Shadows of Futures Past

During the winter, all color vanished and Washington, D.C., became a washed out daguerreotype of gray and white. Dark gray clouds blocked the sunshine on most of the short winter days, and dropped fresh white slush in layers atop the dirty gray remnants of previous storms.
Not that Bill Friedman ever really saw much of that. He spent most of his time, these days, in windowless rooms deep inside a crowded, nondescript office building on the outskirts of the nation's capital. With the onset of war in Europe, the previous September, the Signal Intelligence Service had seen a rapid increase in the size of its staff.
He hoped they got funding for the new digs out in Arlington, soon.
The appearance of four other Earths, actually visible in the daytime sky, meant the SIS budget would probably double (at least), this next fiscal year. Some of his best people already worked day and night as they tried to listen to and decode the radio traffic from two of the other Earths. The traffic from the center Earth had proven the most problematic. That planet's advanced broadcast technology had been a blue-nosed bitch to figure out, and the sheer quantity of the information had proven absolutely overwhelming.
All they initially could hope to do was record as much of it as possible, and devote as much of the little time as they would have, in the war-years to come, sorting through it all.
Then, they got some help.
The broadcasts that began, a month ago, had initially caused serious distress amongst the staff. When Frank Rowlett realized some of the broadcasts were directed to him, personally, and used some of his own private encryption schemes, the young man almost had a coronary. As Friedman walked into the room set up especially for Rowlett, he breathed a sigh of relief. He and his senior cryptanalyst were the only two permitted inside, and it was the quietest room in the building, since it had only the one teleprinter.
That machine currently chattered quietly, to itself. It seldom paused, these days; usually, it only became still when the radio receiver shifted to the predetermined frequency according to the schedule sent during the first transmission received by Rowlett. It was a damned clever innovation, brilliantly simple, and one Friedman kicked himself about; he wished he'd thought of it.
Of course, given what he'd learned about the organization at the other end of the broadcast, Friedman expected to learn a lot more tricks like that, in the very near future.
Frankly, this so-called, "National Security Agency" on the 21C Earth scared the hell out of him, even though he now understood it to be the successor of Friedman's very own SIS.
If anything, that actually made it worse. As quiet as this room was, Friedman had grown to dread opening that door, each morning. All too often, Rowlett looked at him with the same mix of perplexity and foreboding that appeared on his face, now.
"Did the broadcast finish, Frank?"
"Yeah, I got the call about 5 a.m., and came straight in. Couldn't sleep, anyway, knowing it was nearly done."
"Is it as bad as we thought it might be?"
"Well, no, to be honest. Thankfully. I see no threat to the nation from his activities, directly, but the issue still needs to be addressed. It's a real vulnerability, in one of the worst possible places."
"You got it packaged up?"
"Yeah. I finished proof-reading it, just a bit ago. Weirdly, it's not complete. The timeline of the narrative just stops."
"When?"
"This month."
Friedman picked up the bundle of type-written pages, and scanned through them. He'd already read everything received, up through yesterday. There wasn't that much more. He ran his fingers through his hair, before he realized it. Now, he'd have to comb it out, again.
"Alright. I'll take it to the president."
===White House===
The man on the bench outside the door of the Oval Office fumed silently. He'd already been through this, once, with this president, and thought he'd worked out clear understanding with the man. His work to defend the United States against her enemies, both external and internal, brooked no interference. Once he'd explained that to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and provided proof of the sincerity of his belief (in the form of the surveillance transcripts he had about Mrs. Roosevelt's... distaff interests), he felt the two men had reached an accommodation.
Since then, on the rare occasions he'd visited the White House, he'd been ushered in to see President Roosevelt with all courtesy and no delays. If anything, the growing threat of war in Europe, followed by its actual outbreak, had made his work even more vital.
The door opened. Finally.
"Mr. Hoover? The president will see you, now."
J. Edgar Hoover levered himself from the bench with an almost inaudible "hrumph" and walked into the Oval Office. He greeted the spectacled Roosevelt politely enough, and eyed Mr. Friedman. J. Edgar Hoover knew the Jewish gentleman, of course (he knew everyone) and knew Friedman's mathematical passions left little room for the more... physical sort. The man was happily married to a wonderful woman who shared his passions, and she had even proven quite useful to the FBI's pursuit of rumrunners during the '30s.
Now, Friedman avoided looking him in the eye, and Hoover felt the first hint of a chill. What could the SIS have discovered?
