the labor of destiny

8/8/2019 The Labor of Destiny

1/31

Plott 1

The Labor of Destiny

III

He pulled on the brass bar of the door only to find it was locked. That didnt stop

him from pushing back at it, however. To his left he found a revolving door where people

were moving through. He took one step towards it and another into the oncoming slot,

holding his breath upon entering. The pane in front of him stopped abruptly, causing him

to crash into his own reflection; the pale, brown suit he got from his grandfather, the sea

green eyes from his mother. He reached a strong arm out to shake the handle with little

luck. Separated by glass directly behind him was a small boy whose foot was jammed up

against the door. With the palm of his left hand, he smacked the window. A reddish

glaze shot across the boys cheeks as his foot jerked back. He finally released his breath

as he stepped outside to the sound of muffled clanging copper piercing the air.

It was noon. The large clock face at the opposite end of the station made that

clear. There was a deluge of bodies by the ticket window shoving and forcing itself into

any cracks that might exist within the mass. He sprinted past them on the right to a flight

of stairs, ascending the first couple steps calmly, but then bounding up the rest. On the

second floor, he paused and spun all around.

Where was she?

The side he was headed towards, further from the track entrances, held relatively

fewer people. The barrel-vaulted ceiling above him looked like a kind of manmade

beehive with the little white hexagons pressing against one other. He sprinted straight

across the shopping center on the second level to another flight of stairs, bringing him to

the upper floor.


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Plott 2

Jamie? he shouted.

The backside of a small caf in the middle of the white granite floor impeded his

line of sight. He ran around it, pushing out names of holy men and their mothers,

bargaining through the gaps of his tightly clamped rows of teeth.

Hatch? His name hit his ears.

He rounded the corner and saw a newspapers crossword page spread across a

table too small for its user. His red headed wife was eight months pregnant and looked

every second of it. As she bumped into the table as she stood, knocking the red pen to the

floor, but was grasped her husband tightly before she could feel self-conscious.

How are my girls? Hatch asked softly without a need for response. She smiled

at him and nodded and placed her hand on his shoulder and drew her finger across his

collar up to the ends of his black hair that were starting to show a bit of pepper gray

around his ears.

Whats going on, honey? You sounded so worried on the phone, she said as she

looked down and touched her stomach.

Nothing to worry about. Here, sit down. He pulled the chair out for her as they

both sat. You have everything you need, yes? He knew his words didnt express a

worry-free attitude. Jamie, do you have everything? he asked.

Yes. She nodded.

Excellent, Hatch said, Were going on a little trip, okay? The black door

stood out against the far white wall behind Jamie.

Alright. She paused. But wont you tell me whats going on?

I will as soon as were on the train. I promise, darling. Hatch stood to his feet.


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Plott 3

Why are you wearing your grandfathers suit? She looked at him with a squint.

Ill explain it all on the train. Itll make perfect sense. He backed away and

turned to leave, but was stopped by her plea.

Hatch? Her hands tightened around the edge of the table.

Im coming right back. Just need those tickets. He took a couple steps toward

the black door and stopped his thought process, coming back to Jamie at the table. As he

ran his hand through the side of her hair and kissed her on the forehead, she snuck a

crumbled up piece of newspaper into his front pocket. He spun around and jogged to the

opposite end of the floor. Before he reached the door, he withdrew, read, and placed the

secret message Jamie had written him back inside his jacket pocket.

Emma.

He pulled the black door open and started marching down the long dark tunnel

ahead. At the end of this long stretch was a tall linoleum-faced door. Behind that door

was a rectangular room where he had spent most of his life. The room was a laboratory

originally given to his father as part of an experimental research grant connected to Union

Station. Hatch worked with his father as a young man, in hopes of one day continuing the

very same research. He inherited the lab when his father passed away; it was the only

thing he inherited besides the gold watch on his wrist. The watch itself had always been

synched with the stations central clock when his father had worn it. Now, it was some

minutes slow, due to the watchs necessity to be wound and Hatchs consistent

forgetfulness.

The lone halogen light signified the midway point. He knew this walk well

enough, but had no time to casually stroll. Nathaniel Patterson was in the lab waiting for


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Plott 4

him. Hatch had, after all, just left him there. As his fathers assistant and old Oxford

college mate, Nate had always been a trustworthy friend. Now, Nate and he were meeting

to run possibly the most important experiment of their lives.

The door at the end of the hall had a wooden nameplate nailed to it. It read,

Hatchet George Whistler, Pioneer of Physics. His father had replaced his old plate with

the new one, and of course, always thought of himself clever for the latter half of what it

said. Hatch reached into his pants pocket, pulled out his key, and let himself into the

laboratory.

Nate had been pacing rectangular laps around the crowded room.

Hatchet! Nate said, What on earth took you so long? This thing could happen

at any moment! Nate paused. Ah. I see you got the suit.

Hatch looked down at himself. The suit had wrinkles in the knees and elbows

with pockets in more places than he thought necessary.

Do you have the tickets? he asked.

