“I’ve got an idea.”
I rolled my eyes. With Stan, that was never a good start to a conversation.
“Let’s hear it then.”
“Alright. Do you remember when the cube broke down in the 1800s, and we sent ourselves the replacement part from the future?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’ve adapted that program to run automatically. The cube will go back a random amount of time into the past by itself, grab a random object, and bring it back.”
“Like the classic 1974 Doctor Who serial, ‘Invasion of the Dinosaurs’, you mean?”
Stan hates it when science fiction beats him to a good idea.
“Well, yeah. Except you know how you’re always telling me I need to be more spontaneous? I’ve got a plan for some pranks we could pull.”
“Stan, planning your pranks isn’t exactly being spontaneous. Just juvenile.”
“Nonono, see, the time period is random! So we have no idea what we’re going to get!”
“Stan, if I end up with a bitter brontosaur on my breakfast table-”
“Don’t be stupid. We’ll do it in the street.”
“-or a savage stegosaur on my street-”
“Or downtown.”
“-or a distraught diplodocus downtown-”
“Or, I don’t know. Anywhere.”
“-or an angry ankylosaur in my anywhere, which I have to somehow deal with...”
“Stop it.”
“...I will be one pissed pterodactyl.”
“And that doesn’t even alliterate properly!”
Stan plays his pranks. I play mine.
Fictitious Casual Fridays
10.11.11
6.11.11
Broken record
[You'll need to read this first.]
There’s a crackle in the air. Then-
“-don’t know what’s wrong, it’s like we hit some kind of brick wall. A brick wall made of time. Um.”
I looked around. We were in a crowded street. and while I’m not exactly what you’d call an expert on fashion, I could tell we’d arrived a bit earlier than we’d intended.
“Stan? I think we’ve screwed up.”
“Yeah. The dimensional quantum filter is completely fried, I’m going to have to build a new one.”
“I meant with the destination”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, the hats and neckties for starters.”
Stan finally looked up from the cube, and into the faces of curious passersby.
“That... doesn’t make sense”
The looks weren’t getting any less strange. I decided we needed to get off our butts in the middle of the street. I looked around, and hauled Stan up.
“Come on. We’re going in here.”
I dragged him, protesting, into the nearest drinking establishment. Because if I learned one thing from spending my twenties broke in various countries, it’s that nobody asked questions in bars. I pushed my way through the crowd, and stuck Stan in an empty table up the back while I went for drinks.
“Two pints thanks, mate”
The barman looked skeptical.
“You’re not from ‘round here.”
“No. Just, uh, visiting.”
He kept polishing his glass. “You plannin’ to pay for those then?”
I dug through my pockets. First rule of time travel: carry antique currency.
“You take American Express?”
Blank look. Second rule of time travel: improvise. I dug a gimmicky plastic keychain out of my pocket.
“Look, can I open a tab? You can take this as, er, assurance or something”
“Never seen anythin’ like this before.”
My turn for a blank look. I have a mean blank stare.
“Right.”
--
I sat down next to Stan with the two pints. Unsurprisingly, he already has the cube wired in to his netbook. Sometimes I wonder if all that time travel fiction paid off at all. He certainly has no problems with flaunting his futuristic gear.
This coming from the guy who just paid for his drinks with a plastic keychain, mind.
Stan didn’t wait for me to ask what the problem was. He launched straight into one of his impenetrable explanations.
“We’re stuck. Specifically, we’re locked into a non-infinite causal temporal loop spanning a period of eighty-seven years, twenty four days, sixteen hours and twelve minutes. Give or take.”
Sometimes I swear he just makes this stuff up. I waited patiently for the metaphor. Stan’s metaphors are the stuff of legend.
“It’s like we’re on a scratched record. Actually, that’s not quite true. It’s like the cube is on a scratched record. It’s going to keep tracing the same eighty-seven years over and over again, until it hits the end of the loop pattern, in... about six thousand iterations time. Or until I fix it, which amounts to pretty much the same thing.”
“And how are you going to fix it?”
“Oh, it’s easy. Like I said before, I should be able to just swap out the dimensional quantum filter. It’s a thirty centimeter wide five-micron grille of technetium. There’s not even anything dynamic in there, it’s just a catalyst.”
“Great. So where do we get this techium stuff?”
“Oh, it’s pretty easy to synthesise. We should be out of here in a couple of weeks.”
“Synthesise?”
“Yeah, or salvage from spent nuclear fuel rods. I’m not fussy.”
“Fuel rods.”
“Yup.”
He looked absurdly pleased with himself.
“Stan? I don’t know how to tell you this... it’s probably going to be a while before you can get your stuff.”
“Nah, it’s easy. We’ve been synthesising it since the thirties-”
“Yeah.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah.”
I’d checked a newspaper by the door. It was 1856.
And then the air began to crackle. A small white sun exploded in front of us, followed closely by an unassuming brown cardboard box. On the side, in marker, was written TO: STAN AND JOE, NOVEMBER 6, 1856. We opened the box. Inside was a second time cube, a smallish metal flyswat-looking thing, two sets of clothes, and a book. Stan went straight for the cube. I went straight for the book.
“It’s the same cube! At different points in its own subjective timeframe. 87 years apart, so this point, right now, must be the other end of the loop...”
I tuned out, and flicked open the book. On the first page, in some very familiar handwriting, was a list:
THE RULES.
1. Always carry antique currency.
2. Be ready to improvise.
3. If in doubt, check the book.
4. Make sure you pay your bar tab.
5. Make sure you keep the book and send it back
6. Don’t let Stan try to break the loop.
7. Look out for-
“I think I can get out of the loop.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? Look, I just cross these-”
A bolt of lightning exploded from the two cubes, knocking him to the floor.
