Chapter 1

My name is Ishmael, like the fictional fellow in Moby Dick, which I never read, but I’m not a seaman as I understand that Ishmael in the book is, and I, neither being a doctor, have no idea what kind of STD Moby dick is or even if it’s treatable. Sounds quite nasty. I’m itchy just mentioning it! My associates, those not fond of me, call me Ishi. Or, when things go south, as they often do, may call me Ishywishy. My few real friends (I do have a few ... all more dear because of their scarcity) shortened my name to Mal. Spanish for ill. Or bad. I’m not sure which I prefer. I’m not a tough guy or a bad man. Intentionally I’ve never hurt a soul and wouldn’t. I’m a thinker, an incurable fidget, because I fidget with things, usually mechanical stuff, though sometimes electronics, and I’m an erstwhile tinkerer. Tinkering with stuff is my life’s work. As in a calling. A vocation. I invent useful but unnecessary kitchen gadgets mostly. I barely make a living at this gadgeteering, but it’s among the most honorable work as it helps people and makes their lives just a bit easier. It exploits no one, has no hidden or political agendas, and folks can handle the product and see exactly what their money buys. There are personal benefits, like spending a lot of fun time perusing elderly folk’s yard sales. They’re lonely so chattin’ them up is great, low-cost socializing, and aids bargaining for their older obsolete gadgets. Hand-cranked combo apple peelers and corers are my favorites, disassembling the fancy parts to make new multifunction prototype inventions. I don’t know what it will do when, if ever, my next amazing earth-shattering marketing phenomenon’s invention will be ready. I’m waiting and hoping for inspiration. Praying for a glimmer. A glimmer is a fairy glow like a Will o’ the Wisp, did you know?

So, you’d think that I might be wise to get a more steady job? That would be just wrong, wrong, wrong, impossibly wrong. Because I don’t want one and don’t have a job or an employer, so no job. I have my WORK. Try to understand why that’s so crucial. A sole proprietor business one-man shop. And I enjoy my work. Love it! I’d wither away if I was micromanaged and not challenged. I don’t mean handicap challenged. Rather, inspirational challenges.

My life, so far, has been one grand experiment in testing my limits. Testing to destruction.

Seems I was always more of a young economist than a daredevil, though that too. As I stood there, at ten years old, at the summit of that hill, surveying and weighing my options, the costs in disapproval and parental consequences against the exhilarating rewards that came from stepping into the unknown. I’d carefully considered the punishments I might face for swiping Dad’s belts, estimating how many belt welts on my backside, and the hours of chores I’d likely earn in the aftermath. But the potential thrill of gliding down the hill, the rush of cool air, and the jubilant screams of honor in my heart as my wings lifted me from earth outweighed the impending scolding. By a landslide. It was the thrill that fueled my calculations, sharpening my instinct for adventure like honing a fine blade.

With the belts cinched tight around my arms, gripping me like the very constraints of reason, I reflected on what my internal code of ethics could call honor. There was always the allure of the unknown, the taste of risk simmering on the tip of my tongue. “What if this works?” I pondered as my heart raced, racing with possibilities just as much as the bicycle wheels carried me toward the precipice of decision.

“Okay, Sam,” I called back to him who served as my witness and childhood best pal, my voice laced with a mix of excitement and apprehension, “We’re about to test the limits of physics versus childhood audacity!” I could almost hear his thoughts. Was I being brilliant or reckless? Probably both.

I took a moment to inhale the smoky scent of the hot asphalt. The summer-baked pavement of the sticky melting road. To absorb the uncertainty of the world where anything could happen. I could soar, or stumble spectacularly. That was my sweet spot, the beautiful middle ground where consequences danced around me in a chaotic waltz of risk and reward.

With my feet firmly planted on the pedals, I pushed off from the ground, launching into the imminent chaos. In the blink of an eye, everything around me became a blur, past, future, bike, road, hill, sky, and fear mingling harmoniously.

As I felt the wind rush past my face and the delight of flight teased my senses, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was destined to become a cautionary tale or an epic saga. In that moment of weightlessness, I felt like I was on the precipice of crafting my destiny. Perhaps every bruise and raw scrape I’d collected, every emergency bandage I’d swiped from the bathroom cupboard, had been preparing me for this moment to boldly go where most sensible ten-year-olds would never dare tread.

