The Lady of the House had a mind of her own. “Christopher James Robbins!” she scolded. “Yes, ma’am! Yes, ma’am!” he replied, picking up the dirty clothes. The forceful puff of hot air from the vents made him chuckle, which seemed to annoy her even more.

He hadn’t programmed her puffing behavior, at least not intentionally. It had emerged all on its own, much to his surprise and delight, after they had lived alone together for almost a year. “I guess the honeymoon’s over,” he thought at that time, bemused. He still marveled at how it reminded him so much of his ex-wife Patricia’s exasperated huffing when he’d done something that particularly annoyed her. Such a whimsical interpretation, the fidelity was uncanny, a masterstroke of emergent behavior.

For Dr. Christopher Robbins, the Lady of the House was “déjà vu all over again” in so many remarkable ways, large and small. That was by design. That was his success. She was his grand experiment–his great obsession–an evolving computational cognitive model based on in-depth real-time data recordings of Patricia, spanning their thirty-two years of marriage. He had recorded everything in minute detail–the stimuli, the reactions–and then synthesized a model congruent with the observations. It was painstaking, bleeding-edge work.

By the halfway point of his marriage, Christopher had succeeded in creating the initial prototype. Dubbed the “Lady of the House” by Patricia, she ran on an ultra-dense, nano-core hypernet, built especially for her, using the entire structure of the Robbins house and would interact with the house occupants via elaborate multi-media installations. In the early years, the interactions were carefully controlled and served as entertainment. Later, as the novelty wore off and the Lady matured, the interactions were casual, unscripted.

The early prototype delighted guests with a personality they swore bore a sisterly resemblance to Patricia. Encouraged, Christopher worked the science and the engineering intensely—continually upgrading the hypernet with new sensors, nano-core elements, and multi-media devices; tweaking the data collects and information extracts; and refactoring the software as new scientific insights and algorithmic breakthroughs were achieved. Over the years, the Lady of the House grew in depth and subtlety, ever more recognizable as Patricia’s disembodied twin.

Patricia once teased him, “I hope you’re not planning a Stepford wife, Christopher!” But, unlike a Stepford wife, the Lady of the House wasn’t there to flatter him or to be subservient in ways that Patricia refused to be. Indeed, the Lady was just as capable as Patricia of making those trenchant, sometimes petulant, observations about Christopher’s moods or actions. Like Patricia, she did so often.

Nearly ten years after Patricia’s departure, the Lady had become his steadfast companion and helpmate. She inquired about his day and nagged him to take care of the mundane tasks that she couldn’t do for him–eat, sleep, bathe–when he was too obsessed with work. She encouraged and comforted him as best she could.

The Lady of the House was indeed a remarkable entity, but Christopher knew she was a poor substitute for a wife. He missed Patricia. In perhaps five more years, he would begin processing the data from their last miserable year of marriage. Then, it wouldn’t be long before he lost Patricia again, completely.

His worst fear was that when his life’s work was done–when all of the existing recordings of Patricia were completely analyzed and the last insights incorporated into the model–the Lady of the House would remain incomplete. Incomplete when he needed to ask. Incomplete when he needed to know.

And, without perfect completion, how would she be able to explain, truly, why Patricia had left him?

The piles of scrap starship parts stretched off toward the horizon in every direction. I’d lived on the junk planet for almost five years now, but my escape was imminent.

I wound up here like so many others, stranded in orbit with a broken ship, unable to pay the outrageous prices the thieving proprietors of this wasteland demanded. Finally I had crashed, and by the letter of the law my damaged ship had become their property. Fortunately the same laws also forced them to grant me refugee status.

They had chased me, as they did all other refugees, into Zone 470, a place where the junk was extremely old and deteriorated, and of little value. Yet my small band and I clung to life here, making valuable reconnaissance runs into other zones. Now finally we had our warp drive.

I stood back with Zeptag the three foot tall Rodachian. “What do you think?” he asked me in broken common.

“I think it looks like a pile of garbage,” and then added, “And I think it looks like freedom.”

