Big John

by Doug Larsen

Illustration by Todd Lockwood

Mr. Degeneres looked at me appraisingly, his richly appointed office looking jarringly inconsistent with the desperation on his face. “Do you think you’re up to this, John?”

“I think so, sir. I really do.” The sour feel of fear was sloshing around in my stomach.

“You’re our last hope, you know.”

I nodded. I knew.

He produced The Belt. “Here’s your video gear. Remember, try to keep this part clean. It looks like a decorative stone, but it’s actually the video lens. You trigger the camera by running your finger down the length of the metal buckle. It’s calibrated to your fingerprint.”

I nodded. “What kind of memory have you managed to get for me?”

Sara spoke up, the strain sounding in her voice. “We’ve managed to pack in twice as many flash memory chips as before. Basically, there’s a row of them between the two leather strips that comprise your belt, and a row of them on the inside. It ought to afford you over sixty hours of recording time.”

“Sixty?” I repeated. “You were aiming for eighty or more.”

“I know.” She shrugged. “But you’re going to be down in the mines. The light sucks down there. We had to use a lot of space for image enhancement circuitry and automatic iris control. We don’t want to make you look like you’re diddling yourself when you’re actually trying to set light adjustments.”

Mr. Degeneres spoke up. “Those flash chips are somewhat flexible, but not indestructible. Be careful with the belt. And one other thing: it looks innocuous, but it won’t stand up to close inspection.”

I was looking it over. “What’s this?” I asked, indicating a fingertip switch connected to a thick bulge in the belt.

“That’s to make up for only having sixty hours of memory,” Sara said. “We’re not sure of its reliability, so only use it if you have to. Basically, it dumps all of the memory in your chips, and transmits all of the information through the space-time continuum to our receiver here. So in theory, we’ll have all of your data, and you’ll have another sixty hours of memory space.”

My sour mood matched my sour stomach. “ ‘In theory,’ you said. What about in fact?”

She shrugged again. She was doing that more and more these days. Not that I blamed her, what with the political tide moving relentlessly against us. “In fact,” she said, “it’s never been tested in actual time travel. But it works in the labs, and there’s no reason to think it won’t work in actual applications.”

“But there’s no proof, either,” I finished for her.

“Exactly.”

Mr. Degeneres spoke up. “Judicious use of your memory will make it unnecessary,” he said. “Remember, we’re only after an hour-long documentary, and we could make do with a half hour if necessary.”

“And not all of that time has to be filled with actual footage,” Sara reminded. “We’re planning to use charts and graphs, and some archival interview footage, too. We’ve spent a lot of time trying to lay our hands on anything that will advance the cause of organized labor in the public mind.”

“We’ve got some good stuff, too,” Mr. Degeneres said. “But none of it will carry any weight if we don’t get actual footage of the conditions of the mining workers in the late 1800s.”

I nodded absently, looking at my reflection in a mirror as I strapped on my Belt. Average-looking guy, dark hair, dressed in late-1800s average workingman’s clothes, a little above average height. Nothing special. Designed to blend in. “Remind me again why we don’t just use digital imaging and produce all of this footage in a studio,” I requested.

Mr. Degeneres sighed. “This is a volatile political issue,” he said with weary patience. “I’m the leader of the last labor union in the country, and our last few existing chapters are proposing a vote to disband us. Business interests are also trying to get legislation introduced to outlaw unions altogether.”

I nodded, irritated. Sara and I, his two primary aides, knew this all too well, and it wasn’t much fun hearing about it again. We had fought side by side, suffering defeat after defeat in the legislative battle for labor representation. “But why—”

“Because if it’s phony footage, the other side will massacre us. Nobody will believe that we didn’t enhance something, or misrepresent something. Management will know that its best tactic would be to attack the accuracy and credibility of the video, and we’d spend all of our time trying to convince people that we were being historically accurate. That’s why we need actual, honest-to-God footage. That’s why I’m spending the last of my money on sending you back to the 1880s to get it. When people hear about unions, they either think of corruption or inefficient policies. If this video doesn’t convince Congress— and the American people—that there was a legitimate reason and an urgent need for the foundation of labor unions, then we’re finished.”

“Labor unions would come back eventually,” Sara demurred.

"With them being illegal?” Mr. Degeneres retorted. “Having to run the gauntlet of strikebreakers and police and army violence? No! Working men and women did it once. We’re not going to do it again.”

Sara and I exchanged glances. When Mr. Degeneres got into what we called his History of the Oppressed Worker mood, we were usually in for a long day. He saw us look at each other, and sat back, forcing a chuckle. “OK, kids, no lectures today. We’ve got other things to do.”

