"There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line." -- E.M. Forster
Wednesday, July 20, 1988
12:37 P.M.
Hill Valley, California
Sitting in a classroom at Hill Valley University, twenty-year-old Marty McFly stared out the window wearing a faint frown, watching the early afternoon sunlight flicker on the sidewalk below as a breeze stirred the trees. He could see students frolicking on the main campus lawn, sunbathing and chasing frisbees. A young coed skateboarded by, a leashed dog trotting at her side. Two squirrels rapidly pursued each other in a game of chase. A little boy ran after a balsa wood airplane he had just sent into orbit. All in all, it was a perfectly idyllic scene for a summer day. Yet Marty sat in a classroom, separated from it all by a thick pane of glass, and trying to follow the agonizingly boring lecture of the instructor at the front of the room.
"The Twentieth Century was one of the most important in recent memory, with critical new developments made in every single decade," Professor Fitzgerald said as he paced slowly around the front of the room. "No doubt this will continue into the 1990's as well. When the calenders turned to the year 1900, the average person lived to be in just their forties or fifties, diseases such as turburculosis and pneumonia were top killers, electric lights were still a novelty, and some of the common jobs included farming...."
Marty sighed and tapped his pen against the side of his notebook, wishing fervently for the man to conclude the lecture so he could escape the uncomfortably stuffy classroom. Summer term bites, he thought unhappily. He should've been enjoying one of the few summer vacations he had left in his life, maybe making some extra money with a summer job; instead, due to a couple critically necessary music classes only offered in the summer and a credit requirement that was a little bit higher than the other majors at the school, he was stuck taking a few courses during the break. It wasn't quite a full load, at ten credits, but it was definitely putting a crimp in his so-called vacation.
"...Now, in the 1980's, we've got such devices as remote controls, personal stereos, and nuclear bombs," the professor continued. "People work as stockbrokers and computer technicians. In the last eighty-eight years, our quality of life has done nothing but improve. But if we want to know how we got here, we have to know where we've been...."
And I'll bet I know more about where we've been than anyone here, Marty thought, smirking a little. He didn't really know why he had signed up for History 304: Twentieth Century America, beyond the fact that it took care of one of his history requirements and sounded sort of easy compared with the ones on Ancient Rome or the Babylonian era. He hadn't taken into account that the class would have a professor who could narrate a professional football game to a bunch of die hard fans and put them to sleep; Thomas Fitzgerald wasn't a bad teacher, per se, he was just very poor at lecturing, relying too heavily on notes and having an unfortunately flat and monotonous voice. Marty wished he would've taken the class with his girlfriend when Jennifer had done it the previous spring, since she had gotten a professor that she'd really enjoyed learning the material from.
The instructor paused, his silence startling some of the dozing students awake in the hope that the day's class was about to be concluded. Marty threw a hopeful glance at the room's clock. More than ten minutes left. Maybe they'd get an early dismissal....
"We're now midway through our term," Professor Fitzgerald announced. "Which means that your essays are going to be due a week from today. Remember that I need to approve your subject matter beforehand for you to get a passing grade. I've got just about everyone's, but I need to have the following students see me at the end of class to discuss topics -- Julia Davidson, Adam Hunter, Marty McFly, Ivan Polowski, and Michael Stuart. Class dismissed."
"What the hell....?" Marty muttered, thoroughly startled by this announcement. He'd known about the essay, of course, but not that the topics had to be approved by the instructor. He had a rather sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that such an announcement had been made the week or two before, when he had skipped a class to go to the lake with Jennifer for a day. Damn, he thought, annoyed that he had missed something clearly so important. He hadn't started the essay at all, and figured the professor would give 'em the topic when the time was right.
Those not summoned by the instructor beat a hasty retreat out of the classroom door, anxious to be out in the fresh air and sunshine. Marty sighed heavily as he stuffed his notebook in his backpack and headed for the front of the room. The other four students had beaten him there and thus he had to wait about five minutes before he was allowed his turn.
"Well, Mr. McFly," Fitzgerald finally said, giving him the faintest of smiles. "What topic are you ready to propose?"
"Um, I'm not really sure yet," Marty said honestly. "What did we have to do in the paper, again?"
The faint smile on the professor's face faded. "The assignment is to write an eight to ten page essay about a decade or event in Twentieth Century America."
"Oh." Marty thought for a moment. "How about the creation of rock n' roll?"
"That topic's already been chosen," Fitzgerald said. "No two people can do the same subject matter."
Marty sighed, both disappointed and irritated. "Woodstock?"
"No."
"The Beatles' craze?"
"This isn't music history, Mr. McFly," the professor said, frowning now. "I don't see that subject matter as relevant to this course."
Marty felt his irritation increase. "Fine," he said. "Then you give me something!"
"All right." The professor scanned a sheet of paper before him, then looked up. "Your paper will be on the prohibition movement in the 1920's and how that affected American society."
Marty resisted the urge to make a face. "Great," he said, not without a touch of sarcasm. His inflection on the word went right past the professor's ears, who jotted down a couple words in pencil next to his name.
"I look forward to reading your paper, Mr. McFly. That period of history has always been a favorite of mine, perhaps because I grew up in Chicago where the movement created all manner of organized crime. It's rather interesting how a ban on alcohol had such an effect as that."
Marty managed a rather tight smile as he nodded and left the classroom. Great, he thought as he took the stairs. The Prof would have to give me his favorite time period. He's probably gonna grade mine twice as hard as the others because of that! And it's gonna be a bitch to BS my way through....
He left Allen Hall and headed across campus, now rather oblivious to the summer setting and more preoccupied with the paper problem. The building was at the far end of campus, so it took him ten minutes to hike to the common area and the Olson Memorial Student Union, where Jennifer Parker was waiting for him for lunch. She wasn't attending summer classes, but had wanted to meet him there when he had finished his for the day.
"Marty, I think I narrowed my major down to a few options," she said after giving him a kiss in greeting as he sat down at the table where she had been waiting. "What do you think -- a nurse, a child psychologist, or a school teacher?"
Marty stared at his girlfriend's eager face and tried not to smile. Jennifer, like many college students, was still undeclared in her major, though now that she was going to be a junior in the fall and had fulfilled all her general requirements, she was trying to make up her mind on what she wanted to do, fast. "I wish I was like you, Marty," she had confessed once. "I don't know what on earth I want to do with my life, and I wish I had more time to figure it out. I like a lot of different things, and I don't know why I have to limit myself to one area of expertise. It's such a pain."
"Those don't really seem like they have much in common, Jen," Marty said. "Anyway, since when do you want to subject yourself to science classes, like you'd have to with two of 'em?"
Jennifer rolled her eyes. "I can handle it, I'd just have to study more," she said. "And those majors have plenty of things in common. Child psychology actually combines both nursing and teaching, in a way. Or at least aspects of them."
"Sure," Marty agreed easily. "Do you want me to point out the cons in these jobs?" It was something she had asked him to do with some of her other recent suggestions of photojournalism and hospitality management.
"If you want."
"Okay. Take nursing -- you're gonna have to clean up people's messes, be around sick people all the time, and deal with death."
"Not necessarily, Marty. There are many different kinds of jobs in nursing."
"Fine. Child psychology. You'll need to go to school a few more years for a degree in that, I think, and then have to listen to all this disturbing stuff and be all analytical."
"I disagree with the last half of that. It's interesting to me how people think and why they do the things they do, not disturbing."
"Okay, then. Finally, you got teaching." He paused. "What level did you want to teach?"
"Elementary school," Jennifer said immediately. "I like children, and they seem to like learning more. The kids in the middle and high schools are too obnoxious."
"No kidding. Okay, elementary school. You get to deal with irate parents and kids in home situations that could be real bad. You're exposed to all their germs and sicknesses and have to have a lot of patience to drill on the same things over and over."
"And you get to feel really rewarded when they understand a concept," Jennifer said. "You also have summers free, so if we have kids someday, I'd have the same days off and vacations as they would."
Marty leaned back with a half sigh as he eyed his girlfriend from across the table. "You still don't know what you want to do, do you?"
Jennifer half shrugged, glancing down at the Hill Valley University catalog spread out before her. "I don't know," she said, the words uttered with a half sigh and half moan. "I just feel all this pressure to decide...."
"I've got an idea," Marty said. "If you really are thinking about teaching, why don't you talk to Clara? She's taught school before, though it's been a while, and maybe she can tell you more about it."
Jennifer blinked. "I'd forgotten about that," she admitted. "That's a good idea."
"We could go over there now, if you want," Marty said. "Doc asked me if I could to stop by after classes today, anyway. I think he's made something new and wants to show it off."
Jennifer couldn't think of a reason not to go, so after a quick lunch they left campus and headed over to the Brown household in Marty's truck. Uncertain if Doc was out in his lab or in his house, Marty and Jennifer stopped at the latter first, knocking softly on the door on the chance that the youngest and newest member of the Brown family was napping. It was a couple minutes before Clara Brown pulled open the door, her hair pulled up and tucked under a scarf. From her appearance, and the casual clothes she was dressed in, it appeared she was in the middle of cleaning.
"I'm sorry, did we interrupt you?" Jennifer asked, immediately apologetic.
Clara smiled at them. "I was just doing some light housekeeping," she said. "It's no bother. Are you looking for Emmett?" At Marty's nod, she tilted her head towards the back of the house. "He's out with the children in the back."
"All the kids?" Marty asked in surprise. Emily, the baby, was little more than seven months old now.
Clara nodded. "All of them," she confirmed. "Even Einstein's out there with them. I suppose some of that is my doing, since this house is sorely in need of a good scrubbing without anyone interfering."
Jennifer cleared her throat nervously, reminding Marty of her presence. "Uh, actually, if you'd like a break, Jen was hoping to talk to you," he said.
Clara looked between the couple curiously. "Oh? What about?"
When Jennifer didn't immediately answer, Marty did so for her. "Jen's trying to figure out what to major in in college, still, and was considering teaching. So since you actually did do that, I thought you might have some words of wisdom to pass along."
"Why certainly," Clara said. "I can spare some time for that." She smiled at the young woman. "Why don't I fix us something to drink and you can ask away anything you want."