"Thank you for coming, on such short notice, Mr. Hoover. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
More chill. The word, "pleasant" never described Roosevelt's demeanor toward the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
"No thank you, mister president. I understand you had a matter of some urgency to discuss?"
Cut to the chase. Get to the point, and then deal with it head-on.
"We do, Mr. Hoover. It has come to our attention that a security risk exists at the highest levels of this government. A risk this nation cannot tolerate, given the troubled times ahead."
"As director of the FBI, I am terribly concerned by this, Mr. President, and will do everything in my power to assist in this matter."
"I expected nothing less, Edgar. May I call you Edgar?"
The chill becomes an icicle, inserted from below.
"Certainly, sir. May I know the nature of this threat?"
"Not a threat, Edgar. At least, not yet. However, it could become one, should it be permitted to continue on its present course. It came as quite a shock, I must say, when Bill, here, delivered the information to me, earlier, today."
"Bill...? Mr. Friedman brought you this."
"Yes he did, Edgar. As you may know (but probably shouldn't), Friedman's people have monitored the radio traffic from our new celestial neighbors. Well, one of them, the United States on the future Earth, contacted the SIS directly, several months ago."
Cold dread.
"Did they? This Negro college professor they have as president informed us of a threat?"
"Not a threat, Edgar. Simply a risk. One we cannot tolerate."
A long pause.
"What is the nature of this risk, if I may ask?"
"You certainly may, Edgar. Take a look."
Roosevelt slid a thick binder across his desk. With no hesitation, his guest picked it up and flipped open the cover. He stared at the first page, for a long moment.
The president's voice was surprisingly gentle.
"Bill tells me he'll soon be able to receive what he calls 'high-resolution photographs' that validate this information. He's also paper-clipped the most relevant sections. You may read them, if you like.
"I'm... I'm certain that will not be necessary, Mr. President."
"I'll need your resignation, Edgar, effective immediately. Mr. Tolson's, as well. You will both receive your pensions, and a quiet retirement with no fuss and no publicity, but the continued presence of the two of you in your current positions has become... untenable."
The director of the FBI looked up from the binder, lips pressed into a firm line, but his face pale. He no longer needed to see it. He would not soon forget the title page, J. Edgar Hoover: The Man and the Secrets.
"I believe I can speak for Mr. Tolson when I say you shall have them in the morning, Mr. President."
"Thank you, Edgar. That will be sufficient."
The two men watched the FBI director depart, back stiff. The door clicked shut behind him, quietly.
"Are you certain that was the best way to handle this, Mr. President? The files he has...."
"It's a risk, Bill, I know. But the one thing that came through clearly in this biography is that, despite his... foibles, Mr. Hoover loves this country very much. So much, in fact, that he's willing to betray its principles in the name of defending it, and therein lies the rub. I don't think he'll use the files. In fact, I think your contact on the the future Earth is most likely correct. The most damaging ones will be gone, by morning."
"Well, sir, I hope you're right. Mr. Hoover never really struck me as the altruistic or forgiving sort. But, be that as it may, whom do you have in mind as a successor?"
"I've got a couple of ideas, Bill, but I need to kick 'em around, some more, and talk to Harry."
********************************************************
New York Police Commissioner Ralph Weston checked his hat and coat and made his way into the Cobalt Club. It had been a very long and exciting day, and he needed to unwind with a drink before he made his way home. The wife would sniff, but as long as he made it home, early, Mrs. Weston wouldn't complain. Much. Especially since the repeal of prohibition meant his presence at the club didn't threaten his political standing.
Not that it ever did, all that much. New York wasn't Chicago, but the Big Apple's ability to wink at slight contraventions of the rules was one of the city's most pleasant cultural traits. Besides, Mrs. Weston's social standing was in for a meteoric rise, in the near future, and that always put her in a forgiving mood.
"Well, hello, commissioner! Please, won't you join us?"
Of course, pleasant conversation always helped ease one's burdens, and the reason Monty and Margot were two of his oldest friends (How did they meet, again...?) was because they were such excellent listeners. Smiling, the New York police commissioner took the proffered chair.
"Thank you, Monty, I believe I will. The usual, please, Clevon."
"Right away, sir."
Margot smiled, and touched his arm in that delicate manner he found so appealing.
"Commissioner, I do believe congratulations are in order, if my little birds aren't all a-twitter over nothing."