Sara came up to me and ran a scanner down my torso. “OK, now remember, the nanotechs we gave you will protect you against black lung disease, but won’t keep you from coughing when you run into dust. Try to keep to yourself when you enter the mines, or else the coughing may expose you as a greenhorn. That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but is inconsistent with the identity we’ve prepared for you.” She reached up and felt my shoulders, biceps and arms, and I tried hard not to show how pleasant it was.

“Your physical training has paid off,” she said, nodding.

“Eight months of me, the weights, and the pain,” I agreed.

“You’ll be fit enough to be able to stand the rigors of mine life,” she said. She turned my hands over and looked at the palms. “I’m not as pleased with your hands. They should be more callused. But the skin conditioning we used on you ought to protect you from most of the blistering.”

“It won’t hurt to cultivate the persona of a loner,” Mr. Degeneres added. “We’ve briefed you as well as possible, but we’re still not sure how thoroughly you’ll be able to pass yourself off as one of them.”

I nodded, feeling more and more fear in the pit of my stomach. “Let’s get this over with,” I gritted suddenly.

“OK,” they said in unison. Mr. Degeneres came up and shook my hand. “Good luck, John. We re all counting on you, and I know you’ll do well. And just remember: it’s only two weeks. At the end of that time, the time machine will find you and bring you back here, no matter where you are. Even if they decide you’re some suspicious character, we’ll zip you right out of a jail cell and bring you home.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Degeneres. I’ll do my best.”

He clapped me on the back and stepped aside. Sara came up and clasped my hand. “Two weeks. I’ll see you in two weeks. Right?”

“Right.” I looked to my right and saw the time machine less than an arm’s length away. Suddenly I was terrified, and Sara seemed very close. I took her face in my hands and gave her a hard kiss on the mouth.

She stepped backwards in surprise, and then her eyes brimmed full of tears. She grabbed my head and gave me a hard kiss in return. “You come back,” she choked. “You come back in two weeks, understand?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. I turned and climbed into the machine.

Hans Deckert was surprised to see a fellow walking alone so far from town. From here it was a good walk without a horse, and the stranger had none. Hans reined in his horse, and his wagon jounced to a stop. The fellow looked up—a tall, strapping fellow with black hair and dark eyes. The look on his face, too—one who was expecting trouble, and seemed ready to deal with it.

“Hello, mein Herr,” Hans called quickly, trying to project cheerfulness. “Are you needing a ride into town?”

The stranger looked at him with those dark eyes, and Hans felt a twinge of fear. But the stranger seemed to hesitate. “Is it far?”

“Ja, it is far, for a man on foot. More than a mile, maybe two.”

“They got me pretty close,” the man muttered so softly that Hans wasn’t sure if he heard right. But then the stranger was climbing in beside him. "I’m grateful," he said simply.

“Ach, next time, I will be needing the ride, and you will give it to me,” Hans said expansively. He clucked to the horse and they moved off again.

The stranger sat silently, seeming to be sunk in his own thoughts. Hans kept glancing at him, and finally made an attempt. “And what are you doing out here, so far from town, mein Herr?”

The stranger looked at him with a scowl, and Hans regretted the question. He quailed before the hard stare, and spoke quickly. “I’m sorry to ask,” he said. “Your business is your own.”

The stranger looked away, and then spoke. “I’m looking for a job in the mines.”

“The mines, ach, they always have work for another man. For such a man as you, there will be no problem.”

The stranger looked at him. “ ‘Such as me?’ What do you mean?”

“I mean no offense,” Hans said hastily. “I mean only that you are the biggest man I have ever seen. They will be glad to hire you.”

“Really?”

“Ja!" Hans assured him, thinking he was asking for reassurance about the hiring situation. “They will hire you, or my name is not Hans Deckert.”

The stranger seemed to hesitate, then offered his hand. “John. John Andropolis.”

Hans shook his hand. “Well met, well met." He turned back to the road and looked at this John Andropolis out of the corner of his eye. An odd enough last name, although nothing remarkable in this area crawling with Poles and Czechs and Norsks, where an honest German felt out of place. But no last names for you, my massive friend, Hans thought silently. You I will call Big John. And a man like you could come in handy. Yes.

“So, John—Big John—have you a place to stay in town?”

Big John stirred at the use of his nickname, but then gave a small smile. “No. Nothing yet.”

Hans waved it away as a minor detail. “No matter. You must have supper with me and Frau Deckert, and then I show you to the boarding houses in town, ja?”

Big John considered, then nodded slowly. “I’m grateful,” he said again.