Nate skidded around the office and found the tickets in the drawer of Hatchs

fathers old desk. The mans hair, typically greased backward, gave off a silver luster as it

carelessly flopped side to side.

Here they are, but, Nate hesitated, what good will they do you back there?

Hatch had been staring at the covered object in the back of the room. He turned to

his friend and grabbed the tickets from him.

To know if its worked! I wouldnt want to come back and find myself in the

same situation, now would I? he replied as he stuffed the tickets into his inner coat

pocket.


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Plott 5

No. Of course not. Nate walked over to the covered object. Are you all ready,

then? Nate pulled on the corner of the cloth that had been covering the object. Not quite

the height of a telephone booth, a boxed machine appeared before the men. A titanium

lined skeleton split every glassy side panel into four quarter sections except for the front

door. The pristine shine of the metallic frame and transparent shell made their pupils

react instantly. Geometrically, it wasnt the prettiest of sights, square as it was. The

beauty was not visible from their point of view, however, but from the point of view it

offered them.

II

Years before, Hatchs father told his son about a particular theory he developed,

one that was rejected by his colleagues and other physicists. The theory held the

perspective of time as an eternally moving vehicle, one that dragged man along with it.

As father and son, they decided to test the validity of the theory, curious if it were, in fact,

possible to cut the chains that bound man to time. Their experimentation led them to the

creation they called the window; sadly, a creation that Hatchs father never lived to see.

The window allowed an individual to enter into it and journey freely through time, thus

becoming a watcher. The difference between a time traveler and a watcher is

uncomplicated; the time traveler interacts with history, the watcher does not.

It was six oclock that very morning that the invention was finally completed.

Hatch and Nate had been working through the night on a diet of energy bars and caffeine.

Hatch was determined to become the first watcher of time.

I think we just discovered time travel, Nate, Hatch remarked.


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Plott 6

You think we just did or we always have? Which one is it boy? Nate was a

believer in Hatchs fathers theory of time: The book of history had already been written.

I think we just did mate. Hatch said with a smirk. As the pioneer of physics,

Hatch always had a more aggressive view of time than his father, that is, he believed the

book of history allowed revisions and rewrites.

Im afraid we wont know until we test it. Nate looked from the corner of his

eye to Hatch. Hatch smiled back and opened the glass panel before him, took a seat

inside, slowly turning a black knob counter-clockwise that affected the time of his

destination.

Just a day in the future. We dont want to risk messing up the past, now do we?

Hatch said.

Promise me, Hatch. Promise youll still remain a watcher. If youre right about

the possibility of altering time, who knows what seam you could pull in the whole fabric

of the universe that would unravelwelleverything. Nates face drooped as he began

to pace the room again. The man had seen many more years than Hatch had, but Hatch

intended on changing that very soon.

Dont worry my friend. I dont plan on staying long, even if I do, you wouldnt

know it. Hatch smiled.

Before you go, Hatchet. May I tell you a story your father once told me?

If you must stop the first human being to irregularly traverse the span of time

itself, Hatch paused dramatically, I suppose.

You know your father, the great man that he was. The day he discovered how

time travel was possible, he told me this story: At the end of the golden age of


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Plott 7

cartography, there was a man chosen to explore and document the last remaining sect of

unmapped land in North America. Before he did so, he came to an understanding of what

his task truly meant. So he began to bring other cartographers to his view and ultimately,

to his cause: Leave the virgin land unmapped.

Nate stopped pacing and placed a foot upon a small stool in the room.

Those who believed that all land was under mans dominion, Nate continued,

did not see eye to eye with him. They understood his logic to be that once he had

finished mapping this area, cartographers would no longer be of any use. Imagine hearing

that there was one story left to be told, would anyone write it out?

Hatch began to tilt out of the machine as he sat on the edge of the bench inside the

machine.

They were not entirely right, however. He did not fear unemployment. Rather, he

cherished something about human nature that weve continually tried to give name to,

materialize, and conquer. You see, the cartographer believed that a map could no more

capture land than it could his own destiny. He lost faith in his own trade, and thus, did not

map it out.

And what happened to the land? Hatch asked, his upper body inclined outwards

towards Nate.

They got someone else to map it. It took them quite some time to map every

peak in that snowy mountain range. But it didnt matter, the cartographers point was

already made: What is a map but a singular, biased viewpoint?

Nate took a breath, as if to add an ending to his fathers story.

But now, Hatch, its like weve found a new world without closed doors. Well


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Plott 8

become historys great eyewitness to the stories that might have remained forever hidden!

With this machine, his job is yet unfinished in the infinitude of time, a task that is now

our own.

There was a stillness shared between the two for a brief moment before Hatch

broke the silence.

Well that is very interesting, my friend, Hatch tried to pick the conversation up,

But as you know, I havent gotten much sleep the pastoh, entire night, and Id really

like to just give this whole time travel thing a go, yeah?

Nate backed away as his eyes drooped downward.

Ah, Im just joking, old man, Hatch said walking up to his friend, Theres so

much possibility before us. And my father, my father was a great man, Nate. I know it.

This first trip, this is for him now. Hed be the one in this thing if he were still here.