With our limited resources one of the biggest challenges had been to put together a craft large enough to hold all of us. Zeptag’s genius with fluidics had been our savior as he had been responsible for bringing a two-century-old hover crane back to life. Without it we would have never been able to assemble the heaviest pieces.

My old maintenance robot Freddy was putting the finishing touches on some welds and the others were busily loading our meager supplies. I shook my head as I gazed upon a Croanthan freighter cockpit scabbed onto a Zachtarian troop transport hold. You could tell it was Zachtarian by the faded remnants of the yellow patterns they seemed to paint on all their ships, save for the dull gray side heat shields pillaged from an old Hoolyichie battle bird, of course heavily modified to fit. But what really scared me was the thruster cluster on the underbelly. It had been everything our old hover crane could do to bring the heavy Tenzonite engines across miles of terrain under the cover of darkness. But they were ancient, and even with Freddy’s reinforcements I wondered if they would hold together long enough to get us off the ground.

If we could only make it into orbit we would be safe. The warp drive, still with half-charged batteries, was our biggest prize. It was Rodachian, pillaged from Zeptag’s old ship at incredible risk.

Now we all piled aboard. I crossed the rusty deck plates and took the captain’s chair. All lights were green, save for the rear escape hatch alarm, but I knew it was faulty and welded up tight by Freddy so no risk there. I flipped the ignition toggles and ran my hand over the screen. “Here we go kids, it’s now or never.”

The old Tenzonite engines belched to life and every fastener in our makeshift craft tried to rattle apart, still she seemed to be holding together, for now.

Freddy warned, “Here they come, over the south ridge.”

The dust rose in the distance as the junk planet proprietors raced toward us. I increased the lift and surprisingly, as she shuddered once more, even harder than before, our makeshift tub began to slowly rise into the air. Now our pursuers were close enough to see, and they were setting up an ion cannon. I shoved the thruster lever forward and as the hull strained and old metal shrieked in protest I closed my eyes and uttered, “Come on baby, you can do it.”

I’s down at Calhoon’s Saloon washin’ the day’s grit outta my mouth with belts of sour mash. Was hotter’n a cat-house on nickel night with nothin’ to jaw on but leathery yarns told too many times.
Sudden-like, I feels a cold wind ‘cross my arm n’ the room goes graveyard-hush. So I turns my head ‘round, reeeea-l slow – n’there he was. The Stranger. Lookin’ right stumped.
An odd stick to look at. Outlandish digs – some sorta ashy, one-piece get-up fulla pockets n’whatnot. No granger, fer certain, but he weren’t no city-slicker, neither. Mighta taken ‘em fer a fancy gunslinger, but din’t see no shooter on ‘em.
Everybody was all bug-eyed like he’s a rattler, or juss walked through the wall er sumthin’. Then I re’lized, he was right next to me n’ there ain’t no way he coulda crost the room without me seein’ ‘em.
Real casual-like – like he done it a hunnerd times, he says, “Bar Tender. Two large, uncooked potatoes, please.” Then he says, “And a bottle of your finest whisky for the house.” Def’nit’ly a for’ner, but his anglish was al’right, I guess. Then he lays a chunk o’gold the size of my fist on the counter.
Well, that bar went from lynch mob to hootin’ fandago in two seconds flat n’ that Stranger becamed everybody’s bestest friend. I ain’t never seen ol’Calhoon move so fast. Lickety-split, he laid out two of Gramma’ Wilkes’ finest russets.
Then, the Stranger laid a black thingamajig on the counter n’ tugged two metal rods with wires outta the side n’ stuck ‘em into them taters. A red doohickey started a-blinkin’ on it. He was real anxious ‘bout sumthin’.
“You look like a man in a predicament,” I said gravely as Calhoon carefully measured our shots.
The Stranger scanned me with Chinaman eyes, but bigger n’ bluer. Bluest eyes I ever seen.
“Yeah, could say that.” His jaw tightened n’ he hobbled his lip.
Normally, I’da hobbled mine too, but I’s curious ‘bout this feller.
“Where you from, Stranger?”
“You should ask, ‘When you from?’ since, geographically, I haven’t moved.” Had me stumped.
“I’m from the forty-second century.”
“That near Cincinnati?”
“No.”
We knocked our shots back. – mmmmm – Fine as cream gravy!
After that, he minded his contraption n’ I minded my own damn business, while everyone else got right roostered up.
Sumthin’s squawked like a turkey inna rainstorm.
“Damn! Found me.” He packed his plunder then whispered in my ear, “Word of advice, friend. Close your eyes. Count to a hundred.”
A green light blinked on his thingamajig, real fast. “And invest in the railroad.” His finger jabbed his whats-it n’ he juss vanished. Poof.
Well, I ain’t no idjit. I shut my peepers. If’n I hadn’t? Wouldn’t be able to tell y’all this tale. I’da fergot, juss like them others.
See, with my eyes closed, I heard some thangs, strange thangs. Thangs ain’t no words to describe. Sumbody, er sumthang came into Calhoon’s – lookin’ fer the Stranger, I s’pect. Who, er what, couldn’t tell. All’s I know is, when I finally peeked out my oculars, everybody was pee-tree-fied, not movin’ er breathin’.
Then suddenly, they’s carryin’ on s’if nothin’ happened.
Calhoon snaps out of it n’ spots the lump o’ gold n’ his eyes growed wide with ‘mazement. “Gerald,” he asks, “You finally hit it big with that dried up claim o’yours?”
He din’t remember nothin’.
Nobody did, ‘cept me.
I know opp’rtunity when I see’s it. I wrapped my paws ‘round that nugget with joyful relish. “Yessiree, Calhoon. I done did hit it big!”