I didn’t know what I expected, but I hadn’t expected to be befriended so early. It was disconcerting. I was trying to be a loner, and I seemed to have convinced this little guy of that. If he thought I was so big, that wasn’t saying much. What was he—a little over five feet tall?

We clopped slowly into the mining town, the potholes just about jouncing the teeth out of my head. Hans seemed to know most of the people, and waved to several. They waved back and stared at me. I gave them my dark look I’d perfected at the Collective Bargaining table, and they looked away.

Hans pulled up to one of the dilapidated shacks that huddled in with the others with a mud yard lacing the rutted street. I activated my belt camera and got a good pan shot of the wretched neighborhood, and then a slow zoom at his house. He called toward the house, and a woman came out.

I stared at her, and tried to look impassive again as Hans introduced me to Helga. She was a pretty little thing with light brown hair, in her midtwenties, with delicate features and a stomach that announced that she was about eight months pregnant. I looked closely at Hans again, and reduced my guess about his age by fifteen years. He was about twenty-five. He looked forty.

I was shown into their shabby hut, and was almost overwhelmed by the poverty that these miners lived in. But they didn’t act like they felt poor, and their hospitality was wonderful. I complimented Helga on the meal we ate, and tried to get them to tell me about themselves, so they wouldn’t have the chance to ask about me.

“We are German peoples, in America for seven years living,” Helga said. “And where are you from, Herr Big John?”

I did not have the ability to cut her off rudely as I had with Hans, so I called on the story Sara and I had prepared. “Louisiana,” I muttered.

“Donnerwetter!” Hans exclaimed. “Louisiana, she is far from here!”

“How come you so far from your home?” Helga asked with sweet concern.

“Trouble,” I said evasively. “I don’t like to talk of it.”

“Of course,” she said tactfully. “We will have no more of it.”

Hans pushed his empty plate away. “So. We are finished. Come with me and I will introduce you to some of the fellows,” he said, smiling broadly.

Helga smiled quietly. “He means he would go and drink beer,” she said. “But not too much, please, Hans. And not with the trouble man.” She didn’t seem to be referring to me.

“Of course not, Liebchen. Come, Big John. You must meet the men you will work with tomorrow. They are mostly a good sort, although many Poles and Norsks and Czechs. But there are some Germans still. And no Irish, thanks to God.”

Helga nodded, her face screwed in disgust. “The Irish are animals,” she told me.

“Even worse than the Swedes,” Hans agreed. “Some tried to live here among us. They quickly learned otherwise. Come. We will get a drink.”

I walked with him, ignoring his chattering. I was stunned by the comments of this friendly couple. So they hated the Irish and the Swedes. They hadn’t even mentioned blacks. But then, even though the AFL formed around 1886 and worked to improve working conditions in mines, blacks weren’t allowed in the union for decades after. I supposed that if Hans ever joined a union, he’d feel he was being excessively tolerant if he allowed Swedes to be in the same union.

How the country had changed! I wondered how he would have felt if he knew that I came from a time where all of the ethnic groups that he so carefully differentiated were grouped together simply as “Caucasian,” and were no longer a majority. And how would he have felt if he knew that my president was black?

Hans pulled me out of my reverie by gripping my arm. I looked at his hand, surprised, and he mistook it for displeasure. “I’m sorry, Big John. I merely wanted to point out the tavern.”

It was a small, sprawling, ramshackle place that seemed full of men. Loud laughter and tortured strains of music were coming from it. I activated my belt video and got a good view of the tavern and some of the men staggering out and falling into mud puddles.

We walked into the building—gad, that’s right, they still smoked back then!— and Hans shouldered his way up to the bar. Mr. Degeneres had supplied me with authentic money he had obtained from a collector, but Hans waved me off. “Nein, it is my treat tonight. Come. We will drink.”

I knew he must not have much money, but he was determined to be hospitable. We found a table and sat down. We drank, and he beamed at me.

“Is goot,ja? It cuts the dust in a fellow’s throat.”

Before I could reply, a voice boomed from across the room. “So, ve haff a Chermann in our midst!”

Hans and I looked to the source of the noise, and Hans seemed to tense up all over. A man was weaving over toward us, pointing at Hans. “I tol’ you never to come here again, Herr Chermann!”

Hans glanced at me, and then looked coldly at him. “Go away, you stupid Polack.”

The man lurched at Hans, more than a little drunk, and outraged by Hans’s words. “You filthy Chermann! I’ll kill you!”

This was clearly not the time for a “let’s not fight each other; let’s band together and fight management” speech. I got to my feet and stepped between the drunk and Hans. “Leave him alone,” I said. I noticed that the room had become quiet, except for an undercurrent buzzing of “who is that man?”

