he stepped off the pages of a men’s magazine, pointing a shotgun at Virgil Earp? That’s Colter.”

Colter levels the shotgun at Virgil, who falls dead.

“That’s not supposed to happen!” Trip exclaims.

“Neither is anything else we’re about to see,” Roman replies.

Morgan Earp shoots Billy Clanton, striking him in the side. Undaunted, Clanton fans five shots at Morgan, dropping him.

Tom McLaury ducks behind his horse. Doc Holliday fires his shotgun into the air. The blast makes the horse jump, exposing Tom.

Doc drops the shotgun, reaching for his pistol.

Tom McLaury draws first, saying, “Got you now, you scrawny lunger.”

“Blaze away! You're a daisy if you have,” Doc replies defiantly.

Tom McLaury fires at Doc, piercing his heart.

“And now you’re gonna be pushin’ up daisies, lunger!”

Frank McLaury and Wyatt Earp exchange shots. Wyatt’s bullets miss their mark, but Frank McLaury’s bullets strike Wyatt in the shoulder and leg.

The stoic lawman drops to his knees, falling face forward.

Colter trains his shotgun on Trip as he and Roman run toward him, prompting both men to dive into the dirt.

When they look up, Colter is gone.

As the cowboys walk away, slapping each other on the back, Trip and Roman run to Wyatt’s side.

Roman examines Wyatt. “Thank goodness. Wyatt’s only wounded, not dead.”

“I take it that’s important.”

 “Colter is a direct descendant of Wyatt Earp.”

“That still leaves Morgan, Virgil, and Doc Holliday dead when they’re not supposed to be.”

“No. Because Wyatt survived, the timeline will repair itself when we leave.”

“That’s reassuring. I like the movie ‘Tombstone’ as it is. So, where did Colter go?”

Roman looks at his Transmitter.

“Back to 2227, to kill Manfred Lau.”

                                               ***

The diminutive, orange-coiffed, feral-looking billionaire eyes the two men with distrust. After listening to Roman’s explanation, Lau reluctantly invites him and Trip into his study.

“You two are my what?”

“Security detail,” Roman replies. “Colter has escaped, and he’s coming for you.”

“So security sent me a fat cop who looks like Oliver Hardy and a clothes horse with no muscle tone to stop him?”

Looking over Roman’s shoulder, Lau gasps.

Colter is standing in the doorway, holding a small, silver gun.

“Time to earn your pay, fellas,” Lau says, crouching behind his desk.

“Stand back, Trip, a plasma gun can fry you in a matter of seconds.”

Colter fires the gun at Roman, who bends his body enough to avoid a direct blast. Roman staggers away, groaning.

Trip grabs Colter’s arm. The two men grunt, straining as they wrestle for control of the gun.

“Give it up, fat boy!” Colter snarls.

Trip frees his right hand, crashing it against Colter’s jaw.

“Never make fun of my weight. I’m pleasingly plump.”

Colter drops the gun, stumbling backward.

Pressing the buttons on his Transmitter, Colton furiously says, “I’m not done with you yet, Lau! You’ll pay for what you did to Moriah!”

Trip makes a desperate lunge at Colton’s dissolving image.

He runs to assist Roman.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“The wound will heal itself when we make our next jump.”

“And where will that take us?”

“Moscow, September 26, 1983.”

                                               ***

Trip and Roman materialize in the Soviet Air Defense Forces' control room.

Wearing the uniform of a Soviet general, Colton is shouting at raw-boned Lieutenant Colonel Stanislav Petrov, whose finger is poised over the button that will launch a nuclear missile strike against the United States.

“Are you disobeying a direct order, Lieutenant?” Colton bellows. “Our early-warning system indicates that the United States has launched five nuclear missiles at Moscow!”

“Stop! Don’t press that button!” Roman shouts. “The system has malfunctioned!”

Roman and Trip move toward Colton, who smirks, touches his Temporal Transmitter, then disappears.

“Who are you people?” Petrov asks.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Trip replies. “You’re a hero, Stanislav.”

“By refusing to launch those nuclear warheads, you saved the world,” Roman adds. “You prevented World War III.”

Petrov exhales, easing back into his chair.

“So, Colton the Avenger has Russian relatives?” Trip asks.

“No. He’s getting desperate. He couldn’t kill Wyatt Earp or Manfred Lau, so he decided to kill everyone on Earth.”

“Who’s next?”

Roman looks at his Transmitter. “I was afraid of this. Do you know how to fire a plasma gun?”

“Sorry, they haven’t been invented.”

“I’ll give you a crash course. Colton’s located Corbin Criswell.”

                                               ***

Trip and Roman arrive in Corbin Criswell’s study to find Colton holding a plasma gun. He’s pointing it at Corbin and a trembling, gray-haired woman.

Colton turns to face Trip and Roman. “You two have obstructed me at every turn. Not this time.”

Roman presses a button on his Transmitter. A protective dome forms around Corbin Criswell. The skinny, peaked inventor drops to his knees, whimpering.

Colton shoots at Roman’s wrist, destroying his device.

Trip points his gun at Colton. “Stop! Criswell will spend the rest of his life in prison for framing you and for Moriah!”

Colton turns to face the woman, who shakes under his penetrating gaze.

“Putting Corbin in jail won’t bring Moriah back. I’m sorry, but I have to do this. I can’t let Corbin build the Temporal Transmitter.”

Colton points the gun at the woman, who squeals, “No, Colton! Please!”

Colton hesitates, looking at the woman’s despondent expression.

Trip squeezes the trigger of his plasma gun. Colton looks down at his chest, then stares at Trip in amazement as his body dissolves.

“Why did he hesitate?” Trip asks Roman.

“He wouldn’t hesitate to kill his brother, Corbin, the man who betrayed him, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill his mother.”