Geldumel watched the mystical energies collide as he manipulated them. Before him lay a tome of forbidden knowledge, passed down from the ancients. As the court sorcerer, he had been entrusted to keep the book and guard its secrets. But Geldumel had bigger plans.

For a thousand years, the isle of Atlantis had been at peace. Its war-faring people had rededicated themselves to art, literature, architecture and technologies geared to better their world. The influence of Atlantis had already spread across the sea to outer lands. Societies that had until recently been little more than barbarians were now flourishing seats of civilization thanks to Atlantean emissaries who traveled to these distant lands to share their knowledge to the world at large.

Geldumel had once supported such benevolence to the barbarian worlds beyond the sea, and had even traveled himself to a place of violence and death and brought education and civility to the people living along the Nile River. But now he saw the folly of this act, and had besought the king to cease sending emissaries and to withdraw all Atlantean citizens back to the protection of the isle. Geldumel saw an inherent danger to gifting these barbarians with advanced technologies and training. They had not evolved to a place to understand them and use them properly, and Geldumel knew it was only a matter of time before Atlantis was overrun with barbarian hordes seeking to take more of the knowledge than they had been willing to divulge!

But King Vardash waved off Geldumel’s warnings as though they were the daily weather reports. “You fret too much Geldumel! Do you really think the Egyptians that you helped so long ago would resort to such barbarism?” Geldumel knew in his heart that they would, despite their own great strides in advancement. But he could never admit that to the king. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

So now he sought another way to show the king the folly he pursued. He would open a portal with a spell cast from the ancient book and retrieve evidence from a future time of the barbaric nature of the outside world, and that despite their efforts and training, the barbarians would never change.

Already he could see the swirling energies coalescing into a solid ring of pure energy, through which he could see the mists parting and a hole in time forming. He almost laughed with sinister glee as he gathered up the book and a satchel full of supplies and stepped quickly through the magic portal.

Geldumel stepped out of the glowing portal onto the deck of a ship. The ship was unlike anything he had seen before. Even compared to the Atlantean fleet, this ship was huge! Its flat deck seemed to stretch on for nearly a mile, and great birds of metal perched upon it everywhere he looked.

He had not been noticed, and quickly ducked out of sight as one of the great metal birds roared as it flew from the ship in a trail of fire! Geldumel clutched his small bag of supplies and wished he were back home in the safety of his chambers. Men, dressed in an unusual fashion scurried around the ship, and it soon became obvious that this was ship of war.

Geldumel slipped into the bowels of the strange ship and whispering a spell of concealment, clouded his presence to any he would encounter. He knew what he needed could be found on this vessel…something to convince Vardash that teaching the outworlders Atlantean ways was a mistake.

Above him on the deck, he could hear the constant roar of the metal birds launching themselves from the ship. He also could hear explosions—first in the distance, and now coming closer! The roar of other birds diving at the ship were followed the by the sound of men screaming and metal being ripped to shreds.

There; a locked room. He could not read the inscriptions on the door, but he recognized the yellow and black face of death staring back at him. A guard might have a way in, if only he could find one and subdue him. Luckily, a man came down the corridor and stopped at the massive metal door. He touched some small squares to one side and the door opened with a click. Geldumel quickly slipped inside before the door closed.

Before him were racks of large cylinders with fins like metal fish on their backs. These tubes all bore the mark of death, and Geldumel didn’t need any more proof that Atlantean technology was being used for barbaric purposes.

He waited until the room was empty again, and retrieving his book and a few supplies, he opened the portal back home. As the portal opened, Geldumel slid one of the metal cylinders through into his chamber, and quickly followed after it. The portal closed and in the weapons armory of the USS Forestall, there was no evidence that anyone had even been there.

Geldumel placed the cylinder into a large crate and ordered two slaves to carry it before the king. Geldumel grinned at the thought of victory over the king! Surely the king would see the evil in men would not be stopped by advancements in technology or education. He entered with the crate into the throne room of the king. The slaves dropped the crate before the dais and before Geldumel could react, the room was filled with a blinding, searing light.

