The Utility of Man

November 22, 1963 12:28pm

I lie on my belly at the top of a small hill in downtown Dallas. The grass is still wet with dew, but I don't mind it; its soothing in this midday heat. 12:29 the target approaches. I try and steady my breathing with deep long breaths. This shot has to be perfect, no room for error. As the motorcade moves into my field of vision, I take one final breath and hold. 12:30 one shot rings somewhere north of my location. That' my cue. If only that idiot had made a proper shot off, I wouldn't need to be here. This thought causes a momentary lapse in concentration just as my finger squeezes the trigger. The shot's not right, it's a few inches off, and hits the person to the right of my target. SHIT, SHIT SHIT! I quickly re-chamber my weapon and fire another round. This time the line is good, and I hit the target perfectly. I watch his head snap back, and it's clear my job is done. I quickly shoulder my weapon, which becomes nearly invisible with my combat vest. While descending the hill, I catch a slight glimpse of what looks to be the targets wife; the look of terror and sadness as she reaches for her husband's body is nauseating. Steady your nerves Mason! Just now you could have saved millions of lives. Yea, but I have know idea how. Well that's the job. Your duty is to act for the greater good, and not to ask questions. I argue with myself for too long.

12:33pm

My wrist communicator starts to beep. I have two minutes before the jump home. Sprinting down the main avenue searching for a suitable place to exit, I blend in with the crowd of bystanders attending the processional. If a man were to just disappear into thin air, I don't think that anybody would notice, but that chance can not be taken. Too much is at risk here. A large brick building appears to my left. From the looks of it, it's been abandon for quite awhile, which is a rarity for such a populated area. I dash in, with no time to secure the location, hopefully no squatters are around. As my watch hits 12:35, I can already feel the familiar sensation of a jump. Explaining time travel is quite difficult. Imagine the tickling feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you reach the highest point of a roller coaster right before you fall. Now, multiply that times one-hundred, and you get the general idea.

August 28, 2218

I materialize back at the station, like always, in one of the quarantine rooms. I catch my breath, since you can't breathe during the jumping process. After filling my lungs with as much air as they could handle, I start to strip off my gear and place it into the large receptacle attached to the wall. As soon as I am completely naked, the bin reseeds back into the wall headed off to the incinerator. Damn ,I really liked that gun, but once it hit the atmosphere of another time, it was doomed to be melted down back to its base elements. A voice comes on through the intercom, “Please step into the decontamination booth for sterilization.” I walk over to what looks like an old time phone booth and step in. Immediately the door shuts behind me and the booth is pressurized. The ice cold blue sterilization liquid starts pouring from the holes on the sides of the booth. In an instant, I'm completely submerged. It's over as fast as it started, and when I step out of the booth, I find a fresh set of clothes placed in a bin on the near wall. Once dressed, I wait for the door to open and my reintroduction to civilization can begin.

The station is empty as usual, as you may have guessed, there are not many people suited for this line of work. There are ten people, including myself, assigned to the special task force code name: UTL Not counting the chief, that is. I walk past the secretary Janet with a smile and a wave. Of course, she looks at me with disgust. Who can blame her? I slept with her six months ago and never called. Hey, I just needed to blow off some steam after a particularly hard assignment. I don't feel bad though. She's been with this our squad long enough to know the true nature of the men that do this job. I reach in my desk drawer and grab my keys and duffel bag, and I head out the door. The elevator right outside the front door takes me fifty feet up to the surface; as with most buildings now, our headquarters are built underground. It's a cold night. The mild precipitation covers everything in sight with a light frost. My car remains where I parked it two days ago, before I started my mission. I give the voice command for the car to unlock itself, and immediately, the door opens, and the vehicle rumbles to life. The frost that covered her was melted away before I could reach the door. After being stuck in 1963 for two days, it reminded me why I love this time period so much. After entering the car, I hear the voice of my navigator, whom I've nicknamed Cece. “Where to Mr. Stone?” Hmm, let's go for a drink, Cece. “The moon bar?” Yea sounds good to me.

As the car raises off of the street, I recline fully and put on the radio. Usually I like to drive myself, but today I'll let the autopilot do its job. As I close my eyes and try to relax, I find myself thinking about his wife. She was beautifully dressed in all pink, with a classy pink hat cocked slyly to one side. The report said her name was Jacklyn. I wonder if she ever thought that one day her husband would be murdered right in front of her eye. What did she tell her children after that day? Was she at least satisfied that the first shooter had been caught? Before I can mull all these questions over, my car is lowering itself onto the parking platform. Thank God, I need a drink.