Jennifer smiled. "That'd be great," she said. "As long as you're sure you don't mind the interruption."
"Not at all," Clara insisted as Jennifer stepped into the house. Marty remained on the porch.
"If you need me, I'll be in the back with Doc," he said to his girlfriend.
"Have fun," she said as Clara closed the door.
Marty walked around to the backyard via the porch that wrapped around the ground floor of the old farmhouse. As he rounded the corner of the building, so the backyard and former barn-turned-lab came into view, he could hear the voices drift over, a prelude to the sight of those speaking.
"Come on, Emily, say it. Say Verne. Come on, it ain't hard...."
"Verne, she's seven months old. No way are you going to get her to talk now, not for a few more months, and especially not with your name. Most first words are simple things, like 'mama' and 'dada' and 'baba.' "
"So? Emmy's not stupid and it's possible she could talk now."
"Oh, yeah, sure. Dad, tell Verne what a stretch that is!"
"It's not impossible," the scientist's voice said, just as Marty turned another corner and spotted the group on the lawn, in the shade cast by the barn. "But it's also not terribly likely. Most first words aren't uttered until babies are at least ten months old, and even then they're pretty simplistic sounds, like Jules said. Sorry, Verne."
Verne, who was sitting beside the baby on a blanket, made a sour face at Jules, a couple dozen feet away. The twelve-year-old boy didn't notice, wrapped up in making adjustments at the base of one of those mini-rocketships assembled from a kit. Emmett Brown appeared to be supervising from a few feet away, crouched down at the same level as his oldest son. None of them noticed Marty as the young man stepped off the porch and started to cross the lawn to meet them.
"It could still happen, though," Verne said in response to his father's words. "Maybe if people talk to her like a normal human being an' all that, instead of that stupid sissy baby talk...." He looked down at Emily, who seemed more interested in trying to get one of her bare feet in her mouth than in making any noise. "You can talk now if you want to," he said seriously to the baby.
"Even if she could, she might not," Doc said, looking up. "She's been a pretty quiet baby. Haven't you, Em?" he asked, smiling at his daughter. Emily noticed his expression and the sound of her name, letting out a squeal that sounded like a confirmation of her father's words.
"Looks like you've really got her wrapped around your finger, Doc," Marty commented, the sound of his voice causing the three male Browns to start a bit, turning to look in his direction. "Seems like she knew you were talking about her."
"She does," Verne said, reaching over to haul his sister into a sitting position. "She's real smart." There was a note of pride in his voice. "She turned off Dad's computer the other day in the lab."
"Which was no doubt an accident," Doc corrected immediately. "All you have to do to turn that machine on or off is hit a button on the keyboard, and since she really likes to hit all the keys...."
"Yeah, Verne," Jules added. "There's no way a baby has any idea what a computer is, let alone what all the keys on the keyboard do."
Verne shrugged as Emily leaned over and started to crawl. With a head full of surprisingly thick, dark, curly hair and big blue eyes, she looked more like a toy doll than a baby, a trait that would let her undoubtedly get away with murder when she wished. So far, that wasn't the case; Emily was pretty well behaved as babies went, rarely crying unless it was necessary and exhibiting little reservations about being separated from her parents when Marty or Jennifer had sat for her. But since she had started crawling, recently, she was getting into everything -- and Marty wasn't surprised at all. Curiosity seemed to be an inherited trait in this family.
"You're taking her into the lab, Doc?" Marty asked, surprised. "Isn't that a little dangerous?"
"Not if she's strapped in her carseat or playpen, and if someone's keeping an eye on her. Which Verne was supposedly doing when she turned off my computer." He favored his blond son with a slight frown.
Verne shrugged again. "Not my fault she -- hey!"
The exclamation came as Emily discovered one of Verne's tennis shoes and promptly untied the lace. "Em-i-ly!" Verne groaned, sounding irritated. The baby looked up and gave her older brother a charming, dimpled grin. Marty managed to hide his smile, but Doc chuckled aloud.
"I guess that should remind you she needs constant supervision now, if you're going to let her roam free," he said, standing up to come over and pluck his daughter from the grass. Emily squawked at her new game being interrupted, but offered no further vocal complaints once settled in her father's arms. Marty could tell from day one that this kid was definitely a Daddy's Girl.
Verne grumbled a bit, but couldn't really say much to deny the fact. Jules interrupted then, changing the subject.
"Dad, I think everything's set. Can we set it off now?"
"Just a minute." Doc looked at Marty, Emily squirming a little in his arms. "Can you hold her for a moment?"
"Sure, no problem." Emily whimpered a little as her father passed her to Marty, but didn't shed any tears. Marty jiggled her a little to sooth her as Doc walked over to the launch site and knelt down to inspect Jules' handiwork.
"Looks good. Are you sure you want to launch it now?"
Jules blinked, puzzled. "Why would we wait?"
His father pointed up at the clear sky. "It might be better to wait 'til the sun isn't almost directly overhead. That way you can view the launch better."
While Jules took a moment to silently weight the pros and cons of a delay, Marty used the opportunity to ask his friend about the situation most forefront on his mind. "Hey, Doc, what's it that you wanted me over for? It wasn't this rocket project here, was it?" He hoped that wasn't the case. Things like NASA had always bored him to death, never mind how enthused someone like Doc -- or even his own father -- was about it.
Thankfully, Doc shook his head no. "We'll get to that soon enough," he said. "And I'll tell you when we're there." The scientist's voice was carefully neutral, offering Marty not a clue as to why he was summoned. Naturally, this made him all the more curious, but he didn't pry anymore, for now. Part of that decision was made by Emily, who, boosted up so her head was slightly above shoulder level, suddenly grabbed a handful of Marty's short hair and tugged, hard. Perhaps she was miffed at being held when her almost constant squirming had made it clear she wanted to be let back down; perhaps she was simply bored. At any rate, Marty suddenly directed his full attention to her.
"Ow, Emily, watch it! That hurts!"
Emily grinned and gurgled, perhaps thinking that this was a new game. Marty put a stop to that in a hurry, holding her out an arm's length away and wincing as she plucked a few hairs from his head in her chubby fists. Doc saw his distress and hurriedly took his daughter from the young man's arms, just as Jules concluded his decision-making.
"I guess we could wait a couple hours," he said. "But are you sure we can leave it out here and it'll be safe? What if Einstein gets into it?" The dark-haired boy gestured to the sheepdog, sprawled in the shady grass near Verne. Einstein lifted his head at the sound of his name, tilting his head quizzically at Jules.
"Einstein won't touch it," Doc said immediately. "He never once destroyed one of my inventions or experiments in the entire time I've had him. Don't worry about that." He shifted his attention over to Marty. "Are you in a hurry now?"
"Not really. Actually, I brought Jennifer over, since her latest major idea is to go into teaching and I thought she might want to talk to Clara about it. Why, is this going to take a while?"
Doc thought a minute. "No, probably not. Jules, Verne, we're going into the lab. Do you want to come with us or wait out here?"
Not terribly surprisingly, the boys wanted to come along. A few minutes later, the five of them were gathered in the ground floor of the inventor's spacious and oh-so-secure lab. Shortly after Emily's birth in December, for reasons that Marty was still a little vague on, Doc had gone to even greater lengths to protect what lay within the walls of this once-barn. Part of it might've been due to the new study he had made in the loft area above, meaning that potentially dangerous things like the time machine blueprints or even normal blueprints of devices that Doc was working on were now stored out here. Among his modifications had been replacing the old hayloft door with a picture window, which allowed more light into the loft, anyway, and adding even more features to his alarm system, which now included hidden security cameras outside the doors. Marty had helped the inventor test them out a few months back, and found they were sophisticated to the point of being scary. Not only could one not enter the lab now without being cleared ahead of time by using their thumbprint, but now one's appearance and voice print would have to be matched with one on file in the new computer Doc had purchased from about ten years down the line, just for that purpose. If it didn't, the lab would lock itself up against any entry while summoning a very piercing alarm in the house and only Doc and Clara knew the correct codes to input in a hidden keypad to deactivate it. Marty felt a little wounded that his friend hadn't trusted him with the information, but supposed he had earned that. Before all the new security measures had been put in a couple years ago, and even since then, he had been guilty of taking several illicit trips in the DeLorean time machine.
The DeLorean, in fact, was the first thing Marty noticed when they entered the lab. Since installing what Doc had dubbed his Holographic Imaging System into both time machines, the young man had become accustomed to seeing the DeLorean, in particular, in a variety of states. Sometimes it was invisible, sometimes it resembled a junker car -- sometimes it even resembled shrubbery. But today, for some reason, Doc hadn't activated it and the time machine sat conspicuously at it's place near the double doors. That was faintly unusual, as the scientist had said more than once how it brought him peace of mind when the time machine was not visible in its true form, lest someone sneak onto the property and manage to see into the rarely uncovered windows.
"What did you do to the time machine this time, Doc?" Marty asked, half joking, as Doc set Emily down in a playpen, well stocked with toys, near the computer portion of the lab.
Doc's expression was all innocence. "What makes you think I did anything to the DeLorean?"
"Why'd you leave it visible, then?" Verne asked, seeing what Marty was getting at. Before his father could answer, the boy seemed to realize something on his own. "Oh, are you gonna show Marty what you showed us last night? That's boring. I'd rather go outside."
"Then be my guest," Doc said. "Just don't bother your mother in the house."
"No problem. I'm gonna go over to Mark's house. Just don't launch that rocket without me, 'kay?"
"It's Jules' project -- you'll have to talk to him about it," Doc said, deftly stopping Marty as he tried to get closer to the DeLorean in the hopes of seeing what new gizmo the inventor had added onto it.
Verne turned his eyes over to his brother, leaning casually against one of the worktables. "Jules, can you wait for me?"
"Only if you get back here by three," Jules said, his tone leaving no room for persuasion otherwise. Verne made a face, but promised he'd be there, then left in a hurry.
"What was it that Verne found so boring?" Marty asked, faintly amused. These were the only kids he knew who were so blasé about some of the things their father could do, time travel being a big one. He supposed if he had grown up with it he might've been the same way.
