My First Visit

I arrived at Greg’s house at 10 am, sharp. On ringing the doorbell, I could hear movement within. Someone on the other side of the door was doing something with pieces of metal and wood. Looking at the door, I realized that this house had the old mechanical locks that opened with keys, latches and tumblers. Quite distinctive. The door swung open and there stood Greg from L&H.

“Dr. Pace. Do you have some time today that we could talk?” For long seconds he simply stood within his home staring at me. Finally he stepped aside from the opening and gestured inside. I entered and took the place in while he refastened the door’s locking mechanisms. Maglocks, I thought, are so much more convenient and secure. The inside of the house felt as Spartan as the outside despite being well furnished. From the entryway I could see through into Greg’s kitchen which had a standard grow-garden in it. The light that sustained the plants seemed to flicker ever so slightly. Toward the back of the kitchen I could see a table up against the rear wall of the house, situated in front of a window that overlooked a yard with several fruit trees. To my left was the man’s living room, with but two chairs facing each other across a small coffee table. A large bay window, partly veiled by a privacy field, looked out onto Lime Kiln Road and the typical traffic for this time of day. Against the far wall was a large floor to ceiling tiered shelf of plants. Some looked purely ornamental, others seemed like various types of herbs.

To the left of the kitchen I could see stairs leading to the second level with a dining room just beyond. At the table were two chairs opposite each other. No real adornments were on the walls, save a standard weather clock. What furniture there was, while exquisite in design, was very plain in trimming. Possibly the best way to describe the house was ‘minimalist.’

Greg walked past me and gestured to a chair in the living room as he went into the kitchen. “Can I get you something, Mr. Hall? Something to drink?”

“Water would be just fine, thanks,” I replied as I set my messenger bag down next to the chair. I heard Eric pouring water from a pitcher before he returned to the living room.

“So, Mr. Hall, what exactly did you come here hoping to discover?” Eric asked me, handing me the glass of water and emphasizing the clay coaster on the end table.

“Today I came with an open mind. I know you’re a Heroer and was curious what historical goodies you have collected over the years,” I said, taking a sip of the water as I sat down.

“Heroer. Let’s get off on the correct foot there, Mr. Hall.”

“Please, Dr. Pace, call me James.” He smiled at that.

“Then call me Eric.” I hadn’t seen Eric as part of the man’s name in any on- or offline source.

“Is that a nickname of yours?” I asked.

“I’ll explain later. For now just call me Eric,” Greg replied.

“Okay, Eric. So how should we get off on the correct foot, then?”

“I’m not, as you say, a ‘Heroer’.” I had read him correctly, of that I was sure.

“With respect, at L&H you reacted like you were. And only Heroers have put enough study into the TDF to even know about Project Plymouth, let alone that it at all relates to the likes of James Christopher, Eric Pohlman and the rest of the TDF leadership.” Surely it was a cosmic coincidence, this man telling me to call him Eric.

“That is a fair assessment, yes. And you certainly did surprise me. Before we go any further, though, how can you be sure I’m not a Censor? Just using my knowledge of the past to catch another heroer scum?” Greg asked. The thought had occurred to me, however …

“Nothing in your personal history or affiliations indicated that,” I said. “Plus, I had a feeling. And anyway,” I said off-handedly, “most university people dislike Censors even more than the general public. The thought of censorship goes against academic open-mindedness.”

“We simply know their danger to society. But I return to my previous statement. I am not a Heroer,” Greg commented.

“Then you’re a TDF Agnostic?” I asked.

“Oh, no. No, no. I definitely hold a very firm belief about the role the TDF played in human history. Seeing it with your own eyes tends to have that effect.”

I gurgled a reply around some water. “Seeing?! You have recordings from the era?” I managed. Nothing visual survived of the TDF. The Government’s Department of Censorship had seen to that over the course of time. Only descriptions from newspapers and obscure texts presented any evidence that they had actually existed at all. And the existence of such sources is what forced the Censors to continue to operate year upon year.