Hatch stepped back into the machine and hit the switch to send him to the future.

The machine began to glow from within the glass panes and spilt light violently

throughout the room.

To Dad, Hatch said through the glass, And to a bright and glorious future.

Hatch became momentarily unbound to time. The experience was like that of

blinking without the ability to un-blink. It happened to him quickly, but for that moment,

he lost all bearings of self and surrounding, power and control. Then all at once, he

renewed his vows to time and rejoined it one day in the future. However, he did not come

into the room he had just left. In fact, there were neither ceilings, nor walls, nor any

rooms visible. Without leaving the machine, Hatch rose to his feet and peered out at the

proximate landscape, noticing that landscape was all that remained of Washington D.C..


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Plott 9

Any recognizable landmarks or monuments sat collected in large piles of concrete rubble

near where they once stood. Hatchs sight ventured to where the Capitol Building should

have been to the spot where his fathers desk was once also. He searched the nearby

ground with his eyes, looking for clues to what caused such a destructive event. The floor

around him was too dark to see clearly. It was then Hatch recognized the suns position,

not crumbling beneath the horizon, but cast-iron in the noon sky. Hatch fixed his eyes

closer to the ground. The darkness, he realized, was not a cast shadow upon the ground,

but one imprinted permanently upon it. Seeing this, Hatch slammed the switch on the

machine, releasing himself from any relation to time.

The man blinked and came back to the lab and time, where and when he had just

left.

Nate, Hatch said from within the machine.

Was it just brilliant, Hatchet? Nate asked, stepping forward.

It was Hatch tried to begin.

Oh! Of course, it was just the lab, Nate cut in, But Im sure it was still, as you

said, bright and glorious, yes?

It was all gone, Nate, said Hatch.

What? Nates hand paused on the glass door before opening it for Hatch.

It was all destroyed. The first watcher of time walked out of the machine.

What was? The lab?

Not just the lab, Nate. All of Washington. Hatchs eyes fell to the ground

expecting more answers.

What do you mean, destroyed? Nate asked, What could have done such a


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Plott 10

thing?

I think. I think it was a nuclear weapon, replied Hatch, There were these

shadows reflected off the debris in the area, but the sun was not set in the sky to allow it.

It was like the nuclear shadows that littered the ground in Hiroshima.

The photograph of the dead, Nate said, My god, we have to do something,

Hatchet.

What can we do? Hatch asked, Its unlikely the president will listen to the

pleas of two experimental physicists. Theyll throw us out as soon as we tell them how

we know. Time travel! Hatch laughed.

And what do we know? Nate proposed the question.

We know a nuclear bomb strikes Washington D.C. sometime tonight, Hatch

said, or today.

Nate stalked over to the desk, grabbed his leather briefcase, and started shoving

all the stacks of paper around the room into it.

Then we have to get out of here now, said Nate.

Hatch sat back into the machine as his gaze crawled up its metal frame that

glowed orange from his recent venture. The titanium crosses along the side panels had

always resembled shut windows to Hatch, ones that could possibly be opened.

That is, Hatch started, if theres nothing to be done about it.

What is it, boy? Nate said, halting his scurry around the room.

We can change it. Hatch paused. It might be a shot in the dark, but I think we

change it.

Change time? What do you suggest, we go back, infiltrate the possible terrorist


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Plott 11

faction, and disarm the nuke seconds before its detonation? Nate scoffed and continued

picking up papers.

No, Nate, Hatch said as he brushed the dust from the sleeves of his coffee

stained lab coat, We need to stop the nuke from ever being created. At the very least,

postpone it.

Thats preposterous, Hatchet.

Well, I may be crazy, Nate Hatch started.

No, do you even understand the consequences of such a thing? It could change

the entire outcome of World War Two and alter the course history as we know it today!

Its a good thing you dont believe in the possibility of changing time, Hatch

said as he paced across the room, And really, Nate? As an admirer of all things

environmental, I would expect you to be the first to say: a nuke-free world is a better

world.

Nate put his hand across his forehead and eyebrows and sighed in thought.

Go with me on this one, dear friend, Hatch said as he stepped over to the

blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk.

When I was young, my father took me on a tour of the area. But it wasnt your

usual tour of the capital. Rather, it was the same tour J. Robert Oppenheimer took himself

on during his brief stay in D.C.

Hatch set his chalk to the board and drew the numbers 1927.

On October 3rd, 1927, Hatch continued, Oppenheimer finishes his tour, coming

through Union Station in order to catch a train that evening to take him up to his studies

in Harvard.


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Plott 12

Hatch drew the number 2010 on the board and a line coming from it to 1927.

I will travel from our time to Oppenheimers, so that I may intercept the man

before he leaves D.C. Hatch finished.

And do what? Kill him? Nate asked.

If no choice remains. You must remember, it is Oppenheimer who is responsible

for designing the militaristic use of the weapon. If we can just inform of the sheer amount

of death it will cause Hatch turned to Nate.

We could convict the father of his sins, Nate finished his thought.

Why save merely ourselves, when we could save the world?