I walk in and take in my surroundings; the inside of the moon bar, as always, is bathed in a pale blue light, which resembled moonlight, hence the name. Ninteenth century smooth jazz plays over the sound system. I've grown fond of this type of music ever since that week I spent in 1920's. I find a seat up at the bar and order a double scotch on the rocks. Some things, like alcohol, are just timeless. The bar itself is solid white marble but warm to the touch. It always feels inviting. As I wait for my drink, I notice a blond sitting at the far corner of the bar. She's cute, definitely my type, a slender waist but with thighs that say, “I'll keep you warm all night, honey.” If these drinks don't take my mind off things, she will have to do. After I've had four or five drinks my mind starts to wander again. I begin to think about my last target, John. We aren't suppose to refer to our targets by their real names. Complete abstraction is what we were taught at the academy, “The one you name is the one you can't kill”.

Dammit all, where'd that blond go. I get up to find her, but before the search for my next “target” starts, I run into someone didn't expect. The chief. He's sitting in a booth by himself waiting for his pint of what appeared to be guiness to refresh itself. We make eye contact, and he gestures for me to come over. I don't dare say no. The chief is a living legend. He's said to be the one that caused the first ice age by blowing a crater the size of Texas into the earth with a 3 ton anti-matter bomb. This is probably more myth then reality, but no matter what, he is the one person on this planet that I am truly afraid of. I causally walk over to his booth, but when I get there, my nerves of steal vanish, and I'm at a lost for words. I can end a life in a second but can't muster up the courage to address my commanding officer. Finally the silence is broken by the Chief, “Sit down son.” Yes sir. “What'll you have?” Sc ..Sco..Scotch on the rocks, sir. At the sound of my voice, my drink pops out of a compartment from under table and lands in front of me. We sit, sipping our drinks until once again, the chief speaks up, “So you just got back from your last assignment. How was it?” Uhh..it went well. Sir. Target eliminated with little trouble. Before the Chief responds, I already know he can see right through my weak excuse for an explanation. “Son, I've been doing this for a long time. It'll take a lot more then that to fool me. You wanna try that again?” Yes, sir. I don't know if it's the alcohol, or the chief's intense gaze, but this time, I tell him everything. From my lack of concentration to not getting over the look of the man's wife. I even call the target by his real name. John. Shit, I'll definitely get kicked off the force for this.

After I divulge everything, there was a long pause. The chief doesn't say a word, he just sat there sipping his drink. “Well son let me tell you a story. I was about your age when I got my first real kill mission. I had been on the force for about a year or so. The location: Austria, in the early twentieth century. My target was a young college aged boy, no older than nineteen. My job was to find him and terminate him in a place where he'd be spotted relatively quickly. After a day of searching, I found the target. I started to tail him until I could find a good location to make my move. The perfect opportunity arose when he walked into this cafe off of the main road. The place was empty besides the target, the waitress and myself. All I had to do was wait for the waitress to lose track of us, and I'd slip my combat knife in between his third and fourth rib and twist, then I'd make my escape out of the cafe right before the jump time. In order to do this, I needed to be closer to the target. Rookie mistake. I sat next to him at the counter, and he immediately struck up a conversation. He told me about how he'd just been declined for admission to yet another art school, and how his girlfriend left him. I really did feel sorry for the kid. “Do you know what happened next, son?” Umm..you put your emotions aside and eliminated the target just in time? “HAHA yea I wish, but no, I couldn't do it. I ran outside and hid until my jump time.

I can't believe this man, the man I fear so much, is telling me this. I am utterly blown away. “Mason, what is the main rule of our squadron?” 'You only get one chance to complete a jump. There is no jumping back; failure is not an option.' As I recite the motto of our squadron, I can see tears forming in the corner of the chief's eyes. “Mason do you know how many people died in the holocaust?” Six million sir. “Yea you're right, six million. I sleep with the lives of six million people weighing on my conscious. Always remember this son, it's not what we do that determines the future, it's what we don't do.” As I think of a way to tell the chief that he just gave me enough faith to stick with my duty, my wrist communicator starts to beep. “I guess its time for you to go, son” Yes sir, thanks for the drink. “Anytime, good luck” As I leave the bar and head for my car, I look down at my communicator to see who my target is. I don't know who this person is, but what I do know now is that the world will be a much better place after I eliminate him.