The Burden Through the Breach

An Alternative History Story by 5thBeastieBoy

The room was dimly lit and sparse - industrial. Two black metal sconces on adjacent walls gave off a soft-white light, drowned out by the red emergency lights that ran the length of the room in the upper corner between the four walls and the ceiling. The space was just large enough to not be deemed cramped. One half of the room was furnished with four metal benches arranged symmetrically and bolted to the floor, providing no sense of comfort. Centered on the floor of the other half was a small circular dais, haloed by a faint blue ring of light along its circumference.

The main wall was lined with a one-way mirror. The drab milieu of the room reflected back onto itself in a perceived mocking gesture. Above rested a digital clock. It's large red numbers counting down.

00:08...00:07...00:06...

A man is seated on one of the benches, the only occupant in the room. His appearance fit the setting of his environment. Gray coveralls void of any color. A patch on his left shoulder tells others he's military. A name patch above his right chest tells others he's nobody. Just a number. Thirteen.

00:05...00:04...00:03...

The man sat hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees. Nervousness. Anticipation. These emotions engulfed him while his right leg twitched, making it harder to bite off what was left of his thumb nail. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and began to trickle down the side of his face. He looked up at the clock.

00:02...00:01...00:00...

A pause rushed over him, as if the air in the room was sucked out. For only a moment.

00:01...00:02...00:03...

He let out a gasp of breath.

Nothing.

Nothing had changed. Nothing felt different. He waited. Just as he had so many times before now. A static buzz from the intercom broke the silent tension in the room just before a voice spoke:

"Mission Number Twelve has been recorded as a failure. Mission Number Thirteen is set to commence tomorrow. Be at the ready room prepared to launch at 21:00 hours. That is all."

Spacetime Directive No. 1: Complete the mission.

Outside is dangerous. A hellscape not to be trifled with. He always took the necessary precautions before he headed out into the wastes. The trek to the transportation tube was long enough that anyone not properly prepared could suffer the same consequences of so many before.

He is hesitant in taking his first step out. Alone now, he has no one to double check his gear. He used the one-way mirror to ensure the best he could that all the seals were fastened on his full-face respiratory unit.

He wished Twelve was still around to make sure.

He flipped the hood of his hazmat tunic over his head and began to walk. The air around him was a haze. Some of it wafting specks of radiation. The rest a combination of floating waste particles that would prove deadly if the radiation didn't finish off his health.

It was dark out, the only illumination was from the facility he was leaving and a small beacon lamp marking the entrance to the tube nearly three hundred yards away. It didn't matter. The daytime was no longer marked by the sun. It hadn't been seen in decades. Instead they were left with only a sky full of red-lit smog choking out the star.

He did his best to stay calm. Steady his breathing. Not to panic. He had made the walk thousands of times before. He may only have to make it once more after tonight.

The transportation tube was empty, of course. The tram was his own now. He punched the coordinates to his destination and sat back. He watched the sand-swept terrain move past him through the transparent tube. His respirator remained in place, not trusting the environmental seals of the tube system.

He witnessed the faint lights of a once-proud city flicker in the darkness beyond. He wondered to himself how they – the human race, the most advanced of all Earth's species – allowed it to come to this. It was once explained to him as a child when he first entered the training program: The cascading effect. His friend, Seven, once likened it to dominoes falling; which he understood better. War and famine, multiplied so immensely over and over again through time, eventually led to the total and utter destruction of civilization and the environment.

And now they were left searching for an answer. Earth didn't have much time left. Humanity had even less. The world's most brilliant scientists and scholars – what was left of them – thought they found a way.

Thirteen was their last hope.

The decontamination chamber finished its cycle and signaled Thirteen he was clear to enter his apartment. After hanging his tunic, he then set his respiratory unit on the charger. His studio-sized apartment was sparse and dull, by design. Copper violated his senses. He tasted it; smelled it; breathed it. No one could explain the phenomenon, and to be honest, he didn't care to know. He kept the lights off as he showered and sat in the darkness on his bed afterward.

He was lonely. Technically, he had been lonely his whole life. But before, he had his teammates. He missed Twelve more than the others. Her being gone meant that Thirteen was all that was left of the team. He had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that in order for him to perform the mission meant she would have to fail; her failure meant she would be gone.