Nate still didnt entirely believe in the prospect of improving history, but there

was a time he didnt believe in journeying freely throughout it either. Hatch stepped back

into the machine. He rested his hand on the ignition switch.

Well, you dont think youre going back like that, do you? Nate asked, Youll

stick out like a man from an odd European country. Nates British expressiveness was as

poignant as Hatchs fathers had been.

He looked down to the dirty lab coat he was wearing.

My grandfathers suit, Hatch said, Ill go home, get the old mans suit he left

me, and heres how well cover our bases: If the plan doesnt work, Ill have called Jamie

at work and told her to meet me here, youll have bought us three train tickets, just in

case, to the furthest possible destination westward, and well have just dodged the first

nuclear strike on American soil, yes?

Nate observed Hatch as one does the workings of a broken clock.

You are insane, Hatchet Whistler, Nate said as he walked over to the time


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Plott 13

machine, throwing a long cloth over it, But, I suppose that does make you your fathers

son.

Nate ran to the desk to look for his wallet. Hatch remained stationary before the

chalkboard and became fond of the word son for the first time in his life.

Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Nate said, Go!

IV

As he sat in the great machine, it became Hatchs destiny to erase the nuclear

weapon from the pages of history; at least, he decided it was.

Hatch checked once more the time to which he desired to travel.

[3:00. October 3rd. 1927]

glowed from the control panel. He hit the switch. The sound like a million crickets

sounded and resounded in the small concrete room. The glass casing radiated from within

itself. In a white flash, Hatch disappeared and reappeared in a room foreign to him. He

stepped out of the machine. A king sized bed of oak lay beside the machine. Several

pieces of bright yellow plush lounge furniture decorated the room fashionably. He

recognized this place as the presidential suite from its picture hanging in the restaurant it

had been during his fathers time.

The suites existence fit his intended time destination. The physical spot,

however, was not anticipated by Hatch.

Perhaps it is like the electric rod to a lightning bolt strike, Hatch hypothesized, the

location drawing the machine to it.

Luckily, the room was not being occupied at the moment. He treaded cautiously


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Plott 14

over to the front door at the other end of the sturdy room and let himself out to an entry

hall. A bald eagle sculpture had its wings spread across the wall to his left. The birds

head was pointed towards a heavy oak door in front of him. On the other side of the door,

Hatch found himself surrounded by people dressed in clothing much like his own. Above

him, the beehive like dome spread across the span of the main hall. Hatch wondered what

other structures in the station would change before his own time would arrive.

It was indeed 1927, and Oppenheimer would be arriving any moment. Hatch sat

on a nearby bench awaiting the man who would come through the main doors, stay in the

terminal for an hour or so, and then head up north to Harvard on the train. He rubbed his

hands on his pants legs, wiping the sweat that had been collecting on his fingertips.

Before the anxiety could wrap its clammy hands around his throat, Hatch

recognized his target: the pallid white, bony face with an ashen suit and haircut that

screamed brilliance. Paper in hand, the man walked over towards Hatch and sat directly

beside him on the bench. Hatch cracked his neck to the side and considered the proper

way to start a conversation with the father of the atomic bomb.

Excuse me. Do you have the time? Oppenheimer turned to him and asked.

Brilliant, Hatch thought. Ah, um, yes. Hatch looked down to his fathers watch,

and then pointed to the clock on the far wall after realizing the uselessness of his watch.

Its three forty-five.

Perfect, the man responded with a smile, that leaves me fifteen minutes to read

my paper.

Fifteen minutes was all he had. Hatch wiped his cheek with the felt cuff of his

sleeve.


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Plott 15

Excuse me, sir. I dont mean to intrude, but have you read heard of this Amazing

Stories pulp magazine? Hatch asked as his foot began to tap.

My colleagues have told me some stories from it, interesting stuff, isnt it?

Oppenheimer replied.

Yes, very! Hatch tried to calm himself down, Did you hear the one of the

World Destroyer?

No, Im afraid not. Is it any good? Oppenheimer asked and angled his crossed

legs towards Hatch.

Depends on what you call good, my man.

Hatch began to formulate the story in his mind, summoning the sort of command

of the English language he recalled his father possessing.

It begins with a man. An academic, to be precise, who is called by his country to

organize and lead a group of scientists to create the super weapon, or as they later call it,

the world destroyer. Well, he answers the call of his country, denying the sways of his

past political persuasions, and leads this brain trust.

And does he succeed? Oppenheimer asked with raised eyebrows.

He does. Within the smallest blocks of man, he finds a cruel power, capable of

leveling cities. Ultimately, his country uses this force against warring states. But as all

secrets go, the country loses it to others, causing threats to escalate and stalemates to be

arrived at. However, a crazed dictator decides to use this super weapon for himself, and

attack the home of this academic man. Of course, the country fires back, which leads to

the secondary volley and so on and so forth. Thus, obtaining the name World

Destroyer, effectively wiping out the entire worlds population.


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Plott 16

But how does one give it that name if the world has been destroyed?

Oppenheimer asked.