Doc sighed. "History, I suppose." He gestured for Marty to come closer, finally, and the young man happily obliged. Doc unlocked both doors of the time machine and took the driver's seat while Marty took the other. Jules came around for a look from outside the car, through the driver side door.
The first thing Marty noticed was that a large portion of the dash before him, namely where the glove compartment was, had been removed. In it's place was what appeared to be a darker, tougher plastic, smooth and flat on the top, almost like a counter. The gauges and dials that had been set into the dash above the glove box had been moved to the top of the time circuits, replacing the car stereo, which appeared to have been removed permanently, or else moved to a less intrusive and visible part of the car.
"What did you do?" Marty asked, not having the foggiest clue on what this meant.
Doc smiled. "All in good time," he said. He reached over and pushed one of the buttons set into the ceiling of the car and Marty was startled by the flat part of the dash slowly rising upward to become a small, flat screen, no wider than an inch and about four inches high and five inches wide. As it rose, it revealed a small keyboard, with a slender slot set between the base of the screen and the top of the keys. It looked to Marty like a CD slot.
"What's this?" he asked when the dashboard stopped its transformation.
"Insurance, in a way," Doc said, still cryptic. He leaned across Marty and pushed one of the keys on the board, causing the new device to come to life. "It'll take a couple minutes to boot up," he said as the screen displayed the words Loading Disc 20. "I suppose I can use that time to explain to you what this is."
"Great. So what is it?"
Jules was the one who answered. "Dad calls it a Temporal Influence Projection System," he said. "Or just TIPS."
Marty puzzled over those words for a moment while Doc jumped in. "I created this in the hopes of minimizing any experiences that one might have in returning to an alternate reality," he said. "It's actually something I've been working on the side for a while now, but I decided to focus all my attention on it around the new year, and finally got it up and running."
"So what does it do? Send out an alarm if you mess things up?"
"Not exactly." Doc paused a moment. "Let's use an example that both of us are familiar with. Do you remember a couple years ago when we visited San Francisco and you saved Jennifer's ancestor's life?"
"How could I forget?" Marty asked, shuddering a little at the memory of the result his good deed had brought. "To this day I try to duck out of class every time they bring up nuclear bombs and the dire results those could have."
"All right. Well, if we'd had this with us that day and input Jane Parker's name into the TIPS after you saved her life, the computer would then summon up every article and word of print written about her in the future. We would have immediately noticed the error of our ways and been able to correct it without coming back to the future and spending a few hours in that radioactive hell."
"How does it do that?" Marty asked. "Seems sorta impossible to get all that information in that thing."
Doc smiled. "That was a problem," he admitted. "What I had to do is split up every century onto it's own CD-ROM. They can hold a lot of information. I have discs that span from 3,000 B.C. to 3,000 A.D."
Marty did some silent calculations and let out a low whistle. "That's, like, sixty discs! Jeez! Don't tell me you're keeping them all in the car?"
"No, no. They're up in my study. Whenever we'll go on a trip, I'll just bring three of the discs -- one from the century we would visit, one for the century after it, and one from our present century, just to be safe. That way we can see how far reaching the effects of our influence would be."
"How do you know if what happens is different from before?"
"Because our memories don't appear to change," Doc said. "You've mentioned before how you never did remember the way things were in your family before your father became a successful writer. If something changes enough that it would create an alternate reality, then I would bet that it would be an incident that you or I or someone with us would know about."
"But what if it's something really obscure? Or what if we change things in the future, which hasn't happened yet?"
"If it's obscure, we should still be able to track down what went wrong with this machine, and it'll be a lot easier than visiting the library and digging through the archives. As for the future, that's always in a state of change, based on the actions and decisions we make in the present. Any visits to times yet to be are based on the future that's set from the moment we leave. And that changes all the time."
"I see."
While Marty tried to understand all this, Emily let out a rather unhappy whimper from her playpen. Jules went to see what was wrong without a word, but when her fussing didn't settle down and grew louder and more unhappy, Doc excused himself to see what was ailing his daughter. As Marty waited for him to return, he looked at the new computer in the dash, which had since finished booting up. There were a couple icons on the screen -- one marked Local Maps, one marked Disc 20: 1900 - 1999, and one marked Power Search. Marty looked at them for a moment, wondering how one would select where they wanted to go. He tapped a few keys on the keyboard -- nothing. There was no joystick or any other visible manner of manipulation or control. Frowning, Marty tapped the screen once, with his fingernail, and suddenly the Power Search icon, which had been nearest to where his finger hit, was illuminated and opened.
"Whoa," Marty said softly, startled. "It's touch activated! Nice!"
The program filled the screen with a prompt to input words to search by. Marty hesitated a minute, then typed his own name, curious, and touched the "Search" square. Instantly a message popped up, requesting a password.
"I see it took you only a couple of minutes to catch on," Doc said, startling him half out of his wits. Marty drew his hand back from the new device, an explanation at the back of his throat, but Doc smiled faintly. "You didn't think I'd be foolish enough to let you search for information about yourself, did you?"
Marty didn't quite get it. "You have to punch in a password every time you want to search something?" he asked. "What a pain!"
But the scientist shook his head. "No -- I blocked it against your name, Jennifer's, and my own family's. No one should know too much about their own future. I know the proper password, of course, just in case there is a problem and we need to pull information about any of us. But this should keep you, the kids, and Clara from discovering something you shouldn't if you should give into curiosity." Doc checked his watch. "Which, in your case, took less than five minuets."
Marty felt slightly embarrassed that he had proved Doc's prediction so accurately. "Well, what can I say...." he muttered. "What was Emily upset about?" he asked, changing the subject when he realized he wasn't hearing the baby anymore.
"I think she was hungry. Jules took her into the house, though I don't think Clara will be too happy with the disturbance."
"Jennifer's already there, so she can't get much more interrupted...." Marty looked at the new addition to the time machine. "So what this thing does, basically, is save us a trip to worlds gone to hell?"
"That's simplifying it a tad. Here, let me sit where you are and I'll demonstrate what, exactly, it does."
Marty moved out of the passenger seat and let Doc in. The scientist cleared the screen of the password request and deleted Marty's name in the search box. "Let's use that same example of our trip to San Francisco," he suggested. "Say, after you saved Jane's life we had this device with us, and you told me what you had done. All I would have to do is type in her name--" Doc did just that "--hit the execute button, and volia." A list of articles scrolled onto the screen, totaling almost a thousand. Marty's jaw dropped.
"Jesus Christ, what was she, royalty before she died?"
Doc shook his head, smiling a little. "Hardly. This isn't terribly surprising, actually, when one takes into account the fact that the name Jane Parker isn't exactly uncommon. But we can modify our search by providing additional information....."
Marty watched as he added the words San Francisco to the search box. This time, only about 100 articles appeared. But it was still enough to boggle Marty's mind.
"Jeez, Doc, that's still a ton. How're you gonna narrow it down further?"
"By actually opening them," Doc said. "There's only so much this device can do; the rest is up to us. The finds are displayed in a chronological order and that makes things a tad easier." Doc touched an article from 1903, opening it up. It was only a paragraph mention about a birthday celebration for a Miss Jane Parker in what seemed to be the society or gossip pages, but it was enough to fully demonstrate to Marty what this new machine could do and how it would save them ungodly amounts of time and energy when it came to searching for the reasons that their present went astray.
"That's pretty cool," he said, meaning every word. "Does this thing let you know when you screwed things up?"
"Not unless you check it. I toyed with the idea of installing an alarm or warning system into it to let us know the moment something went astray, but that would've been too complicated in calibrating the sensitivity settings. Things change each time we travel in time, but most of the time the changes are too insignificant to really alter the world in a noticeable way."
"And thank God for that," Marty said. "So are you just gonna check this thing before we leave to go home, now?"
"Essentially," Doc said. "Just as a safety precaution, and if it's possible."
"Have you tested it out yet?"
"No, not exactly. I've taken the DeLorean out for a couple trips in the last few months, but none since this has been installed. I'm quite confident of the success of it, however." Doc smiled at him. "Why, are you proposing a trip?"
"No, but that reminds me -- what do you remember about Prohibition and the 1920's? My history professor is making me write a paper about that for our midterm, and since you were actually alive in that time, I thought I'd ask."
Doc rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes shifting away from the present for a moment. "To be perfectly honest, not that much," he admitted. "Hill Valley wasn't exactly the center of drinking, and I wasn't terribly aware of the situation being strange until after it was repealed. Neither of my parents drank, so we weren't really affected by it."
"What about the rest of the country?" Marty asked.
"Oh, yes, they were, quite so. I'm sure you've heard about how much organized crime blossomed from that."
"Uh huh. All that Al Capone stuff." Marty frowned. "So you're saying you can't help me?"
Doc gave him a smile that bordered on mischievous. "I can help you," he said. "If you really want my help."
Marty slid his eyes sideways to look at his friend. "What do you have in mind?" he asked, though a part of him already knew.
"We could kill a couple birds with one stone: take the DeLorean back for a few hours to that time period so I can check out this new device and allow you to do some observing of the current atmosphere."
Marty felt both excited and uneasy at the prospect. It had been a while since he last went for a trip in the DeLorean, but that last time had been another simple errand proposed by Doc that had gone awry. "Really? I thought you didn't like using it for that sort of thing."
"What sort of thing?" Doc wanted to know.
"Well, you know...." Marty paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "Every other time I've asked you to do something like this for school, you've said no."
"And I probably would this time, too," Doc agreed. "But I wanted to test out the new device, anyway, and that time is as good a any." The scientist eyed him a moment, wearing a peculiar expression of puzzlement and concern as he focused on Marty's face. "Unless you don't want to go."
"I don't know," Marty said honestly. "I mean, yeah, that sounds great, but how long do you want to be there?"
"A few hours, tops. No point in taking unnecessary risks."
Marty weighed that a moment, remembering all the other times Doc had planned for "few hour" errands, only to have them delayed to the point of missing that deadline by days. But he also realized he had sort of missed that. It had been more than a year, now, since he had last done anything like that -- a real long time, he realized with a touch of surprise. He supposed that Emily's arrival might've had something to do with it, keeping her father busy with other things. And his own life was likely a factor, getting more hectic as college wore on.