Coming to terms with that didn't make the reality of the situation any easier.

More costly, however, was the realization that the hopes and dreams that he and Twelve shared would never come to fruition. The finality of it all stressed him. They had a connection: spiritually, physically, and emotionally. It wasn't allowed, of course, the supervisors wouldn't abide by their fraternization. But they were so far down the list...they didn't see their error in planning something for the future. Eleven others would have to fail before it was their turn to go. With all their training, they never imagined it would be possible for their time to come.

How could they have been so wrong? How could so many elite individuals fail before them? How did she fail?

The mission was straight forward. They were all so cocky in thinking that it would be easy. Spacetime-jump back to the past. Acquire the target. Eliminate the target. Return home to a world anew.

Stop the first domino from falling.

The target intel was down to nearly the exact minute. They had a date. A place. A time. Historical records were impressively precise back then. The target would be vulnerable and the location provided presumably efficient cover to carry out the mission and extract back home.

One, Two and Three never even got a chance. The team sat at their benches and watched each one explode upon the dais in a bloody mess as their suits failed to launch. Pulp, limbs and gory matter splattered the team as they sat and witnessed the same horror repeat itself for three consecutive launch failures.

Two months later, Four was the guinea pig for the new suit design. When he disappeared in a flash of blue-white light, the room erupted in cheers from his teammates. However, an hour later the countdown clock reached zero and began to count up. Twenty-four hours later, mission control deemed Mission Number Four a failure.

Five and Six went the same way. Never to be seen again. Seven, his closest friend, was electrocuted to death by his suit. His body slumped in a smoldering heap before him. The intercom announced that no one was to touch him as they waited an agonizingly long time for techs to remove his body.

And just like that, half the team was gone.

The rest, including Twelve, met the same demise as those before them who had a successful launch. Their failures went unexplained. Mission control refused to discuss the matter with the remaining team. They tried course corrections, changing of landing zones and launch times. All to no avail.

Gone with no answers.

Thirteen laid back in his bed and folded his arms behind his head as he closed his eyes. Thoughts, memories of his lost teammates washed over him. Men and women he grew up and trained with his whole life. They knew of nothing else other than the mission. It was how they were groomed; how they were raised.

His memory was faint of the day he was taken. Or rather, chosen for the program. He had no recollection of his father and only indistinct glimpses of his mother. The supervisors preferred it that way. He was young enough to not remember his name. Supervisors told him he only had one now: Thirteen. Other teammates discussed memories of their past, but no one claimed to know a name other than their number. He always wondered if that was true, or if they were all just conditioned to forget.

The idea was born well before the implementation was possible. He and the others knew there was always a possibility all their training and preparation would be for naught. Jumping through the spacetime continuum was only a working theory when the team was first assembled. They had been in the program for over a decade by the time the first prototype suit was completed.

But Thirteen was taught not to focus on the what if's?, only on the when's as he partook in the program. They were educated, some. But the bulk of their days were spent training. Physical. Mental. Combat. Weapons. Hand-to-hand. By the time the project was ready to commence with the missions, he had been sculpted into a brutally efficient killing machine. A clandestine operative with a singular modus operandi: eliminate the target.

That is not to say the training did not have its faults. They were children, after all, taken from their families and denied any right of free will. Those who were not a part of the program from its inception wouldn't know that it started with sixteen team members. Two committed suicide within the first year. Seeing two children take their lives in front of him should have had a more profound impact on him. Maybe it did, he just couldn't recall. After numerous bouts of insubordination, Fourteen was gunned down by sentries as he attempted to escape the facility a few years ago.

The supervisors were no fools and feared the writing on the wall after Fourteen's death. In an attempt to ease tensions among the team members, they commandeered the use of one of the world's only remaining amusement parks for a day. The team enjoyed their only moment of pure bliss. For one day they got to experience life as it should be. Innocent. Joyful.

He kissed Twelve for the first time that day at the amusement park. He smiled and let that memory permeate his minds as he drifted off to sleep.

Spacetime Directive No. 2: Do not deviate from the mission.

