by submission | Sep 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Adam Byers
Case File: C7-40415
Description of event:
At 8:42 am on September 27, 1988, Kenneth James Walker was struck and killed by a bus. The Deviation occurred at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Rutherford Road, District C, Sector 7. Mr. Walker was 28 years old.
Rationale for Deviation:
Mitigation of projected damages from an aberrancy resultant of Deviation K3-04117. Analysis showed 97% likelihood that the Rutherford Express Bus would crash into the Third Street Market at 8:51 am, September 27. The event would kill forty-seven people, forty-six of whom had extensive connections to future timelines.
Interventions taken:
One individual—Kenneth Walker (timeline node NC7-108412)—had much weaker connections to the prime timeline. Mr. Walker had a cancer of the brain that was both undiscovered and incurable. Due to his imminent deterioration and relative isolation from future events, Mr. Walker was selected as the catalyst.
The night of September 26, Agent Six visited the subject in a dream, assuming the form of Mr. Walker’s childhood dog, Benji. Mr. Walker was informed of his latent illness and of the anticipated accident. The subject was guided through his future timeline links, as well as projected nodal connections of the three most influential casualties: a child piano prodigy (NC7-130873), a mother of seven (NH5-P089218), and an orthopaedic surgeon (NC9-064112). Mr. Walker understood the request and consequences, and consented to serve as the catalyst. Instructions were inserted and his memory of the dream was erased.
Resolution:
The morning of September 27, Mr. Walker forgot his umbrella. He doubled back to his apartment, retrieved the umbrella, and ran to catch his bus. Approaching Fifth Avenue, while crossing against a traffic light, Mr. Walker altered his gait to avoid a deep puddle. He stumbled into the path of the Rutherford Express Bus and was struck. The vehicle did not complete its route to the Third Street Market, preserving forty-six lives.
Paramedics responded to the scene but were unable to revive the subject. A preliminary police investigation ascribed no fault to the driver, and a small memorial service was held for Mr. Walker on October 9. It was a poignant affair attended by family and friends, the appropriate mixture of reminiscence and grief. None of the ninety-seven guests in attendance know that Kenneth Walker died a hero.
Follow-up:
Case file to be monitored for aberrancies for a one year period, with weekly review of timeline connections surrounding Mr. Walker’s parents (NC7-053441, NC3-242168) and the driver of the bus ND3-041333). If no aberrancies are detected during that period, status will be updated as Deviation: resolved.
Agent Nineteen
October 12, 1988
by submission | Sep 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Ken Carlson
Parallel universes can be tricky. They create confusion, fear, and a false sense of hope.
So when I informed Nelson, my best friend from our original lives in Manhattan that I intended to destroy the portal between our universe and the other, as well as a good chunk the other’s New York, I should not have been surprised by his reaction.
“Have you gone mad, Brian, or simply cruel!” Nelson yelled at me, shaking his finger up at my face, as his face turned red.
“Calm in the eye of the storm, Nelson,” I said. “You’re here in this world now. Here is where you belong. Whatever happens back there is no concern of yours.”
I had been Nelson’s guide to this Manhattan. As liaison between the universes, my job was to negotiate and protect the path that connected them. I simply led Nelson to a subway stop at 1st Ave and 23rd Street, the H train on the Pink Line. Nelson, a fairly nebbish fellow at heart trusted me and I made the offer to pay for dinner after a long day of working together at Obligatory Mutual Insurance, he came along. At the appropriate stop, I gave him a gentle nudge, stranding him in our other world.
To the casual observer, our two worlds are fairly similar, but this Manhattan made the choice to save itself from a horrendous deadly future. Its technology was decades ahead of Nelson’s world, but you wouldn’t know it because many breakthrough items had become illegal.
Cell phones and personal computers had become a menace to the inhabitants many years ago. Socially, it created a generation of paranoid introverts. Politically it was a hazard as systems could be easily hacked and barriers to protect online fortunes, credit reports, environmental controls, and, most importantly, weapons, were frequently breached.
Violent skirmishes broke out world wide, started and completed before the average person on the street could be bothered to take a moment to silence his or her phone. As nations crumbled, the most powerful in charge took notice. They finally agreed on a new method—Return to a time when cell phones and its technology were never invented. In ways that climate change and nuclear weapons could never be suitably resolved, insecure computers risking dollars and power were.