7. Look out for the lightning.
I flicked through the rest of the book as Stan picked himself up. Every page, covered in scribbles, rules, notes, rants. A lifetime’s worth. I’d be willing to bet, eighty-seven years, twenty four days, sixteen hours and twelve minutes worth.
I flicked back to the inside cover. On a worn, faded slip of paper were a few simple equations, and four lines of text, this time in Stan’s writing. Before I could read it, Stan slid the same slip, 87 years younger across to me.
“This is bad.”
Technetium needed: 987g
Technetium present: 122g (12.3%)
Technetium first synthesised: 1936
This is iteration 97 of 466.
I slipped the paper inside the front of the book. It would be a long 87 years... and the next 87 didn’t look to be much different.
There’s a crackle in the air. Then-
“-don’t know what’s wrong, it’s like we hit some kind of brick wall. A brick wall made of time. Um.”
I looked around. We were in a crowded street. and while I’m not exactly what you’d call an expert on fashion, I could tell we’d arrived a bit earlier than we’d intended.
“Stan? I think we’ve screwed up.”
“Yeah. The dimensional quantum filter is completely fried, I’m going to have to build a new one.”
“I meant with the destination”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, the hats and neckties for starters.”
Stan finally looked up from the cube, and into the faces of curious passersby.
“That... doesn’t make sense”
The looks weren’t getting any less strange. I decided we needed to get off our butts in the middle of the street. I looked around, and hauled Stan up.
“Come on. We’re going in here.”
I dragged him, protesting, into the nearest drinking establishment. Because if I learned one thing from spending my twenties broke in various countries, it’s that nobody asked questions in bars. I pushed my way through the crowd, and stuck Stan in an empty table up the back while I went for drinks.
“Two pints thanks, mate”
The barman looked skeptical.
“You’re not from ‘round here.”
“No. Just, uh, visiting.”
He kept polishing his glass. “You plannin’ to pay for those then?”
I dug through my pockets. First rule of time travel: carry antique currency.
“You take American Express?”
Blank look. Second rule of time travel: improvise. I dug a gimmicky plastic keychain out of my pocket.
“Look, can I open a tab? You can take this as, er, assurance or something”
“Never seen anythin’ like this before.”
My turn for a blank look. I have a mean blank stare.
“Right.”
--
I sat down next to Stan with the two pints. Unsurprisingly, he already has the cube wired in to his netbook. Sometimes I wonder if all that time travel fiction paid off at all. He certainly has no problems with flaunting his futuristic gear.
This coming from the guy who just paid for his drinks with a plastic keychain, mind.
Stan didn’t wait for me to ask what the problem was. He launched straight into one of his impenetrable explanations.
“We’re stuck. Specifically, we’re locked into a non-infinite causal temporal loop spanning a period of eighty-seven years, twenty four days, sixteen hours and twelve minutes. Give or take.”
Sometimes I swear he just makes this stuff up. I waited patiently for the metaphor. Stan’s metaphors are the stuff of legend.
“It’s like we’re on a scratched record. Actually, that’s not quite true. It’s like the cube is on a scratched record. It’s going to keep tracing the same eighty-seven years over and over again, until it hits the end of the loop pattern, in... about six thousand iterations time. Or until I fix it, which amounts to pretty much the same thing.”
“And how are you going to fix it?”
“Oh, it’s easy. Like I said before, I should be able to just swap out the dimensional quantum filter. It’s a thirty centimeter wide five-micron grille of technetium. There’s not even anything dynamic in there, it’s just a catalyst.”
“Great. So where do we get this techium stuff?”
“Oh, it’s pretty easy to synthesise. We should be out of here in a couple of weeks.”
“Synthesise?”
“Yeah, or salvage from spent nuclear fuel rods. I’m not fussy.”
“Fuel rods.”
“Yup.”
He looked absurdly pleased with himself.
“Stan? I don’t know how to tell you this... it’s probably going to be a while before you can get your stuff.”
“Nah, it’s easy. We’ve been synthesising it since the thirties-”
“Yeah.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah.”
I’d checked a newspaper by the door. It was 1856.
And then the air began to crackle. A small white sun exploded in front of us, followed closely by an unassuming brown cardboard box. On the side, in marker, was written TO: STAN AND JOE, NOVEMBER 6, 1856. We opened the box. Inside was a second time cube, a smallish metal flyswat-looking thing, two sets of clothes, and a book. Stan went straight for the cube. I went straight for the book.
“It’s the same cube! At different points in its own subjective timeframe. 87 years apart, so this point, right now, must be the other end of the loop...”
I tuned out, and flicked open the book. On the first page, in some very familiar handwriting, was a list:
THE RULES.
1. Always carry antique currency.
2. Be ready to improvise.
3. If in doubt, check the book.
4. Make sure you pay your bar tab.
5. Make sure you keep the book and send it back
6. Don’t let Stan try to break the loop.
7. Look out for-
“I think I can get out of the loop.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? Look, I just cross these-”
A bolt of lightning exploded from the two cubes, knocking him to the floor.
7. Look out for the lightning.
I flicked through the rest of the book as Stan picked himself up. Every page, covered in scribbles, rules, notes, rants. A lifetime’s worth. I’d be willing to bet, eighty-seven years, twenty four days, sixteen hours and twelve minutes worth.
I flicked back to the inside cover. On a worn, faded slip of paper were a few simple equations, and four lines of text, this time in Stan’s writing. Before I could read it, Stan slid the same slip, 87 years younger across to me.
“This is bad.”
Technetium needed: 987g
Technetium present: 122g (12.3%)
Technetium first synthesised: 1936
This is iteration 97 of 466.
I slipped the paper inside the front of the book. It would be a long 87 years... and the next 87 didn’t look to be much different.
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