Its not a story written from first person, but a prophecy, my good man.

Hatch looked at the great scientist with his scrunched forehead and his gaze

deliberately profound.

After a period of silence and thought, Oppenheimer looked back at Hatch and

asked, So you think its possible then?

He paused, Possible for rational man to create and harness thisthis molecular

power?

Hatch looked at the man with an intense stare. It is only rational man who could

understand such a beast.

This is incredible stuff, isnt it? All inside a magazine, you say? That story could

inspire men to well to move mountains! Oppenheimer said.

Yes, but Hatch tried to speak.

Of course, this is a fantastic story, but just what if there were this kind of power

to be found within the atom like you say? What would it take to unlock it and change the

world around us?

Hatch expected fear from the man, not inspiration.

The clanging of copper sounded loudly four times. Oppenheimer stood up and set

down his paper.

This was a very enlightening experience, my friend. Rest assured, I will tell all

my colleagues at Harvard of this story. Oppenheimer began walking away to the

gateway as Hatch stood to follow.


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Plott 17

Wait! Hatch exclaimed without thinking.

And what will Albert think? Oppenheimer laughed to himself mid-stride.

Sir! Please wait! Im afraid theres more to it! Hatch tried to catch the man.

They both sped through the white gateway arch that led to the track platform, but the

ticket checkers would not allow Hatch passage without a ticket. Oppenheimer, however,

gave them his and proceeded toward the front train car.

Sir! I beg you, this is a matter of life and death! Hatch yelled as the crowd took

specific notice to him.

It always is, my friend, Oppenheimer said back as he boarded the train, If

youre ever by Harvard, look me up! My name is Robert. Robert Oppenheimer! The

train rolled away as the great scientist called from the cars door.

I know, Hatch said under his breath. He felt the rustling of paper from within

his jacket pocket. There were two tickets still within it. They had not disappeared as he

had hoped. In fact, Hatch became convinced that if he had not come to this time and

place, there be no tickets at all. Did Oppenheimer really have the right to be called the

father of the atomic bomb?

Out of desperation, Hatch placed his hand on the ticket mans shoulder, giving it a

forceful shove downward. But before he could reach the crawling train, the hand of

another officer behind him stretched forward and yanked him backwards by his coattail.

Get off me! Hatch screamed with unholy fear, I must get through! The two

officers pinned him to the ground as he watched the train exit the station. Attempting to

twist and tear his own body from their hold, Hatch thought of others bodies, ones he was

responsible for making still, and one he was responsible for making move.


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Plott 18

I

Emma. I want her name to be Emma, he said.

His mothers name had been the same.

Is your name Emma? she asked.

His ear was a detector set above her belly button, combing the silky surface in

search of a response from their buried treasure.

I wish you didnt have to leave me all alone in the world tonight.

She played guilt like she did poker: poorly.

You know how important this work is though, darling.

He played poker in a similar fashion.

Is there just one more moment, she affronted, one small, insignificant moment

that you can spend with your budding wife before you go off and change the world and

all that?

Each and every moment only with you. Well have time to Treasure?

Ooph. Emma, huh? Ill think about it.

He returned the kick with a kiss from his smiling lips.

Well have time together. All of it, its all yours.

V

Now I am become Death, he said on the station floor, the destroyer of worlds.

With a free hand, Hatch pried the hold of a policeman from his shoulder and with

his other hand he reached for the mans sidearm.


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Plott 19

Back off! Hatch yelled with a raspy voice as he secured the gun in his grasp.

The men backed away, raising their hands in the air. He scrambled clumsily past the men

and fired two shots at Oppenheimers fleeing cab. His vision sharpened through the crust

of tears and fury to see that he had missed his target.

Easy there, the officer forced out in a calm voice.

Stay here! Dont follow me or I will shoot, Hatch said, spinning around with

both hands clenched tightly around the gun. He ran back through the gateway arch he had

come through, tucking the gun in his jacket. No one had noticed the disturbance on the

other side. He found the heavy door and walked briskly to the presidents suite door

across the hall, checking and double-checking his hold on sanitys reins. The brass handle

on the suites door was locked from the inside. It would not budge. He looked back for

any pursing policemen, pulled the gun from his jacket, and shot at the lock. No luck. He

shot again, hearing screams from outside the room. He jiggled the handle and gave the

door a hard kick. Its solid frame splintered back at the handle. The machine waited for

him at the other end of the room.

Stop right there! A police officer had heard the sound and followed him.

Hatch ran for the machine, jumped in, and closed the door behind him, slamming

the ignition button before he had time to check his destination. The policeman rushed into

the room just as a bright light touched every surrounding surface. With the flip of a

switch, Hatchet George Whistler unlocked himself from the shackles of time and ran

freely into the future.

The room was black. Hatch clumsily opened the glass door, tripping out of the

machine, landing on his hands. He noticed a harsh light coming from underneath a door


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Plott 20

in front of him. His sense of smell told him he was in a dense lemon forest. Everything

else told him he was in the maintenance closet of Union Station. The room was barely

large enough to fit the machine in. It moved just as freely through space as it did time, a

facet Hatch did not entirely understand.

