Thomas Grey sat in his sterile cell, cursing the government that had locked him away for his anarchic practices. Apparently, the government considered his attempted coup of a small federal office a violation of one of their petty laws. The bureaucrats in that office were bad, why couldn’t they see that? Thomas didn’t understand, and he never even tried. All he knew was that government had to go.

The pale green lighting didn’t hurt his eyes, but it was ugly, and made seeing clearly more difficult than Thomas would have liked. The bare metal of his cell was fitted tightly, but used panels of variant dimensions, all screwed in tightly, and at apparently random intervals.

Thomas turned to face the opening through which he’d been involuntarily propelled, finding, of course, the faint characteristic shimmer of a force field. He reached toward it, to test its capacity, but before he made contact, the green lighting flared red, and white emergency lights began flashing in the section of the prison visible from his cell.

"Looks like someone found a way out of their cage," Thomas mumbled reflectively, "and now’s my best shot too. Now how’d he pull that off?"

Before Grey had the time to find his cell’s weakness, an old man, ragged and skinny to the point of near death ran down the hall stopping right at Thomas’s door.

"Don’t do it!" the man gasped, breathing heavily from his flight.

"Don’t do what?"

The ragged man turned back in the direction from which he’d come, and cursed violently, apparently seeing something which Thomas could not.

"Don’t do what? Talk to me!" Thomas whispered, not wanting to be overheard. The withered figure turned and began running, but hadn’t even left Thomas’s limited field of view before two shots rang out, replacing the back of his head with a fine mist of blood.

The guard who had fired the lethal shots approached, callously ignoring the body to the point of standing in what little was left of the corpse’s head. Leveling his gun at Thomas, he deactivated the forcefield and gestured down the hall.

"Walk," was the guard’s simple command.

Thomas walked.

** * **

The light in the room where Thomas had been manacled flicked on. The inability to move reminded him of the bonds his own friends had left him in, assuring him that his "martyrdom" would do wonders for the anarchist’s public opinion. They had never asked if he was ready to die.

Thomas looked about, quickly absorbing what he could. His nearly six and a half foot length was locked down to a flawless stainless steel table. Trying to move his head proved useless, he discovered. The motion was blocked by small metal rods inserted into each ear as deeply as they would go without damage. Grey realized that, in addition to the metal prods, he felt something attached behind each ear.

"When did all this happen?" wondered Thomas. "I don’t remember being out…" Although nothing was said aloud, he received an answer.

"We didn’t let you remember, Mr. Grey." The voice was disembodied, although immediately after the statement’s completion a young man in a suit appeared from nowhere, standing at Grey’s feet. "The equipment in your ears is a prototype of one of our newest inventions, the D.A.R.I.S., Direct Alternate Reality Input System. Direct because everything you see, hear, feel, taste, or smell is by our decision, and this device input it directly to the sensory centers of your mind. We can make you feel unbelievable pain," the man pressed some non-existent button, and fire coursed through Grey’s veins for half a heartbeat, "or amazing pleasure, with actual happiness, if you allow it." Another non-button, and everything disappeared. Suddenly, Thomas was in bed with his wife, who was gently kissing the side of his neck and face, moving gradually toward his mouth. Thomas reached for her, and the voice of the button presser returned, disembodied once more.

"Most interesting, however, is the horror we can bring."

Thomas felt his body move, and he grabbed a knife, not of his own volition. He felt himself cut his wife’s throat, saw the panic and betrayal in her eyes, felt himself grin sadistically as the last of his love’s gargled cries ended.

"NO!" screamed Thomas inside his mind. He was utterly horrified at what he’d just seen himself do, and his mind revolted. There was a brief flare of pain, just long enough for Thomas to identify it as somehow external. Then came a flash, followed by a flood of figures, statistics, names, all of which Grey detachedly recognized through his horror as things meant for governmental brass, highly classified, and definitely not for a prisoner in a maximum security lockup. Several things in the flood caught his eye: Project WELLS; time travel; Katyl Base, West Virginia. Another flash, and it all vanished.