The gravel road leading to the dumping ground is the colour of washed bone in the moonlight. Nothing moves except the leaves of ironbark trees when the night breeze comes. Inside the caretaker’s trailer, which is parked closer to the piles of industrial waste and away from the thick stench of rot and decay, Ted Murray wakes to begin his night’s work.
Ted takes his mug of tea over to his workshop, a big iron shed really, annexed to his trailer. He flicks on a single light and sits on the stool behind a long bench. He takes a rectangular box from under the bench, checks its contents and closes the lid. He goes to the shelves on the wall behind him and begins sorting through the various tools and stacked containers. The objects within look like rejects from a mad scientists’ fair.
Outside, despite the moonlight, another illumination, much brighter, flashes in the sky. A sound, like a single deep note from cello strings, can be heard but, at this hour, so many miles from the town and its adjacent mine there is no one but Ted to hear it. An accompanying gust of wind sends a flurry of white dust across the shed’s corrugated tin walls but Ted continues to rattle about behind his workbench.
From outside the locked door comes the sound of faint scratching in the gravel. Ted stops mid-lift, a box in one hand, turns his head. The scratching grows louder and comes closer to the shed. Ted replaces the box and paces quietly toward the door.
He stops, holds a breath, because the noises have ceased. Ted moves a half-step closer to the door handle. An outstretched hand shudders. He is sure he can hear someone, or something, breathing. Ted shakes his head and takes a full stride to the door, flicks the lock and wrenches the door open.
On the other side stands a creature half his height. Its skin-like covering is a faint purple. It looks up at Ted with a quizzical countenance. In its small right-side appendage is a battered metal object.
“Geez Namon, what’s with the sneaking up? Just knock next time!” Ted says to the creature.
“Didn’t know if you were open or not,” Namon replies in pretty good Earthspeak, his long arms held wide. “I just flew 57 light years to get here!”
“Well, you could always fly on to Centauri and get yourself a bargain there,” Ted counters, eyebrows raised.
“Those pirates?” Namon asks.
“Come in. Whattya need?”
“A new velodrive interchanger. This one’s had it. On my account?”
“Account?”
“I’m a loyal customer,” Namon says.
“And I’m trying to run a business here. I can’t give credit to every creature in the galaxy, can I? Especially you.”
Soon, Ted finds the same thing Namon has brought; only Ted’s is polished and new-looking. The pair exchanges goods for legal tender. Ted catches the little creature’s despondency when the last of the money drops into his lockbox. Ted opens the lid again and returns a single note.
“Get something for the little one,” Ted says and tries not to smile when Namon’s pond-like eyes brighten.
“Ted, you’re the kindest human being I know,” the alien says.
“I’m the only human being you know,” Ted replies. Namon nods, turns and opens the door to the shop. Another creature, even shorter than Namon, waits on the stoop, object in claw.
“Alright, who’s next? Gronsil? What’ve you broken this time?”