"Sure," he said. "Why not? Should be interesting, and maybe it'll shut that professor up. I'm almost positive he gave me the assignment in the hopes of flunking me on it."
Doc's face was amused. "Still not getting along with your instructors? I'd've thought college wouldn't be so bad for you, since they change so frequently."
Marty shrugged. "Some aren't so bad, but they're usually my music ones. The people who're teaching the gen-ed classes are a real pain. I think they're bitter about their career choice, or something."
"It's not easy teaching students who are there only because they have to be," Doc said, getting out of the DeLorean.
"Oh, that's right -- you used to teach there. I always forget about that, since it was before I knew you." Marty tilted his head to one side and looked at Doc quizzically for a moment. "I think you would've been a good one, though. I mean, you made a lot of stuff interesting to me that I didn't care about knowing or learning."
"I enjoyed teaching," Doc said, shutting down the TIPS system. "If it wasn't for the narrowmindedness of certain members of that faculty, I might still be doing it... or I would have for longer than I did." He changed the subject sharply as Marty got out of the DeLorean. "Is there a time that would be better for you to come with me?"
"I don't think that'll matter much if we come back when we left... which I'm assuming is your plan."
Doc nodded. "It's easier on Clara that way. She worries each time I take off on one of these excursions, though I suppose I may be partially at fault for her reaction, what with all the stories I've told her over the years."
Marty looked at him in surprise. "You've told her about all the close calls? Are you crazy or something?"
"No. We don't keep secrets from one another. Anyway, women seem to know things. Clara's guessed a great many times before I open my mouth."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. Jennifer seems to read my mind more often than not, even when I really wish she wouldn't."
Doc shifted the subject back to the question he had asked a minute earlier. "How about you coming here after dinner, tonight, and we can make the trip then?"
"Sounds good." Marty smiled, suddenly more excited than nervous. "I'm looking forward to it."
* * *
Later that night, however, the young man wasn't feeling so certain about the trip. Part of it likely had to do with what greeted him when he stepped into Doc's lab, shortly after seven that evening.
"Period suits?" Marty made a face at the sight of Doc's clothing. "God, I hate period suits. Do we really have to wear those?"
"If we want to blend into the surroundings we do," Doc said. "And it's best not to take chances in this time and place, seeing as it was a tad more violent and lawless than you might be used to."
"Yeah, right. But, jeez, these things are uncomfortable and hot!"
"I won't argue with you on that. I suppose no harm would come if we made sure to set our destination in the fall or winter...."
Marty looked at the scientist skeptically as he was handed the clothing. "Sure, but even in Hill Valley it might be a little too warm, depending on when you're thinking of."
"Maybe so. But we're not going to Hill Valley." Doc headed over to his desk in the lab.
"We're not?" Marty frowned, figuring that that had been the plan all along. "How come?"
"My family -- and, specifically, myself -- was around back then. Although I doubt very much that my younger self would recognize me and know me for who I was now, there's no use in taking any chances."
Marty, actually, was quite willing to take the chance, curious to see a version of Doc in his first decade of life, but knew that the scientist wouldn't budge on the point. "Then where're we going?"
"I thought Chicago would be suitable," Doc said. "It was one of the more notorious and well-known places to see during this time, and somewhere we haven't seen yet, for a change."
"Chicago," Marty mused aloud. "Sounds cool."
"I'll fill you in on the additional details after you change," Doc said, sorting what looked to be American currency from the 1920's on the tabletop. "You can do that in the study, now."
"Sure." Marty headed for the newly installed stairs that were built against the back wall of the lab. Doc's new study was up a flight of fifteen steps, in what had once been the hayloft of the old barn. When he had remodeled the loft gradually over the past year, Doc had walled off almost the entire open area, leaving only a space of about five feet left with a railing to peer down into the main lab. Most of the new walls were installed with built-in bookcases, where the scientist's vast collection of books, journals, notes, diaries, and various paraphernalia were stored. The floor was polished hardwood, with a couple burgundy colored rugs. A couple floor lamps illuminated the area quite nicely. The space was large enough for a desk, stuffed chair, and loveseat, with room enough to spare for a couple tables that were currently obscured by boxes and papers. A safe sat under the room's single window, the former hayloft door, and behind the desk. A locked file cabinet was settled next to it. Around the window were hung a number of photographs and a couple mementos from other time periods that were perhaps too risqué to be displayed in the house.
Marty took a moment to pull the curtains across the window, then changed into the clothes that Doc had give him. The attire -- a navy jacket, white shirt, navy pants, black suspenders, black and navy striped tie, socks, girlie-looking patent leather shoes, and a straw hat dyed in navy -- wasn't terribly different from the business suits of his time. The pants were baggier, the neckties a little wider, and the shoes seemed to be made of a stiffer, more unyielding leather. Overall, there was more material used in the clothes -- or else Doc hadn't quite been able to find his size -- that Marty found to be slightly uncomfortable. When he looked at the completed ensemble in the mirror nearby, he noticed that the loose, baggy clothing made him look smaller than he liked, like a kid playing dress up in old clothes from Grandpa's trunk. It didn't improve his mood about the attire, and he said as much to Doc when he returned to the main floor of the lab.
"Couldn't you find something more in my size?" Marty asked, rolling back the cuffs of the jacket a little. "Or are these supposed to be this big?"
"No, it was a sizing problem," Doc admitted. "I didn't have time to use anything except what we already had on file, so to speak."
Marty frowned. "Do we really have to dress in this stuff for so short a trip?"
"I'm not budging on that. You've had your own share of unpleasant experiences that've resulted from being in the wrong clothes. And don't try to deny it."
Marty had no intention of trying. "I guess if it's just for a couple hours.... When are we going, anyway?"
Doc walked towards the DeLorean, which had both its doors uncharacteristically opened. "You wanted a cooler time of year, right?" Without waiting for any sort of response from the young man, the scientist plunged right ahead. "I suppose... November 20, 1928 would suffice. That would be a Tuesday, I think. So, Tuesday, November 20, 1928, say about nine P.M., in Chicago, Illinois." As Doc spoke, he slipped into the time machine and input the date and time while he announced them.
"And what exactly are we gonna do there?" Marty asked.
Doc popped back out of the time machine. "Put the car somewhere safe, then we can take a walk, maybe have a dessert in a local restaurant, and you can speak to a few of the locals if you want, collect any newspapers or periodicals you might need. Then we go back to the car, I run a quick check on the TIPS , and we return home."
Something nagged at Marty, some little detail about the new addition in the DeLorean. "How are you going to be able to tell if it works? Especially if this trip really is uneventful and goes according to how you think it will."
"I won't," Doc said honestly, picking up the keys from the desktop nearby and scanning around for other last minute items. "But the last thing I'm going to do is to try and muck up history just to see if the TIPS work. This test run is mostly to make sure nothing goes wrong with the equipment itself."
A rather disquieting thought occurred to Marty then. "There's no chance that it's gonna screw up the DeLorean or the time circuits, is there? We're not gonna be stuck if this thing goes haywire, are we?"
"Very, very slim chance," Doc said. He picked up a couple CD cases, which presumably held the discs for the 1900's, and the 2000's. "It's not wired into the time circuits at all. The closest thing I can think of with this system is like when we brought those newspapers with us through time and saw the headlines and stories change depending on our actions. Same thing. We merely have a library's worth of information on a compact disc that we can easily look at in the car, now."
Marty accepted the answer and let out a deep breath. "That's good to know. I really don't want to be stuck there; I'd rather just flunk that lousy paper, even though I might have to take that class over again...." He winced at the very idea.
"You'll be fine. We'll be fine. Are you ready to go now?"
"Sure, might as well. Before I change my mind."
Doc stopped mid-step to regard him with an expression like concern. "Are you all right, Marty? Really. We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
Marty stared back at him, surprised a little by the question. "I don't know, Doc," he said, honestly. "I just feel a little weird about this. Maybe because it's been a while since we took a trip, maybe because most of the ones we've taken haven't ever really gone according to plan."
"Maybe most of the one's you've taken," Doc said, smiling a little. "I've actually taken quite a few trips, not always alone, either, and they've gone off without a hitch. History doesn't always repeat itself, Marty. That's an absurd idea."
Maybe Doc thought so, but Marty had seen enough coincidences in his two and a half years of time traveling to make him believe otherwise. "Sure," he said, without much enthusiasm or agreement. Doc heard the tone in his voice; he didn't let the subject drop.
"Marty, if I thought there was any risk in this trip, I wouldn't take it. You know that."
"I guess so," Marty said, believing that. "Maybe I'm just getting cold feet or something. Let's just go and do it." He squared his shoulders, then marched to the passenger door, determined to stop worrying now. Doc hesitated a minute more, as if he was going to pursue the topic, then seemed to change his mind and got into the DeLorean himself.
"We'll come back five minutes after departure," he said as he input the correct codes to allow the car to be started. "This trip shouldn't take more than two hours."
"I hope you're right," Marty said as Doc opened the doors via remote control to allow them a way out of the barn, "'cause I'm not really in the mood to be running all over Chicago in fear for my life."
Tuesday, November 20, 1928
9:00 P.M.
Chicago, Illinois
To an observer looking at just the right spot at just the right time, the DeLorean's arrival might've looked like nothing more than a couple odd flashes of lightning. Emmett Brown preferred to travel through time as discretely as possible, and now used the invisible setting on the Holographic Imaging System as much as possible. The flashes of light and the sonic booms could only be concealed so much, but as they bore quite a nice resemblance to a natural phenomena, such as thunder and lighting, it didn't concern him too much. The more unexplainable sight of a flying car appearing out of nowhere did, and that was a worry that was thankfully banished, now.
"Excellent," Doc said softly as he took in the new surroundings. "Weather seems calm, no storms. Looks like it's quiet out tonight, and there's enough darkness for us to land the time machine without anyone noticing."
Marty leaned close to the window and tilted his head enough so he could see the landscape under the car. "Wow," he said softly. "I didn't know Chicago was so big now. It looks pretty modern, too -- are those electric lights in the windows?"