** * **

Thomas felt as if he were floating, reeling, lost in a world of memories. Always at the edge of his mind was the government data, but he found himself focusing on his past, his wife, trying to assure himself that he had not just done what he had seen himself do. He could never have committed such an act. The years of his life flowed past; images of rejection, of refusal to comply, no matter how simple or reasonable the request flooded his mind. He remembered struggling to be an individual, fighting to be different—just like every other dissident. He had just worked harder, sure that somehow if he was the most different person, if everyone were one hundred percent different, everything would be better. But not everyone else was one hundred percent different, and he had drawn more attention than his poorly thought out plans had provided for.

** * **

"You’re lucky to be alive, Mr. Grey."

Thomas rolled, realizing as he did, that he’d have been unable to if he were still in the machine. His mind seemed foggy, he remembered having killed his wife in that thing… What had they called it? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember much after the pain, but he fought to, knowing that if he forgot that, he was forgetting something important.

"How did my head get so fuzzy?" he wondered silently. Tom Grey opened his eyes to see the button pusher, this time with a pair of guards.

The truth is, Mr. Grey, we’d have let you die, but somehow, when your unexpectedly strong emotional reaction damaged the D.A.R.I.S," the man looked annoyed as he said that, as though the machine’s failure was his own, "every file in the prison computers was uploaded directly into your brain."

"So why not kill me?" Grey spat. He hadn’t wanted to die when his friends had left him, but if he could just irritate this one bureaucrat, he’d be happy. "I’m no good to you. Hell, I’m a security risk!"

"True enough, Mr. Grey, but at the moment, the files are in your head, and only in your head. Don’t be in such a hurry to die. That will come soon: Just as soon as we recover our data. A few days, no more. Take him back to his cell."

The guards stepped toward Grey.

** * **

Back outside his cell, Grey was held by one guard while the other punched in the code to lower the forcefield.

"Not without a fight," Grey said, and he twisted loose of the guard who had him. The second guard abandoned the control panel and leveled his gun at Thomas’s back. Realizing that killing Grey before the butchers got the data back would mean his own funeral, he flipped the pistol to hold its barrel and flung it, hitting Tom squarely in the back of the head. Tom convulsed as images flooded his mind, and passed out.

** * **

The first thing that Grey thought as he came to was, "Not again," as he realized he was once again strapped to a table. The second thing was less a thought than a realization: He consciously remembered all of the government data. "Must have been the blow to my head," Tom mumbled, still groggy.

"Ah, you’re awake. Good. Time to start the data extraction, Tom." Tom couldn’t see the voice’s owner, but the inflection was enough to tell him that he was not in for a good time.

"Stall," he thought, one step away from frenzy.

"So soon?" he asked, unable to do any better.

"It’s a long process. We would have waited until morning, but since you were so unwilling to spend the night in your cell, I decided to move forward. Now don’t worry. I’m cutting your wrist, but it’s just to let out enough blood to weaken you. We’ll kill you later."

Tom’s eyes flashed about, looking frantically for any avenue of escape; his previous bravado gone when it counted most. All he found was a wall mounted machine gun. "They must not want me out of here," thought Thomas, laughing bitterly inside himself at his penchant for the obvious. Although he still could not see the co-called doctor, the flashing steel of the scalpel had come into view. Reflexively, Grey pulled away from the knife, only as much as the heavy canvas strap would allow. It was enough, and the scalpel sliced easily through the strap on his right arm.

Defensive instinct took over in Thomas, and he lashed with his free hand at the doctor unseen, landing a blow squarely in the groin of his target. The doctor dropped the scalpel as he fell to his knees, his head finally in the line of sight. Thomas swung again, and knocked the doctor’s head to the floor, where it remained.

The adrenaline in Grey’s system slowly quit pumping, and his hands shook as he claimed the dropped scalpel. His breath came in ragged gasps, synched to the loud beating of his heart. Thomas realized then that he had to escape fast; "they" weren’t likely to make any mistakes if they caught him again. He remembered the time travel experiments in the government data. As Thomas cut the last strap holding him in, he heard the defeated doctor groan. Thomas paused briefly, like a deer caught in headlights, momentarily halted by all of the tension. Then he snapped out of it, cut the last strap, and quickly rolled off of the table to the floor, just as the injured doctor lunged to grab him.