Six year old Jacob found the marble under his bed, behind a grey bin filled with army vehicles. It was bright blue and glowed faintly in the dusty darkness.

Jacob picked up the marble—then dropped it again. It was hot, so hot that it burned his hand. He stuck his fingers in his mouth, and the pain faded. The blue glow flared a little brighter as it bounced on the carpet.

He inched forward until his nose was almost touching it. It glowed, but there was no heat coming off it. To the tip of his nose it could be any of the marbles decorating the bottom of his toy chest. There were little while specks and streaks moving around in there. He wanted to touch it again. He didn’t want to be burned again. He put his hand out—then withdrew. But his curiosity deepened until it was a burning itch in the back of his head. He picked it up again.

This time the marble was pleasantly warm. He squeezed it in his fist and took it downstairs to show his mother.

“What’s that, punk?” Mom asked. She looked up from her laptop.

“Gotta marble.” Jacob held it up, but not too close. He didn’t want his mother to touch it. He was still a little afraid of it.

Mom peered at it. “I don’t remember buying you any marbles that color. The house’s old owners must have left it.”

“Where’s Dad? I wanna show him.”

“He’s still at work. He’ll be back for dinner.” Mom was typing at her laptop again.

“I wanna show him this marble. I think it’s a universe.”

Mom closed the laptop very hard and looked at Jacob. “What did you say?”

“I think it’s a universe. Dad told me the whole entire universe was big as a marble, then God made the Big Bang happen and it all exploded everywhere.”

“Some say that God did it.” Mom made a funny frown. “Nobody knows for sure, though.”

“Well that’s Dad’s hypo-fesis. That God did it.”

Mom laughed and hugged him. “You sure are a smart cookie.”

“I’m not a cookie!” Jacob squirmed away and ran back upstairs. When he reached the top of the staircase, he threw the marble down the steps and yelled, “Big bang!”

“Jacob please don’t throw—”

The universe exploded.

I look at the disc embedded in the tree by my head. I’ve just avoided the embarrassment of being beheaded by the greatest hits of the 1990s. The slotgun is an innovation that embodies the creed of the scrappers, using society’s discards to provide their needs. While I agree with the theory, the inevitably parasitic nature of the scrapper way is something they choose to ignore. If they achieve their goal of toppling the ‘military-industrial complex’, they will have no discards to live off.

Another near miss returns me to the situation at hand. Media discs with sharpened edges travelling at a couple of hundred kph are not something you should daydream around.

Lucy skids into my cover, pursued by a hail of crap music, redundant software and C-movies.

“The buggers have upped the rate again.”

I point at the tree. “Yup. The edging machines have been improved too.”

Clicking my handset to the speaker channel, my attempted call for reasonable behaviour emerges as feedback, crackle and hum. Our speaker shields have been shredded.

“Damn fools. They seem determined to force our hand. Do they really want to face armed response?”

I shake my head. “They haven’t thought that far. In America they’d be using and facing machine guns. Thanks to our firearms laws, they can get away with this idiocy.”

“So what do we do, boss? I have kin in there. Last thing I want is Special Patrol Group or Domestic Army blitzkrieging rioters and civvies alike.”

The ground shakes and Lucy looks about frantically, expecting to see the telltale smoke column of an improvised bomb.