“…and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea.” ~Plato

Brad approached the playing field right on time. It was the end of the fourth quarter, and the home team was down by six. The quarterback received the snap from the center, took two steps back, and hurled the ball downfield, a perfect spiral. The receiver made a fingertip catch in the endzone, and the crowd went wild.

As time ticked down, the quarterback held the football for the extra point. The ball arced between the goalposts as the timekeeper’s horn sounded, ending the game. The roar from the crowd grew even louder. Brad smiled, and let the sound wash over him. He wanted to soak it all in. As the pep band started playing, the crowd began to chant "BRAD-LEY! BRAD-LEY! BRAD-LEY!" The quarterback was hoisted onto the shoulders of his teammates. He pulled off his helmet, and thrust it in the air with a shout, his handsome face flushed with victory. Brad wanted the moment to last forever, but after a glance at the clock on the scoreboard, he reluctantly turned to leave.

A well-dressed woman was standing behind him. "I know you." she said, looking into his eyes.

“Yes.” said Brad. "You have a talented son. You should be very proud." Her eyes began to shine with unshed tears. Brad pushed past her and hurried away from the football field.

The transition back to his present was wrenching, and left him nauseated, as always. Jumping again so quickly would be brutal, but he had to do it. He was running out of time. He had one more jump to make.

He doublechecked the next set of coordinates, made sure he had his notes, then stepped back into the jump booth. The sensation of twisting and blurring from the inside out almost made him vomit. When his vision cleared, he was standing on a sunny suburban street, leaves fluttering in the warm breeze. Brad shook his head to clear it, and quickly started down the nearest driveway, to a gate leading into the backyard of a well-kept house.

A banner reading "Happy Fifth Birthday Bradley!' hung over the picnic table, where a knot of small boys sat shrieking, with cake smeared on their faces. Brad stood outside the gate, and spotted the birthday boy, who was screaming the loudest. Brad smiled. A woman came out of the house with a stack of plastic cups. She was a younger version of the woman from the football game. She looked up to see Brad, gasped, and dropped the cups. Brad stepped back, behind the gate, and waited for her. When she came through the gate, her face was pale and her lower lip was trembling.

"Hello." she said in a quavering voice.

"Hi." Brad replied. "He looks happy."

She turned to look back at the boys. "He is. He's a good boy."

A man called from the house "Julie? Did you get the cups?"

She flinched. "Oh God. That's, uh, that's –"

"I know." said Brad. "I know who that is."

Julie bit her lip. "I suppose you would, wouldn't you?"

Brad cleared his throat, and looked down at his notes. "I have a birthday present. You should sell your stock in agribusiness and increase your investments in the high tech sector. Except for Xerox/Microsoft. Dump all your Xerox/Microsoft stock." He looked up at her. "Can you remember that?"

"Yes." she said. "Drop agribusiness, drop X/M, go high tech."

He nodded, and put his notes back in his pocket. She always remembered what he told her.

"God, I miss you." she said, and now a tear was running down her cheek.

"I know you do." said Brad, with a small, pain-filled smile. He reached out and took her hand, squeezed it gently, and turned it to see her wristw[nf]atch. "Is that accurate? I need to go." He pulled his hand free, turned and began to walk away.

"You're a good father, Brad." she called from behind him. He stumbled on the perfectly level driveway.

The jump back surprised him before he reached the sidewalk, and he found himself staggering out of the jump booth and retching on all fours in the lab. After a few moments, he got back to his feet, wiping his mouth. He looked at the clock. He was almost out of time. He, of all people, was running out of time.

Dawn was coloring the sky when he entered the bedroom. Julie was sleeping in their bed, although her swollen belly kept her from being comfortable. Bradley Jr. would be born in less than a month. He gave her a soft kiss, and she stirred.

"Were you working all night again?" she mumbled.

"Yes. I had some loose ends to tie up."

"Come to bed…"

"I'm going downstairs for a while. Go back to sleep." Tears were now running down his cheeks. "I love you."

"…love you, too…" Julie murmured.

