Spurring Fate

In a pearlescent white room with walls spanning the height of three storeys, Jackson Jones took his seat alongside nine other trainees. Of course, Jackson Jones wasn't his real name but the one assigned to him for his new job as a Time Correspondent. The trainees were being inducted into the Agency of Time Travel, an inter-governmental organisation established in 2582 with very limited resources and extremely strict restrictions around travelling through time. Agent Chiu, their supervisor, paced the area in front of their desks.

“Time travel works because it is stable. Time travel is stable because of what we call causal determinism…or causal loops,” she said.

“This is something we’ve come to accept as fact through the discovery of time travel.”

A chill travelled the length of Jackson’s spine. He looked around to gauge the reactions of the other trainees. They stared ahead at Agent Chiu oblivious to his haunting realisation.

“For example, let’s say I take the musical score of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony and travel back to 1788. I leave the copy on Mozart’s desk which he later discovers and goes on to publish as his own work. The timeline is maintained and nothing in the present time changes.”

A young woman at a desk next to Jackson shuffled in discomfort as Agent Chiu continued her lecture.

“Basically, whatever I do when I travel back in time will not affect the present as the timeline is already set firmly in place; that is to say it has already been determined. I could go back to the Triassic period and step on as many butterflies as my violent heart desired and the timeline would continue as normal because my insect-murdering actions had already been taken into account from the beginning.”

The trainees clung to her words like bees to nectar.

“A warning though. Just because the timeline is stable it doesn’t justify reckless behaviour when travelling back in time. Consequences can still be dire for the careless actor. You should always follow the Agency's instruction," Agent Chiu said.

The shuffling woman let out a ‘hmph’ of dissatisfaction.

“Yes, Correspondent Casey. What’s the matter?” Agent Chiu asked.

“Well, I suppose I’m wondering, going back to the example of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, what the origin of the symphony is if neither you nor Mozart composed it. It couldn’t have just come into existence on its own!” she said.

Agent Chiu considered it for a moment.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” she said. “It’s still one of the mysteries of time travel we’ve yet to uncover and, as you all know, time travel is only a very recent discovery. That’s why the Agency only permits travel to the past for the time being.”

Now the shuffling woman had a new bone to pick with Agent Chiu.

“But what’s the point in travelling to the past if we can’t influence the events of the present for the better? Like the classic let’s-go-back-in-time-to-kill-Hitler-and-stop-WWII scenario!”

Agent Chiu leaned on an empty seat, smiled and sighed.

“These are valid points you’re making, Correspondent, but as I said before, the discovery of time travel is still in its infancy. We’ve got a lot more to learn yet and we don’t want to take too many risks at this stage. The Agency’s goal for the moment, as you all know, is to gather first-hand data, real lived experience, from moments in human history. And that’s what we’re preparing you for now.

“Baby steps.”

A hum of satisfied murmurs filled the room.

Nobody seemed to notice it or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. Jackson was smacked with a horrible understanding; if what Agent Chiu was saying was true - that fate was already pre-determined - then he didn’t have true autonomy over his choices. He didn’t have true free will. He was bound to a timeline etched in stone.

*

It was his fourth month into living in the year 1865 and Jackson Jones sat at the bar in the local saloon. He asked the bartender to pour another drink. Whiskey. Double shot. Jackson let the burning liquid funnel down his throat like petrol into a tank.

“Woooahhh, partner. Might wanna take it easy on the Old Towse,” an old man said, sitting two stools away.

“I’ve seen a few too many men like yourself end up sleeping next to the pigs in the yard after that much whiskey. And they’re the lucky ones! The unlucky ones end up sleeping with ‘em!” He let out a loud chuckle revealing his rotted teeth. Jackson winced at the vulgarity of the joke and turned to face the other way. The old man refused to take the hint.

“There are only two reasons a young man like yourself is drinking like that. One, because of your lady. Two, because of another man’s lady.” He sniggered again.

“It ain’t because of a woman.” Jackson’s tone was curt and he painted the southern drawl on thickly.

“Well, what is it then?”

He shouldn’t have continued but the alcohol in his blood and the despair in his soul mixed to form a dangerous cocktail of self-destructive behaviour. He didn’t care what happened.

“Free will. It don’t exist, so why bother?”

The old man looked at him, silent for a moment. The raucousness of the saloon continued in the background.

“Free Will does exist, partner. I saw him just the other day. And he’s far damn nicer than jailed Will, I’ll tell you that!”

Jackson rolled his eyes, dropped a few coins onto the bar and left through the bat-wing doors of the saloon.

On the journey to his cabin he was struck with an idea. It sent a pulse of exhilaration through his body.

How unusual. I hadn’t even considered that until now, he thought.

Let’s test the theory, shall we?

It was a reckless string of thoughts but it cheered him up.

When he arrived at his cabin he pulled out a map, tore off a section and scribbled some writing on it. Then he fell into a deep, drunken sleep.

