by Jw Schnarr
Figwort frowned. Could it be that Nimrod was becoming dependent on the thought helmets, like a hermit crab in its shell? Surely not. And yet, jumping forward another five years, Figwort was not unsurprised to find that almost the entire flock had been lost. “There was a flood,” the woman told him, hardly batting an eyelid when the professor winked into existence by her side. “I was in town and Nimrod let the sheep loose to feed by the river, even though it had been raining. The waters came and washed them away. It was stupid.”
This berating was inwardly directed—the woman had soaked up all the blame, like an eggplant—and yet, could it be that self-indictment here concealed a more sinister truth? Who really was at fault for the loss of the sheep? Was the Pithwort Thought Helmet stupefying young Nimrod to the point where he was incapable of generating his own ideas? The boy had perfect understanding, yes, but had that robbed him of his independence? Was he merely an extension of his mother, or worse—just a badly-drawn copy? Figwort’s eyebrows huddled together, his lips twisting in distaste at the bitter thought.
“He’s always asking me what to do,” the woman admitted, gazing over to where Nimrod stood scraping with a flat stone at the hooves of a prostrate goat. “It’s what he’s used to, I suppose. But when I’m not here he seems lost, uncertain. He understands what I tell him but I have to anticipate everything—every little thing—or else…” She shrugged. “But that’s as may be. He’s my boy. I love him.”
Five years after that, Professor Figwort entered the house and found it empty.
“Madam?” He looked around, puzzled. “Young Nimrod?”
He ducked back outside and cast his squinted eye over the dry, hot land. In the distance, the mountains appeared cracked. The sun hung heavy above him, pulling on the sky like a golden millstone. Figwort hooked a bony finger under the skullcap and scratched his head. Something was not right.
“Hello?” he called, his voice timorous. “It’s me—er, the good shepherd.”
Figwort sweated and searched and eventually found Nimrod over by the Euphrates, sitting under a date palm beside what appeared to be the same goat as had observed the professor’s splashdown some sixteen years previously. The boy had his arm draped around the animal’s neck. Both wore skullcaps.
“Nimrod!” Figwort exclaimed. “What’s going on? Where’s your mother?”
The teenager’s eyes were glazed and he stared unseeingly at the river. From deep within his throat he grunted something that rippled through the Pithwort Thought Helmet as, ‘She’s dead’.
“Dead?” Professor Figwort’s mouth trod water. Phileas the guppy. “What— But—How?”
‘Wolves.’ Nimrod’s speech was a grating, open-mouthed wail. ‘I didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know.’ He looked up. For a moment his eyes focussed and he made a pitiful wail of inquiry. ‘What should I have done? What should I have done, father?’
The goat bleated. ‘It happened here.’
Professor Figwort emerged blinking into the Mesopotamian winter of six months’ previous. It was cold and wet and he lurched face-first into the date palm.
A torrential downpour having covered the plain, nothing could be seen of Babylon or the distant mountains. The vainglorious sun now sulked behind murky grey clouds. Even the goat had left its post, opting for greener, drier pastures elsewhere.
A wolf growled and Figwort reeled away from the date palm, only to slip and fall over. Spitting mud, he scrabbled like a turtle in the quagmire.
“Help!” The woman’s scream came from close by. Her panic and desperation needed no translation. “Nimrod! Help me!”
Figwort looked around and caught a flash of her limping painfully towards the river. Of Nimrod there was no sign, but several dark shadows closed in pursuit, low to the ground and smelling heavily of dank fur. Figwort struggled to stand.
“Nimrod!” the woman sobbed. She couldn’t tell him what to do this time. Her plea was a sentiment without guidance. She was hurt. She needed him to help her. He had to think of something.
But Nimrod had spent his life immersed in Figwort’s thought helmet. He understood perfectly, but thinking was the one thing he’d never learnt to do.