“Well, that’s not what I meant, no. But I do, yes. Just not readily available right now.”

“Of course not.” A thought suddenly struck me. “Greg.”

“Eric,” he countered.

“Sir, how can you be sure that I’m not a Censor?” Admitting to me he had historical materials would be reason enough for him to vanish forever were I a government Censor.

“I have better and more reliable sources of information than you. It’s not that I don’t suspect that you’re a censor. It’s that I know you’re not.” Something in his tone of voice made me believe that he actually did know.

“Okay. Fair enough.” My mind began to race. The smugness Greg…Eric portrayed, he had something very, very important to share about the TDF and he knew it. What I knew at the time was that whatever he would share with me would change the very course of my life. “Then what exactly did you mean by ‘having seen?’ Are you prescient?”

“You’re asking if I can see the future like tarot-card readers or psychics? No. The thing is, James, that I’ve been waiting a long time for this day to come. You cannot now fathom how long.” While some aspects of Martian life were harder on humans than was Terran or Lunar life, Greg’s age was still his age. His eyes, though, began to betray something to me. An age appeared in his green eyes that seemed to go well beyond his years. And for a moment his whole head of hair seemed to flash jet-black. I blinked, though, and his hair was as it had been.

“What do you mean? We met only yesterday,” I replied.

“You met me yesterday. I have seen this meeting coming for centuries. I simply could not predict the exact date it would happen. That type of prescient accuracy is beyond even my savant abilities.” There was definitely a twinkle of something, excitement perhaps, in his eyes.

“Greg.”

“Eric.”

“I’ve gotta say, you’re beginning to sound a bit unbalanced. Not meaning any offense, but is there a medication you should be taking?” I asked gently.

“How badly do you want to know the absolute truth about the history of the TDF? The real history,” he asked, leaning forward. “I offer you a choice now to walk away, for things are only going to seem stranger and more surreal the further down this rabbit hole you climb. I may seem off-balance now, but I assure you that I’m not. So again, just how badly do you want to know what really happened all that time ago?” His question itself brought about a certain fight-or-flight response in me. But my curiosity was unquenchable, as it always had been. This man before me wouldn’t be a tenured professor if he was completely off his rocker, so he knew something. And any image or recording from all those years ago would be enough to warrant some present risk.

“I’m in it to the hilt,” I said. He leaned back in his chair, looking like a commander on a spaceship bridge.

“Then I do have two things to show you,” he said, opening a drawer of his end table. From it he pulled a piece of paper and what appeared to be an old print photograph. “These are delicate due to age,” he said, carefully leaning forward, handing one of them to me. The piece of paper was a birth certificate. On it was clearly written Eric Aaron Pohlman. Born: 5 May 1980 CE. Suddenly my heart was in my throat and beating at what felt like 200 beats a minute.

“It’s a fake,” I said, my hands beginning to tremble.

“It’s real,” Greg replied.

“No. It’s a fake,” I repeated, still staring at it. Eric Aaron Pohlman had been the XO, second in command, of the TDF while their co-leaders, James Christopher and Meng Thao, had been alive. Upon their deaths Eric assumed the mantle of command through the time of the TDF’s exile to Mars. During the War of Insurrection against the United Terran Government, years after the Coalition Wars, Eric had been deemed the hero of the Battle of Thermopylae. He had led the counter-attack at Thermopylae that stopped a flanking maneuver of one of Chaos’s highest subordinates. In addition, he had been the commander in charge of the Battle of Chicago which, arguably, saved the United North American Government. Eric Aaron Pohlman was, really, the face of the TDF. And here on this fragile piece of paper was his name and an ink print of a tiny foot.

“I would offer you a current print of my foot, but I know that after all these years it wouldn’t match anymore.” My head snapped up, my eyes locking with his. My mouth went dry.

“Absolutely not,” I managed weakly. “First you claim to tell me that this is authentic. Then you also claim to be this mythic man? No. I can’t possibly believe that. It’s simply been too long.”

