by Kathy Kachelries | Apr 13, 2006 | Story |
Hello. My name is Demetri Thornwick. I’m a graduate student in physics at Hawking University, but in your century you probably know it as the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I just left Professor Mendalin’s Temporal Physics class, where I just received a D- on my term paper. The paper was on Dr. Franklin’s theory of Negative Timeline Distortions. I won’t bore you with the physics, but it involves the effects of changes made when traveling back in time (aka, Timeline distortions). Now, nobody disputes that the timeline will be irrevocably disrupted if a time traveler makes a major change, like detonating a 100 terawatt EMF pulse bomb in Hollywood. In addition, nobody disputes that a minimal change, like dropping a pebble in a dry well, will not disrupt the future one iota. The arguments always center on the Maximum Disruption with Zero Consequences (MDZC). You know, what’s the most I can change without screwing up the primary timeline.
That’s why I’m overwriting this web page, to prove to Professor Mendalin that my grade should be increased. You see, my term paper predicted that changing an obscure twenty first century web site will produce zero consequences. However, Professor Mendalin argued that 2d/(c2-ga )1/2 is not valid when DT>200 years. And, based on that, my successive derivations were worthless. Frankly, he’s an idiot. And, when I prove him wrong, he’ll have to change my grade to an A.
It’s relatively simple to infiltrate your twenty first century internet using a Tachyon carrier beam. I can do it from here, and you see the results real time. Now, clearly, I cannot make a drastic change, like take ebay off-line for a few hours. That would absolutely collapse my timeline, and my century would cease to exist. So, I decided to go back to April 13, 2006 and delete a story from 365 Tomorrows, and replace it with this dialog. FYI, I chose 365 Tomorrows because it only has a modest following; certainly below the MDZC threshold. In addition, twenty-first century critics all agreed that fewer people read the stories of Kathy Kachelries than any of the other writers, which I why I chose today, because it lowers the MDZC threshold even more. Surely, a few thousand lonely sci-fi geeks can miss one apocalyptic story without the world coming to an end. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure you’re all good people, but come on, you’re not a major thread in the tapestry of time. If my calculations are correct, the loss of that one boring story (less than two minutes of your life) will be equivalent to dro-ping a p-bble in a d-y we-l. Wh-t th- he-l is h-pen–g. -h, s-it…
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 12, 2006 | Story
The couple broke fast in the mountain retreat, dining on fresh red melons and purple berries. Marta, their robotic guide, served them with diamond plates on the giant stone balcony overlooking the forest. In between delicate bites, Rae remarked that the whole residence was rather ostentatious. Bello didn’t notice her ire, he was wrapped up enjoying deep breaths of the cool morning air. Afterwards, they took the skimmer and flew over the extensive forest country.
Marta gave a running dialogue on the features of the landscape, the climate of the poles and the wildlife, her features always pleasant, operating the skimmer without looking at the controls. Rae stared ahead at the horizon while Bello hopped from one side of the skimmer to the other, pointing out features to his wife.
“Is that a wooden bridge?†he asked.
“Oh yes!†said the impeccably quaffed Marta. “Built by the native people.â€
Rae afforded the bridge a glance. “Looks like real wood.â€
“Oh, it is! All the sentient made structures on this world are made by natural products grown right here, and all the structures, with the exception of the residences, are made by the native peoples.â€
“Ah yes, the natives. We are scheduled to see them today, aren’t we?â€
“Yes. Our team worked carefully over their design, combining artistry and technical excellence to complete these charming natives. They are engineered to enjoy aboriginal environment and build their homes in the large Nobo trees that are common in this region.†Marta tapped a screen and rotating holograms popped up in the middle of the skimmer. Bellos face glowed.
“Oh! They are lovely!†he said, smiling at the pictures. Rae shrugged.
“Are they all that same color?â€
Marta tilted her head to the side in an acceptable parody of human movement. “All of the native people range from a light pale blue to an aqua marine. When they reach the sea one day, they will find they are the same color as the water. We anticipate this will generate some delightful creation stories. If you like though, genetic strands can be introduced to-“
Rae waved her hand. “No, no. Blue is fine.â€
Bello reached out toward the flashing holographs. “These primitive peoples are friendly, yes?â€
The screen flashed to corresponding images as Marta spoke. “The primitives are very peaceful. Their religion focuses on finding inner enlightenment through nature. Tribal elders devote themselves to contemplation and teaching traditions to the young. They have yearly festivals and lovely rituals that reflect their reverence for nature. Because these are a peaceful species, we have imbedded a few defensive skills that you might find of use, should it become necessary. For example, they have a great capacity for the quick computation of numbers that would make them useful on space fairing vessels.â€
Rae frowned at the holograms. “They appear rather fragile, don’t they?â€
Bello scooped up Rae’s limp hand. “I think they are charming.†He said. Rae shook her head.