After the initial wave of discontent of having to give up their Internet addictions, there was mention in the printed newspapers of many addicts committing suicide due to the overwhelming loss to their lives. They returned to speaking to people, rather than typing at them.
“Nelson,” I said, “the action has been decided. The risk is too great for cell phones or the wrong technology to come back in over here.” Our walk had taken us back to the subway.
“Brian,” he said, “what do you mean, ‘action.’ And why are you carrying a briefcase.”
“It’s simple,” I said, “I’ll take this train back to your old stomping grounds. Once I reach there I’ll disembark to leave the briefcase behind, then return. Once it self destructs, the portal will be closed, and the other world, well…”
As the old H pulled into the station, Nelson said he had a question. I leaned in as the loud train slowed to a halt. Nelson clocked me good with a right to the ear. He grabbed the briefcase and ran toward the train himself.
I shouted through the glass after he’d boarded. He didn’t answer. Since the train never returned, I can only assume he detonated it between stations, destroying the portal and leaving both worlds intact.
by submission | Sep 12, 2017 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
Grant watched as steam curled up from his mug and disappeared into the foliage above, weak spears of early morning light dancing through the leaves. He smiled – it was rare to have a moment of peace. The girl’s mattress creaked in the next room. His fingers brushed along the edge of the picture frame in the middle of the table.
“Well,” he grunted. “Nothing lasts forever.”
The quiet was a blessing any more, a moment to try and build energy for whatever came next. He needed it – the arthritis in his legs was slowing him down even as the children seemed to get faster and more curious.
Another minute, another hour, another day. It was all borrowed, he knew, in a body that by all rights should have been retired a decade earlier. Time was coming to collect its debt, tapping at the balance sheet with an impatient finger and a smile that brooked no argument; there would be no warning.
He thought it was fitting: a body on borrowed time carving out a life in a ruin that had its own debts coming due. A dying man in a dead city trying to shelter the gleaming spark of a child’s life from the howling wind outside.
The City groaned below. Was it still alive? Maybe. Grant had come across dozens of lonely computers still humming away, tucked in bedrooms and offices, in server rooms alongside scores of dead machines, tucked into the corners of utility spaces. They were being fed, but every time he tried to tap into that energy it had flitted away from him, rerouted like a bird leading him away from a nest. Never any power to tie into, but every time a small gift: an untouched medicine cabinet, a shoe box full of seeds, a stuffed animal the day before the girl’s fourth birthday. Grant cleaned the machines every year, fighting the dust – half out of gratitude and half superstition.
But if it was alive, it was dying too. The computers were going dark. It was rot, he thought, brought about by the cut in The City’s side. It wasn’t large, but it let in the wind and moisture that blew around at ten thousand feet above sea level. Let in the world, and trapped them.
Another groan, humming through the floor and rattling the glass. The City had been the most impressive feat of engineering the planet had ever seen, a country compressed into a building.
Grant wrapped his hands around the mug, the heat providing some relief to his stiff knuckles. His thoughts danced around the question that had bothered him for the last four years: what would happen to the girl when he died? There wasn’t anyone left to pass her on to, or a way down. He hadn’t found a good answer yet. Truth was, he was out of time to find one. He could feel it.
Grant stood, knees popping, and pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, leaving it by his tea. He stepped out the apartment’s front door, closing it quietly behind him, and smiled at the trail of soft lights that hadn’t run in years leading away down the corridor. The City was still alive, and knew it was time.
Lyn stepped out of her bedroom, carrying her stuffed walrus in one hand, rubbing her eyes with the other. Another morning, Grant’s tea still steaming on the table, the rosy light caressing a yellowed picture of a young man and woman touching foreheads in the middle of a sunny field, eyes crinkled with happiness.
by Julian Miles | Sep 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Two.”
A long time ago, there was a war. A really big, planet-smashing war. Sometime during that conflict, they had a knock-down, drag-out battle nearby. It spanned a couple of systems and went on for many years. When they stopped fighting, there was so much scrap wargear floating about they ‘tidied up’ by somehow corralling it all into orbit about Currachus and stacking wreckage so deep on its twin moons they apparently had to make a third moon to calm the tides.