"Your little birds are as astonishing as ever, my dear. Yes, we should make the official announcement, tomorrow morning, but the appointment has already made back-room rounds at the Capitol. The departure of my predecessor was met with such surprise and relief that I believe Mr. Roosevelt could have appointed John Dillinger to be the next director of the FBI, and won Senate approval. We anticipate no difficulty, on that score."
"Mrs. Weston will be so excited! When will the two of you depart for Washington?"
"I've already spent several days, there, Margot, and the two of us will travel there, by train, in two days. We'll need to pick out a residence, of course, and the briefings have already begun."
Weston patted his briefcase, and Margot's companion smiled with delight.
"Any juicy scandals in there, Weston?"
The commissioner chuckled.
"No, not at all, Monty. That was rather more the forte of my predecessor, actually, and I have better things to do than listen at bedroom keyholes. The rumors of war grow more dreadful, every day, and the FBI is charged with the responsibility for counter-intelligence. I shall have quite enough to do, without re-creating Mr. Hoover's library of secret files."
Weston waited until Clevon had brought the snifter of brandy and left, before he pulled out the packet of paperwork from the case. The soon-to-be former New York Police Commissioner sighed heavily, and the grooves on his face deepened.
"In the meantime, the FBI staff has begun to brief me on more prosaic matters. These are particularly disturbing. Apparently, what we thought was a random series of murderous assaults on young men and women of color may have a common thread."
Monty leaned forward, eyebrows arched with interest, and tried to get a peak at the report. Weston slapped the cover closed, and the younger man jerked back, looking slightly hurt.
"Oh, come on, commissioner! You can't just drop a bombshell, like that, and then not tell the story. Give!"
"Sorry, Monty. FBI business, you know. Don't even know why I mentioned it to an amateur detective such as yourself."
Margot cut in.
"Now, now! Monty, the commissioner came in here to relax a bit. I don't imagine he'll get to do much of that, in the foreseeable future, so why don't you give the poor man a break? Commissioner, I insist I must intrude on your wife's prerogatives, this once, and ask you for a dance!"
Weston's face lit up with a smile, as he swallowed the last of his scotch with a gulp, stood up and offered his arm to the delighted Margot Lane. He walked her to the dance floor, the folder on the table temporarily forgotten.
Margot's companion slid it over, and flipped through the report. He glanced at each page, briefly (needing no more than a quick glance...), returned the folder to the briefcase and locked it securely.
The commissioner would remember that it was he who had done so.
*******************************************************
Virginia lay cold and slushy, far to the north. However, winters in Mississippi seemed to mostly consist of day after day of cold, miserable rain.
At least, that was the understanding of the new director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This was his first trip south of the Mason-Dixon Line since his honeymoon in the Florida Keys, and that was 23 scorching Junes, ago.
The police chief of Greenwood, Mississippi, blinked in amazement as FBI Director Ralph Weston picked his way across the puddled street on the outskirts of town, toward the roadhouse reluctantly guarded by blue-clad officers huddled in their patrol cars. His men didn't want to be here. He didn't, either. If the FBI claimed this as their jurisdiction, then let them shiver in the rain.
Let them go inside and deal with that... mess. The chief had to meet with some of Greenwood's community leaders about all this. The local "gentlemen's club" would need to lay low, for awhile.
The ones who still lived, anyway.
Weston made the required greetings to the pale and sullen police chief, nodded to the uniformed officers, and then made his way to the door of the roadhouse. James Clarke, the special agent in charge, had apparently been watching for him, and met him, there, with a handshake.
"I'm surprised to see you here, director. This is a big mess, but I didn't think it warranted a flight down from Washington, in this weather."
"Normally, something like this wouldn't. Or, well, it might not. After I read your initial report, though, a few things jumped out at me."
Weston glanced at the Greenwood police chief out of the corner of his eye.
"Let's take this inside, shall we?"
"Well, alright sir. If you insist. You'll need paste under your nose, though. The corpses are gone but there was a lot of blood, and it doesn't get cold enough in Mississippi in March, to freeze things."
The two men made their way inside. The smell was bad. Weston had been around worse.
"So, what's the score, sir, if I may ask?"
"I wanted to double-check some of the finding in your report. I need to know if anything's changed."
"What do you mean? What parts?"
"Your report included detailed descriptions of the gunshot wounds on the victims."