Brad looked down at her, and placed his hand on her abdomen. But there was no time. Leaving the bedroom, he rushed downstairs and reached for a chair. As he sat down, the inoperable aneurysm in his brain burst, killing him instantly.

Right on time.

Julie found him clutching a letter. It included a detailed listing of the investments he had made, and instructions for dismantling the jump booth. He had added a personal note. "My love, I'm so sorry I had to leave. You and Bradley will be fine. Be happy.”

“I'll be seeing you."

“Cancer? Christopher, you’re only thirty-two!" exclaimed Rachel.
“Rachel, if I test the machine, I can go into the future to find a cure.”
“What if something bad happens?”
“We’ve tried it. We even sent a butterfly five hundred years ahead. It came back totally unscathed.”
“Can a butterfly return and say, ‘I still love you, Rachel’? You don’t know what internal changes took place.”
“If I don’t go, I’ll be dead in six months.”
The truth silenced Rachel, there was no choice – Christopher had to go.

Within the inner sanctorum for the first time, Rachel was puzzled. “That’s a time machine?” she said, indicating the 'space' suit that Chris was wearing.
“What did you expect, H.G. Wells?” said the tech. “This is quantum physics. The walls of the building are induction coils, the suit is the target. OK Chris... ready to rock 'n roll?”
Christopher smiled at Rachel and donned his helmet - then surreptitiously hit the override on his sleeve control, setting the date for two thousand years instead of two.

Departure was an anti-climax, no vast cascades of energy or shining halos of light: Chris simply disappeared.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christopher was in a room of changing hues. A fragile shade of eggshell blue was melding slowly into pink. A gentle susurrous filtered into his ears, so soft that, at first, he didn’t realize it was a voice.

“This One can possible the translation into the ancient Latinate Germanic which is your normally communicable. Errors are made apologetically,” said the voice.
“What year is this?” said Christopher.
“Our epoch, being much estranged in customs, may This One request a less volumized delivery?”
Christopher got the message. He was Mr. Loud. Furthermore, he was obviously talking to the equivalent of an Ancient History professor.
“For your requirements,” said the voice, “It is 4,000 years from the prophet named as the temporal datum.”

Made it! thought Chris.
“Also, your body is wrong,” said the voice.
“Can you fix it?”
“Fix…?” A pause. Then: “Harmonization is possible. But we must show you with what we harmonize.”

The room disappeared. Christopher was on a tower overlooking a vista of neat fields and flowers. The landscape was bizarre; it appeared natural but patterned in a way that fell upon his eye as artificial.
At his side hovered a strange creature. Fronds blossomed from its upper carapace. As it spoke, the fronds waved in delicate patterns, as if the speech was interconnected with the movement. Chris was to learn later that conversation was the highest art form.

Realizing he was encapsulated in a transparent force field, Chris whispered, “Am I in quarantine?”
The creature’s fronds waved. “We cannot…interface with you directly. It is too ..indelicate."
So I’m just a filthy barbarian by their standards, thought Chris.

Christopher spent some time with Teach, as he called him. His real 'name' evaded him, being a concept that consisted of a blush of color, a shape change and an intricate dance of fronds. However, beneath their complex appearance, the entities were human, though they lacked teeth, hardly had any musclature and possessed a huge head.
Instead of clothes, their masking avatar was somehow projected directly from their brain patterns. Every movement and interaction of the avatar held delicate nuances that amounted to their individual identity.

Christopher also realized why he was encapsulated. They found him gross, in smell, movement, noise and body. Without the force field, his presence would have made them ill.
All material needs were met, thus Life itself had become a delicate art form.
But to Christopher, their culture seemed sterile and lacking in vitality. The muted ‘silence’ of the place, the patterned artificiality was oppressive.