“One.”
Our scant records continue, saying they didn’t even land. Just stole the sky. ‘Currachus’ means ‘A million eyes in the night’. Our ancestors named our home after the glory of the night skies. Old tales tell of the wondrous sight of the yellow moon ‘Neorthas’ following the green moon, ‘Climia’, against that million-eyed backdrop.
Those skies are gone. My skies are shades of grey with ‘eyes’ that spark briefly as chunks of wreckage grind together. Sunlight is a diffuse, dim illumination broken by beams of brilliant light as reflective fragments align, allowing spears of pure sunlight to reach the ground.
“Loose!”
With a roar of chains and the crash of counterweights, the steel-shod tree trunk starts to move along the ancient slipway. Right on the horizon, I can see the sheets of sparks from where the haul chains crash across the skid plates that protect the canyon edge.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
I peer at Adrianna. She’s got the faraway look she gets when her imagination overtakes her clever.
“It’s certainly the loudest thing I’ve ever encountered.”
She punches me in the shoulder. I grin. She punches me again.
“You’re an idiot. Our forebears built this to let us escape.”
“They built this in the crazed hope that someone would get lucky before this world finished dying.”
“We’ve brought down so much. Some of it we understand.”
That’s the problem. I look to the ground as I reply: “Yet optimists like you insist that eventually we’ll knock an intact starcraft out of orbit and it’ll survive the drop and we’ll be able to use it. We don’t fully understand the principles of what we’re doing anymore! My father certainly doesn’t, yet he’s Overseer of the Winches. We’re becoming primitives with an annual religious ritual that culminates in hurling a metal-clad tree into orbit to bring down the metal we use to clad the next tree. It’s ludicrous!”
She hooks a finger under my chin, lifting my eyes to meet hers, then shakes her head.
“What would you have us do? Things are getting worse. Every year there are fewer crops, weaker livestock, less children surviving. I’m not supporting a gamble, I’m supporting a desperate purpose that gives our folk the will to live. No, it’s not entirely sane. But, it’s all we have.”
Well, now. There’s a viewpoint I hadn’t considered. One that, sadly, makes sense.
Far away, a dark arrow hurtles into the sky as the final thousand drag weights plummet into the canyon with an impact that shakes the ground where we stand.
I stand up, take her hand, and meet her gaze: “Maybe, this time, we’ll get lucky.”
She stares at me, as if probing my change of opinion, then smiles: “Maybe. If not, I’ve got an idea for how we can do this twice a year, but I need someone who works on the haul to check it before I present it to the elders.”
I gently squeeze her fingers: “Time for you to meet my father’s mechanics.”
by submission | Sep 9, 2017 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
“How’s it coming along?” I asked Dowmir, the spindly little ambassador to the Clathalnra species. He was sitting at a computer, constructed in the old-fashioned, desktop way so that he could use it better. He didn’t like holograms. Or tablets.
While looking at the screen, he said in his characteristic high, quavering voice, “What!? Really?”
“What? What is it?” I leaned forward to see what he was looking at. Something about human reflexes.
“Not forty-three minutes ago,” he said, “I was looking at documents on how you don’t want your careers to be taken away by robots and whatnot. And that being hooked up to feeding tubes in hospitals takes away your dignity. And now I’m sitting here, reading this! I mean, I thought human beings were contradictory, but…”
I sighed. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“That your entire species is automated on some very fundamental levels? Yes! And it scares me!”
I looked at the web page a little closer. All it talked about was how our breathing was usually subconsciously regulated, about the neural signals the heart receives from the brain, how our eyes reflexively adjust their size to the light level. “This… scares you? Your species doesn’t do this?”
“No! ‘Automatically adjusts to light levels’!? There’s no way that your, uh… ‘subconscious’ can get it right every time!”
“Well, it doesn’t. But it does, like, over 99% of the time. And our subconscious isn’t ‘out to get us,’ so there’s really nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, come on. Even you humans know that that’s not the whole issue!”
“Just spit it out, Dowmir.”