The familiar copper clash struck the air. It was noon. Again.

Why this time, he wondered. He imagined an earlier version of him running up

the stairs to meet Jamie like he had done once already. And after that, he presenting the

idea of the nuclear bomb to its creator gift-wrapped as Hatch had done already, too.

The dark room was engulfing him. He undid the shirt buttons constraining his

neck and wiped the sweat carving canyons down his forehead. His breath began to rise

and fall rapidly as the thought of a billion dispossessed souls pressed hard upon his

shoulders. He caught his falling head in his shaking hands, drooling snot and tears onto

the felt collar of his grandfathers jacket.

What to do next? An option ran through the battleground of his adrenaline-infused

mind for every death he was responsible for. There was little chance Jamie knew she had

married the greatest mass murder in history. At once, a thought injected itself into his

mind: his earlier self was not the same man as he. Hatch opened the guns chamber.

There were two bullets left. One had the name of an innocent man tattooed across the

casing.

Hatch took one slow breath, fighting off the tightening of the room, and pushed

on the handle of the door in front of him. The door was stuck. His leg coiled behind him

and gave the door a swift kick to no avail. Backing up to the machine, Hatch ran to the

door, crashing his shoulder into the center. It gave less than an inch. Looking between the


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Plott 21

crack, he saw three wooden benches that had been stacked against the door, so he

repeated his strategy, ramming the door at a lower spot on the door. His body slammed

into the aluminum door again and again, and inch-by-inch it jerked open. With effort, the

crack became one foot wide, just enough room for him to squeeze through.

The maintenance room was on the same side of the station as the caf was, but it

was two floors below. With long strides, he made his way past the crowd of people in

line for tickets to the bottom stairwell. He made it up the first one, and gave pause at the

base of the second. Hatch knelt and looked within his jacket at the gun in his hand,

tapping the butt of the weapon against his upper thigh while he attempted to steady his

breath. The gun caught a snag and tore at the fabric of his pants, leaving a small hole by

the pocket.

He persisted up the stairs, walking quietly to the back of the shop unseen. He

could hear his and Jamies voices within the crowds, but no words were coherent. The

sound of chairs scratched across the granite floor. As he peeked around the right side of

the shop, he saw his earlier self walking to the far black door. Jamie stood and started

walking towards where he was hiding. Hatch managed to sneak around the other side of

the caf as she passed it. He looked back at her with a troubled mind, wondering where

she was going, bag in hand.

He shook his head and began to follow the man who had just entered the black

door. Hatch reminded himself what was at stake over and over again. He tripped on his

untied shoelace, catching himself with his free hand. The other still held the gun. Hatch

continued through the door and saw the figure brush quickly under the yellow light in the

middle of the hallway.


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Plott 22

Any hesitance in the figures movement, Hatch decided, he wouldshoot.

Instead, the other man, as Hatch decided to call him, had picked up his pace and

was nearing the door where he would let loose the gates of hell. Hatch sped up as well.

As the other man stopped at the door, Hatchs arms extended forward. His quivering

finger wrapped around the weapons trigger flexed tight. And with it, a bullet propelled

through the air and found rest within the other mans skull. The door to the lab flew open,

as he dropped. A bright light from ahead violated the dark hall before him. Hatch sprinted

into the room, stepping over the mans body without a closer look.

What? Hatch said.

Nate jerked his head around facing Hatch standing in the doorway.

Well, that was quick, Nate said to the bewildered Hatch.

YouButWheres the machine? Hatch said as walked up to Nate, grabbing

him by the sleeves of his shirt. Nates eyes shot open, noticing the blood trailing into the

room through the door.

What have you done, Hatchet? Nate said back with a fixed jaw.

I asked where the machine is, Nate! Hatch released Nate pushing him away

towards the desk.

Youve just left with it to go save the world. Nate looked back at Hatch with a

puzzled stare.

No. Ive just stopped myself from going back and telling Oppenheimer about the

secret of the nuclear bomb, Hatch said.

No, boy. Youve just left. I watched you with my own eyes. Nate replied.

Then tell me, who the hell is this man, Nate?


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Plott 23

Hatch walked back through the door, dragging the limp body of a man into the

room. Nate stumbled over to him and examined the dead body. His suit was identical to

the one Hatch was wearing. Everything about the man was identical to Hatch, including

the color of his eyes.

This cant be real. Nate covered his cheeks with open palms.

Who is this, Nate? You say its not me! Who is this?

Hatch knelt down to the dead body. He looked at the pant leg, noticing a tear in

the thigh just as his own pant leg. The mans hand was within his inner coat pocket.

Hatch pulled it out, causing a pistol to fall out with a crash onto the cold, concrete floor.

He scavenged the jacket pockets for clues, but found only the note Jamie had written him

earlier that day. The golden watch on the mans wrist was the same as Hatchs, but it was

over an hour ahead of his own.

This man wasnt me, Nate. Im going to be this man.

Hatch stood up, staring at the golden watch in horror. He tore it off the mans

wrist and threw it at the wall, the sound breaking of glass crashing against the concrete.

