“Of course I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon, it was the most interesting event of the twentieth century. Well, discounting the first World Wars and the invention of computers and the airplane, and the creation of the Internet, and the first automobiles, and the Cold War, and. . .”

The man outside the sound booth waved his hands.

Right, “Be concise. Be positive.”

“But, those had been covered to death in countless contemporary works. But, even when compared to those monumental historical developments, the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon holds a certain special place within my heart due to the sheer number of mysteries surrounding it. These mysteries were no doubt aided by the small amount of coverage of the race as few at the time bothered paying attention to it for a multitude of reasons.

“Its starting day came with claims of a new land-speed record for a horse and an open-air motorcycle. The moment these records were made conveniently occurred while the cameras were all turned off for fear of the kicked-up dust damaging equipment. And, no one could take the announcer’s word for it, Motorcycles wouldn’t be able to reach that speed while remaining open for several decades, and horses. . . well, horses have never been able to run that fast.

“That gaffe not only led to the death of the announcer’s career, but it also resulted in a loss in credibility regarding everything about the event. Investors and advertisers stopped promoting it, and the only news coverage focused on Grenfell and Maxwell's personal lives rather than the race. Despite the trivial amount of official records being made for the race, anecdotal reports of violence and disappearances accompanied the marathon throughout its course.

“These reports were never officially investigated, but the loss of life among the competitors was evident. Of the quarter-million teams initially in the race, less than one thousand arrived at the final stage’s finish line. Many of the missing competitors were retrieved by expedition teams hired by Mr. Grenfell, and scattered autopsies claim lacerations, gunshot wounds, and other, stranger causes of death.

“The two major sponsors of the race, Mr. Grenfell and Mr. Maxwell are probably the most well-known people connected to it. To this day, their names are synonymous with impossible yet believed promises, people with unknown sources of wealth, and well-meaning mistakes. Despite their historical staying power, little is known about them, their first recorded appearance was in India where they promoted the marathon, the total amount and source of their wealth was never disclosed, and they never appeared publicly after the race’s finish.

“Despite the loss in credibility worldwide, the skepticism surrounding Grenfell’s and Maxwell’s wealth, and the ever-present danger throughout the race, the nearly one million competitors saw the race as their road to riches and glory. The sensational promise of a wish to the victor had no small influence on the people’s fervor, and the competitors were more than willing to risk everything to gain that fabled prize.

“And that. That passion from an almost magical source that overtook these people and the mystery of how it all happened is what brought me and my crew back almost three-hundred years.” I took a deep breath. Speaking for such long periods was not a skill I possessed, “There. Was that take good enough for you Samuel?”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The man clicked a button and his clearly annoyed voice came through a speaker within the room, “That was fine, but I’m Madden.” The man pointed to a person sitting beside him, fiddling with a camera, “He’s Samuel.”

I nodded and left the sound booth, “Have you gotten the footage yet?”

God, why was this the only job I could get?

The man looked at me, though he wasn’t the one I addressed, “Yup, I got the generic B-roll for the intro, and our outdoor cameras are trained on the other competitors of interest.”

A waste of my talents, and on what? A fucking documentary.

I approached the man and surveyed the numerous electronic screens. I recognized the plane as belonging to Jacqueline Santos-Dumont, and the nearby horse and motorcycle that were supposed to break records, but none of the other people were familiar.

Not only a documentary, a documentary on this stupid race. Nobody remembers it, and those that do, know it was nothing but a sham to see how desperate people could become. But, I’m not desperate. I just. . . can’t be picky with my jobs at the moment.

When the race began, we kept our eyes on the alleged victor, Sheri Parfit; the lost pilot, Jacqueline Santos-Dumont; and Etteilla Laveau, the owner of history’s “fastest” horse. The plan was that I would provide on-site commentary, and we would later create a more fleshed-out script for the footage when we returned to the present.

We were surprised when our cameras recorded Etteilla’s teammate shooting Dumont’s plane. Even more so when our Sound Isolator detected Dumont mentioning the loss in fuel.

Huh, cheating so early, and by Grenfell’s favorite team no less.

“Strange,” one of the crewmen said, “If Dumont knew of the leak, why would she take off?”

His question was answered when the team behind her, a hitherto unknown group hijacked her plane and launched it themselves.

What.

I’ve done a little preliminary research for this thing. . .

I’m out of luck, not talent.

. . . but, not once in my research did it mention that Dumont was hijacked by a group of wannabe cowboys.

We barely had time to be surprised at that moment as the cameraman pointed out something far more astonishing, Sheri was gone. Her truck had vanished from outside. He hastily cycled through the cameras until he landed on the micro-camera we had placed on their hood. With its view on screen, we could plainly see the city of Flores.

What.

The implication that practical teleportation existed centuries before we had believed would be revolutionary.

Perhaps it could even revitalize my career.

As our astonishment began to fade into acceptance, our recorder set to the race announcements radio station picked up that Etteilla had broken ahead. We mocked the statement; it was well known that it was impossible for a horse to travel that quickly, and the sound bite was an infamous example of bad journalism.

An example I had hammered into me countless times.

But given what else had happened. . .

Samuel switched to the camera he had placed at the edge of the salt flats. On it, we could clearly see that two people had breached the dust cloud surrounding the racers. Samuel zoomed it in. One of the people was on an open-air motorcycle, the other. . . a horse.

What.

Nothing else. Just what.

The four people we had planned to follow were all well beyond our vehicle's reach, at least beyond it without drawing attention to ourselves. One of the two men took direct control of the micro-camera in Flores and launched it to get a few aerial shots of Sheri’s victory. Meanwhile, the other retired to the cabin and began to weave us through the crowd and towards the other competitor of interest, Urho Häyhä. There weren’t any reported incidents involving him today, but we know that something happened before he reached Flores, and given what else had already happened. . .

I urged him to drive faster and began to smile. This was the first natural smile I had done in. . . I don’t even know how long.

I am Revatti Alcubierre, and this race is how I rediscovered my calling.