Even as Professor Figwort found his feet and went stumbling to the rescue, the woman lost hers and dropped to the ground, her final communication one of abject helplessness. “Nimrod!” she shrieked, the wolves pouncing, jaws tearing at her throat. “Nim—”
And then she was silent, her thoughts left hanging in time, never completed. Figwort skidded wildly and fell into the river.
History flowed.
Not much changed over the next 5,000 years. The sun cast its rays and the planet spun, each period of enlightenment followed by an inevitable regression to darkness. Dawn. Dusk. Hope. Fear. Civilisation remained very much in the cradle.
As the universe blinked and ziggurats gave way to launch pads, Professor Figwort shot urgently forward in time—a midwife in shaky control of a Morris Minor; both hands on the wheel but thoroughly unsure as to the correct address.
In the end, he overshot his personal present by a couple of months and screeched to a stop just outside of Ankara, where the Turkish Prime Minister was hosting the most delicate of diplomatic talks between Syria and Israel. Rolling his sleeves up, Figwort burst into the conference room.
The Turkish Prime Minister was a dapper little man, clean-shaven except for the wispy outline of a moustache. He wore a neat suit, offset for this momentous occasion by a striped tie in alternating swathes of red, blue and white. It was bold, bordering on flamboyant. The Prime Minister shot to his feet and exclaimed, in precise if heavily accented English, “Who is this joker?”
Figwort dropped two thought helmets onto the conference table and slid one towards each end. “These, gentlemen, are the devices that will answer all your prayers.”
The Israeli Prime Minister, whose twinkling eyes had seen much of the world and whose beard was no stranger to an internet keyboard, reached for the crown of thorns. “I recognise you,” he declared, in Hebrew. “You’re the one who wrote about molecular sexuality.” He placed the Pithwort Thought Helmet over his head and frowned. “Hang on. Aren’t you supposed to be dead? There was something on the news.”
The Syrian President, meanwhile, was turning the other thought helmet over in his hands and staring at it with distrust. His heavily browed eyes reflected the politician’s dilemma—a ceaseless balancing of risk and gain. He levelled a penetrating stare at the Turkish Prime Minister—who was sputtering left then right like a malfunctioning funfair clown choked on Ping-Pong balls—then placed the Pithwort Thought Helmet over his own close-cropped hair. “Now,” he said, in Arabic, “what is the purpose of this umamah?” His thought helmet gave ‘umamah’ the taste of ‘head bandage for the mentally ill’.
Professor Figwort beamed. “The Pithwort Thought Helmet allows us to taste the pure essence of thought. It affords us communication such as mankind has never seen. Total honesty, gentlemen. No longer need you fear duplicity or dissembling. No longer shall paranoia run the circle of the round table. You may now conduct your talks with 100 per cent opacity.”
The Turkish Prime Minister sank slowly back onto his chair. “Oh dear,” he murmured.
Like rabbits who had evolved to drive cars, the Syrian President and the Israeli Prime Minister locked eyes and couldn’t look away, trapped in the glare of each other’s headlights. For half a minute or so they sat motionless, their thoughts speeding towards each other through the ominous pall that hung over the room. Both men wanted to remove the thought helmets. Both men wanted to withdraw. But neither could be the first to step down. Professor Figwort looked from one to the other and waved his hand through the intervening airspace. “Hello?”
Eventually, the air became so thick that the Israeli Prime Minister was forced to clear his throat. He then declared, “I have only one question: in light of recent diplomatic exchanges with North Korea, what is Syria’s position with regard the State of Israel?”
In essence: ‘You’ve gone nuclear. Now what?’
The Syrian President licked at dry lips. “The Syrian Arab Republic wishes nothing more than for a lasting resolution to the conflict between our two countries…”—‘No peace. No recognition. No negotiation.’— “…I therefore call on you to break from your country’s policy of nuclear ambiguity. Does Israel have nuclear weapons?”
The Israeli Prime Minister bristled from the beard up. “Israel has long stated that we will not be the first to introduce nuclear weapons to the Middle East.” In essence: ‘We have them. America doesn’t want us to use them, but we have them.’