Thirteen sat alone once more in the ready room. No fanfare or good luck call-outs for him. No high-fives, handshakes, backslaps or hugs to send him off.

He checked over his gear once again. He had done so three times already. A nervous tick, he presumed. The suit was streamlined, form fitting and full-bodied. The black metallic-woven fiber provided full range of dexterity and breathability. A second skin. Seven once told him it looked like dive suits scuba divers would wear. He wished he had asked Seven how he knew that.

The suit's accessories were minimal. Harnessed to his chest was the spacetime actuator, the little engine that made the time jump possible. The circular mechanism was light-weight and only four-inches in diameter, unencumbering to his movement. Holstered to his right hip was his weapon: a compact hand gun armed with dual-action laser bolts. Attached to his left forearm was a tech gauntlet, a computer that served as a control station for the actuator and his helmet. The helmet sat on the bench next to him. It had a black metal design with air vents on the back and a micro-cam installed over the right eye. There was no face shield, rather the interior contained a high-def vid screen complete with a heads-up display to give him a crystal view of his surroundings.

He pondered as he sat. So many lost already on this mission. Would it even work? What awaited him after he jumped? It had been ingrained into him the importance of his mission. What it meant for the world.

Nerves, he expected. Questioning the validity of his task was never something he imagined. Now surely wasn't the time to start.

It was only minutes until his launch window opened. He took a deep breath to center himself before putting on his helmet. His view was pitch black momentarily before the vid screen booted on.

He walked toward the dais and continued past it until his helmet almost touched the one-way mirror. He switched to the infrared camera and saw a singular body seated beyond displayed in amber.

"Supervisor Clark?" he called out. His voice slightly mechanized by the helmet's mic.

The amber body went stiff. He had broken protocol addressing the supervisor at mission control. Thirteen was ready to accept that there would be no reply, then the intercom's static crackled.

"Number Thirteen," the man on the other side of the mirror started. Thirteen recognized the voice. It was Supervisor Clark. "You know you are breaking protocol speaking to me at this juncture of your mission."

Supervisor Clark was the first supervisor he met when he arrived. He always found the man polite despite the stern nature of his duties. Thirteen watched him age through the years, gray hair and wrinkles overtaking his appearance, as he grew up. He was the one supervisor who had been with him through the whole program. The one man he could trust. A sense of admiration rolled over Thirteen knowing that he would be the man to see him off.

"Yes sir. I am aware of that, Supervisor Clark," he responded. "Being the last of my team, I thought it would be beneficial to speak to someone before I launch."

Clark did not reply right away. Thirteen wondered if the discussion would continue any further. But then, "I understand that, son."

It was the first and only time anyone had called him "son."

"You must know how proud I am," Clark continued. "How proud we all are. You mission tonight will change the course of history. End the reign of terror that has engulfed the earth. You will be the one who stops the dominoes of destruction from falling."

Thirteen smiled behind his helmet thinking about Supervisor Clark referring to Seven's domino analogy.

"But why didn't the others before me?"

"Succeed?"

"Yes," Thirteen clarified. "We never spoke of their failures. Perhaps they did succeed and we have the wrong target."

"Are any of your teammates here with you?" Clark asked in a non-condescending manner.

"No, of course not."

"Then they did not succeed," Clark stated matter-of-factly. "We have ascertained that the target is true. We have also ascertained that the probability of your teammates carrying out the mission successfully without one single member returning to us is infinitesimal. They failed. All of them. For one reason or another. But not you, Thirteen. You have always been our best chance. That is why you were always to be our last hope. Success of this mission rests on your shoulders. The fate of humanity rests on your shoulders. But you have always been the one we knew who could carry that burden. Despite the pressure, you are the one who will truly succeed. As you stand upon the precipice of history, now is not the time to waver in your faith in the mission. You have studied and prepared. Now your chance has come."

Thirteen studied the amber image of the man beyond the glass. The moment – already a heavy load – seemed larger now after hearing his words.

"And what happens if I'm not successful?" Thirteen questioned.

"You've been trained your whole life to be successful, Number Thirteen."

"And what if I'm not? What then?"

"Then we die."