"Definitely." Doc slowed the car down almost to a stop as he tried to find a suitable place to land. He didn't want to come down in the middle of the urban center, even if the car was invisible. So far, he hadn't figured out a way to mask the noises of the engine, which would undoubtedly be noticed. He also wasn't too keen on the idea of him and Marty interacting with a great many people. A handful on the street or in a diner, fine, but being witnessed while leaving the car and the illusion of invisibility -- which would look to outsiders as if they popped out of thin air -- was definitely a no-no.
"What are you doing?" Marty asked when he realized they weren't moving.
"I'm trying to find a place to land... I think over there might be good." Doc pointed to a starkly lit, more run down portion of the city. "Looks like a lot of those buildings are abandoned -- perfect for our needs."
"We're just gonna leave it in an abandoned building?" Marty sounded surprised.
"It's safer than letting it stay on a street, where it could be hit by another vehicle or run into by a pedestrian. Just because it's invisible doesn't mean that it's unbreakable."
"I guess," Marty said, sounding dubious. "As long as you're not worried, I won't be."
Doc took the car down quickly, slowing down when he was just over the roofs of the buildings to better select their destination. He chose what looked like a warehouse as the car's temporary garage and carefully maneuvered the DeLorean before a pair of large doors. Marty ran outside to pry the doors open, look inside, and return with the report that the place inside definitely looked to be deserted, and there was plenty of space for the vehicle. The scientist pulled the car inside, the illumination from the headlights showing the accuracy of Marty's analysis. Doc shut down the time circuits and then the engine, double checking that the HIS was on and running. It was.
"Where are we gonna go, now?" Marty asked as the scientist finally emerged from the interior of the car, locking it to be doubly sure of its security. Doc scanned the space where the car was parked for a moment, detecting not one flaw in the invisibility projection. He pocketed the keys and turned his back to the time machine, as comfortable as he could be with it lying in a strange time unsupervised.
"I saw a diner several blocks down," Doc said. "Might as well have some desert."
They saw few people on the walk to the diner, and most of those they saw didn't look up as they passed, keeping their heads down. "Man," Marty said softly, his breath frosting before his face. "It's freezing out here tonight!"
"Well, you did want a colder time of year. We're lucky it's not snowing right now, actually."
"Think it will later?"
"Not before we leave."
Marty was silent for a few minutes before asking a new question. "What's up with the people around here?" he asked in a low voice.
"What do you mean?" Doc asked, glancing at some of the passersby.
"We're in a real crummy part of town, right? So why are so many of the people out here wearing nice clothes?"
Doc squinted as inconspicuously as he could at a woman across the street, walking with an older gentleman. She was bundled in a heavy coat and hat, but he could easily see that the coat was made from fir, not wool, and the shoes she wore were fancier than the every day kind. "There are probably good reasons for that," he said quietly. "Speakeasies were quite popular during this time, and often one would find them in abandoned buildings."
Marty turned to look at the couple that Doc had glanced at. "Really?" he asked. "Hey, we should follow them and check it out! That would be great research for the paper!"
"I don't think so."
"Why not? I'll be more exciting than sitting in a diner and eating pie."
"It's too dangerous. A lot of those places were run by mobs now. Not to mention the so-called drinks they served were often toxic mixtures used to punch up diluted alcohol supplies."
"I wasn't going to drink anything -- just look around."
"That would actually be worse, in some ways. People went to those places to drink, not to hang out. They might think we're undercover cops if we showed up and just watched people. Forget it, Marty."
Marty grumbled a little, but didn't say anything else about it. They reached the diner several minutes later. It wasn't very populated at this hour of the day, perhaps because it was a weeknight. A sign posted near the door requested patrons to seat themselves, and Doc found a dimly lit booth at the back, next to a window, that he felt comfortable in. Marty looked a little disappointed as they settled in the seats.
"There's not many people here tonight," he said.
"That's a good thing," Doc said as he looked at the menu selections. "The less we interact with people here, the better."
"Then how am I supposed to get anything for this paper? So far, everything I've seen here is something that I could see if I went into the industrial area of Hill Valley!"
Doc felt a faint irritation at the tone in Marty's voice but did his best to ignore it. "Your assignment was to write about the prohibition years, correct?"
"Yeah, and how it affected American society. So?"
"I think if you look around you can get a feel for that."
Marty sighed in response and picked up his own menu, skimming the selections. When the waitress arrived a few minutes later for their order, Doc selected a cup of coffee and a slice of the pumpkin pie; Marty requested water and some apple pie. After she departed to fetch their orders, Doc decided to try and distract Marty from openly staring at some of the other customers before any of them noticed.
"Aside from this class you have, how are things going with your schoolwork?" he asked.
Marty blinked, shifting his eyes away from an attractive young woman sitting with a child across the room. "Okay, I guess," he said. "I hate taking classes in the summer, though."
"I didn't particularly enjoy attending school in summers, either," Doc admitted. "The weather made it a little harder to concentrate."
"No kidding! And this is one of the last summer vacations I'll have." Marty sighed, turning his eyes to the dark world beyond the window glass. "I'll never get the chance to have this much free time after graduating."
"No, you probably won't," Doc said honestly. "You'll have more adult responsibilities. Have you given any thought to what you'll do after you graduate yet?"
"Something with music," Marty said immediately. "That's about it."
"No graduate school?" Doc asked, though he already knew the answer.
Marty half laughed. "No way! Sixteen years of education is enough for me!"
Doc smiled faintly as the waitress brought their orders. "Has Jennifer figured out what she's going to do yet?" he asked.
"No." Marty smiled, as if amused. "I swear she wants to try something new every day now. So far she's thought of photojournalism, hospitality, psychology, nursing, and now teaching. Do you know how she'll end up?"
"If I did, I wouldn't tell," Doc said, who indeed knew. Last he had checked, discretely, in the future, Jennifer had settled on an journalism degree in electronic media, which was so far an option she hadn't brought up with Marty, unless he had forgotten to mention it. From the little he knew about it, he didn't think the possibility had even yet occurred to Jennifer, so he didn't particularly want to mention it now to Marty.
"Why not? I think it'd be rather cool to know before she did." He smiled mischievously as he scooped up a forkful of pie.
"You'll find out in the course of time," Doc said. "No need to rush things."
"Well, can you at least tell me if she decided to go with one of the things she suggested already?"
Doc sampled a bite of his own pie and chewed it thoughtfully. "No," he said after swallowing it. "As far as I know -- and I may be wrong about this -- I don't believe she has suggested to you what she will eventually become. That's all I'll say on the matter, now, so I suggest we change the subject."
Marty accepted that, though his next question wasn't too far off the subject of Jennifer and her future plans. "Am I going to be okay, Doc?" he asked softly. "Graduate on time and find a semi-interesting job of some kind that I'll like?"
"Are you worrying about that now?" Doc asked, surprised. While it was true that he hadn't seen Marty too much over the last several months, what with remodeling the loft in the barn, modifying the security system, working out the kinks in the TIPS, and attending to his new daughter, the idea that the young man was fretting over such a thing came as a faint shock to him. Marty had seen the future, after all. Yet, Doc realized then, that didn't mean much. Although he knew how things would turn out, eventually, it didn't mean they still would turn out that way, and it certainly didn't mean that Marty knew anything about what Doc had seen. Seeing any future involving yourself could be dangerous, since it changed all the time. It was one reason why he couldn't quite bring himself to check up on his own family. Good news was just as potentially harmful if known ahead of time as bad news. He remembered all too well those thirty years of terrible anticipation and second guessing after Marty had shown up that first time in 1955. Knowing he would succeed with the flux capacitor was both thrilling and terrifying and Doc had no intention of repeating such an experience on himself, let alone subjecting his friends or family members to it.
"A little," Marty said in response to the scientist's question. "I've heard horror stories about the job market with music degrees. I don't want to teach -- I don't think I have the patience -- and that's what a lot of people seem to get stuck doing. And I'd like to stick around in Hill Valley, not move to L.A. and deal with being in a city with a billion other aspiring actors or musicians."
"I can understand that," Doc said, inwardly shuddering at the idea of living in Los Angeles. "So you don't know what you want to do after college?"
"If it was a perfect world, I'd be able to cut an album and tour," Marty said. "But that's a long shot. I guess I'll have to play it by ear -- no pun intended." He took a drink of his water. "How are things going at your end? Like having a baby again?"
"Emily is a joy," Doc said, smiling as he thought of his daughter.
"No regrets?" Marty asked, taking another bite of his pie.
Doc winced a little at the memory of his initial reaction to the news that Clara had been expecting a third child, a little over a year ago. Marty had seen the worst of it, and although he had come around after a day or so -- and a very long, exhausting journey -- the inventor couldn't help feeling a faint sting of embarrassment for reacting in that way. Especially when he thought of Emily, now.
"No," he said, pausing to take a sip of his coffee. "Absolutely none."
"Good," Marty said. "I think it's kinda cool that you're doing this another time now. I missed Jules and Verne being babies and little kids and all that, and I'm real curious to see this one grow up, and how she'll turn out from living in the eighties and all."
"Marty, Emily is not some kind of experiment," Doc said, slightly aghast.
Marty grinned at him. "'Course not. But I still think it's cool. There's nothing wrong with that."
While Doc tried to convince himself of just that, Marty asked another question. "What have you been up to out in the lab lately? Just the TIPS thing?"
"I've got a variety of projects on the burner," Doc said, lowering his voice. "Some, even, that the public can see."
"Like what?" Marty asked, curious.
"Security devices," Doc said. "Not everything I've been using has been from the future on my system. A lot of it I've had to design myself. I'm also trying out some interactive toys for Emily. I didn't have a chance to do that with Jules or Verne, considering where we lived. Have you seen her room lately?"
"No.... Should I be scared?"
Doc smiled. "I've already got the patents for several of the things I've made. Remind me to show them to you when we get back."
"Sure."
They finished their deserts and left the cafe about half an hour later, at Doc's prodding. Marty picked up the day's newspaper at the front counter at the scientist's suggestion of it being a potential research source, and they headed back to the DeLorean a little over an hour after first arriving. They passed few people on their way to the car, and Marty looked almost disappointed as they crossed the street to the building where the time machine waited.