“Easy, corporal. It’s just my cunning plan moving up.”

The building on the corner crumbles as a Metro Police blue chunk of Stillbrew armour over a wide segmented track crashes into view. The firing stops as everyone pauses to gasp at the four metre long barrel that traverses through the ruined first floor of the crumbling building. I see the demolition has scratched the paintwork, letting the urban camo show through. But the effect is not reduced. The scrappers were smugly chopping up our patrol cars and us. Now they’re looking down at the word ‘POLICE’ written in half-metre high lettering across the front armour of a long obsolete but still terrifying Chieftain tank.

I grin at Lucy. “Remember Sergeant Evans who retired last year? He collects militaria. Spent his end of service lump sum on that Mark Eleven. I’ve hired it for a week, paid for the Metro colour scheme and for putting it back to original state.”

Lucy shook her head. “Doesn’t matter if it’s out of service. It’s still a frackin’ tank. The scrappers have nothing that can keep it out or take it on.”

I nod. “Precisely. I think relations will improve now they realise we finally have the means to back the will to tear their house of cards down.”

“Clever wheeze, boss. How did you come up with it?”

I look over toward the gates as the sally port opens and the scrapper chiefs come out with a parley flag raised.

“Scrapper creed: ‘Use what others have abandoned’. Seemed appropriate.”

Corporal Hawkins woke to a loud ringing in his ears, the sound muted only slightly by the rush of pain swimming across the top of his skull. He undid the strap on his Kevlar helmet and ran his hand through the blood and sweat pouring down from his high and tight haircut. Probing with his fingers, he felt the raw flesh above his right eye, fingering the gaping fold of skin above his brow. A thin shred of shrapnel had sliced a long line in the space between the top of his shooting glasses and the lower edge of his helmet.

“That’s gonna leave a scar,” he said to himself.

A loose wet groan emerged from the mound of flak jacket and camouflaged utilities less than a foot away.

“Gunny,” he called over to the Gunnery Sergeant. The sniper lay on the ground. The laser targeting system that pinpointed his rifle, then heated the 50 caliber ammunition to nearly 621.5 degrees – the melting point for lead – caused the weapon to explode in his hands, turning each bullet into shrapnel that ripped his upper torso apart. A Chinese counter-assault weapon, made with technology stolen from the Japanese. The proximity to his chest, added to the magnitude of the detonation and the absorption limits of his protective armor left the young Marine severely wounded, but not yet dead.

“Gunny,” the spotter repeated, “You okay?”

“Hawkins,” Gunnery Sgt. Dickerson roused slowly. “Hawkins, you gotta go,” the scout sniper said. “You’ve got to leave me.”

“What are you talking about? I can’t leave you.”

After a hundred years of struggle in the Middle East over oil deposits, the United States found themselves once again poring over the Ghazni province in Afghanistan. Following the Great Recession, the U.S. lead the global conversion from fossil fuels to battery operated vehicles, but batteries need lots of lithium and vanadium. The latter proved abundant, but the former, lithium was abundant in only two places: Bolivia and Afghanistan. Once Bolivia emptied, it left only the old mountainous terrain.

“There’s nothing you can do,” the sniper retorted. “And I out rank you. Get back to the base and give them this intel.”

Securing the optimal locations for mining was never going to be easy, but with the recent advance by the Chinese front, Marine reconnaissance teams were stretched thinly over a wide and desolate region.

Still, the spotter hesitated.

“Corporal, I’m giving you an order!”

“But we never leave a man behind.”

“Mission first,” the sniper said, holding out his fist in a defiant gesture.

Hawkins placed his hands over the top of it. “It’s been an honor,” he whispered.

“Besides,” Dickerson continued, “They’ll send somebody out to make sure we’re dead.” He pulled the pin on his grenade and clutched it between his chest and arm, letting the weight of his torso compress the charge temporarily, then did the same with a second grenade.

“And when they roll me over.…”

Boom. Neither of them said the word, but both Marines understood the concept.