The words hung in the air. He knew it to be true. He always did. Thirteen bowed his head and let it all sink in. Absorb it. Consume it. Internalize it and store it away. Not to be hindered by it again. He needed that confirmation, he realized. Someone to help him take that final step. He nodded at the mirror and turned to step upon the dais, but was stopped.

"One last thing, Thirteen," Clark's voice crackled through the intercom.

A thin compartment door slid open under the ledge of the one-way mirror. Just big enough for a sealed solid-white plastic envelope to slip through.

"What is this?" he asked curiously as he took the envelope.

"You're our last hope, Number Thirteen. However, if you find yourself having to follow the third directive, open the envelope first. It's...something I think you deserve if it comes to that."

Thirteen nodded once more and placed the envelope in the cargo pocket on his left thigh.

It was time. He stepped up onto the dais and the circular floor illuminated underneath him. He checked the flight controls on his forearm once more before keying the launch sequence.

"Mission Number Thirteen is prepared to initiate launch. Copy," he announced in a precise clip.

"Copy that Mission Number Thirteen," Clark replied. "You are cleared to launch."

Thirteen keyed the ignition and in a brilliant flash of blue-white light, he was gone.

The countdown clock began.

60:00...59:59...59:58...

Spacetime Directive No. 3: Leave no trace...at all costs.

He stumbled to gain his footing on the ground and dropped down to one knee to steady himself. He quickly removed his helmet as he felt the nausea erupt from his throat. Only after he spat out the last of the bile did he place his helmet back on. Thankfully there was no one around to see him.

The helmet's HUD verified his coordinates: Right where he was supposed to land, in a back alleyway that branched out in a number of directions between a cluster of buildings that included the target's location.

He rounded a corner and headed to his first checkpoint. The HUD overlaid the directions on his vid screen. He crouched down in what was termed to be a stable and waited. A horse brayed nearby. Beyond the stable was a set of stairs that led to the second floor of the conjoined adjacent building to the target's location.

Two uniformed soldiers rounded into the alley behind the building conversing casually with each other. Thirteen sunk back into the stable to remain hidden. He pondered taking action against them before concluding that they were only unknown accomplices, soldiers doing their duty like he. They were not the enigma that cascaded pain, suffering and death upon the world hundreds of years later.

He unholstered his weapon as the two sentries turned the corner down the network of back allies. He cycled-up the gun's stun bolts. His mission of death concerned only his target. But, henceforth, he needed to be able to handle anyone else in his way.

He sprang out from the stable and moved swiftly in the night to the base of the stairwell. He bounded up the stairs with quiet precision until he came to a door leading into the second floor. He stooped below the door's window and spied on an officer accompanied by two men in suits. The officer wasn't military, the badge on his chest signified he was law enforcement.

Thirteen checked the alley below. The area was still clear. A moment later, the three men descended down an interior stairway, marking his chance to move. The interior room was a small, enclosed hallway meant for accessing the building's stairway. He moved through the hallway toward the next door and entered through.

The next room was a lounge area decorated in opulence. A space for those of a higher class of wealth to meet and mingle. It was empty just as his reports indicated it would be. Across the room toward the front of the building was a door on the right leading into the adjacent building. The one occupied by his target.

Thirteen slipped through the door to find himself hidden in the back of a crowded theater. The lighting was dark and his suit concealed his presence as the crowd's attention focused forward on the stage.

He was about to move when a man bumped into him from behind on his left. He whirled around to see the man's face frozen in shock. Thirteen moved quickly and subdued the man, wrapping one arm behind the man's back and cupping his mouth shut with the other. He pulled him quickly and quietly back into the lounge. Their commotion unheard by the crowd.

Thirteen cursed himself internally at his mistake. How could I be so careless at this moment? He tossed the man to the ground and blasted him with a blue laser bolt from his gun, concussing22 the man out cold before he could speak. He dragged the body back behind a couch. Before he left him, he noticed an antique-styled pistol in the man's pocket and a large knife. He procured the man's knife in his left hand and cycled his weapon to kill in his right as he slipped back into the theater.

He inched himself forward in a slow decent down along the wall of the theater toward his target. The patrons were enamored by the play being performed for them to pay any mind to his movement along the darkened edges. He expertly entered another door without a trace and found himself in a small, empty room.

