Task Force

by featured writer | Jun 14, 2007 | Story

Author : Patricia Stewart, featured writer

“I’ll take two,” said Joe Ferry, the rookie member of the Preemptive Anti-Criminal Activities Task Force. It was traditional for the elite four-man teams to play poker prior to the start of the shift. It was a way to relax and bond before the mainframe department head handed out their assignments.

“So, Joe, how did your blind date go last night?” inquired the team leader, Mark Robbins. “I’ll take three.”

“Not so good, Sergeant. I thought it was going real well, until I mentioned to her that I work for PACATF. Man, she ran away so fast, I swear I saw her red shift. What’s up with that anyway? We’re the good guys. Why does the public think we’re monsters?”

“That’s easy, Joe. They think we’re spying on them. They think we have a time portal, or something, that looks into the future to see if they do anything illegal. If they do, we arrest them preemptively. Then throw them in jail for crimes they were about to commit.”

“Is that true? I thought our information came from informants, or high tech surveillance equipment? Time machines? Are you sure?”

“Did you really think that we achieved a 99.8% conviction rate using moles and wire taps?”

“I never really thought about it before. I just assumed the mainframe had irrefutable evidence. Is there really a time machine?”

“That’s not our concern, Joe. The mainframe gives us a name and address, and we go pick up the perp. That’s our job. After that, it becomes the judicial system’s problem.”

“Wow. I don’t know if I like that. To be arrested for a crime you might commit.”

“Will commit,” corrected Robbins. “Why do you think the first word in our task force is ‘Preemptive’?”

“There’s got to be hard evidence. Not the word of some computer who says it saw someone commit a crime a year from now. How do we know that’s the true timeline? Maybe it’s an alternate reality. Some other future. Not our future. This is wrong. No wonder they hate us.”

Before Robbins could respond, his communicator signaled. “Listen, kid, we’ll continue this discussion when we get back. In the meantime, keep these accusations to yourself. Understood?” Robbins activated his audio implant to take the call. “Yes sir. I understand sir. Right away sir.”

All four men stood up, and began collecting their gear. “Hold on,” instructed Robbins as he reached into his equipment bag and extracted a pair of wrist restraints. “Joe, you are under arrest for the future destruction of government property. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you will say or do can be used against you…”

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Nailed

by submission | Jun 13, 2007 | Story

Author : JTHeyman

My cell door opened, revealing a woman dressed all in grey. I was dead. With an ordinary interrogator/judge, I would have had a chance. Not with one of the Grey Ladies.

“United States Time Court Interrogation/Trial 66017002,” she said in a voice that was about as close to mechanical as a human could get. Her optical implants scanned me on every frequency from deep infrared up to x-ray. Her audio receptors would catch every decibel. Scans were transmitted to medical computers for instant analysis. Lying was not an option.

In that flat voice, the Grey Lady said, “First charge: one count, unlawful use of timeslip equipment. Plea?”

“Guilty,” I said. That was just a misdemeanor.

“Sentence: one year, stasis.”

I nodded. A year in stasis was easy. Unfortunately….

“Second charge: one count, disruption of timeline. Plea?”

That one, on the other hand, carried a death sentence. “Guilty,” I admitted sadly.

“Felony or misdemeanor?”

I was confused. Since when was screwing with the timeline a misdemeanor? “I … don’t understand.”

“Pursuant to Temporal Law 2051-C-9, disruption of timeline is a felony if resultant temporal shockwave would reset current timespace without intervention. Amendment 507 specifies that if disruption results in an action that is consistent with recorded history, said offense is reduced to misdemeanor, penalties appropriate to reduced charge. Felony or misdemeanor?”

“I don’t know,” I said, suddenly realizing that if the law had changed, I might get out of this alive.

“Testify: events of recent timeline incursion.”

“It was a standard job,” I said. “Timeslip into the past. Grab something ordinary that no one would miss. Timeslip out again. No one gets hurt.”

“Testify: nature of disruption.”

“It was like this. My clients,” I began.

“The Association for the Re-Creation of Chivalry,” the Grey Lady interjected. “ARCC. Continue.”

“ARCC. Right. You see, these guys in ARCC said they were going to re-create a jousting tournament. They paid me to go back and get something authentic to give the participants a thrill. They said no one would miss a cask of genuine medieval horseshoe nails. Anyway, I found the nails and gave a bushel of oranges to the guy who had them. They were seedless oranges,” I added quickly. “There’s no way he could have planted them.”

“Timespace coordinates?”

“Um … eleventh century, France, somewhere on the northern coast.”

The Grey Lady paused, accessing the relevant historical data. “Analysis complete. Second charge: one count, disruption of timeline, misdemeanor. Sentence: five years, stasis.”

I breathed a sigh of relief but I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Uh, by the way … how could a couple of nails disrupt the timeline?”