The drunk looked at my chin, and then slowly looked up to my eyes. He seemed impressed, but too drunk to think about it. “Who are you, and why do you protect Chermann filth?”

Before I could answer, Hans popped his head around me. “He is called Big John,” he offered, and then retreated quickly.

“I don’ like your smell!” the drunk yelled.

“Go sit down.” My adrenaline was pumping, and I kept reminding myself that these miners were strong. But probably very few of them had taken martial arts self-defense courses that every union organizer felt was necessary in my time. Anti-union violence hadn’t stopped in the 1930s. Besides, I lived in New York. Self-defense training was almost required by law.

It was almost too easy. The man was so drunk he telegraphed his moves horribly. I blocked his punch, jabbed him in the solar plexus with three stiff fingers, and caught him on the side of the face with a right hook. He went down with a crash, smashing against a table on the way down, and lay still.

There was still silence in the room as everybody stared at me in awe. From the whispering, I gathered that I had just knocked out the town bully. Behind me, I heard Hans talking in German to some friends. He probably assumed I couldn’t understand—English was probably the only common language among these groups. But Germany was a major industrial power in my time, and I had a pretty good command of German as well as several other languages.

“I met him today, and he is friendly but very, very stern. Be sure you don’t give him cause for offense. You saw what he did to that Polack! Well, there was trouble with a woman, I think, in Louisiana. I think he killed a man over her. But he does not like to talk of it.”

There was a buzz of voices I couldn’t quite make out. I was circling the room with my eyes, ready for an attack by the drunk’s friends. But nobody was moving. Hans’s voice came again: “Yes, that’s his name. Big John. The strongest man I’ve ever seen.”

A legend is born, I thought, not allowing the smile to come to my lips. That guy sure has an active imagination. I kept looking around the room. I couldn’t see anyone who was as tall as me. It was amazing, considering that I was only six foot six—not much taller than average in my own time. It must have been nutrition and medical conditions. I remembered visiting Stratford-upon-Avon when I was in London at an International Order of Workers meeting, and touring the house believed to be Shakespeare’s. The tops of the doorways hardly came up to my shoulders.

I gave one more look around the room, activating my camera and looking as tough as I could. If people were afraid of me, they’d steer clear. That would help a lot in my mission.

Hans drank more beer than Helga would have approved of, but he was feeling very good. He had befriended Big John, and his hunch of Big John’s usefulness had already borne fruit. That obnoxious Polack who terrorized just about anyone in town had chosen him, Hans Deckert, to be his primary victim. But with one crashing right hand, Big John had leveled the tormentor, and Hans could enjoy the camaraderie of the tavern again in peace.

He staggered a little in the night air, mucking through the deep mud that was everywhere. “You are already famous in this town,” he informed Big John. “Come. I will show you the boarding houses, and the employment office at the mine.”

He gave Big John a drunken tour of the town, which didn’t take long. “There is not much here except the mines,” he confided, hiccuping. “But for a man such as you, there are many women about, if you know what I mean.” He started to elbow Big John in the ribs, but thought better of it at the last moment. It wouldn’t do to be overly familiar with such a dangerous man. “But here you can get settled, and you will probably start work tomorrow.”

“I’m grateful,” Big John said gruffly. “For the guidance and for the dinner.”

“It is my pleasure," Hans said expansively. “And I am grateful in turn for your help in the tavern. That dirty fellow, he has been a trouble for many months, but I do not think he will be anymore. Good night, Big John.”

Hans headed back home, weaving slightly. Everything felt right with the world on a night such as this.

As the days went by, Hans saw Big John become more familiar with the workings of the mine. Any experienced worker could see that the big man’s stories of previous mine experience were false, for the man had some mannerisms of a tenderfoot— but a tenderfoot who somehow knew what to expect. It was puzzling. But nobody was going to make so bold as to ask Big John about it.

He was a hard worker, too, and had none of the wind fatigue that plagued so many of them. Ach, but that was something that would come with time. Hans had seen it happen to many of his fellows, and to himself, too.

As far as he could tell, Big John had made no friends. He talked to many of the fellows, though—and this was certainly strange!—he didn’t much seem to care who they were. He talked to Polacks, those men with missing teeth and crazy eyes; with the Czechs with the impenetrable language, even the Norsks and Hungarians He spent time with Hans and the Germans as well, of course, although Hans could have sworn that when he spoke German to the other fellows about Big John, the look in the big man’s eyes made Hans wonder if the German was truly going over his head. Certainly the little English that came out of Big John’s mouth was excellent, with a strange accent that Helga had pointed out was not what they imagined a Southern accent would be.