“I don’t know, they don’t have any hair. Don’t you think it’s odd that they don’t have any hair?â€
“Rae, we can’t replace the Arrgio, even if we wanted to.†Bello put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I loved them as much as you did.†He looked out onto the landscape.“It’s time for us to move forward.â€
Rae’s face cracked and she leaned her head onto Bello’s shoulder. Marta ignored them for a few minutes, suddenly entranced in landscape navigation. Bello wiped Rae’s eyes with his sleeve, the fabric absorbing and evaporating the droplets into mist.
“Look,†he said, pointing. Rae peered over the edge of the skimmer and below the green and red leaves of the canopy she could see tall lithe runners moving swiftly on the soft earth. They wore no clothes, their willowy bodies smooth and graceful. They were ululating in dark, sweet tones. Rae closed her eyes and listened to their echoing voices.
“I think I could guide these people.†She said “I really do.â€
“We’ll take it.†Said Bello.
by Jared Axelrod | Apr 11, 2006 | Story
The crash was magnificent, heard three systems away and felt by half the galaxy. The other half were immediately informed via telepathy, televisapathy and tele-empathy, and felt as if they had felt it. Such was the impact.
The grand old captain himself, however, newly cloned and fresh from artificial endorphins and digitally inserted memories, shrugged off the whole thing. “Eh,†he was quoted. “Good an end as any. Consider that the final voyage of Captain Shakespeare, then. Time enough I was through with the whole bit.â€
Time enough, everyone agreed with a sigh of relief. Time enough.
And so then did the immense interplanetary causeways of space and time breathe easy, free from Captain Shakespeare’s impulsive reality bends and left-handed turns. The day the Captain hung his helmet and started to raise begonias, intergalactic travel safety numbers rose and deaths plummeted; no mass-murder in the history of the universe had the kill rate of Captain Shakespeare with a few bolts of Lighting Hopkins in him. Space was safe again.
But at what cost? Re-Clone stations from one solar system to another closed their doors, the demand for new bodies having plummeted so. Drastic measures needed to be taken. Heads of the Re-Clone Guild left to meet with the Captain at his home, waded through the waist-high begonias, and pleaded with the Once-Scourge of the Spaceways to again throw caution to the wind and ruin some bodies of spacetravelers.
The grand old captain met them with a perfunctory amount of grace and pleasantries, offering tea and scones. Once they had all sat down and unanimously decided upon the less than edible nature of the scones, Captain Shakespeare regaled them with the story of his original cloning. How he was asked to write more plays, and not just for the theatre he was accustomed to, but also for holo- and empath-theatres, which baffled his mind at the time.
“You remember,†the Captain said, stroking his mustache. “The Baconians put up such a fuss, claiming they were right all along. Such ridiculousness!†The members of the Re-Clone delegation all nodded, unsure where he was going with this. “In any case, I didn’t want to write any more plays. I mean, if you had lived in London when I did, what with the shit and filth and…well, I won’t go into it. But if you had, you’d understand why I had to write. And why, as soon I as didn’t live there and then anymore, why I wanted to take to the stars.â€
At this, the members of the delegation sat on the edge of their chairs. “So, you’ll be returning? To the stars?â€
“No,†said Captain Shakespeare. “I’ve had enough. Perhaps I shall write again. Or maybe I will continue to develop begonias. If you gentlemen would care, I have a new genus in the back, cross-bred with a venus fly-trap. Managed to get it simply enormous in stature. It’s really quite breath-taking.â€
The delegation declined, in no small amount due to the gleam in the Captain’s eye. Waving them off, Captain Shakespeare suggested convincing the clone of Samuel Clemmons to take up space travel.
The delegation, who had come all this way, who had waded through begonias and munched upon scones of solid rock, sagged their shoulders futher.
They would never be able convince Clemmons.
by J.R. Blackwell | Apr 10, 2006 | Story
Tycho Villiare never asked why his employers had chosen to duel.
Gentlemen seldom fight duels themselves. One gentleman may challenge another to a duel, but since duels end in death, a state most gentleman find inconvenient, Men of Arms are employed to fight duels for them.
Men of Arms do not come cheap. Tycho Villiare was one of the most expensive Men of Arms on his colony world. He had been a solider of Her Majesties Royal Marines, a combat Iron in a heated mech-suit, cutting out insurrection like a scalpel. He could kill a household without harming a hair on the head of the family dog. After ten years with the service, his employment as a Man at Arms was his retirement. The large sums he demanded for his time meant that he only need work one day out of a year. When the Duke of Rodchester found himself engaged in a duel of consequence with the half-blood bastard Count of Carlo, he found it quite natural to use a good section of his fortune to employ Tycho Villiare to fight the duel for him.