But then, like the inevitability of gravity, reality became unyielding. The cardboard creaked, the belts strained, bamboo bent and snapped. The calculations of my earlier analyses swirled around me. Whatever the outcome, it hit me then: I was a child prodigy of adventure, navigating the treacherous balance between ambition and caution, risk and reward.

As the ground rushed up to steal my breath away, I knew that flight or crash, success or failure, here was precisely where I was meant to be. I crashed but survived. And later survived worse. Always survived so far. Never learning self-restraint or self-denial of gratification.

What I HAVE learned so far and am sure of it is that I have this sickness, an itch, a craving for the next thrill, the next leap into the unknown. It’s a dangerous urge, I know. I can’t help I am naturally impulsive, adrenaline-fueled, testosterone-blighted a perpetual boy. Full of child wonder. But, I’m also not completely stupid; I do my homework. I look before I leap, er most of the time. I try to weigh the obvious risks against the potential rewards. Unseen risks are, by definition, unknown, you know. If I honestly ask myself if it’s reasonable and argue it out, in the end, I still have to do these foolish things. Because of who I am.

I’ve seen the bright side of things. The way technology can make life better, and I’ve been responsible in a minor way, for making a few lives easier if not happier. I’ve seen the dark side, too, the way it can be twisted and used to control or destroy. My world is a tapestry of wonder that could make a weak bladder pee his pants. We’ve got cities that scrape the sky and ships that dance among the heavens. We create complicated, arcane technologies and play with multidimensional spaces like kids playing with blocks. It’s all dazzling, all amazing, but it is also terrifying. It’s a marvel, sure, but it’s also a bit like living in a cage made of light and sound. You can see the stars, but you can’t get to them, well, maybe someday, not yet, anyway.

The most optimistic phrase I can think of is: not yet. Are you rich? Not yet! See?

There’s a rumor traveling in whispers, about time travel. Not the kind of TT you see in those corny holo-vids, but the real McCoy where you could change everything with the flip of a switch. Some say it’s just a fairy tale, a story to keep the dreamers dreaming. I’m not sure. I think it exists, out there, waiting to be found. And I also believe that it is very dangerous.

This might make me the least preferable person to stumble onto something so powerful. The idea of a reckless soul handling the keys, to time ... w, ell, it sounds like a recipe for disaster. I know all this is speculation, yet here I am. My analytical side, the one that does the risk-reward analysis advises me I should probably stay far, far away from this idea. The half that is more than a little impulsive, the one that needs the next big thing, is telling me to go, go. Go!

It’s a paradox I wrestle with daily. My rational side screams at my foolhardy thrill seeker half, and I, the thrill addict, ignore it like my grandma with the sweet tooth used to ignore health warnings about white sugar. It’s a hard dance I do with myself. I don’t know where it is going to lead me. All I know is that it is something I have to do. To see it through. This next harebrained adventure. Find out if time travel is true.

I’ve got the feeling that fate, that cruel and twisted mirth jester, has it in for me or a bad end planned or at least has some plan bad for me. And I’m pretty certain it involves me biting off more than I can chew. I believe that the worst kind of enemy is the one you do not expect, the one that creeps in on you and bites you when you are least prepared, leaving you vulnerable and alone. You know who it is. We all do. You are your own worst enemy. This feeling is like a cold hand on the back of my neck steering my head, but I can’t see it or dislodge it. I have to wonder if I am chasing fate or if fate is chasing me. Either way, it’s a race I don’t want to lose.

The rumor of a stash of old gizmos and antique tools and instruments led me to the forgotten underbelly of the city, a place where the old world meets the new. It was a labyrinth of tunnels and forgotten corridors and weird smells emanating from narrow dank shops. I squeezed through tight passages, dust motes dancing in the dim light. Each step, each turn a question mark. I felt like l was peeling back time going down a rabbit hole, not sure of what I would find around the next bend. I discovered a hidden door, not quite fully camouflaged with the stones surrounding it Almost unnoticeable but I did. My heart pounded with excitement. The thrill-seeking side of me is taking over.

With a gentle push, the door swung in an inch before balking, then gave way to a more determined shoulder shove, revealing a sight that stole my breath away. It was a library, vast and ancient, the shelves like silent sentinels. Books of all sizes, bound in leather and metal, lined the walls, their pages whispering secrets of ages past. The air hung heavy with the scent of old paper and auras of forgotten lore. It was the kind of place that made your soul feel small and, somehow, significant at the same time. My analytical side was struggling with the thriller side, and they were slugging it out in my brain like an old married couple.