"I guess you're right, Doc," he said. "These trips can happen without major disaster."
"As long as one takes the proper precautions," Doc warned. "Which we did."
"Yeah, right. Hey, aren't you kind of disappointed that your new thing won't really show if it worked or not?"
"We don't know that it won't," Doc said as they reached the door. "But the idea, actually, isn't to make things change on that database -- it's merely a precautionary measure that should let us know where, when, and how history changed, if we do discover something is wrong."
"I think for your next project you should let that thing be able to detect a change and let us know when something happens."
"That's the next step, but I need to work on the sensitivity settings," Doc said. "As well as shielding the databanks from any effects our trips might have, which is more challenging than you might think."
The scientist entered the building first, holding the door for Marty to prevent it from closing in his face. As he reached for the car keys in his pocket to switch the HIS off, he heard something behind him. There was a scuffling of sorts, like feet skidding over the wood floor, followed immediately by a grunt, then a loud, heavy thud that shook the floorboards.
At the first noise, Doc started to turn around; he hadn't even pivoted halfway before the final sound hit his ears. When he turned fully around to see what it was that had happened, he saw nothing but faint shadows against a darker background. "Marty?" he called softly, the lack of visual stimuli giving him a rather threatened feeling he didn't enjoy.
Something snaked around his neck from behind, jerking his head back. Doc gasped in surprise, his heart leaping up to his throat, but before he had the chance to pull free and fight the grip, something hard and heavy crashed into the back of his skull. There was a brief, dazzling flash of light, terrific pain, then nothing more.
Wednesday, November 21, 1928
12:03 A.M.
There was a growl of sorts from nearby, a steady vibration and noise that would rise and fall in intensity and pitch, a reflection of how strong the vibrations were. Doc noticed it gradually, just as the pain in his head increased the more he tuned into the noise. Finally, when he became curious and aware enough to open his eyes, all he saw was pure, untainted blackness before him. A chill snaked down his spine as he blinked a half dozen times.
Am I blind or is this all a dream? he wondered. There was one way to find out the answer to the first one, at least. Attached to the DeLorean keys was a small LCD light that he had picked up on a trip in the future, due to the device's compact shape and long life, and so far as he could remember, the keys should still be in his pocket. The scientist moved his hand to the pocket, but instead of encountering the small, familiar bulge he felt... nothing. His heart skipped a little.
"Where are the keys?" he whispered aloud. The sound of his voice seemed to clear his senses a little, and the concern over the possibly missing keys were pushed aside as he felt his surroundings move, sharply, and he was thrown into something soft and... alive. Doc let out a gasp in surprise and sat up, only to slam the top of his head, hard, into a metallic surface not more than two feet above where he lay. He nearly passed out again as he felt his surroundings seem to tilt and spin. As he fell back to the floor, he heard a weak, tentative voice call out next to him.
"Mom? Mom, is that you?"
Even with a throbbing head, Doc recognized the whispered voice. "No, Marty, it's me. Don't sit up, now, or you'll have a headache like mine."
There was a groan. "I already have a headache." There was an uneasy pause. "Is it just me or are we in pitch dark?"
"We are," Doc said, glad to have that confirmed by another set of eyes. "From what I can tell, I think we're in the trunk of a car."
"How'd we get here? What's going on?" Marty bumped into the scientist as he shifted, giving Doc a better idea on their close quarters. He shifted himself, extending his legs -- which had been bent at the knee -- until they hit the wall.
"We're not gonna suffocate or choke to death on fumes, are we?" Marty asked, panic creeping into his voice.
"Hopefully not. Don't worry, Marty." Doc lifted his arms up and tentatively felt around, touching the cold metal that arched above. He ran his hands down to the side, just inches from his left, and then carefully felt around the "wall" for latches or locks. What he felt wasn't terribly encouraging. It seemed to be a latch that was quite bent on not moving, if the casual exploration from his fingers was any indication.
As if reading his mind, Marty asked, "Can you get us out of here?"
"I don't think so. Not without some tools, anyway." Doc let his hand drop with a sigh. "We're stuck in here, for the time being."
Marty groaned softly. "Perfect."
The sound of the engine changed, shifting into a lower gear as the vehicle slowed. Doc heard a rather loud crunching noise come from directly below them and realized that it was gravel they were driving over. A moment later the car stopped, the engine turned off, and, based upon the sounds of the doors closing, three people got out. Their footsteps headed for the back of the car, where Marty and Doc waited.
"What do we do, Doc?" Marty hissed.
"Nothing rash," the scientist answered quietly. "We don't know who's out there, where we are, or why we're even here."
Something small and metallic scraped around where Doc had pinpointed the sight of the latch. Keys, the inventor realized at once, remembering again the mysterious absence of his own. Before he could reflect on that any more, the lid of the trunk popped up and open. The outline of a broad shouldered figure loomed above, but Doc couldn't tell anything more than that. He was grabbed under the arms roughly and pulled out of the trunk.
"Stay nice and calm," a man's voice growled softly. "Try something and Benny here'll do something you won't want."
Doc allowed himself to be half dragged to the side of the road, where Marty followed a moment later. He was thrown down to the dirt, none too softly, and with help from the glow of the car's headlights was able to get a better look at his surroundings and the faces of those who had been in the car. They were on the side of a two lane stretch of road, unpopulated at this hour of the night. Three men stood around him and Marty, two armed with handguns appropriate to the time period. Their faces were mostly hidden in the shadows cast by the wide brimmed hats they wore. The unarmed man stood with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his oddly youthful face.
"Where are we?" Doc asked.
"Seeing as how you were trying to get into Ace's hole, we took you for a little drive," the unarmed man said. "Consider this a warning to the both of you."
"A warning for what?" Marty asked, a defensive tone clear in his voice. "We weren't doing anything!"
"Sure," the man said, sarcastic. "If we see you in the area again, you'll find that Ace won't be so forgiving the second time around."
Marty cast a confused look at Doc, who was just as lost as the young man. "We can do that, so long as you tell me what you did with the keys I had," Doc said.
One of the armed men answered, the line of his mouth twitching into a smile. "We don't got no idea," he said, clearly lying. "But you should owe us something for driving you out here."
The inventor felt his face pale at the implications of where the keys had gone. "I'm sure you already took what money we had," he said calmly. "What use are a set of keys to you?"
The unarmed man snorted softly. "Be thankful that Ace doesn't want more. Some money, keys, and watches aren't as valuable as your life, are they? You were trespassing, fair and square."
Doc glanced at his hands at the mention of valuables, and was immediately dismayed to see that his wedding band had fallen victim to the robber's hands. Before he could even think about asking for it back, the three men turned back to the car, got inside, and drove off, turning the vehicle around to go back the way that they had come from.
Marty watched them go with an expression of both shock and anger. "Great," he said, standing up from the spot where he had been thrown. "We don't know where we are, we're out in the boonies somewhere, and we're broke. So much for a nice, uneventful trip!"
"It gets worse," Doc said, seeing no way around the news. "They took the DeLorean keys."
Marty turned to look at him sharply. "And you don't have a spare set?"
"No, not here... as a safety precaution. Marty, I never expected the keys to be misplaced on a trip, and to have another set in or around the car was too great of a risk. Anyway, even if we did, they can't be left behind, not with the items on the keychain, like the remote for the HIS."
"You can't really called triple A to have them get you into the car now, Doc," Marty said, his voice rising. "So what's the verdict -- are we stuck here, then?"
"No," Doc said, certain. "We just have to get the keys back -- and my wedding ring. That has a lot of sentimental value to me, and I know it would disappoint Clara, too, if it was lost."
Marty didn't look much cheered by the news. "Where are we now?" he asked.
"Your guess is as good as mine. The only thing I think we can do is walk 'til we find someone who can answer that question for us."
"And then?"
"One thing at a time, Marty. Let's start walking and see what happens."
They started going in the direction that the car had come from, the route being most logical to Doc if they wanted to get back to where they had left. They hadn't walked long before reaching a sign that told them the city of Chicago was five miles away. Marty groaned at the sight of the words, his hands burrowed deep into the pockets of his coat.
"Five miles in the freezing cold? Jeez, we'll be popsicles then!"
"We've had worse distances to walk in weather that was much more trying than this," Doc said. "At least it's not snowing -- or raining."
The scientist had apparently spoken too soon. Five minutes later, a light snow started to fall from the sky. Marty looked up at it with a scowl but didn't say anything. Doc sighed to himself and continued walking, pulling his coat a bit tighter against the frigid wind. Marty's silence lasted for only a few minutes, until the snow came down with increasing volume and strength. Then he said, "So how much longer are you planning on having us walk?"
"Until we can find another option," Doc said.
"And what'll that be?" Marty gestured widely at their frosty and rather rural surroundings. "I don't see anyone coming by."
Doc shrugged his answer. Moments later, however, a roar of an engine from behind broke the quiet, growing louder as the vehicle drew closer. Doc wasn't sure if he wanted to signal the car, a bit paranoid under the circumstances, but Marty's physical discomfort was clearly greater than the young man's unease; he turned right around and flagged the car, waving his arms wildly, before the inventor could stop him. The cream colored sedan slowed and pulled over. Marty hurried over to the driver's side window, too quickly and too trusting for Doc's tastes. The scientist followed rapidly, and rounded the back of the car just as the driver began to speak.
"You fellas need a ride?"
"Do we! " Marty said immediately. "Some creeps dumped us out here. We just need to get back to Chicago."
The shadows were numerous in the car. Doc could tell that the driver was male, and little else. He snuck up behind Marty to get a better look at the face behind the wheel. It belonged to a well-dressed man somewhere in his forties, cleanshaven and fairly harmless looking. "I'm heading that way, myself," he said. "If you don't mind my cigars, hop on in."
Doc, frankly, did, but Marty was reaching for the doorlatch before the scientist could even open his mouth. "Thanks," he told the man. Doc followed his friend reluctantly into the car. It was smokey, yes, but it was also soothingly warm after the chill of the night.