Clarke swallowed, and the lines at the corners of his mouth deepened.
"Yes sir. Noticed that, did you?"
"Yeah. No more than three shots, each. Most only one. Every shot from one of two .45 caliber pistols, mostly likely M1911A1 auto-loaders. Every shot to the torso or the head. No wounds to extremities except those consistent with reflexive defensive moves, in the form of pass-through bullet wounds to the hands and lower arms."
Weston looked around the room, the floor criss-crossed with ghostly chalk outlines. He started to sigh, and then stopped before he gagged.
"No bullets lodged in walls or the floors, except those that passed completely through the bodies of the victims. Every bullet matches a wound. No shots missed. Not even one. Has that changed?"
"No. No, sir. It has not."
"What can you tell me about the victims? What do they have in common? Other than the fact they were all white men and were all slaughtered in a roadhouse bar with a Confederate battle flag on the wall?"
"It took us awhile, and we're still confirming, sir, but none of the locals are exactly forthcoming. However, our preliminary information seems to indicate they may have all been members of the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan."
"Is the chapter very active?"
"Records seem to indicate they are, sir. Or, they were. They had a particularly violent record. Beatings. Lynchings. The whole gamut."
"Yeah. Yeah. It fits."
"Fits what, sir?"
"I've seen this sort of thing before, on the New York waterfront. Individuals who met a particularly violent death who, when investigated, seemed to have particularly brutal pasts. Said death dealt out by no more than one or two people who demonstrate a level of murderous skill that borders on the... extraordinary."
Clarke's lips drew into a thin line.
"Yeah. Er, yes sir. I agree."
"My predecessor records similar incidents up and down the East Coast, and even a few cases over in California, especially around the docks of San Francisco. Also, the Chinatowns in New York and Los Angeles, starting about 10 years ago. He opened an 'Extraordinary Circumstances' file, about them."
"I... may have heard something about those files, sir. But this is nowhere near the coast, and there aren't any Chinamen anywhere near Greenwood, Mississippi. Do you think it's the same guy? Do you think it's... him?"
"If it is, what would you think of trying to catch him? Stop him?"
The muscles clenched in Clark's jaw.
"If we can, sir, we should. Vigilantes, especially ones this violent, need to be brought in. The only thing is, sir...."
"Yes?"
"Well, the only thing is, sir, that if it is him, I'd want more men. I'd want an army. This man scares the hell out of me; out of anybody sane. He's worse than that guy in the cape. Much worse."
"I agree. Well. It may come to that. So, have you found anything else?"
"Yes, sir. The office in back has a wall-safe. It was well-hidden, but we found it open, and it had some documents."
"Tell me."
"There was a ledger book, sir. It has a list of names we don't recognize. Alongside each of the names were other names -- including the names of some of the victims who died, here."
"Get on it, Clarke. Work the list. Find them, for me. You can be sure that he's looking for them, too, and wherever they are, that's where he'll be."
*********************************************************
Stupid teacher. Doesn't know nothin' 'bout nothin', Red thought sullenly, as he trudged through the Boston slush. He hated this place. He hated this city. He wanted to go home, 'cept that home wasn't there, no more.
"Red! Hey, Red!"
The sullen boy stopped, as Thomas came running up. The bigger boy was really strong, but he didn't move as fast as Red.
The strength came in handy, though. A white boy had called Thomas, "Uncle" one time. He'd missed school for the better part of a month, and Thomas had got expelled for the rest of the year. He and Red and been friends, ever since, though.
"Hey! What did that old bag have to say?"
Red scowled.
"She said I had to take a note to my aunt. It says I ain't been studying, and I been makin' trouble, and she says Aunt Ella needs to come see her."
"You gonna take it to yo' aunt?"
"Hell, no! She's got enough to do, without talkin' to no cracker-jack school teacher who don't even talk English right! Ain't nobody can understand none of these white folks, up here in Roxbury."
Thomas' laugh ended abruptly, when his brains exploded out of the back of his skull. Red stared for what seemed forever but must've been only a second because he started to run just as the other boy's body started to crumple and the echoes of the gunshot echoed down the street.
A brick exploded as he dodged down an alley. Jumped a fence to see the white pickup truck wheel around the corner, wheels screeching. Dodged through the vacant lot as a bee that wasn't a bee buzzed past his ear. Another alley and through the door of ol' man Greavey's grocery, shouts behind him. Another alley. Another lot. Through the door of his aunt's home.