Nate walked over to the gun on the floor, and after examination, found there was

indeed only one bullet remaining. He also carefully inspected the red-lettered newspaper

note from Jamie next to it.

Do you still have the machine? Nate asked.

Yeah, Hatch said as he sat down on the floor, Its in a closet in the station.

Then, what I think is best for you right now is to go see your father. The man

knew more about the way time worked than both of us together. Nate walked over to

Hatch and put a hand on his back, And you need to go quick, theres not much time left


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Plott 24

for us.

No. We need to leave. Ive already made a mess out of time, I dont want to see

my father

Hatch, Nate stopped him, Im going to take the next train out of here, but you

you need to go see your father. Knowing the man he was, I doubt hell be terribly

opposed to the idea of you being there. After all, there is all the time in the world

sometime else, yes?

Hatch nodded reluctantly. He backed out of the room without saying any parting

words to Nate. All the while, his eyes focused on the lifeless body lying at the foot of the

door, his lifeless body lying still on the floor.

VI

Hatch made it back to the maintenance closet without any sight of Jamie in the

station. He stepped into the machine and turned the dial to display

[12:00. June 1st. 1973],

the year his father received the laboratory. Off he went in a blinding white flash,

appearing within a similar small, concrete laboratory. A lone occupant sat behind the

wooden desk in the rooms corner. Hatch stepped out of the machine and beheld his

father for the first time in ten years. The man had a beard down to his collarbone the

color of television static, a pasty white lab coat covering a flower-power-ridden lime

green shirt, and a hairline as definitive as Hadrians Wall.

May I help you? Hatchs father stood from his chair, placing his hands on his

desk in protest. The metal nameplate on the table read, Jonathan Verne Whistler.


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Plott 25

Dad. Its me, Hatch, he said as he stepped out of the machine, Listen, I know

you must have an infinite amount of questions for me, but right now, I need your help.

Excuse me? his father replied with a British accent as untarnished as it was the

day he moved to the States.

Im sorry, Ive sped through this whole day. Hatch caught his breath. Dad.

Look at me. Im your son. What am I doing these days? Going to high school? Here

Hatch walked over to his father and gave him the gold band from his wrist.

Look. This is your watch. You left this to me after you Hatch stopped.

After I died? Hatchs father held the watch in his open palm.

Yes, Hatch replied.

His father rose to his feet, examining the watch.

That does make sense, his father said, It is the only way I would have let you

touch the thing.

A smile formed in the mans face as he gave back the watch to Hatch.

Not to mention my fathers suit as well. He went around his desk and wrapped

his arms around his son. Oh, is that a tear in the leg?

Nothing a tailor cant fix Hatch was surprised he was defending himself from

his fathers inquisition after all that time. Anyways, I suppose I should congratulate you,

we finally made the machine.

His father walked over to the machine and traced a finger down the titanium

spine.

This machine has always been made whether I have yet to do it or not. Times

evidence is very convincing,


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Plott 26

Here we go again, Dad. Hatch sat down in the chair in front of the desk as his

father walked around to sit in his own chair. Listen, spare me the arguments growing up.

Heres how time works:Iwent back in time.Igave Oppenheimer the idea for the nuclear

bomb.Iam the reason ones going to detonate in D.C. thirty years from now. Alright?

That sounds rather grave, son, His father said, itching at his beard habitually.

But let me ask you this: Was the nuclear bomb in existence before you went back?

Well, of course. I mean Hatch was interrupted.

No. Think about this, Hatchet Whistler. Was the bomb in creation before you

were?

Yes. Yes, it was, said Hatch.

You didnt go back and change time, my boy. Youve always done what you

did.

Hatch deflated into the seat.

Then tell me why I should go back to my time if I know Im just going to be shot

by former self right behind that door. Hatch pulled the pistol from his jacket pocket and

used it to point to the front door. Must that always happen as well?

His father leaned forward in his chair.

Hatchet, there once was a cartographer who thought maps were rather limiting

creatures, he paused, What if I told you that history was a similar beast?

You mean that Ive only seen one perspective of my own future, Hatch asked.

Precisely! Its not the complete picture!

Hatch let his head drop back as he sat and put his hands to his chest. He heard a

ruffle of paper shuffle beneath his jacket. The tickets were still in his possession.


27/31

Plott 27

Jamie. He stood. The chair fell behind him, resounding loudly against the

concrete. My God. How could I have been so selfish, Hatch said as he walked over to

the machine.

What is it? his father asked.

I have to go back. Even if it means He bit his tongue. I need to go back to

save my wife. I think thats why I go back, but not why I continually allow myself to be

shot.

It would seem you have a goal. His father paused briefly in thought and

continued, The question is: could you, Hatchet Graham, settle for the rescue of a few

souls, when you have redemption of the humanity just on the other side of the door?

Jonathan Whistler grabbed his sons shoulder firmly. History may remain a

closed window, but destiny. Destiny shatters windows and trades them for another.