*

He dreamed of his childhood, the times he spent with his parents. Back then, his father had a passion for primitive cinema and the interest had rubbed off onto Jackson too. A curiosity became a fascination which soon turned into an obsession. They spent weekends and holidays together watching old Western films through their optic lenses. Jackson’s favourite was Spurring Fate. It told the story of the true standoff between Wild Bill and David Tutt. Jackson was enamoured by Wild Bill! When he played ‘Cops and Cowboys’ with his father, Jackson bared his teeth like the character from the movie. When they roleplayed the old shootouts, fingers twitching and eyebrows raised, Jackson imitated Wild Bill’s baritone voice… ‘You think you’re so quick?’ His father always let him win, playing as David Tutt and dropping to the ground dramatically after being shot, clutching his chest as he fell. It was Jackson’s childhood dream to witness an actual shootout like in the old movies, even if it did sound a bit macabre when he shared the wish with his friends. 

*

A high-pitched beeping woke Jackson from his sleep. The hangover hit him as he swung his feet onto the wooden floor to stand up. He trudged over to the desk where the beeping was coming from, opened a drawer and punched a code into a black safe hidden under a wooden slat. In the safe was a metallic ball the size of a marble. It flashed neon green to the rhythm of the beeping. After rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he picked up the ball and pressed it between his thumb and index finger until it fell silent. A distilled, robotic voice reverberated telepathically in his mind; a nifty technology to ensure privacy from unwanted eavesdroppers nearby.

"Commencing area security check." The metallic ball pulsated in Jackson's hand and emanated a wave of wind.

"Security check passed. No native time-dwellers in the vicinity. Incoming call from Agent Chiu. Please stand clear."

Jackson placed the ball on the floor and backed away until his head hit the wall. A jangly whirring sound stirred from within the ball becoming increasingly louder, forcing Jackson to cover his ears.

All this on a hangover. Really?

A bright light flashed. A long silence followed. 

As the light dimmed Jackson saw Agent Chiu’s hologram come into focus.

"Hello Correspon…Correspondent! Are you hungover?” Agent Chiu asked, her eyes casting subtle judgment over her subject. Jackson suddenly became aware that he was in his long johns. 

"Well, I’m supposed to be gathering first-hand experience, right?” His voice came out thin and he coughed to clear his throat. “Surely that includes a few trips to the saloon.”

“Hmm…I suppose so. As long as it’s not affecting your research negatively,” she said.

“It’s not. It’s actually helping.”

“Okay.” Her tone carried an air of suspicion.

"So, what brings you to the ol' Wild West then, hey? A warm whiskey and a fist fight?" Jackson said, letting out a pathetic laugh. An underwhelming attempt to cut the tension. Agent Chiu’s hologram took a seat mid-air.

“We have a new research task for you today,” she said.

Something was rising from his stomach. He had plans today that could not be postponed.

“What sort of task?” He swallowed the feeling back down.

“Nothing too intense. The Agency needs you to go to Kansas City for the day and holo-record the implementation of standard times in the former USA.”

“Really?”

The tasks were always boring. Agent Chiu ignored him and continued.

“They want you to capture the scenes, the reactions of the public and all of that. But most importantly the Agency wants you to holo-record the dual-ringing of the town bell. It’ll ring once at noon in the original local time and then again seventeen minutes later to mark the new noon in Central Standard Time.”

“Seems like a kind of dull task, don’t you think?” Jackson asked. “Kind of pointless.”

Agent Chiu glared at him.

“You don’t decide the work, Correspondent. It’s what the Agency wants recorded for the archives.”

Her tone simmered a little as she found her composure. “It’s to do with time so that’s probably why they want the event recorded. Plus, you’re in the century so it’s no extra cost to the Agency… apart from the one location-jump we’ve cleared for you to use. They want you in Kansas City and it’s a bit far from here on horseback.”

Her hologram stood back up and she patted her rippling, grey pants.

“Any questions?”

Jackson felt hopeless. His experiments with fate would have to wait.

“Nope,” he replied.

"Great, all the best!" Agent Chiu's hologram was absorbed back into the metallic ball. Jackson went to his desk and picked up the piece of torn map from the day before. He read his drunken scribbles:

Wild Bill/ David Tutt shootout

Springfield. 6:00pm. 7/21

Maybe it shouldn’t wait.

He smiled, folded the paper and put it in his coat pocket. He didn’t feel hopeless anymore.

*

With his horse saddled and his gear loaded Jackson was ready to head off. He preferred to travel lightly in the Old West; a flask of whiskey, food for the horse, his location-jump device and a revolver… mostly very normal for this time and place.

He sipped some whiskey from his flask to lighten his heavy head. As he passed through the town on horseback he spotted the old man with the rotted teeth. Rotted Teeth waved to him as he passed.

“Howdy! You ain’t looking half as bad as I thought you would!”

“Yep,” Jackson said.

“Where you headed, partner?”

“Springfield. I have a feeling something pretty interesting’s gonna happen there tonight.”

“Springfield? Tonight? There ain't no way! It's halfway across the country!" Rotten Teeth looked at him as if he were a madman. Jackson winked.