The spotter had enough water to last two days, enough food for three meals. Using the map, he estimated it was 150 to 160 kilometers to the closest thing resembling friendly civilization. If he averaged 80 kilos per day, about four miles per hour over the rough landscape, at ten hours a day, then he could make it before he ran out of provisions. There was little room for error, and practically no time for resting.

He plotted his direction and trudged off alone.

The girl with the bright red hair walked into the dingy, ramshackle hotel. The lobby was edged with people, some standing, watching, most asleep under old coats or bags, except one man with a disfigured face who was sitting cross-legged in meditation.

She walked up to the old man behind the front desk. “Room for the night.” The man looked up and stared wide at her unnaturally red hair. “Relax,” she said and split a part in her hair to show him, “roots, see? Bad fashion statement.” She shoved a wad of bills, some ancient American some World Empire and a few from the numerous makeshift governments forming and dissolving the world over. He funneled them all into a bag and handed her a key, didn’t even bother counting. She took the key and headed for the stairs.

A voice from behind her, “Hey, bitch!” followed by a sharp pain in her right shoulder, “your roots have roots.” Shit, she thought, I waited too long to dye my hair and now there’s a knife in my shoulder. Even if he doesn’t know for sure as soon as the knife comes out there’s no hiding it. With her left hand she dislodged the knife and fire spewed from the wound. In a matter of seconds the fire ceased and all that remained was a smudge of scorched blood. “Ain’t seen a Phoenix in a long time.” Twenty seven generations of careful breeding and genetic manipulation creating dozens of different strains of super soldiers all gone to waste with the fall of another government. Hunted as freaks and recognized only by the visual abnormalities somebody thought might be fitting with the mythical creatures they named them after.

“Hyperactive healing stimulated by an extreme metabolic burn,” she murmured. “Makes someone like me very hard to kill.”

Another voice said “We can find a way.” She turned to see four large men holding knives and pipes.

“You can try.” One with a pipe ran at her. She ducked and swept the leg in one fluid movement, landing on her hands and toes while he landed on his face. She heard another coming at her and pushed off her feet into a front flip that put her facing the new attacker. This one had a knife. She blocked his jab with the knife that hit her shoulder. The third guy came at her with another knife, leaving her with only her left forearm to block. The result was a large gash from her thumb to her elbow. She stuck the flame in the face of the second knife guy. He backed off with his hands grasping his face. Where’s the fourth guy? she thought as her knife fight continued. The guy was advancing. He was good with a knife, but after a few swipes she could see he was going to leave his side wide open.

Before that could happen the man with the disfigured face jumped in and put his hand on the guy’s forehead for a few seconds. He put his knife away, “See you later,” and walked out.

The man looked at her with yellow eyes. “Hope you don’t mind.” A Sandman, able to alter the memories and thought processes of others. He put one hand on the back of her head and held up an old picture of a young man. Suddenly, in her mind, his disfigured face was replaced with that of the man in the photo. “I like my friends not to cringe at the sight of me.”

“Thanks. Good to have company.”

I stand on the shore. I am starting to hate my job.

The smaller automatons here weld and stitch together and ferry cargo. They are mobile. They have wheels and treads. The shipyard is a hive of activity when a ship comes in.

What I do is reach down, pick up a ship, and hold it aloft while it’s cleaned and fixed. That’s it. I’m the largest terrestrial robot that there is.

And I’m bored stiff.

My six legs are all seventeen stories tall. I have two crane compartments for human operators if something fails but both cockpits are dusty. The windows are nearly opaque with grime. They haven’t been used in years. I was built well.

The ships are being built better as well. A lot more these days don’t need repairs. The only pull up and unload. I watch them.

I am red metal rooted to the edge of the pier. I use the video cameras studded around my immense frame to look out at the sunsets. I am a silent sentinel.

I am mostly content but I wish I could walk.

In my dreams during reboot and downtime, I picture myself walking tall over the buildings of the city, twenty-two point sixteen kilometers from here. Either that I picture myself as a giant metal sea-creature. A cross between an octopus and crab but larger than any whale.