“Isn’t doing some of these things yourself part of the… the ‘life experience’? Like, you don’t want to incorporate robots into every laborious aspect of life, because then you would all become obese blobs that watch whatever is fed to you on this so-called ‘public television.’ At least, I read something like that. Don’t you want to be able to consciously regulate how much light enters your eye? You’d have camera vision! You’d be able to see whatever you liked, however you liked! Don’t you want to stop a teacher’s words from blending together and becoming background noise? To be able to focus yourself in general? I guess I just find this whole matter… hypocritical.”
He was starting to get to me, but I still had some points left. “But if we took all that upon ourselves, that would take up an enormous amount of brain space and effort. Having to adjust the size of my pupil every time I entered a different room? And if I hang on to a professor’s every word, *actual* background noise will constantly be at the front of my mind, driving me mad! Honestly, I don’t know how your species has managed to make it into space with such a heavy workload on your brain.”
“It did take us an extra few millennia, but it’s mostly because our brains are bigger. And I realize that, in spite of that, we’re not a whole lot smarter than you, but it’s worth it! We Clathalnra, for the many thousands of years our great civilization has persisted, have actually *lived*!” Abruptly, Dowmir turned back to the screen and skimmed on, shaking his head once every thirty seconds or so. While he did that, I had to think. What do we humans *really* want? Is complete automation and freedom from the mundane our destiny, or manually controlling ourselves completely, achieving the dream of “living in the moment”? To move forward… will we have to choose?
by submission | Sep 8, 2017 | Story |
Author : Jules Jensen
Dancing white light fills the citadel through the many holes in the ceiling. Mournful wind howls through the massive chamber, rustling the ragged clothes on the corpses of men and women that cover the whole floor.
One remains alive. He sits on the floor at the end of the huge room. His black leather armour and the silver blade at his side have seen better days. He looks to be thirty or so, yet aged beyond his years to the point of frailty.
The large doors at the end are already open, and do nothing to stop the casual entry of four men. Each of them wore silvery armour, their backs adorned by strange cylinders and engines that look to weigh forty pounds.
“King Evander.” The man in the lead says, lacing the title with scorn.
“Betrayers of the light.” The man on the floor says, not even looking up.
His machine-packing enemy snorts at this outdated notion that accepting technology means he’d betrayed the light that granted humans magic.
“The Emperor of Steel and Thunder has asked for your execution.”
“That is a grand mistake.” King Evander gets up off the floor. Despite his withered appearance he manages to look regal.
The man leading the other three holds up a hand, signalling to his allies that he will do this alone. Then he starts to run, stepping on the floor between the many limbs of the dead followers of King Evander.
The cylinders on his back roar to life, and he launches up into the air, sailing towards the King. He raises a long thin sword that has some wires connecting the hilt to his back.
Evander is ready for it, though. He holds perfectly still, closes his eyes, and then there’s suddenly a sphere of red light that encircles him. The flying man’s sword smashes into the barrier, and electricity crackles sickeningly from the blade across the magical shield.
The King smoothly motions with his arm, as if he were pushing an invisible person aside. The shield explodes outwards, sending the other man flying back. He flips over in the air, the pack struggling to balance him, and he lands hard on his feet. The King wastes no time in rushing forward, sword raised, deadly calm on his face.
The man with the flying machine draws a strange thing from his side that’s no more than a handle and short cylindrical barrel. He points it at the charging King.
A thunderous boom echoes in the citadel. The King falls to his knees amongst his dead followers. He gasps and holds his chest.
“The Emperor was right. This was an easy mission.” The man in the glimmering metallic armour says with a grin. “Only fools like you and the ignorant peasants that serve the Emperor think that magic is a necessity of the world. The time of technology is on the rise. Your death proves that…”
The man trailed off as he noticed the King slowly start to stand up, despite the fatal wound.
“What is this? What’s going on?” The man asks, angry and confused. He points his weapon at the King, and there’s another echo of deafening thunder. The King jerks a little, but does not go down.
Movement all around them make the men with the flying packs exclaim in terror. The people on the floor were getting up, even though they were dead.
As was the King. Who was smiling.
“Killing me has only made my magic, and my army, stronger.” The King’s voice was cold, full of quiet rage and strength. “It is time for magic to rise, and technology to fall.”
The Emperor’s men don’t stand a chance. After falling at the hands of the King, they too rise, mindlessly ready to obey their new leader.
King Evander sets out immediately, intent on taking back his lands and his people by any means necessary, even in death.