The Count of Carlo, being of royal blood but little royal wealth, would have found it difficult to employ a Man at Arms to fight for him. Even so, he could have begged a loan in order to secure such a man, but he did not. The half blood bastard came to fight the duel himself.
This pairing was most irregular. Men at Arms may fight each other in a duel on behalf of other gentlemen, and two gentlemen, so motivated, could fight a duel themselves. However, it was unnatural for a man such as Tycho, a talented commoner, to fight a royal, even a half-blood. Tycho himself was not terribly concerned, for he expected that either the half-blood royal would become scared and back out of the duel, or the Duke of Rodchester would find his honor so affronted that he would dismiss Tycho from the fight.
Tycho did not fail to consider the Dukes considerable weight and age in his estimation of the Dukes ability. What Tycho failed to consider was a fault of his own character, for he could not comprehend that the Dukes love of his own skin was far greater than his love of honor and duty. The Duke, though powerful, was never a man who was prone to any great exertions.
The day of the duel was a fine crisp spring morning, all blue skies and dewy grass. The Duke sat in the stands with his company, sipping his morning tea. The Count was alone and standing, a long and lean figure, in well-worn boots and an ancient raygun that bore the dull gleam of constant cleaning.
Tycho used the pulse gun of Her Majesty’s Royal Marines, standard issue, set to single fire. It was an unremarkable weapon, and certainly nothing compared to the ornate weapons that hung unused on a Dukes belt.
The Cybernetic Judge instructed the two men to stand back to back, to walk fifteen paces, to turn and draw. The Count and Tycho both took their shots. The Cybernetic Judge timed Tycho to be point one three seconds slower than his average draw time. Some say he was hesitant to shoot a royal, nervous about the consequences of such an action.
A moment after the shots were fired there was a scream. The Duke was slumped over in the stands, blood on his pale pink chair. The Count was on the ground, convulsing, red on his white shirt. The young fiancée of the dead Duke ran out of the stands, picking her skirts up high, heedless of her ankles exposing to the world. She did not go to the side of the Duke, but ran past him to sprawl next to the Count on the grass. She cradled the Counts head in her arms and wept, caressing his face, kissing his forehead. She did not look at Tycho, the man who still held the weapon that killed the Count. Tycho was no more than a force of nature to her.
Tycho carefully placed the pulse gun on the grass and walked away, his duty done.
by Jared Axelrod | Apr 9, 2006 | Story |
Marla just didn’t understand. Bernie couldn’t give up his collection. He tried to explain it to her, but it was futile, he knew it.
“They’re not just collectables, Marla. They’re history. I would think you would understand that. You buy for a museum, you should be able to recognize history.”
“These are garbage, outdated weaponry. And this, this isn’t even loaded.” Marla picked up a heavy, oversize pistol from its display rack. Steel through and through, not the light plastic models currently in service. “Is this suppose to be some sort of home defense?”
“That is a .44 millimeter Desert Eagle! You can’t find that anymore!”
“Whatever.” She set the gun back down in disgust. “They aren’t history, they’re toys. You’re nearly thirty, Bernie. You shouldn’t be spending so much money on toys.”
“Why not? We can afford it!” They could. Bernie’s job as a sysadmin kept him up at odd hours, but it kept his collection—and his waistline—healthy.
“That’s not the point–”
“What other point could you have? I am decorating—”
“Decorating! Fine then! Why don’t you just put all our money into broken firearms, then?!?”
“Maybe I should! Better that than every shoe store in town!”
“Those pumps were a business expense!”
Bernie cell phone went off, just when he was about to say something particularly nasty. Work, calling him again, despite the late hour. Bernie told Marla he had to go, and she waved him off with a glare that told him that this wasn’t over.
That night, Marla found herself jerked awake by the sound of fighting in the living room. Suddenly, she heard a loud thud, and the fighting stopped. “Oh no,” she thought. “Bernie!” Gripping the Hiro Taninchi-autographed baseball-bat Bernie kept in the bedroom, she inched toward the door. The sight in the living room made her gasp loudly.
There was Bernie, holding the Desert Eagle in one pudgy hand and the dark shirt of another man in the other. The other man’s head rolled back, a bleeding cut on his forehead.
“Caught him trying to make off with our stuff. Bernie said. “Probably the same guy who ripped off the Whipplesteins down the street. Idiot should’ve known better than to come between me and my collection!”
Bernie proudly held up the gun for Marla to see. There was blood on its gargantuan barrel. “Home defense,†he said.