"Prisoner loose" intoned the artificially feminine voice of a computer, less than one second before it fired the heavy wall mounted gun at the table where Grey had been. The doctor was sprawled there now, having missed Grey by inches.

"Prisoner terminated," intoned the same bored machine. The hail of lead ceased, and the doctor slid to the floor, mutilated. Thomas retched.

** * **

The road to Katyl Base was long, but not to heavily canvassed by guards, as its military artifact collection was a tourist attraction, not a government secret. Getting into the base would be easy, getting out again, not so.

Thomas had found a button in the lab, which had opened the door to the prison lab’s delivery dock. Hijacking a truck had been a quick affair, and he’d decided before even getting outside the barbed fence that he was going to use Project WELLS to go back and remove the decadent government from power. The prison’s security existed entirely inside the building, escape having been considered inconceivable. A sign on the right indicated that the exit ramp to Katyl Base was due up shortly. Thomas pushed the turn indicator up, swearing that if he went down, he’d take the entire "system" with him.

** * **

"Katyl’s pretty deserted," Thomas thought. "Where are all the tourists?" Twenty years under ice made it difficult to know. He’d never have been unfrozen, but the cryo tubes were full, so their contents were being executed in the order they’d gone in. He’d been number 000473.

Thomas halted the delivery truck just outside the base’s primary tourist entrance, and went into the truck’s cargo, finding nothing of use, except a crowbar and a pistol.

** * **

Tom was in. He’d found the main entrance locked, but a bathroom window was ajar, and Tom was able to pry it open wider with the lifted crowbar. He knew where he was going, courtesy of the government data still in his head. Eventually, he came to a security check.

"Little option but confrontation," thought Grey. He’d almost been looking forward to this, but now he wanted nothing but avoidance. He drew the gun and stepped into view of the guard behind the desk, unsure of whether or not he could pull the trigger if the time came. "No alarms," he said, surprising the guard behind the desk.

"Of course not, sir," replied the scared guard. Obviously, he’d either gone soft from desk duty, or never expected any real trouble at a base that was more tourist attraction than military installation.

"Can you unlock doors around here?"

Y-Yes, sir, but if I try to unlock certain doors they close behind me, and I’d have to call someone to let me out."

"Won’t matter." Thomas gestured to the door right of the security desk. "Move."

As the guard stepped toward the door, Grey failed to notice the damp patch in the crotch of the man’s pants.

** * **

The guard was still scared, but had regained his composure during their walk through the base’s sterile halls, and was doing his duty to try to dissuade Thomas, or at least delay him long enough for more security to arrive.

"You do realize that there are cameras throughout this section of the base, don’t you? More guards will be here any minute."

"Yeah, but I won’t. Open the door on your left," Grey replied with false calmness. He barely held the gun steady, but the guard he’d snagged was too scared to notice. The guard obeyed Thomas’s command, entering "WELLS138@9/A-1m" into the door’s keypad, having to restart several times due to the shaking of his hand.

Eventually the door slid open, and Tom Grey entered, closing the door on his escort. Thomas turned and for a moment was staggered by all of the complex electronic gadgetry. Within a second though, he drew on his accidentally implanted knowledge, and prepared to put an end to this in a time where it was still possible, when the tyranny was strong, but not entrenched.

He would go back thirty years.

** * **

Thomas appeared suddenly, in the field where Katyl Base would stand four years from now. He looked around, found the nearest road, and began following it toward Charleston. After about half an hour, a car drove by and offered Thomas a lift. Thomas accepted, and with the gun hidden under his jacket, asked where he might find someone in the Resistance.

"That’s dangerous talk," was the woman driver’s startled reply.

"Maybe I’m spying on them."

"Not likely. People who spy on us are seldom so overt."

Thomas’s jaw dropped.

"That’s right, us. You think I don’t see that li’l peashooter you’re packing? Buddy, this car is rigged so that if you even try to pull something, you’re a dead man. I’m Resistance Major Shelly Tels, and I want some answers.