“Of course it’s been. Here. Look at this. But be careful with that,” he said, pointing at the birth certificate. What he handed me next was a somewhat faded photograph of eight people posing in front of a sign that read ‘NAR Defense.’ My mouth felt like a desert. There in the picture was a man of jet black hair and green eyes. I slowly raised my eyes. The resemblance was striking. If it weren’t the same man sitting in front of me then it was a direct descendent whom fate had played a steady hand in creating. My hands shook.

“The one under my left arm is James Christopher. Under his left is Melinda Christopher. To my right is Adam Green. In front of us, from your left to right, are D’Andre Fremen, Jessica Broon, Meng Thao and Claire VanIven. Of course, there’s no real way to corroborate that. As far as I know among the Heroers there has never been found an actual photograph of any of us. But I can tell that you recognize the company sign.” I did. NAR Defense was the company started by Eric, James, Melinda and Adam after Project Plymouth. Meng, D’Andre, Jessica and Claire had been brought on as equal partners some time later.

“You’re trying,” I managed to say before my voice stuck in my throat. I swallowed several times, my gaze passing between the birth certificate and the photo. “You’re trying to tell me,” I managed, gazing back up at Greg…Eric…with a look of complete disbelief. “You’re Eric Aaron Pohlman?!”

“I believe that’s what I’m trying to get at, yes.” After a momentary pause and shake of his head he added, “I had seen that face a thousand times before, but to see it in person…I mean, I wish you could see the fucking shit-confused expression on your face right now! I bet you’d love to ball those both up and throw them back in my face right now, wouldn’t you?” he asked, smiling. I had been thinking that. “But you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because what if I’m not the biggest scam artist this system ever saw? Tell you what,” he said getting up, patting me on the shoulder. I barely noticed, staring slack-jawed at the document and photo in my hand. “I gotta take care of a few things at MNU. Why don’t you take those with you and have every inch of them scanned and carbon-dated? They haven’t sat in a time-spensor field a day of their existence. Come back here some time tomorrow. You should be able to get test results back by then. And tuck those away somewhere safe. They’re fragile!”

My movements, stashing the two objects in the pages of an old print book I happened to have in my bag, as well as walking out to and getting in my car, are still like the near-lost memories of a waking dream. My vehicle’s drive to the University itself was clouded in a haze. Somehow I found my way to Tim Fowler’s office and managed a knock at his door.

“Come in,” came the absent-minded reply. He was looking at something on his tablet. When I didn’t enter he repeated, “Come in,” then looked up. His face lost most of its color. “By the gods, James. What happened?!”

Only somewhat aware of his question I said weakly, “What?”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, man! Come in and sit down.” He came around his desk and helped me into a seat facing him. Through the windows of his office I could see students walking to and from class, clumps of them talking as they went. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, their dark green leaves a reminder that they weren’t an Earth-native tree species.

“Close the door,” I managed. Tim obliged. I looked at him and saw the concern on his face. I furrowed my brow, suddenly confused by that concern. “I’m fine,” I uttered dismissively. To myself I thought, what does he have to be concerned about me for? I was just told by a man that he was the Eric Aaron Pohlman of the TDF. An organization that had been banished to Mars over 400 years ago. A man who, according to the birth certificate in my bag, would be almost five centuries old. The thought itself seemed rational amidst the irrationality of the moment. “I was talking to someone,” I began as I pulled out the book from my bag. “He gave me these.” I extracted, ever so gently, the birth certificate and picture, setting them side by each facing Tim Fowler on his desk. He glanced at one, the other, back and forth, then shot back from his desk, standing and supporting himself on the window edge behind him.

“Madre de dios,” he whispered.

I met his eyes and asked, “Who do you know in the Temporal Physics Department that can be absolutely trusted? We need to carbon-date these.”