“That is very reassuring…”—‘America, who found reason after the event to sanction Operation Orchard’— “I foresee peace blossoming.” In essence: ‘We, too, can strike pre-emptively.’
“So be it.” The Israeli Prime Minister removed his thought helmet and stood up.
“Be it so.” The Syrian President did likewise.
Then both men left the room—stiff of gait and gaunt of face; dead men walking. The Turkish Prime Minister glared at Professor Figwort and raised one finger to his temple. “Good men trust that each will put his prejudices aside and do what is necessary. It is their words that represent their intentions, not their personal thoughts or opinions.” He shook his head and looked at his watch. “Good men should never know each other’s thoughts.”
Figwort was speechless. How could this happen? How could perfect communication precipitate what would be the most destructive conflict in human history? The Dead Sea War, they’d call it—mankind’s lowest point—and he, Figwort, would be responsible.
Billions dead. The world decimated. Everything as he knew it, history.
But how? Could the solution he had found be worse than the problem? Miscommunication. Perfect communication. Perhaps they were, after all, just two sides of the same burnt piece of toast. At that uncertain moment in time, with history starting to smoke, suddenly, clearly, it seemed so.
Professor Figwort picked up his thought helmets and returned home, tears welling behind his wide, haunted eyes.
Slowly, the universe blinked.
Professor Figwort made just one more trip back through time, to farewell Prunella Bonsoir and to retrieve the gun he’d put aside and lost those sixty years ago. The undergraduate Miss Bonsoir didn’t recognise Phileas Figwort as an old man. She was puzzled by his sad, silent smile. But the gun was there, cocked and ready. Figwort picked it up and returned to the present.
For the best part of a lifetime, Professor Figwort had held that gun to his head. His was the finger on the trigger—bone upon metal with but a layer of skin to separate them, stretched thin by the wretched pull of obsession. Figwort’s were the hopes and expectations that cavorted throughout time and history, heedless of consequence, dragging the professor this way and that as he strove to free himself from the pitfalls of existence. Professor Figwort had pointed the gun; unwittingly, perhaps, but no less damningly. For now, as Life’s clock ticked over and the cuckoo sprang out, Figwort finally came to terms with the greatest of his discoveries:
“Time contraceives,” he murmured, the storm having passed and delivered a new day unto the world. “When we try to alter what is, causality intervenes and inevitably we must face that which could be.” Light shone into the empty room and Professor Figwort blinked sadly. “Miscommunication pulls me one way. Perfect communication pulls me the other. So who am I to decide? Each person must strive to find the answer, otherwise it is meaningless.” He shook his head. “Even though I have it. It’s right here.” He regarded his trembling hands. “After all these years, I could change the world.”
But only for the worse.
And so it was that Professor Figwort came to an understanding, free at last from time’s passing and the tinkerer’s damn. Outside in the jungle, all was peaceful. The universe sang while sleepy orangutans dozed in the morning sun. Closing his eyes, Figwort crooked one finger and beckoned the future.
One One Thousand
by William Wood
“Do you read me?”
Aaron heard the voice but his thoughts were muddy, mired in something thick and still. Sleep maybe. Attempts to stretch his arms and legs, to roll…pointless. Like there was nothing to move.
“Come on, answer me, Aaron.”
Static popped in his ear. “Brad?”
“Yes, finally. What’s your status?”
“My…status…”
“Start simple. Harry said there would be some disorientation. Take a minute but not too long. CNN just said the last of the stars winked out. I’m not sure how long that gives us.”
Aaron opened his eyes, blinking repeatedly. Nothing to see. Only darkness.
“Talk to me, buddy.”
“Stars…wha—” He could feel his hands now. Air blew against his skin. His legs ached and his stomach hurt. He lay face down on something cold and spongy. Moving his hands along the surface, they seemed to catch and jump like balloons being rubbed together. “Where…am I, Brad?”
White noise flooded his ears in the absence of Brad’s hoarse Carolina drawl. “I was beginning to think I’d lost you, man. Just a second while I get these notes together.”