Before him were two doors leading out to box seats balconied above the stage. His target would be on the other side of the door.

Thirteen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he pulled the door open.

"Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal; you sockdologizing old man-trap!" bellowed the actor on stage. The audience roared with laughter at the line.

Before him sat a tall man in a rocking chair unaware of Thirteen's existence laughing along with the crowd.

His target.

Thirteen aimed and pulled the trigger. A red laser bolt flashed and struck his target in the back of the head behind his left ear, killing him instantly.

Chaos erupted around him.

A woman next to Thirteen screamed as another man in the box lunged at him. Thirteen struck at him with the knife, slicing the man dressed in officer's blues. He dropped the knife and took a step up onto the balcony and jumped.

He rolled into his landing on the stage and moved with haste, exit stage right. His checkpoint was a door leading back out into the alley. Screams of terror chased after him. A woman, an actress, slammed into him as she raced out from the dressing room to witness the commotion. Thirteen moved quickly to untangle himself from under the woman and her large hoop-skirt dress.

Thirteen bounded out the exit door and turned to head back down the alley but was stopped in his tracks. The barrel of a rifle was pointed squarely at him. The eyes of a soldier, younger looking than he, bulged in terror before pulling the trigger.

A bright blast exploded from the rifle. Thirteen took the shot to his chest, air punched out of his lungs as his back slammed to the ground. Gun smoke choked the alley in a thick cloud, parting just enough to frame the soldier's face as he looked down upon Thirteen. A red laser bolt sliced through the plumes leaving a scorched hole of death in the young soldier's throat.

Thirteen was back on his feet racing down the alley as a cadre of soldiers moved in on him, firing their rifles indiscriminately as he fled.

The HUD mapped out a series of checkpoints for his escape. He raced through the city streets and alleyways in an effort to lose his pursuers. System alarms were flashing in his helmet, but he paid no mind to them in the moment. The extraction point, a clearing in the woods outside the city, was his only concern.

His training was otherworldly for this time in history. His fitness, strength and stamina was no match for the soldiers trying to track him down. He soon found himself at the extraction point, hardly winded from his sprint, and free of any further pursuit.

The enormity of the moment suddenly washed over him. He had succeeded. He completed the mission. He broke out in an uncontrolled laughter, his smile bright and wide under his helmet. He knew somewhere a supervisor would frown upon his emotional exuberance, but he didn't care.

Finally settling down, Thirteen called up the system alarm that had been blaring in his helmet throughout the escape. The notification made him drop to his knees. A lump in his throat left him gasping for air as he frantically removed his helmet. He looked down at his chest with his own eyes, the spacetime actuator damaged beyond repair by the rifle shot he took outside the theater.

He clenched his fists tightly as he held back the urge to weep. So close, he thought. So close to living a life of joy and freedom from a once cruel world. The man who sacrificed his childhood to save the world and returned a hero, no more.

Thirteen knew what the situation meant and what he had to do: Spacetime Directive No. 3.

He keyed the self-destruct protocol on his control band. Soon, he and his suit would be vaporized in a small, contained explosion – leaving no trace. He was about to press the ignition on the countdown when he remember the envelope. He pulled it out and ripped it open to find a single note inside:

Your name is Sebastian Clark.

He had a name.

Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks. Sebastian did his best to stifle his emotions, gasping for air as he choked back his sobs. After a moment, he collected himself and stood.

He placed his helmet back on and keyed the countdown to destruction.

00:10...00:09...00:08...

"Stop!"

The voice came out of nowhere. Sebastian spun and saw a man emerge from the tree line and move toward him, unafraid. He looked familiar somehow, dressed in a white button-down shirt and brown suspenders and pants.

00:07...00:06...00:05...

If the man didn't get clear fast, he would be disintegrated along with Sebastian.

"Stop the countdown!" the man shouted, almost upon Sebastian's position now.

How does he know? Sebastian wondered as he prepared for the end of life.

00:04...00:03...00:02...

The man ran up to Sebastian and ripped his shirt open, not to reveal a bare chest, but to display a spacetime actuator harnessed to him.

"It's me! Five!"