"Ahh, you're pulling my leg, aren't ya? See you at the saloon sometime!" He took off his hat and waved it above his head as Jackson’s horse cantered out of the township.

The first hour of travel passed quickly. Jackson savoured the scenery; the dusty, red desert scattered with chartreuse cacti, the silhouettes of distant flat-top mountains stark against the soft, powder blue sky. He breathed the dry air into his lungs. He was content for a short moment.

The sun was making its way across the sky and Jackson needed to get a move on. He dismounted, pulled the location-jump device from his coat pocket and strapped it onto his wrist. He took the saddle off his horse and gave her a light kick. She galloped away.

The Agency is going to hate me for this. Fuck it. It won’t truly change anything anyway.

He finished the flask of whiskey, laughing to himself as he drank. He pressed some buttons on the location-jump device and dissolved into nothingness.

*

Somewhere in the outskirts of Springfield a silver orb appeared in the long grasses of a field. Jackson materialised into the sweet air. The orb vanished behind him. He patted his coat pockets and gun holster to make sure his inventory was all accounted for and headed towards Springfield on foot. The walk took a lot longer than anticipated.

I must’ve punched in the wrong coordinates.

A few hours later he spotted the main street up ahead. Relief swept through him, then excitement.

A real-life shooting. I'll get to witness an actual, real-life cowboy shootout.

According to the history books and the movie, David Tutt would be pronounced dead at 6pm. That gave him just under an hour to kill. Jackson made his way to the bar, took a seat and ordered a double whiskey.

The minutes passed quickly and Wild Bill made his entrance into the bar. Jackson felt his breath catch in his throat. He’d recognised him from the photos in history books. Wild Bill took a seat at a large wooden table with a crew of men and started a game of three-card Monte. The gears of an irreversible fate started to move, turning and clicking and turning and clicking.

Jackson looked at his pocket watch.

5:54pm.

He waited five minutes.

Then another five.

Then another five. 6:09pm.

A man should’ve been pronounced dead by now. A shootout definitely should have happened by now. What was going on?

It must’ve been a false record.

A strange sensation washed over Jackson, a mixture of awe and of dread. He felt the blood rush from his face and into the chambers of his heart. It pounded furiously. The bar suddenly felt too hot. He needed cool air. He pushed passed the packs of people towards the door but tripped on the leg of a table in his hazy conniption. 

Smash!

His glass fell, shattering on the table’s edge. Whiskey spilled onto the unfortunate patron sitting in the seat. The bar fell silent. All eyes turned to Jackson and then to Wild Bill who was now soaked in alcohol. His eyes shone with fury.

*

Wild Bill’s men pulled Jackson out of the bar and into the main street. His head was buzzing and he tried to run but the men formed a barricade behind him, pushing him back whenever he tried to escape. Wild Bill walked out of the bar, the steel heels of his boots clacking down the wooden steps at the bar’s entrance. A crowd of people spilled out of the building and onto the edges of the street. Curious onlookers in nearby houses peered out from their windows to watch the scene play out below.

“You think you’re so quick? Then prove it,” Wild Bill said, walking down the dusty street away from the men. Jackson’s body shook uncontrollably. He’d lost control of it. If there was ever a time for him to break away from the chains of 'causal determinism', it was now.

Wild Bill smirked and turned his body back around to face Jackson.

“Rules are simple. Hands by your sides. We draw at the same time. First one to shoot, wins. Do I need to explain it again?” He didn’t give Jackson a moment to respond. The gears of fate turned faster and faster and clicked louder and louder and Jackson couldn’t do anything to stop them. He shut his eyes. Tight. He had the answer to his little experiment of free will.

Bang

The shot left a great, cavernous echo in the street. Wild Bill’s mouth broke open into a wide grin as Jackson’s body hit the dirt. Two men rushed over from the crowd to the limp body as blood poured out of it, transforming the dirt underneath into a sickly mud.

“Dead,” one man said stupidly.

“Time of death?” the other asked.

The stupid one checked his pocket watch. “6:17pm,” he replied.

“Is that with the new Central Standard Time?”

“Oh. Wait a minute.” He did some mental maths. “No, that’d make it 6pm Central Standard Time.”

“And does anybody know who this is?” He raised his voice to ask the crowd. “I haven't ever seen him myself.”

The onlookers gave their answers through muddled expressions and shaking heads.

The smart man patted the body and found a lump in one of the coat pockets. He reached his hand into it, pulling out an empty flask and a normal-looking watch. From the other pocket, he pulled out a torn page of a map that somebody had written on.

Wild Bill/ David Tutt shootout

Springfield. 6:00pm. 7/21

Throughout his life, the smart man often wondered how this man could've predicted the exact time, place and people involved in a shootout. He asked Wild Bill and his crew if the shootout was planned but they denied it vehemently. The smart man never figured out the answer to this dilemma but was pleased with himself for at least solving the mystery of the dead man’s name... or what he thought was the dead man's name. David Tutt.