All in all, Big John was a mystery. Discreet inquiries at the boarding house he had taken told Hans that the man was a good tenant, quiet and clean—although he had made one strange request: he asked about having a bath every day! Frau Muller, the housekeeper, told Hans, “I gave him such a look, I wondered if he was a madman, and might kill me next! But he merely gave me a dark look and muttered apologies. Then he went back to his room. I was quite relieved! They say he’s killed a man. It was over a woman, you know, so perhaps he won’t kill again. Still, you never know.”

Hans agreed that one could never know. Consumed with curiosity, he went from there to the many brothels in town, and inquired within. No, none had done business with the tall, dark and silent man who was new in town.

“Why do you wonder so about this man?” Helga asked him one night, nestled in the crook of his arm.

“I don’t know,” Hans admitted. “I owe him a debt of gratitude. He is fearsome, yet seems to be a good man. And his stories of his past do not seem to match up to his behavior.” He did not admit the true reason for his curiosity: that it was more pleasant to wonder about this man than it was to contemplate his own future.

For it was rumored that the mine was failing. The richness of the ore was deteriorating, and profit was decreasing. And everyone knew that that would mean a decrease in the wages. Unless the mine was closed, and then there would be no jobs, and how would Hans Deckert provide for his wife and new baby?

There was talk of a new mine being started ten miles to the south, but what could one believe of such rumors? And with his increasing wind fatigue, how long could he work, even if the mine stayed open? No—it was more pleasant to be wondering about the new man, and the mysteries that surrounded him.

For there were surely mysteries. Big John often seemed to be muttering to himself, but not as one who is approaching madness. And he would stand and stare at the others as they worked or talked, standing apart from them and making no effort to join in. Once Hans found him standing and looking at a pile of the mining gear that had just been assigned to the new man. The gear was curiously arranged, as if for a portrait, and Big John stood some four or five feet from it, standing very still and gazing at it.

The man s sense of humor was rare in its appearance, and strange when used. Hans saw him pick up his miner’s helmet—certainly the most mundane piece of equipment one could imagine!—and finger the candle and reflector mounted in the brow, and laugh. Not as if it were funny, but as if it were not to be believed. But why would that not be believed? Would he rather they all worked in the dark?

Another time, as they all climbed down from the train cars that took them into the mine, Hans saw Big John stop and stand to one side, clutching his belt, and staring at the canary cage being hung from a wooden stake near the work area. Then he shook his head and walked away. Hans wondered if the canary was a new innovation to the mind of this man from the south. If they had mines there, and if Big John had indeed been a miner despite any indications to the contrary, perhaps they had never thought of using canaries to warn of poison gas.

But the canary allowed Big John to show his courage. One afternoon, while deep in the concentration of work, Joachim Gonnermann suddenly filled the cavern with a shout.

“The bird! Oh, Hans, see the bird!” He was so filled with fear that he called out in German.

Hans jerked his head toward the bird, and saw it fluttering weakly in the bottom of its cage. Adrenaline inspired by pure fear shot through him. “GAS!” he shrieked in a voice that cut through the clank of picks and shovels. Other workers whirled around, electrified, and shot looks straight at the canary.

“GAS! GAS!” they took up the cry, and it spread through the entire shaft. Men threw down their tools and rushed to the train cars, some of them ignoring the cars and simply sprinting for the surface.

Quickly, the train cars were filled and the driver leaped into position. Suddenly a terrible cry came from the depths of the mine: “WAIT!!”

They turned to see Big John emerge from the shadowy depths of one of the caves, dragging the inert forms of two men with him. He carried them up to the train cars, which were already overfilled with men. He set one of the unconscious men down, and almost threw the other into a full car. “Take him!” he bellowed, and the men were too struck with fear to protest. Leaving them to accommodate the man as best they could, Big John picked up the other unconscious man, carried him to the next car, and threw him into the midst of men there. “Take him!” he roared again. The men scrabbled to keep the man from falling.

Big John struck the side of the car with the big flat of his hand with a thud that shuddered through the train. “GO!” he bellowed at the driver, and the driver needed no urging.

The train cars left at top speed, and Hans sat wedged in the third car and looked back at the receding figure of Big John as the train left him behind.

The train made it to the surface in time to see the throngs from the town being summoned by the alarm bell. Wives and families ran to see if their men were alive or dead, and the miners embraced their loved ones and sucked in the sweet air of the surface, never once caring about the smoke that was always present in the air.