Two white men in dark suits in his aunt's living room, jumping to their feet as he burst through the door.
Red's knees weak. He was gonna die. Right here, right now. Just like his daddy.
"Relax, boy. We aren't here to hurt you, or anybody else."
"Bull! You with them!"
"Them? Them who?"
Screeching tires outside. Broken glass as the front window exploded and one of the men in the dark suit went down, screaming, a red spot high on his shirt growing larger. Aunt Ella jumping on Red, pulling him to the floor, "Get down! Get down!" The other white man with a revolver in his hand (Where did he get that?) firing out the shattered window. The sound of tires screeching away. Shouts, the white man on the floor yelling, "Call it in! Call it in! I'm okay!"
More white men in black suits. Police, too. You and your family can't stay here, Mrs. Collins. Where will we go? Where will we go? Man in Baltimore. Attorney. Agreed to give you a safe place.
Train ride for a long, long day that passes in a haze. Not really thinking too good. Not really real. White men in black suits protecting them.
Protecting him.
The house in Baltimore was the nicest he'd ever seen. The furniture was new and comfortable. The rugs were clean and bright and not at all frayed. Everything smelled fresh and new.
Red looked around. Tried to be calm. Tried to look like he didn't care.
"Who lives here?"
"I do."
Red turned around, and blinked in shock at the face of the young black man in the white shirt and dark slacks, who looked as if he were trying to hold back laughter at something funny.
"Aw, there ain't no way."
"There is. This is my house. I own this place, and you aren't my only guests."
Voice deep and resonant. It would sing a good hymn. The words, though. They were crisp, no accent. A black man's voice speaking a white man's words. Not really real.
"How did you get a place like this? Did you kill somebody?"
"No, young man. I don't kill people. I'm an attorney, and I get paid good money to do a good job."
Red stood there and blinked like a rube, speechless for the first time in as long as he could remember. The attorney-man stuck out his hand.
"My name is Thurgood Marshall. I doubt your mama named you 'Red', though."
"No. Uh, no sir. I'm Malcolm. Malcolm Little."
*******************************************************
Ralph Weston sat quietly in the comfortable chair, trying not to stare around the room, as the president of the United States sat across the desk from him, leafing through the report.
"So, all the names on the left side of the list were either colored boys in their teens, or young men of color with good educations and strong family backgrounds?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. President. Also, all of those people in the corresponding list to the right --at least those we've been able to find, alive -- have links to the Ku Klux Klan or other white defense groups, mostly in the south."
"Are there any connections between these boys on the left?"
"No, sir. Not that we've been able to discover and, honestly, it would've been strange had we found any. They ranged in age from 11 years old to nearly 30, and come from all sorts of backgrounds. The only things they have in common is the color of their skin, and the fact that some of them come from families active in civil rights agitation. However, none of them have any history of violence, save for that boy, Little. That's all schoolyard stuff, though."
"You said, "those we've been able to find, alive."
"Yes, Mr. President. Some of the names on the right have dropped out of sight. Most of them are dead, though. Murdered, we think, by the same individual in the same way. Gunshot wounds from one or two .45 caliber autoloading pistols, most likely some variation of the M1911A1."
"How did he find them, Mr. Weston? How did he know to look for these evil men?"
"I wish I could tell you that, sir. I've run across his work, once or twice in the past. Many of his victims have no record of criminal activity, but subsequent investigations almost always turn up evidence of brutal or depraved activities. Opium smuggling. Human trafficking. Worse things. And we have no idea how he finds them."
"Yet, nonetheless, he does."
"Yes, Mr. President. He does. However, there's another question -- something I didn't see, right away."
"Which is?"
"Why did his victims pick these particular coloreds? Mr. Marshall, maybe, makes sense. So does that Reverend King, down in Atlanta. But this boy, Little, is only 14 years, old, and that dead kid, Evers, was only 17, and they lived hundreds of miles, apart."
"I think they're students of history, Mr. Weston, or they received the names from someone who is such a student."
"Hist..? Oh. My God. You think someone on the Future Earth is sending them these names? The names of young colored men who may do something, in the future -- what would be our future?"
"Mr. Friedman thinks that, and I tend to agree. I think I'll have him contact my... colleague, in that Earth's Oval Office. Perhaps some of his people can find out who broadcast these names to our Klan."
Category:Five Earths - Vignettes