It took perhaps twenty minutes for them to reach the city. The man said little on the drive, except to ask where they wanted to be dropped off. Unfortunately, Doc had no idea. He didn't know the layout of contemporary Chicago, let alone of the city of the 1920's. Luckily, he had retained the name of the diner that he and Marty had had desert at and was able to provide that to the driver. The man seemed to know where that was and in short order had dropped them off.
"Now what?" Marty asked, looking up at the heavy swirl of flakes falling. Already, a couple inches had accumulated on the ground, and Doc suspected that it might just be the beginning.
"We've got to retrieve the keys and my ring from the men who took us away," Doc said, thinking, as he walked towards where the DeLorean was waiting.
"And how are we supposed to do that?" Marty asked, not without a bit of grumpiness in his voice.
"I'm not sure yet. Give me some time to think it over. Now, it wouldn't be beyond logic to believe that they might be in the area of the DeLorean.... And what's Ace's hole?" He winced in the dark, the expression slipping past Marty's view, as a possible solution came to mind.
"Sounds like a nightclub or something," Marty said innocently. "Unless that's some version of profanity that's since gone extinct."
"It's probably not a nightclub," Doc half muttered, opting to avoid telling Marty his suspicions, for now. They reached the seemingly abandoned building again in short order, who knew how many hours after they had been taken away from it. Marty made a beeline for the door, boldly, but Doc stopped him with a hand to his arm and shook his head.
"We should make sure we don't end up in the same situation as we did earlier," he explained in a low voice, just in case they were being monitored.
"How?" Marty asked.
"Wait here -- let me look around. If you see anyone heading this way, try to get away unseen and let me know."
The young man didn't seem happy with this plan, but he sighed and leaned against the building in order to survey the largest portion he could. Doc started to creep around to the alleyway, figuring that might be a good place to start looking around. He hadn't done more than poke his head in the space when Marty spoke up.
"Doc."
The scientist turned around. A tall, solidly built man had mysteriously appeared out of the gloom and snow, standing next to Marty. Even in the poor lighting Doc could see that there was a weapon of some kind -- a gun, he determined quickly -- pointed in his friend's direction. Yet the man smiled as Doc looked at him, gesturing for him to draw closer.
"Who are you?" Doc asked immediately, moving slowly both out of a reluctance to get close to the armed stranger and not wanting to cause the man to think he was in danger and do something rash to Marty.
"In good time," the man said. He nodded to the other side of the street, where a figure stood next to an opened door of another seemingly abandoned warehouse. "My boss would like a word with you both," he said. "You don't mind, do you?"
"I don't suppose we have a choice," the inventor said, a touch sarcastic.
The beefy man laughed. "I see you understand us well. The Captain won't bite if you don't give 'im reason to."
Doc took a breath of the cold, crisp air, then sighed and nodded. "Could you lower the gun, please?" he had to add for Marty's sake, seeing how pale his friend had gotten. "Or at least aim it over here at me, if you have to do that?"
The man chuckled, apparently liking Doc. "Sure," he said, shifting his aim on the weapon so it was now trained on the scientist. With that provocation, the time travelers went reluctantly across the street to meet this "Captain," whomever he might be. Doc had a sinking feeling that he wasn't going to like the man, nor his reasons for wanting to meet them. A number of unpleasant possibilities danced through his mind. They had stumbled into a murder interrupted or interfered, maybe. Or crossed onto gangland turf. Perhaps these men thought they were undercover cops. Whatever it was, he was all but certain the men were involved with illegal activities of some sort. There could be no other reason why, first, they had been kidnapped and driven out to the boonies, and then confronted by another armed man at the very same site.
The man at the door -- blond, broad in shoulders and stature -- didn't so much as blink as they passed by. He, like the gun toting creep, was dressed well and spotlessly in an up-to-the-minute suit. They were led down a dark hallway and stairwell, illuminated by oil lamps, through a door where music, laughter, and conversation oozed out.... and then into what looked like a nightclub.
Marty let a low whistle slip past as they stepped into a large dimly lit room, occupied by at least fifty people. At the far wall was what looked to be a slightly elevated stage, where a jazz band was currently playing a jaunty tune that shook the floorboards. There was a small space before the stage that acted as a dance floor, and a few couples were shaking things up. The rest of the room's patrons were seated at tables and chair scattered about, or gathered around not one but two pool tables near the back. A bar took up one corner of the room, a number of liquids and bottles stacked behind the bartender that were no doubt illegal during the prohibition times. The air was thick with both the smell of booze and the smoke from cigarettes and cigars.
Doc knew at once that they were in a speakeasy, but he wasn't entirely sure why they were brought there. The patrons glanced at them, but quickly turned their attention back to their drinks, conversations, or card games. The gun-wielding man led the scientist and Marty to a door set at the back, rapping on it three times, hard. It was opened a moment later by a thin guy with long red hair, pulled back to a pony tail, and a single gold earring in one lobe. He looked more like a garage mechanic than someone who might've frequented speakeasy's -- or ran around with a local gang.
There really could be no doubt or denial about that, anymore. Not after Doc glimpsed the other man in the room, sitting at a desk in what he could only assume was an office of some kind, windowless but decorated in contemporary styles. The dark-haired, mustached gentleman at the desk was dressed neatly in a suit, a smoldering cigar clutched between two fingers. A thin, petite young woman, her brown, curly hair styled in a fashionable bob, was hanging over his shoulder, smiling and leaning in close to his ear. The man at the desk looked up at the time traveler's entrance, however, distracted from the woman. By the expression that crossed her delicate features, it was clear she did not like this.
The door closed behind them, muffling the worst of the noise from the lounge. "Is this them?" the man at the desk asked.
Their captor answered. "Yep -- they came back to Ace's place. Fortunately the others weren't around when they got there, else we might not have 'em with us."
The mustached man looked at the visitors with eyes that were a startling blue, focusing rather intently on Marty. "I can see you were right about him," he said, speaking with a thick Chicago accent. "Though I wouldn't've believed it if I wasn't lookin' at it." He stood, bracing his hands on the desktop and leaning over it. "Everyone thought you were dead," he said to Marty.
The young man frowned at these words, looking as confused as Doc was feeling. "What?"
The man set his cigar aside, handing it to the young woman still at his side, then stuck out his beefy hand. "Nick Captino," he said. Marty shook it after a glance at Doc. "Pleasure to meet you, Mac. Welcome to The Captain's Hold. Want anything to drink? To smoke?"
"Ah... no, that's okay...." Marty cast another look at Doc, baffled. "Who's Mac?" he had to ask.
There were chuckles from the men in the room. Nick smiled, rather tightly. "No need to pretend you don't know," he said. "We're not gonna hurt you. Sit down," he added, indicating the pair of chairs set before his desk. He looked at Doc as the time travelers settled down. "Who are you? I don't think we've been introduced."
The inventor licked his lips once, nervous, uncertain if he should pull a pseudonym out of the air or stick with his real name. He compromised. "Emmett," he said. "Listen, I--"
He was interrupted by the girl, hanging behind Nick's desk, bored. "Listen, Nicky, I gotta go on in a few minutes," she said, her voice rather high and child-like. "You want I should meet you later?"
"Sure, baby," Nick said, distracted. The young woman looked at him a moment, pouting, then headed for the door, slipping past the men with her heels clicking on the floor and her beaded dress swinging around her knees. "Emmett," Nick repeated, looking at Doc. "How long have you known Mac? You related to him?"
"No, we're just old friends." Doc watched as the man sat back down at the desk, picking up his cigar that the girl had set in an ashtray. "I'm sorry, but did you bring us here for a reason? If we were trespassing, I'm quite sorry. We're just passing through this area."
Nick took a drag from his cigar, leaning back in his chair. The springs creaked. "A gent who likes to cut to the chase," he said, to his men. "I like that." He looked to Marty, who was taking in the interior of the room with curious eyes. "We saw Ace's men taking you for a drive and were hoping you'd come back. You're not friends with him, are you?"
"Ah, no," Doc said, hoping that the truth wasn't going to get them gutted or shot.
Nick smiled, pleased by the answer. "Thought so. You connected with anyone in the city we should know about?"
"We don't know anyone here," Doc said truthfully. "And not in other places, either." He caught Nick's eye meaningfully, knowing what it was that was being asked. Are you in a rival gang we should know about? There was no doubt these were gangsters, none at all. "We're basic law abiding citizens."
Nick grinned, as if this was all a big joke to him. "As are we, gentlemen. Isn't that right?"
There were nods from the other two henchmen in the room. Nick leaned forward again, looking at Marty once more. "What brings you to Chicago, Mac?"
Marty seemed faintly exasperated to Doc, no doubt due to this apparent misidentification. His eyes flicked over to Doc and the scientist could practically see the question: "Who the hell is this Mac guy and what makes you think I'm him?" Doc shrugged, minutely, and Marty looked back to Nick. "Nothing, really," he said softly. "Uh... can I ask, why are we here?"
Nick took another drag from his cigar before answering. The air was getting hazy from the smoke and Doc was feeling a dull headache set in from it. "Your rep precedes you, Mac," he said simply.
"What rep is that?" Marty asked, utterly serious.
The gangster chuckled. "Modest, eh? That why you went underground?"
As Marty stared at him blankly, he set his smoke aside and opened a drawer in his desk, riffling through it. After a moment he pulled out a book, flipping through the pages. It appeared to be a scrapbook of sorts from what Doc could tell, filled with pictures and newspaper clippings. After a moment, Nick apparently found what he was looking for and set the book down on his desk, turning it for Marty and Doc to have a look. The man tapped his finger once on a snapshot at the bottom of one page. It was from a pool hall, it looked to Doc, with two groups of men standing behind the pool table and two single men with serious expressions standing before them, each with a cue stick in hand. One of them was a big, beefy guy with dark eyes and a scar down one cheek.
The other one was Marty.
Doc snapped his head up to look at his friend. Marty met his eyes, seeing the same thing, and shook his head once, meaningfully. Once again, Doc could just about read what he would've said had they been alone. "No, Doc, I can guarantee that's not me; I didn't take one of your machines some day when you were out of town." And, taking another, closer look, Doc could see a few differences. The man in the picture looked a smidge older than Marty currently was -- perhaps in his mid-twenties -- and his hair looked lighter, perhaps blonder or redder than the young man's brown hair, and styled more to the current times.