Aaron pushed himself into a squat, feet wide and arms out. The floor was soft and slick and, in the darkness, the lack of true up and down played with his balance. He worked to steady his footing and three wavering attempts later, he succeeded. The floor firmed beneath his feet, less slippery and more like a big magnet repelling smaller magnets in his shoes. Uncertain but navigable. The impression of blowing air was wrong too. His skin felt tingly, lit up with static electricity causing every hair on his body to stand on end. Even under his clothes. Like touching a Van de Graaf generator.
The machine.
A quick pat down confirmed that he still wore the survey rig across his chest and the headset that went with it.
It worked. It really worked.
“Why can’t I see, Brad?” His own voice sounded muted, dampened by the headset or the surrounding emptiness. Without waiting for the reply, he took the Maglite from his belt loop and twisted the cap one way, then the other.
Nothing. He hadn’t taken time to test it before leaving. Crap.
“Uh…not sure. I don’t see that here,” said Brad. The crinkle of papers shuffling prevented squelch from kicking in. “This stuff reads like DVR instructions—here we go. On the rig, upper right side, is a big round indentation. It’s a touchscreen key, so just stick your finger in the hole and it should switch on…says you should close your eyes for sixty seconds, then reopen.”
Aaron felt the soft plastic give slightly under his fingertip, followed by an artificial click. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut.
Shifting his weight, he tested his balance. “How long was I out?”
“Ten—twelve minutes, maybe. Seemed like forever. Power blinked out a couple of times. I don’t know if that’s because of us or not, but I heard you cry out both times.”
Aaron realized he was nodding in agreement and stopped. “What’s happening in the news?”
“Same only worse. People are losing it bad…everywhere.”
“What if this doesn’t work? Or what if it works and then undoes itself? We could be trapped—”
“I know, I know.” Brad was silent for long seconds. “That machine works by playing hell with causality, so…honesty, I just don’t know. If we don’t do anything, though, the world falls apart—that we do know. We’ve got to make this work.”
Aaron sighed and tugged at the straps holding the rig on his chest. “Harry said he’d already tried earlier tonight, twice.”
“That’s what he said, but maybe he’d lost it already. Maybe he just thought he did.”
“Way to encourage the blind time-traveler, buddy.”
Brad’s chuckle across the tinny connection sounded forced. “Yeah. I got your back. In a few seconds we’ll see where you came through and you can find Doctor Heller and end this.”
“I know the plan. My idea, remember?”
“This may be the only chance we get and power coming and going is not a good thing. Besides, taking more than one trip may be what finally did Harry in.”
“Has it been a minute yet?”
“Close enough.”
Aaron eased his eyes open. An icy blue light filled the room, dim but even, leaving no shadows. He was in a relatively small space full of boxes, chairs and an unused metal desk. The extra office being used as a storage room. Everything in the room appeared wispy, unfocused. Edges shimmered and flat surfaces rippled like grassy meadows in a windstorm.
At first the effort to move strained his muscles, but once in motion, walking became easier, reminding him of pushing along chest deep in a swimming pool. Stopping required effort and forethought as well. He felt like a baby learning to walk all over again.
“I’m in the office storeroom. Pretty weird.”
He pressed his hip against the fire exit-style safety bar on the door. It wouldn’t budge. Grabbing the bar tightly with both hands, he pushed with all the strength and weight he could muster. The bar inched downward until bottoming out, where it stayed without a hint of recoil. He felt exhausted already. Anticipating the resistance now, he shouldered the door and forced it to swing open bit by bit until he had just enough room to squeeze through.
He took in a lungful of air and leaned against the door frame. “Nothing wants to move.”
“That’s what Harry said. He called it the static past. It doesn’t want to change.”
“I believe it.”
Static past. Unmoving. Like walking around in an old, overexposed photograph.
Aaron’s stomach twisted severely and he doubled, somehow managing to remain standing despite a hammering in his skull. Within seconds the pain subsided, leaving only a dull ache behind his forehead.