The Grey Lady looked at me and then said, “The displaced cask of nails was intended for the cavalry of William of Normandy. Historical records confirm: unable to field his full cavalry, he was defeated at the Hastings, England, 1066. Interrogation/Trial 66017002 complete. The Time Court of His Imperial Majesty Harold XXVI is adjourned.”

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The Wilderness

by submission | Jun 12, 2007 | Story

Author : Duncan Shields

There’s always going to be a few things I can’t get used to here. The green sky, for instance, and the fact that the animals are mimics. All of the animals have the same abilities as Earth parrots, no matter what they look like. Every animal that comes up to me has a simple vocabulary.

I’d say I feel like Dr. Doolittle but I don’t. They don’t understand anything I say back except for rudimentary commands after they’ve been trained. Just like dogs. I’ve learned not to swear when I tell them to get away from me. All it does it get them to say swear words to me when they come back later to bother me again. For such a wordy wilderness, it’s still a pretty lonely place.

At least for me. I’m still camped out by the ship. The younger ones went into the woods first in a Lord of the Flies moment of instant rebellion. Like the Lost Boys from Peter Pan, they paint their faces and try to stay young forever. The young adults went next to take care of them. They have huts that protect them from the weather and they’ve identified which of the local animals and plants are poisonous. It’s like a primitive civilization. It’s like Gilligan’s Island.

I was the oldest one on the ship. I’m the only one that hasn’t given up hope of a rescue. With everyone else off in the jungle, the ship’s rations will last me for years.

I walk in a perimeter circle around the ship’s landing crater underneath the green sky and watch the animals sniff the burnt patches of ground where the ship landed. I saw something that looked like a bright green bear once. Blue three legged dog-things eat the crackers I sometimes throw at them. They’re scared of the ship’s smell, though, and rarely come close. It’s only the young ones that might wake me up by licking a hand before getting scolded by their parents later.

The survivors from the ship who have gone native in the woods think it’s hilarious to teach the animals my name.

The animals bark my name, hiss my name, whine my name, and shout my name all the time when they’re close to my ship. Sometimes this makes me scream and when this happens, I can hear the forest tittering in a very human way.

I’m not sure how long I’m going to last. I think I’ll probably change out of my ripped and soiled earth-suit into a loincloth soon enough. Until I do, though, I’m going to cling to memories of Earth as long as I can. I’m going to hold onto my humanity and pretend that technical terms aren’t sliding away from me.

“Jason!” shouts a pink hyena-looking thing to my left with too many legs. I almost find it comforting. It won’t be long now.

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Alternate 7453DO

by submission | Jun 10, 2007 | Story

Author : Joshua Reynolds

Jon Stack # 1 crept towards himself, fairly panting with eagerness. He was hungry again. So hungry. Reality stretched and rippled around him as he approached his doppelganger. Jon Stack # 59 according to the Prime-Time Organic Advocacy Bureau. It was like looking into a mirror.

Jon Stack # 1 hated mirrors. But he loved the taste of years. Especially when they were his.

He leapt out of the alleyway, fingers hooked like claws, too-wide mouth stretched as wide as his transgenic altered jaw structure would allow, serrated teeth sliding out of gum-sheaths. Jon Stack # 59 whirled and screamed, eyes bugging out in sudden terror. He made to run but too late. Too late.

Or it would have been, had not Censor Wight chosen to step out from where he’d been hiding between the next two seconds and ram the variable-field gravitational manipulation rod down into Stack’s lower back. Stack # 1 screamed as the weapon turned his fifth and sixth vertebrae to powder under the sudden impact of two tons of pressure. He flopped to the ground, screeching like a cat. Wight spun the impact weapon in his gloved hands and smirked as he looked down at Stack’s writhing form. Stack # 59 took advantage of the opportunity and took to his heels. Wight watched him go and then turned his attention back to his prey.

“Hello Jon. It’s been a good while. You’ve been a very naughty little chronophage. For shame.”

Stack hissed and his body undulated as he spent a few stored years to repair his spine. Wight brought the gm rod down again, putting a crater in the street as Stack rolled aside, moving faster than the eye could follow. Wight blinked, his internal enhancements switching his visual capabilities into several different spectrums until he settled on the correct one. Stack reappeared suddenly, his fist smashing against Wight’s skull. The Censor staggered back and swung his weapon blindly. Stack screeched as his arm was pulped into a liquid mass and he was sent sprawling.

Before he could get to his feet, Wight brought the rod down on Stack’s skull, flattening it. Stack dropped bonelessly. Wight looked down at him for a moment, then kicked him hard in the ribs. Stack groaned, despite the immense damage to his skull.

Wight swung the gm rod up onto his shoulder and sighed. Still alive of course. Chronophages were notoriously hard to kill. They battened on years and could spend them freely to repair their bodies down to the last molecule. He looked down at Stack again and grinned.

“Time heals all wounds, eh Jon?”

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