Doc looked at the inscription penciled in next to the photograph, which all but confirmed the fact that the man in the photograph was not Marty. "Augusto Tarrentino & Mac O'Hara, Sharkey Pool Hall, October 12, 1926."
O'Hara, Doc thought. Not McFly. Curious....
"October twelfth, 1926," Nick said, tapping his fingers once on the date that was printed beside the photograph. "You faced down Auggie Tarrentino, the most notorious pool player on the east side, for the rights to some land. You won. Surprised the hell outta us, I can say. But you went underground day after. We thought you'd been killed, which would've been a great waste of your talents. A great waste, Mac."
Nick closed the book, drawing it back to his side of the desk. "We have a proposition for you," he said. "You familiar with Ace Wallace?"
Marty shook his head once, looking stunned, perhaps from this strange case of mistaken identity. "No," he said. "But is this the same guy that dragged us outta town?"
"Associates of his, but yes," Nick said. He leaned back again in his chair, studying Marty through narrowed, calculating eyes. "Him and me, we ain't exactly friends. You know what I mean? He takes business away from my establishment. Ace runs Blackjack across the street."
With that, some of the pieces came together for Doc. We're in a speakeasy owned by gangsters, set up in an abandoned building's basement.... The DeLorean is parked in an abandoned building that has another speakeasy in it, owned by another gang.... The owners of that place thought we were trying to break into their place, maybe that we were cops or people from a rival gang, and so they dumped us out of town. Wonderful.
At least the time machine was invisible. Thank God for small favors.
"Is that another club like this?" Marty asked Nick, catching on quickly.
"Not so fine as this one. We have Holly and that girl can sing like no one's business. Ace doesn't have any girls so fine as her." Holly, Doc assumed, was the girl who had been in the room when they had arrived. "But he's taken away some of our cliental, some of the people that we appreciate doing business with. Blackjack's become troublesome to us -- to me."
"What does this have to do with me?" Marty asked bluntly.
Nick smiled once more. "Eye on the prize, always," he said, almost admirably. "Ace has always said that he'll turn his place over and leave the area if anyone can beat him in pool. We haven't taken him up on it yet, 'cause he's a good son of a bitch. Quite good, I have to admit. But you're better, Mac. So you're going to play for us against Ace, this Friday. You win, we get Blackjack, Ace leaves, and you'll find yourself protected by my men, rewarded with some of the perks of our organization."
"What if I don't win?" Marty asked.
"You're the best," Nick said flatly. "You will win. Capisce?"
Marty looked faintly ill. Doc decided to speak up. "You're not giving us a choice in this matter, are you?" he asked.
"You have a choice," Nick said easily. "There are always choices in life. Right Frank?"
The gangster turned his eyes to the guy who had brought them in. Frank smiled, adjusting his hold on the gun. "Yes, sir, Captain," he said.
Doc got the message. He knew Marty did, too. "Friday is three days away," the inventor said. "We had intended to leave tonight and don't have a place to stay."
"No problem," Nick said. He looked to the other guy in the room, with the red hair. "Pierce, call over to the hotel and book these men the finest suite available -- with a pool table, so Mac can have plenty of time to practice his game."
The redhead nodded once, then left the room. Doc figured if they were trapped, he might as well make sure that they had a reward they could use. "Mr. Captino," he began.
"Nick," the man corrected immediately, easily, as if they were old friends. "What can I do for you, Emmett?"
"Ace's men took some of our things away from us when they decided to give us a ride out of town. I'm particularly anxious to get a set of keys and a ring -- my wedding band -- back. We'd like to have those when Mac wins."
Marty threw a quick, frantic glance at Doc, one that clearly said, "Are you outta your mind?!" Doc's lips twitched in a quick smile, hoping to assure his friend with the expression, but knowing that was a lost cause until they had some time to talk.
Nick waved his hand. "Not a problem. We'll make sure those are part of the deal."
"All right, thanks."
"Thank you." Nick stood and held his hand out to Marty. The young man got to his feet a second later and accepted it gingerly. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mac. I'll have Frank take you fellows out to your hotel so you can get some rest. I'll come by tomorrow to see that they're treating you right."
Frank opened the door and nodded for them to leave. Marty filed out first, the scientist following him, and the hired muscle with the gun at his back. They passed through the speakeasy, no one noticing them, all eyes on Holly who was in the middle of belting out a cheery jazz tune and flirting with the crowd. She wasn't terribly bad to Doc's untrained ear. Marty actually stopped for a moment and stared openly at her before Doc nudged him to remind them that this was not a pleasure trip anymore. Far from it.
They were in hot water and had less than three days to figure out how to squirm out of it with their lives intact.
Wednesday, November 21, 1928
2:43 A.M.
"Jeez, Doc, what the hell did you get us into?!"
The question practically exploded out of Marty as soon as they were alone in their room at the hotel. Although alone wasn't quite the word to describe things. From what the young man could see of the room from the foyer, it was spectacular -- a large living room-like area, with a pool table, and two separate bedroom suites. Everything was plus and richly furnished. The Penthouse suite, supposedly. But there were a few things wrong with the picture -- like the fact they were locked into the room; not locking the outside world out, but having the outside world locked out to them. And the detail that just outside their bolted door a man had been posted, armed, to perhaps keep an eye on them. All of this was more than a little unsettling to the twenty-year-old.
And it blew his mind that Doc was so calm, so matter-of-fact, so agreeable to the hoods that had basically kidnapped them and were now holding them hostage. It had taken nearly all of Marty's effort not to ask his friend much sooner the question he now freely verbalized. Doc took a moment in answering it, walking around their room quickly, checking each chamber, perhaps to make sure that there wasn't anyone lurking in the shadows to eavesdrop -- or worse.
"I don't think we had much of a choice, Marty," the scientist finally said, when he was sure that they were indeed alone. He motioned for them to move away from the door, lest the hood outside of it hear them. "They weren't going to let us go without this agreement... and we need to get my ring and the car keys back. We're essentially stuck here until we get those back."
Marty snorted, too restless to sit down in one of the chairs. He stalked over to the window and glanced out at it and at the twenty story drop. "They think I'm someone else... and I guess I can't blame them for that. Christ, Doc, that guy looks almost just like me!"
"Yes," Doc agreed without a fight. "Do you know if you're related to him?"
"I don't see how it could be -- unless he changed his name and hid his identity from my family. I don't think there was ever anyone named O'Hara on either side of the family, and I know my parents never talked about anyone named Mac that they or their parents knew. Maybe it's just a coincidence or something... Can we find this guy?"
"I doubt it," Doc said. "Not if this gang plans on keeping us locked up here in the hotel. And if he's been missing more than a year, it's either because he doesn't want to be found, or he's dead. Gangs weren't beyond murdering those who crossed them, and Mac sounds like he might've fallen victim to that."
Marty swallowed hard, remembering Nick's comment to his question on what would happen if he lost. "You're the best. You will win. Capisce?" If he didn't, he was a dead man. He was probably already a dead man.
With that memory, the young man suddenly felt completely drained. He fell back into one of the arm chairs with a gusty sigh, miserable. Doc looked at him, sympathetic. "Maybe we should both turn in now," he said. "Rest might give us a better perspective of things tomorrow."
"Yeah, like I can sleep at a time like this," Marty muttered. He rubbed his head, still aching since he'd been beaned by the other hoods, hours before. "There's no way you can get into the DeLorean now?"
"None at all -- if we can even get close enough to find out. Why? What are you suggesting?"
That we go back in time and haul Mac's ass from that pool game last year to now, so he can deal with things, Marty thought. But he knew it was an impossible wish. Even if they could get to the DeLorean and use it, Doc probably would balk at the idea of saving the life of someone who might've originally died. And they already knew how bad it could get in the future if they let that happen.
"You don't have anything that could help me play pool, do you?" he asked instead, a little reluctantly.
Doc looked surprised by the question. He turned away from the window he'd been gazing out of to look at Marty. "You don't know how to play?"
The young man shrugged vaguely. "I know that you have to hit balls into holes, and I've played before, but I don't know any of the rules of the game. Not really. And I've not really played the game much at all. Usually just with some friends at a party when we're goofing off or bored -- if they even have a table."
Doc sucked in a breath through his teeth but didn't say anything. Marty felt kind of ill when he didn't immediately say anything. "Do you know anything about the game?"
"Yes," Doc said, and the young man immediately started breathing a little easier. "But my own skills are no doubt paltry compared to the experts." He paused, thoughtful. "It's not a very difficult game to pick up, but memorizing the different rules may take you a while. And I'm not entirely certain which game they'll want to play with you. We'll have to ask Nick tomorrow, if he even knows."
Marty nodded once, glumly. "What a mess," he said.
"Bad luck," Doc said, gently. "Not your fault and not mine -- although maybe if I would've parked the DeLorean somewhere else.... But that's all water under the bridge now." He looked at the clock set above the fireplace in the living room. "It's almost three in the morning. We should probably go to bed now if we want to have any sleep tonight."
Marty gave in, though he knew very well that he wasn't going to sleep any time soon, and he doubted that Doc would, either. He took the room closest to the living room, figuring he'd be out practicing at that pool table more times than he'd want to think about starting the next day. Marty didn't bother to undress or turn the covers down, lying instead on top of the plush bedspread and staring up at the dark ceiling with his eyes wide open, restless, his mind racing.
It'll just be a game of pool, he told himself, trying not to panic so soon. One lousy game. There's three days to practice. I'll deal with it.
Nevertheless, he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, blinking, trying hard not to think about the invisible noose that was tightening around his neck's and Doc's. He finally couldn't deal with it anymore and left his room around six, to investigate the pool table.
He hadn't been lying to Doc -- he had played before, on occasion, with friends. Even, once or twice, with Jennifer, when they had time to kill on campus in the recreation center. Most of those games would either have one of them hit all the striped or solid balls, sinking their side first to win, or else split them into groups of three to sink those. Marty didn't even really know what they were called.
Cue sticks, four of them, were lying against the side of the wall. Marty selected one of them, weighing it in his hand, then lined the balls up in the rack in the middle of the table.