The two unconscious miners were slowly awaking, and dozens of men were telling the story of how they were saved by Big John, and how Big John had been left behind when the trains were full. Helga was hugging Hans, who was inconsolable.

Fifteen minutes after the train reached the surface, a shout came from someone near the mouth of the mine. "Someone’s coming up!”

Grabbing torches from the sides of the mine, several men ran in. The blazing torches illuminated the towering figure of Big John, almost completely spent, staggering up the mine corridor with another unconscious man slung over his shoulder.

Cries of awe and congratulation echoed off the walls as eager hands seized the unconscious man and relieved Big John of his burden. But such was his pride that he scorned other help, and when men tried to assist, he struck their helping hands from his belt and strode out unaided.

Weeping with gratitude, the wives of the three miners threw themselves upon him, hugging him and insisting that he sit and rest. He permitted the ministrations of the women where he refused the help of men, and soon was lowering himself heavily to the ground, allowing blankets to be spread beneath him.

Within an hour, everyone in the county knew of his heroism.

I slept most of the next day, and the townspeople left me alone. Only Helga bothered me, once knocking on my door and giving me a basket of food provided by the grateful families. “John Lewis is very ill,” she told me in her heavily accented English, “but he is expected to recover.”

“Who?”

“The third miner, the one you carried up with you. All are most grateful to you, Herr Big John.”

I was feeling violently ill myself, so I smiled briefly at her, nodded shortly, and closed the door. I went and collapsed onto my sorry excuse for a bed, and closed my eyes. I had no idea how many nanotechs had been destroyed in protecting me against hydrogen sulfide, but I was willing to bet that it was a large chunk of them. I was running a fever as they scrambled to recover their losses. They must have been confronted with a heavy concentration of the stuff to lose so many of their number. But they had worked long enough, and had bought me time—how much, I didn’t know, but enough to get me back to the surface. And they had enabled me to save the lives of three men, and had added considerably to my legend.

I laughed humorlessly at the thought that came into my mind. I had changed the past! Oh, no! The world would be violently different when I got back to my time.

I dismissed the thought without any effort. I had serious issues to deal with, and worrying about an old science fiction cliche wasn’t one of them. In this era of the Robber Barons, hundreds of thousands of people lived and died completely unnoticed, chewed up in the industrial machines controlled by a handful of incredibly powerful millionaires: Rockefeller, Morgan, Gould, Vanderbilt, Carnegie and others. For every ton of ore mined, for every acre of trees converted to lumber, for every mile of railroad track laid, dozens of men died. And if anyone complained, if anyone suggested that workers should have working conditions that wouldn’t kill them; if anyone suggested that twelve hours a day, six days a week were a little excessive; if anyone suggested that children shouldn’t be subjected to those conditions, they were branded communists and beaten, jailed, perhaps killed. In the next few decades, state militias would gun down hundreds of striking workers, all in the name of fighting communism and anarchy.

A handful of men were all that mattered in the late 1800s. It didn’t even make any difference who was president. A few mine workers would make no difference to history whatsoever.

I lay with my arm over my eyes, and thought about Sara. The memory of the kiss I gave her was still sizzling in my brain. We’d worked together for years, but it wasn’t until I went on this potentially dangerous mission that I had the nerve to do what I’d always wanted. And, apparently, she had wanted it too. The thought made me feel much better.

I thought about some of the footage I had shot. A gas panic, a mass evacuation, three limp bodies dramatically showing how deadly the stuff was, a lurching journey out of the mine, and the tumultuous reception of the town at the end. These men lived and died with the mine, and so did their families and the town.

Amazing. In my time, only robots did mining. No human would ever endanger himself down there, even though the last human miners had enjoyed safety conditions a million times better than what these people accepted without question.

It was a million times better, because of safety reforms the unions had forced on management. And nobody in my time realized that—they took it all for granted. Not even the management of the worst companies even considered proposing working conditions remotely like what I saw here.

It must have been the poison gas that was still affecting me, because the next thought came totally unbidden.

That’s why the country doesn’t need unions any more. Their work is done.

I sat up in surprise. What was I thinking? This was blasphemy!

I sat on my bed and thought about it. Nowhere in America were working conditions even remotely like this. Wage scales were standardized, and nobody had much complaint with them any more. Federal safety regulations were stringent, and were accepted by management and labor alike. National health insurance had removed one of the biggest negotiating obstacles. And the judicial system with its sophisticated arbitration procedures now handled disputes as well as any grievance committee could.

And what’s more, all of this was taken for granted—by both workers and management.

When was the last time I had a fight with a company’s management? Lately; all I’ve done is fight to keep the workers from dumping the union!

Sleep did not come easily that night.

