Author: Frank Sikora
September 11, 2001 • World Trade Center • New York • 9:40 a.m.
A wall of flame stalks the historian, 2000 degrees, capable of melting steel and glass. Black smoke billows throughout the building and into the air, desecrating a stark blue sky. The scene is worse than the photos. More horrifying than memory. Bodies lie burnt and broken among the debris. When Flight 175 struck the South Tower at 9:03 a.m., it held approximately 3,000 workers. More than 600 souls will never make it out.
The historian steps to the woman’s side. She’s dark-haired and slender, covered in ash and blood. Her skirt and blouse are torn. She is shoeless.
She stands at the edge of the 89th floor, just above the impact zone, and stares down at the unforgiving ground 1200 feet below. She wouldn’t be the first to jump. A half-dozen have already fallen. Nowhere to run. The woman turns to the historian. “I don’t want to burn.”
The historian nods. Glances downward. The temporal-displacement fibers woven into his suit protect him from the elements, the terrible but not uninteresting present. Nano-enhanced software embedded throughout the dermis layer of his skin records every detail of the event: sound, visuals, weather conditions, and the medical functions of those he observes, including heart rate, blood pressure, pulmonary output, and adrenaline, cortisol, blood glucose, and CO2 levels. All of which must be exploding, yet she remains remarkably calm.
Even though he is safe, he backs away from the edge.
He had come to this moment before. Six times. Researching every aspect of the final few minutes of the South Tower: The mad descent down the stairs. The moment when the doomed workers knew their lives were forfeit. He wishes he could be on the plane, but he couldn’t get clearance. Office politics.
In the vernacular of the time, the book he is writing will be his ‘crowning’ achievement. He knows he is fortunate to live in an era of technological marvels, where books matter, human art matters, where history matters — the second Great Intellectual Renaissance.
The historian imagines the awards he will win, the admiration of his students, and, of course, the better-looking sexual partners. No more discount bottom basement shared bio-constructs.
The woman reaches out her hand, giving her final moments human contact, when humanity’s fragile empathy has been soiled by religious madness, tribal hate.
Oh, well. So it goes, he decides, pleased with his cleverness.
His face will be the last face she sees. This time. Previously, she jumped alone. Damn, her calm impresses him.
She tilts her head. “Please, I don’t want to die alone.”
Interesting, she’s at peace, he muses. If I were in her place, I would be terrified. This is the point where I should begin my book. Not with the terrorists. Not with the politics. But right here. Where all hope has been abandoned. This is her defining moment. Such a gift. “Thank you,” says the historian.
“Please, tell me your name,” she says.
“Marwan al-Shehhi,” he replies, a lie, an in-joke. Historian humor. His real name is James. Good ol’ Professor Jimmy Wilkins from Lexington, Kentucky.
She’s confused, but not angry. There is peace at the end. Maybe even forgiveness.
The historian places his hand on her back, considers his action and how it may affect his data. Just a moment, then gives her a push. A nudge. Nothing more than necessary.
He inches closer to the edge. Watches her fall. She’s calm. Serene.
Good stuff. The historian activates the temporal threads in his sleeve and jumps home. Where greatness awaits.