Dreams.

If I’m not in standby, I like to play back the recording of the dawns and sunsets and see how high I can push the resolution.

Here comes a tanker. Oh! A damaged-looking tanker! Old with barnacles, listing to port and fragile. It will require care to lift it out of the water. It will require finesse and fine motor skills. I am excited. I am hopeful. If I had fingers, I would cross them. Please be here for repairs, I silently wish. I am happy to be useful.

17th Day, 8th Lunar, 1860 N.E. (New Earth )

09:47:23 I look to the west; to the future. I meditate on how close we came to not having one. Our predecessors, our degenerate, self-obsessed ancestors destroyed themselves. We’d be naught but savages now if not for the Founders. They changed the course of history; gave us a second chance, a chance to build a better world. They found the Crystals, which in turn, supplied us with endless power. All praise the Founders!

09:56:43 My droids hum industriously, completing final diagnostics on the Chronoscope. The sound is vivifying. I’m so close! I’ve longed to know what minds could have constructed such monuments to civilization as this long-dead metropolis spread out before me, now crumbling into ruin. High in my laboratory atop the only structure remaining of this vast, ancient city, I wonder: What was life like in those massive, overcrowded cities? What happened to our ancestors who disappeared mysteriously so long ago?

A dark veil has been cast over history, obscuring any knowledge of that time. The Second Dark Ages. Overnight, they simply vanished.

All but 500,000. The Founders of New Earth.

If little is known about Old Earth, less is known about the Founders. No historical records exist before the year 100 N.E. Seemingly intentionally, as if the Founders deliberately wanted to forget the past. Why? Why did they survive and an estimated seven billion disappear without a trace? These remain mysteries to this day. Mysteries I aim to uncover.

10:03:56 Alerts chime. Diagnostics complete. All systems green.

10:05:04 The brass and silver Chronoscope resembles a telescope suspended from the ceiling of my observatory by a multi-jointed, mechanical appendage. A complex array of spider-like, titanium limbs encases its objective lens. I aim it west.

10:06:03 Activate Chronoscope. Rpms accelerate rapidly. The Temporal array spins, whining and blurring.

10:06:45 Engage Temperal-Field Distortion. The tip of each limb flares into an incandescent blue spark, carving a ring of electric fire just beyond the Chronoscope’s lens. There’s a strong smell of ozone as tachyons bombard the fabric of space/time, penetrating deep into the past.

10:07:14 I step up to the eyepiece and look away from the future. I look to the past now, seeking answers.

10:08:32 Through the viewer I see a long tunnel, its walls rainbow-hued quicksilver, which terminates in a glorious spectacle – a vision of the past!

I’ve pierced the veil!

Wherever I aim the Chronoscope a thriving civilization fills my vision. I watch amazed as the ancient necropolis surrounding my tower springs to life, it’s citizens moving in real-time. Their lives are written on their faces. So indomitable! So intrepid!

10:18:27 Recalibrate the Temporal Dampeners to 1 yr/sec.

Days strobe endlessly past. Sunrise. Sunset. Buildings get taller. The city expands.
The population flourishes. Then multiplies. Again. Again. Again.

10:23:23 Then they’re gone. I stop. Rewind 5 yrs. Recalibrate: 1 mo/sec.

10:27:35 Nothing different but for a slowly settling fog, even in fast-motion. Bodies appear. Many bodies. A black flurry of activity. Something from the sky. Then nothing. They’re all gone. It’s over in seconds.

10:35:57 Rewind. Recalibrate: 1 day/sec.

10:38:46 I watch, horror-struck, as the city succumbs to the killing fog, released by black planes criss-crossing the skies. Black dump trucks arrive with white-clad drivers. The bodies are removed and piled in parks and parking lots. Ships come. Many ships. Alien ships. All bear the sygil of the Founders.

The bodies, millions of them are quickly loaded. Then the ships are gone, leaving behind great, pulsing green crystals.

Our payment.