I was back to work the next day. The “communistic” concept of paid sick days would not be accepted for decades yet, but my motivation was different. I only had a limited amount of time here. I had to make as much use of it as possible.

We were taken to a different part of the mine that day. The mining train took us only part way down, and then we walked a steep series of switchbacks, each delving deeper and deeper into the earth. The tunnels were narrow and sadly lacking in headroom, and the construction of the bracing was lousy. I recorded it all for posterity, not sure what posterity would do with it.

We finally got to the digging area. We had to explore for ore, and bring it out by hand, before the company would decide whether the new area was worth developing enough to accommodate a train and heavy traffic.

I looked blearily around the flickering hellhole. Yeah, whoever had worked to improve mining conditions from this crap had done an enormous amount for the working man. There was a reason men risked death by fighting for their unions in the late 1800s—they had so much to gain. And the unions had improved their lives immeasurably.

What have I done?

I’d spent my entire adult life working for unions. But had I done anything to make life better for working men and women?

No.

I finally understood why Sara and I had suffered defeat after defeat. I finally understood why Mr. Degeneres had lost his influence. The perception was that we just plain weren’t needed any more.

And I wasn’t sure they weren’t right.

The men were really steering clear of me today. The look in my eyes must have matched the feeling in my soul—the despair of realizing that I’ve wasted my life. And realizing that the ideals I’ve lived by my entire life were wrong.

The only good I’d ever done anybody was here in the 1880s. If I looked back on all of my accomplishments in my own time, I’d have to admit— what was that!

I jerked myself back to my present situation, and noticed that all of the miners had frozen, the whites of their eyes reflecting in the flickering light as they all looked upward. Like me, they were listening intently, in an agony of fear, and then it came again.

...A low, soft groan...

It wasn’t a human sound, but the ominous, subtle warning of wood that was giving way. Suddenly, as never before, I was aware of the thousands and thousands of tons of rock and soil above us. Without thinking about it, I activated my camera.

...And again...

It was Hans Deckert who broke the thrall as his spade clattered to the ground, and his voice broke the spell.

“Out!” he shrieked. “It’s a cave-in! Everybody out!”

Suddenly we were all moving, everybody shouting, a panicked stampede toward the only exit, everybody yelling in fear, so if there was another groan, none of us heard it.

...But we felt the rumble.

We were all scrambling, pushing, shoving, yelling, bolting for the exit, and the rumble knocked some people off balance. And then a board gave way with a snap, and rock and soil crashed down just a dozen feet ahead of the miners in front, smashing down in a ripping, tearing, rumbling cascade of dirt and dust and our only escape route was pulverized and obliterated by tons of earth, and we were all knocked off our feet by the power of the fell, screaming and yelling and coughing as dust filled the air and we fought to breathe. I lay flat on the ground, with two men thrown on top of me, and my ear was pressed to the dirt, and I didn’t hear or feel anything but the noise of the men in our dimly lit grave.

We scrambled to our feet and groped around. Most mens’ candles had gone out, and only two torches remained in the narrow, crowded cave.

“Trapped!” Hans yelled. “Oh my God, we’re trapped!”

A miner’s worst fear; something that didn’t even exist in my time. With the construction techniques we used in the mines, there were never any cave-ins. And even if there were, the robots were designed to withstand enormous pressures, and would just shut themselves off until they were dug out.

I knew all about mines in my time. The technicians who maintained the mining robots had voted to disband their union five years before, figuring that their union dues weren’t getting them anything they wouldn’t get anyway.

I looked around and realized that cave-ins had happened all over the place. Through some miracle, the only part that hadn’t collapsed was a short section of tunnel that we were all in. As it was, we were piled on top of each other, and were probably looking at a slower, more dreadful death than if we’d been crushed.

There was pandemonium in our cramped space as every miner cried and yelled in panic and despair. I tried to shut out the noise and think, but no ideas came. We were trapped here. The limited air supply didn’t even allow us to try to dig ourselves out. All we could do was wait and hope that rescue came before the air or the rest of the support beams gave out.

There was another groaning noise that I heard over the pandemonium because it was so close. I looked up in alarm, and saw one of the support timbers actually bending! It started giving way, letting loose a series of rifle shot cracks that got everyone’s attention. The yelling and panic increased, and I knew if that beam let go, the whole roof was going to come down on us. I leaped to my feet and put my shoulder to the sagging beam. I spread my feet wide apart, kicking men in the process, and then I focused every ounce of strength in my body and heaved with all my might.

The beam stopped sagging.

There were cheers from the miners now, and Hans was encouraging me at the top of his lungs. "Ja, Big John, you can save us all! Hold it! Hold it up!”