Hatch struggled to comprehend anything other than what he had seen with his

own eyes, that is, his forthcoming death. He sat down into the machine and rested his

hand on the propulsion switch before looking around him. The titanium frames wrapped

around the glass, glowing yellow as they cooled down. The way they resembled windows

on all sides made Hatch dwell on how all windows, like history, must always remain

open or closed, static or flux; thrown rocks and new windows had never come into play.

Im not a tragedy, not in the end, am I?

His father let out a sigh and stared at his son for a moment before nodding and

walking back behind his desk. From his drawer, he pulled out a ball-peen hammer and

returned to the machine. Hatch shifted his glance quickly from the hammer in his fathers

hand to the machines glass casing surrounding him. To Hatchs surprise, his father


28/31

Plott 28

pulled up a stool, and took off his own gold watch, placing it face-up on the wooden

surface and set the hammer by its side.

Hatch, his father said walking closer to the machine door, We have yet to

comprehend mans destiny to the furthest degree! We do small things; everyday, in fact,

that allows us to see glimpses of that end, even though we may not yet know it.

He looked at his son, his gaze bridging polar minds to an equatorial point. Hatch

held the hammer in his locked fist. With great force, he brought the hammer down upon

the timepiece, shattering the crystal face and denting the metallic frame inward. The

watch on Hatchs wrist bore the same consequences.

One day, son, we find a way to divorce ourselves from time. Start giving destiny

a reason to be unfaithful.

His father reached into the machine, pushed Hatchs hand down onto the switch,

and slammed the door before him. The glass illuminated from within to without itself,

revealing every wrinkle and blemish on his fathers face. Hatch thought he witnessed a

tear trail over the mans cheek, but was thrown forward in time before he could be sure.

VII

Like the rising sun through a windowpane, a light on the other side of things

caught Hatchs attention. The surging noise of a horn, however, disrupted his curiosity.

He looked through the glass floor at his feet and saw a set of parallel strips running

beneath him as he expected. Without wasting time, he leapt out of the machine and

watched as a train plowed through the glass hull, leaving no trace of it ever existing.

Hatch fell back on the concrete floor as the rest of the cars passed him. His eyelids


29/31

Plott 29

opened and closed incessantly until he was alone in the tunnel. The paper tickets inside

his pocket reminded him they belonged in the hands of his wife.

Hatch bounded onto the boarding area to the surprise of the crowd awaiting the

next train. He sprinted through them, past the white archway, and into the central area of

the station. A man with a suit like his own sped past him as the noon bell rang. Hatch

twisted to the left before the man could notice him. Instead of following, he continued

down the way to the door of the maintenance closet. People standing around watched

inquisitively as he stacked three benches in front of the door. It would buy him the time

he needed to give Jamie the tickets without being interrupted by a hasty bullet through

the skull. Hatch retraced his steps to the upper floor where the caf was. Jamie sat alone

at the table. Making his way around, he approached her from behind and rested his hands

upon her shoulders.

So Emma, yeah? he said.

Hatch! she replied, swiveling slowly in her chair, back already?

He delicately kissed his bride on the mouth before putting the tickets on the table.

Turns out they were in my pocket the whole time.

Hatch smiled as he pulled the newspaper note she wrote him from his pocket and

placed it on the table before her. With destiny on his mind, he reached down to the floor

to pick the red pen, and used it to write a message on the side opposite hers:

Nate:

If the picture is not yet complete,

Send me to my father.

I need you to get on the train and wait for me there, Hatch said as he wrote,


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Plott 30

Theres still something at the lab I need to take care of.

Hatch walked towards the black door at the far end of the floor. His shoes tapped

against the floor like the sound of a clock hand. He opened the door and walked faster

down the hall. Within his jacket, his hand was wrapped around the pistol. A single bullet

remained inside its chamber. He felt the presence of another without the aid of sight.

Thoughts fought for his attention, but only one image held:

A map that fully captured the sun-strewn, snow-scattered mountains, with its

cliffsides permeated by fields of rose quartz, bed sheets of limestone, glassy panes of

black obsidian, and flowing veins of precious gold.

Hatch reached out for the doors handle, but it slipped away from him and faded

to black before he could fully capture it.

VIII

The door flung open as a heavenly light emanated through its frame. Another

Hatch entered the room, jumping over the dead body at the foot of the door. He raised his

voice at his assistant about a misunderstanding.

Who is this, Nate? You say its not me! Who is this?

Hatch knelt down to the dead body. He looked at the pant leg, noticing a tear in

the thigh just as his own pant leg. The mans hand was within his inner coat pocket.

Hatch pulled it out, causing a pistol to fall out with a crash onto the cold, concrete floor.

He scavenged the jacket pockets for clues, but found only the note Jamie had written him

earlier that day. There was a golden watch on the mans wrist that was not only broken,

but the crystal face had been shattered apart as well.


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Plott 31

This man wasnt me, Nate. Im going to be this man.

Hatch stood up, staring at the golden watch curiously. He took it off the mans

wrist, and held up to Nates face.

Nate, Hatch asked, Didnt my father once have a watch like this?

the labor of destiny

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