Before we headed across campus with our precious cargo Tim had me relate everything of my meeting with Eric to him. He had become as speechless as I had been. The concept alone of a founding member of the TDF still being alive was, if not absurd, beyond reasonable belief. From what was known of the TDF armed forces, they were somehow enhanced humans. No records yet existed on enhanced how, but it tied back into whatever James, Eric, Adam and Melinda had done at Project Plymouth. Could part of it have been extended life? Eric appearing to be in his late fifties could mean something like one decade of age for every century lived. Medical science is currently very good at extending life, but nowhere near that good. And in checking quickly with the Biology Department’s administrative assistant on the best person to talk to about human longevity, we hit a dead end: Greg Pace. Eric.

Upon arrival at the science building we were greeted by a man named Amid Saliba. Tim Fowler told me that he was a casual Heroer who had dabbled in minor research. His real passion, though, was temporal physics, a field these days that encompassed such talents as precise carbon dating. Tim assured me that while Amid may recognize the importance of Eric Aaron Pohlman, the company in the photograph should ring no bells. In other words, what we were about to ask Amid to do could be passed off as an historical find, for Heroers and non-Heroers alike.

“My friends, hallo! Hallo,” Amid greeted, shaking our hands in turn.

“My friend,” Tim replied. “This is James Hall. He was an undergrad advisee of mine. I had shared with you his findings on the TDF.” I shot him a questioning glance. “Why did you think I asked your permission to share it, James? It was very solid work.”

“Ah, that James. Yes, yes! I thoroughly enjoyed the paper. Come, come. Let us proceed to my lab. There we can talk about these old documents we have. It is a short walk. This way,” Amid said, beginning to lead us back into the building. “Tell me James. Are you also the James Hall writer for the Times?”

“That I am, sir.”

“Ah-ha! Yours is my favorite articles in the paper! Always so insightful and well researched! Must have been good teaching, eh?” he asked over his shoulder at Tim.

“Could be. But not from me. He was always falling asleep in my classes!” Tim replied.

“Hey!” I countered. “I only did that when you were boring. Or on a day that ended in ‘y.’” We arrived at Amid’s lab. He closed the door and engaged all the privacy fields on full, blocking out the outside world and creating that extra-white glow that accompanied the whited-out windows.

“Now, my friends, what do you have?” I very cautiously pulled the book from my bag, extracting the certificate and photo from it.

“I was given these today. The man who gave them to me claimed that they are authentic. I need to know if they’re old enough to be so,” I said as I set the artifacts on the lab table.

Amid lowered his glasses on his nose and studied them both. “Yes, yes. At first glance quite old.” He gingerly touched the birth certificate. “Very old. This name…I recognize it. Is this the TDF man from your report, James?”

“That is what the man tells me,” I said in reply.

“So you’ll be curious not only about the documents, but the ink too, then, huh?” Amid asked.

“Pardon?”

“Well, the paper itself could test old enough to be from the correct time, of course. But the ink could test otherwise. So you’d want both tested?” Amid asked, clarifying.

“Yes. I suppose so. Can you help us do that?” I asked in reply.

“Am I capable? Yes. Am I willing to help fellow Heroers uncover some piece of our history? Without question. Are you willing to leave this in my possession for a day? I will keep them safest and secret,” Amid said, glancing up at me without moving. I met his glance, looking at Tim. He gave me a slight nod; the man could be trusted.

“Sure. Yeah,” I replied. “When do you think you could have the results to me?”

“It will take a bit longer to do the tests off the official. Wouldn’t want anyone getting wind of this. Still, the computers should give me a result no later than 9AM tomorrow morning.” That fit my schedule. It would give me what I needed in time to have new, informed questions ready for the man claiming to be Eric Pohlman.

“Okay. Sounds good. Would you like my card so that you can contact me?”

“My friend, we both know that to be a bad idea, knowing what you are asking me to do. I will get the results and these documents to Timothy, who can return them to you. Ours is always a game worthy of some caution, no?” Such an assessment put my mind at ease about how Amid would handle the tests. “Although, to be honest, if the results turn out the way I think they will you may hear my shouts wherever you may be,” Amid said with a chuckle.