I moved my feet in closer, gasping for breath, and gathered myself together. I gave another enormous heave, praying that nothing would pop in my back. But it wasn’t my back that gave way—it was the ceiling to one side of the beam. Dirt cascaded down, and the only reason it didn’t kill me was because my head was on the other side of the beam. Men yelled and scrambled away from the pile of dirt, but when it stopped, Hans scrambled up it and peered upwards.

“Light!” he yelled. “I see light up there!!”

I risked losing control of the beam, and turned so my head was on the other side, almost breaking my neck in the process. It was true. Twenty or thirty feet above, I could make out a dim pool of light. It must have been from torches in the zigzag tunnel above us. Some of its floor had given way, and left a narrow, irregular tunnel up to it.

And then I knew what I could do to help the working men of the world.

I met Hans’s eye, and gestured upward with my head. “Go!” I barked. “Stand on my shoulder! Climb up!” I gestured at the others. “All of you! Go!”

Hans looked wild. “But how will you—”

“Come back for me!” I roared. “Go!”

He nodded quickly, and scrambled up the dirt pile that was spilling around my legs. He put one of his miner’s boots on my shoulder, and pushed up. Dirt showered around me, matting my hair and clogging my throat as he scrambled upward. The others were right behind him, clamoring for their turn. I wasn’t sure if they’d be able to claw their way up to the other tunnel, but one by one they disappeared.

Leaving me alone.

The beam pressed down hard on my shoulder. I looked up at the tunnel, now partially obscured by the frantic scrabblings of twenty men. I heard their shouts fade away as they dashed for the surface, and I was left in silence. I knew that if I let the beam go and made a break for it, I wouldn’t get six inches. Everything would collapse on me, crushing me instantly.

Next to my ear, the beam creaked evilly, and I pushed harder against it. There was a slight trickling sound from the dirt that was coming into the chamber. And there was the rasping sound of my breath as I tried to keep the beam up.

Nothing else.

I remembered my video belt. It was still recording, both video and audio.

“I’m John Andropolis,” I gasped, my voice filling the empty chamber. “I’m alone here at the bottom of the mine. I’ve just saved twenty miners from a cave-in. They’re coming back to save me, but I don’t know if they’ll get back in time.

“You may look at this video and remark how much better things are than they were in 1880. You may even conclude that things are so much better, we don’t need unions any more.” I shifted my feet to keep a firm footing in the drifting dirt. “Well, maybe you’re right. For the first time, I understand why I’ve had no success battling against the anti-union movement. It’s because people don’t think they need unions any more.” The dirt was flowing faster, and I was struggling to keep my feet. “So I guess if union membership goes down to zero, that wouldn’t be so bad. But voting to outlaw unions would be a disaster. Because I firmly believe that it’s the threat of unionization that makes some companies keep working conditions so good. And if that threat goes away, some of you may someday find yourselves in a place like this.” I fumbled for the fingertip switch inside my belt that would transfer all of my data back to my time. “That’s all I have to say. Sara, I love you.”

Hans Deckert was at the head of the pack that was charging back down the mine tunnel, staggering under the weight of a bunch of lumber. We will get down there with him, and we will support the beam with this wood, he thought desperately. And then we will be pulled up by rope held by the rest of these fellows. “Hang on, Big John!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. “We are coming to get you!”

They were halfway to him when the rumble knocked them off their feet.

They held the memorial service the next day in the Lutheran church. Hans Deckert, who knew him as well as anyone, tried to say a few words, but was too overcome with grief to manage much. He broke down completely, and stood with tears streaming down his face until Helga came and led him off the podium.

“He was a good man,” Hans said brokenly. “No matter what he did elsewhere, he was a good man for us. Although he was here for only two weeks or so, he helped us.”

Helga nodded, her eyes filled with tears as well. “If only we knew where to go,” she said sadly. “We could find that girl he loved, and tell her how bravely he died. She would be proud.”

A company official walked up to the podium and announced that the damage to the mine was extensive. “We will not reopen it,” he said. “The ore is of poor quality now, and there is no profit in continuing it. However, we are opening a new mine about ten miles south. There will be jobs for all of you there.”

After the ceremony, a group of men gathered outside. “If the mine is not to reopen, it is a fitting grave for Big John,” one said.

“In that case, we should make a marker for him,” another said.

A third man chimed in. “It must be large. Marble. With a suitable inscription that tells of his name and his prowess.”

Hans nodded vigorously. “Ja, ja! And we must tell his story often. He was a hero, you know. A legend in his own time!”

Content

Big John
by Doug Larsen