The ELI Event B007R5LTNS

point of view. Still, they want it back.”
    “So… you know Eli?” Robin asked slyly.
    Arty chuckled. “Not a whole lot better than you do. But I know what you’re getting at. And yes, I know he’s a computer.”
    Busted, Robin laughed. “Okay, what’s the rest of your story? What else do you know that I don’t?”
    “Well, I know that something really, really bad is going to happen in just a few hours unless we stop it, and that you will be instrumental in that.” Something occurred to him. “You know what I mean by instrumental , right?”
    “Duh. I’m not retarded,” Robin shot back.
    “Sorry. Anyway, we have to try to stop this very bad thing, and we need to be with Eli to do it. I’ve got some friends outside who’ll take us to him.”
    “Sweet,” Robin replied. “That’s more like it!”
    “But before we go, there’s more stuff I need to tell you.” Arty wiped his face with both hands, wondering how to proceed.
    “Hey, if I can take finding out that my best friend’s a computer, I can take whatever you’ve got to say,” Robin offered bravely.
    Arty laughed. “Good boy. Okay, here goes. Brace yourself, kid, it’s gonna get bumpy.”
    Arty told Robin the same basic story he had told Steve and Kelly, beginning with the fact that he was a janitor, and had been “jumped” here from the year 2034—which Robin actually seemed to take in good stride—first to help him in Colby, and now here. As promised, he showed Robin his callback unit; Robin’s quick, open mind grasped the facts and accepted Arty’s tale as true. He understood that the bad guys had a giant ray-gun on a satellite and had screwed it up themselves, and that Eli had stolen the data to try to fix it. He understood that if they didn’t get Eli to stop it, that weapon would destroy the entire city of Los Angeles. He understood that he would be the key player in getting Eli to do so, even if it meant giving the bad guys their data back.
    What he didn’t understand was where Arty fit into the whole thing, and said so.
    “Well, I told you I’m from Colby too, right?” Arty asked.
    “Right,” Robin said. “You’re a janitor in Colby.”
    “Yeah. Well, I was this morning, anyway.” He knew it was time to finish his story. “So, Robin, you know why they call me Arty?” He asked, pointing to the embroidered patch on his coveralls.
    “Um, ’cause that’s your name?” Robin joked.
    “Ha. Cute. No, because my first two initials are R. T. So… R. T., arr-tee, sounds like Arty.”
    “Okay, it’s your initials, R. T. I get it. What do they stand for?”
    Arty hesitated a moment. “Robin Theodore,” he said slowly.
    Robin looked at him in silence for a long, long time. Arty thought it best not to push it until the boy was ready to start asking questions.
    “Robin Theodore?” Robin repeated.
    “Yup.”
    “As in… Kirkland?”
    “Yup.”
    Another lengthy silence.
    “So, you’re saying… you’re me ? Twenty years from now?”
    “Yup.”
    More silence.
    “Don’t believe you.”
    Arty leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. “Mrs. Faraday, Mike the bully, ‘Bird’, sock full of nickels, fear of fire, the old man, homemade computer in the closet, chatting with Eli… what’s not to believe?” He smiled.
    “Well, if you’re from the future, you could know all that stuff anyway,” Robin parried.
    Arty nodded. “Maybe. But Robin, I know that stuff because I know you . And I know you because I am you.”
    The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Prove it,” Robin said flatly.
    “I thought you’d never ask,” Arty said cheerfully. He unbuttoned his right shirt cuff and pushed it and his coverall sleeve up to the elbow. He turned his arm over, palm up, and held it out for Robin to inspect. On the inside of his forearm was an ugly, six-inch scar, consisting of two parallel lines straight as could be, with an inner pattern of curves punctuated by two small round indentations three inches apart. Arty held his breath.
    Robin fixed his gaze on Arty’s forearm and didn’t budge for at least a minute. Arty held firm. Then, without looking away for an instant, Robin pushed up the right sleeve of his green hoodie and held out his arm next to Arty’s. It had the same scar exactly: same length, same pattern, same dots.
    Robin finally looked up at Arty’s face, examining it more closely now, seeing the similarities in the eyes, nose, and mouth. “How…”
    “The carpet tack strip in our house, the night