The voice matched. Sebastian hadn't recognized his old teammate with the scruffy face and hair grown out. He quickly pressed the kill switch on his control panel bringing the countdown to a halt with a second to spare.

He dropped his helmet to the ground and the two teammates embraced in their reunion.

"What the hell is going on?" Sebastian asked in amazement.

"I'm glad I found you in time," Five replied as he caught his breath. "I was fucking freaked when I heard the countdown commence. Glad you didn't blow us both away." He looked over Sebastian's actuator with a frown.

"But," Sebastian started and paused. "But, what are you doing here, Five? I thought you were dead."

"Bet you thought everyone who made the jump was dead, right?" Five grinned. "I go by Johnathan here now. No more numbers. We all got proper names to get used to."

Sebastian's face shown in bewilderment. A nervous smile formed, "And Twelve? Is she here with you, too?"

Johnathan laughed. "Yeah, buddy. She's here. Goes by Abigail now. Don't worry, she's just as excited as you are."

"Where is she?" he asked looking around.

"Well, she's not here, here. She and the others are about ten weeks ahead of us."

Confusion spread across Sebastian's face. "I don't get it."

"We were all told Four failed and was lost," Johnathan explained. "Truth was, he was successful. He even returned. I saw him after arriving early to prep for my own jump. Sentries grabbed him and hauled him off. Heard him screaming down the corridor that the mission doesn't work. Next thing I know, a laser bolt popped-off and then silence. No more Four. One of the Sups comes in the ready room and tells me Four filed his mission a failure, didn't carry it out. Tells me, I gotta jump. Don't say shit to the others, we'll talk it all over once I get back from the mission.

"So I launch and land here. I know it's all bullshit, though, you know? There's no way Four doesn't carry out the mission and flies back just to lie about it. He was as gung-ho as the rest of us. Something's up, I figure. But anyway, I go and smoke old Honest Abe and trek back here and wait it out a day. Then I jump back. Same dystopian shithole. Nothing's changed. Either we're killing the wrong guy or the whole plan is bullshit. Anyway, sentries come firing their blasters at me, figure the Sups know what I've figured out – or they were planning on waxing me regardless due to my run-in with Four. I don't wait to find out, so I jump back here. Come up with a plan, you know?"

Sebastian cracked an uneasy smile. "So, what's the plan?"

"Come on, man! Don't you see?" Johnathan replied excitedly. "They gave us fucking personalized time machines!"

Sebastian let out a low whistle. "Holy shit. You're right. With our oversight, we can still prevent the future from happening the way it did."

"Now you get it!" Johnathan exclaimed, slapping Sebastian on the shoulder. "I figured I'd just keep jumping back to here at this time, pick each of you up before you headed back to the fuck'all future. The way I see it is this: we know the future. I mean, everything. We establish a life here, at this point in time, and start to work our way to the top. Financially, politically, you name it. We can fucking rule the country! Think about it, we set our roots here and now and then jump ahead a couple decades every now-and-then and cultivate our power through generations!" Johnathan paused, stating authoritatively: "We can be gods."

Sebastian didn't reply. He didn't need to say a word, his face expressed his enthusiasm for the plan. The immensity of the future laid out excited him beyond words.

"Listen, I'm going to head back to the others and grab you a spare actuator and come back and pick you up," Johnathan continued. "So just hang tight." Johnathan keyed the controls on his forearm. "Oh, and start to think about what name you want!" In a flash, he was gone.

Sebastian smiled knowingly. He paced around waiting for his friend to return. Anticipation heightened within, the sheer thought of being back together with Twelve – with Abigail – sent shivers down his spine. The smile on his face brightened the darkness of the woods surrounding him. The future they would build together would be immeasurable and eternal.

Pick a name? Ha! he thought, I already have one. Sebastian took the note out of his pocket and looked at it once more.

It's a good name.

Johnathan returned moments later with an actuator. Sebastian discarded the note, letting it flutter to the ground, and joined his teammate. In a flash they were gone.

Ready to make history together.

The note was all that remained. Left to decompose with nature. It lay on the ground, face down. The backside of the note revealed the letterhead upon which it was written. Neither Sebastian nor Johnathan had noticed the letterhead's title words at the top:

Department of Military Affairs

The Clarktonia Republic of the Americas