** * **

You’re lucky I’m in the division I’m in, Mr. Grey. Right now, WELLS is only a concept, and D.A.R.I.S is about to start R&D. If I weren’t intelligence, I wouldn’t know jack about this, and I’d have killed you on the spot. A loss to the Resistance, sure, but safer. I’ll take you in, but from there, you’re out of my hands.

** * **

The meeting with Tels’s higher ups had gone better than expected. In light of his story, he’d already been made Resistance PFC. They’d shown him to his quarters, brought up some regulations on the terminal there, and wished him goodnight. Within minutes, Grey was busy trying to hack every government site he could think of. He'd been at it for nearly an hour when Major Tels burst into his quarters and punched the terminal’s power key.

"Are you crazy?! Another ten minutes and your careless prying would have given the feds our exact location! Ten more, and we’d all be dead!"

Thomas began to stammer an excuse, but was quickly cut off.

"Stuff it! You screwed up big, Grey. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a stupid, impulsive rookie! It’s a miracle you made it though that base, much less got out of jail! You better prey you aren’t shot for risking us like this!" Tels pulled a walkie talkie off of her belt, and spoke into it. "Security to east side, room 25. Now!"

** * **

Thomas was chained to his chair, across from the big wig of this particular base. He noted that being bound to things had become a way of life for him. He sighed.

"Alright, Grey, you’re lucky to be alive…"

"Now that sounds familiar," thought Grey morosely.

"…but I’m inclined to let you keep your throat, despite the fact that base SOP requires your death. On one condition. To keep your throat, you’re gonna have to risk it for us. We want you to run a solo," finished the base commander.

"A what?"

"A solo mission. You’re gonna go in alone, and waste a government data bank. That bank has the names and locations of 100 of our operatives and their families. For obvious reasons, that data must be destroyed. Interested?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"There’s always a choice, Grey. In this case, your choice is to take the mission, or be executed for compromising the base’s safety. Now, you interested, or not?"

Grey shook his head, angry at what fate had done to him once again. "Yeah, I’ll do it."

"Good. Come with me. You leave in one hour."

** * **

Grey’s arrival at the target facility was uneventful. He’d been informed en route that the base had been prepped for him, from the inside out. He would be picked up one mile east of the facility when the job was done. "If the job gets done," the commander had said. If it would hinder the government, Grey swore that it would.

He wandered the halls, and managed to find the room he was after. His implanted knowledge was again of some use, since in his future this building had not yet been destroyed. Thomas meant to change that. He entered the computer core room, and opened the satchel he’d been given, removing from it a nuclear charge. The charges were set, and placed against the most vital sections of the computer’s storage systems. There were two hours until they went off. Grey ran.

** * **

Thomas turned the corner of the building where he’d been told to wait for his ride back, hoping that they’d get there soon. Thomas realized that he’d probably better get rid of the satchel, assuming that it could be traced to him, and the charges to it. He looked around and found a gutter. Bending down to stuff the empty bag into the sewer, Thomas felt a hard blow to his head. He fell forward, his skull hitting the hard pavement. He blacked out.

** * **

Thomas Grey ran down the hall, his ragged, skinny body barely sturdy enough for the task. There were only a few minutes to go. In the thirty years since his assault on the Resistance outpost, he’d realized that he’d taken up with government counter resistance forces, and destroyed the Resistance’s final store of captured government data. He’d spent the last three decades cursing his hurry, and foolish lack of consideration which had not only guaranteed the end of the Resistance, but had also landed him in the same jail was already in, thirty years from the event. Grey rounded a bend and approached the cell he’d been looking for.

** * **

An old man, ragged and skinny to the point of near death ran down the hall stopping right at Thomas’s door.

"Don’t do it!" the man gasped, breathing heavily from his flight.

"Don’t do what?"

The ragged man turned back in the direction from which he’d come, and cursed violently, apparently seeing something which Thomas could not.

"Don’t do what? Talk to me!" Thomas whispered, not wanting to be overheard. The withered figure turned and began running, but hadn’t even left Thomas’s limited field of view before two shots rang out, replacing the back of his head with a fine mist of blood.