I thanked Amid for his help and we parted ways, Tim heading back to his office and I back to my apartment. That night I found myself unable to have any sort of restful sleep. My brief meeting with Eric kept rolling itself over and over again in my head. I tried every mind-clearing technique I knew to force my mind away from the issue at hand. None worked. If Amid came back with evidence that the certificate and photo were the proper age, did that prove that Greg Pace was really Eric Aaron Pohlman?

For that one last night uncertainty remained for me. I couldn’t be sure if Greg Pace was Eric Pohlman or not. I also couldn’t be sure what it would mean if he was. After all, for a hero of centuries ago in Earth’s history to still be alive, especially in a time when the Terran Government was doing all they could to suppress the very idea that he had existed in the first place, what better counter evidence could there possibly be?

Such thoughts kept racing through my head all night as I contemplated the impossible reality that stood before me. As light shone through my windows I began to ask myself what I would say to the man if his claims were substantiated. What could I ask such a man? “Tell me everything from the beginning”? Nearly 500 years could not be easily related like that! No, I would have to focus the conversation, guide it toward specific ends. Try to fill in the massive gaps that history had left. “This and more I sat diving | with my head at ease reclining | on the cushion’s velvet lining | with the lamplight gloating o’er,” goes Poe’s poem.

I had arranged with Tim Fowler to meet him for some early morning coffee on campus prior to heading back to his office to see the results. He, like I, had been kept awake all night by possibilities of the thing. Before meeting me he had stopped at his office to secure the envelope Amid had left there waiting for him. Not wanting to open it in public, we yet wanted it kept close until we did. We made our way back to Tim’s office where he broke the seal on the envelope. Inside were the certificate and old photo, now sealed in protective coveralls. A letter and fact sheet had also been slipped inside. The letter read:

I burned the midnight oil, so excited was I of this! Shortly before 6 this morning the computers finished their analysis. On the included fact sheet you can see for yourselfs the results. To have such important documents in my hands has brought me indescribable joy! These both are indeed from the time period we seek. The birth certificate, ink and all, matches the date thereon inscribed. The photo is from 32 years later. I do not understand its significance, but assume one of you will. Please to share such with me when you find it! The coveralls I have placed on these will not prevent carbon degradation and so will make future carbon dating yet possible. They will, however, protect both documents from the typical atmospheric contaminants all old documents face. Keep these safe my friends! They are a great find for the Cause!

Yours,

-A

So there it was. Neither Tim nor I could say anything for some minutes. We both kept rereading the letter to make sure that we had not misread it. The birth certificate was real. The photo was real. We had before us real evidence, hard evidence, primary evidence, that not only had Eric Aaron Pohlman existed, but that the rest of the senior TDF officers did and that they had all worked together at NAR Defense, a company that had actually existed.

Finally, with an eye on the clock I said to Tim, “I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting him again soon.” He looked up at me.

“I don’t ask you to take me with you. But I would like to hear about it afterward.”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“What’re you going to ask him?” Tim queried.

“Actually, Tim, I don’t know yet. There’s so much,” I said.

“I know. Just do me one favor today? Be sure to tell him how important he is to us? I mean, you don’t get to talk to a legend just every day.”

“Will do, Tim. See ya later.” I left his office and headed once more to Eric’s house. Did doubts still linger in my mind? Of course. While the birth certificate and photo were the right age, no one alive could truly verify their authenticity. But I wanted to believe that he really was Eric Pohlman. That somehow he really had survived all these centuries and really could answer my questions. Then, just as panic began to set in as I realized I had no prepared questions, no clear direction for this meeting with Eric, I found myself in front of his house once more. With the coverall documents in my messenger bag and a fully charged and prepared notetab, I mounted the steps to Eric’s front door and rang the doorbell. I heard someone stirring within and soon enough I heard the mechanical sounds of latches and tumblers as the locks of the door were being released. The door opened.

Next Chapter: Thermopylae