But they did harmonize him, though he did not know how. Once again, Chris found himself inexplicably in the pink and blue room. Teach's soft voice informed him the harmonization process had finished, and then added: "It is time."
Departure was totally perfunctory, with neither warning nor valediction: Chris was suddenly back in the Lab just two minutes after he had left. He blacked out instantly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“He is almost catatonic,” said the Medic to Rachel, “but his cancer has disappeared. Physically he is in great shape, but if he doesn’t come out soon, we'll have to try ECT.”
Rachel was allowed to see Christopher briefly, but he just stared at her blankly. She grew agitated and had to be led away. “What’s happened to my Christopher!” she wailed.

But Christopher could see her. He had returned not just cured, but modified according to the standards of 4,000 A.D.
His hearing was so acute that speech was untenable. His vision so refined that Rachel’s skin was a horrific sight: tiny black heads looked like huge, pus-filled craters; her pores gaped; smears of saliva on her lips resembled wet snail-tracks. He nearly vomited at the plethora of odors she emitted. He could smell everything she had eaten that week, mixed with soap, sweat and hair spray.

She disgusted him, this world disgusted him in its filth and grossness. Christopher thought of the clean lines of the future, the delicate pastel shades, the gentle sounds, the subtle patterns of nature, the wave of fronds. He longed for it. His soul cried out for it.

In the morning, he was gone. So was the suit. The staff were baffled.
Only Rachel had the slightest insight into what had happened. For, on the table where the suit had been, lay the butterfly that had once been sent, and returned from the future, apparently unscathed. Christopher's farewell message to her.

It was dead. Its lovely opalescent wings now dull and faded. Rachel knew what it meant.
She didn’t stop crying for hours.

The bustle of the Jerusalem marketplace sounded noisily in John Malin’s ears. Ignoring the racket, he focused the zoom on the sniper rifle to get a clear picture of the man in the white robe. This was it, he thought. This was the target that Time Modification Inc. had sent him back to AD 49 to dispatch.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fought his conscience and a trigger that would not budge. What was he doing? Did five hundred million dollars really compensate for the act of assassinating the founder of the Christian church? He had passed all the psych tests for this assignment, yet he now sat on the rooftop of a building in Israel, warring with himself about killing a man. The reality of it was that John Malin simply did not enjoy his profession anymore. All he wanted was out. Out of the murder business, out of the terror business, out of Time Mod Ops.

The figure in the crosshairs began walking through the marketplace. John kept the sights centered on the one and only Saint Paul.

“Take the shot, John,” he whispered to himself. “Take the shot, go home a rich man, and be done with this.”

He squeezed the trigger but it was not enough to cause the rifle to discharge.

“Damn it all, John, just fire.”

He did.

A boom sounded out across the marketplace and Paul the Apostle collapsed amidst hundreds of screaming Jews. Bright red blood pooled beneath him, soaking his white robes.

John Malin licked his parched lips and pressed the button on his wristband, activating the tiny nuclear device that would take him back to Time Mod headquarters in 21st century New York.

The ancient city of Jerusalem faded away, transitioning into a darkened room. The jump always left him disoriented and this time was no exception.

An intense overhead light clicked on and one of the senior Time Mod officers, Eric Plateau, stood behind a glass containment window. The containment room was used in case anything undesirable came back with the traveler.

“Welcome back Mr. Malin. What was your mission?”

John walked dizzily toward the window.

“To assassinate Paul of Tarsus, founder of the Christian Church,” He answered, following procedure. “What was the effect on history?” he asked, finishing the protocol.

“Interesting,” Eric mused. “Paul of Tarsus is now only mentioned in the New Testament of the Bible as someone who traveled with Barnabus.”

Eric pulled a book from a nearby shelf and began reading.

“Acts 2:3, And it came to pass that a thunder sounded above Jerusalem and Paul of Tarsus was stricken dead. For the Lord loved him much and took him up to be in His arms forever.

“This very next verse is a bit of background information on your next mission.

“Acts 2:4, I wept and then heard the voice of God trumpeting in my ears. ‘Barnabas, in your love for me you sacrificed all and took up your cross daily as instructed. I have chosen you to show the world the works of my Beloved. Go now to meet with Peter and discuss with him the Laws of Moses. Make known that the Gentiles should not be overburdened with their fulfillment for I have purified their hearts by faith.”

He closed the book and tossed it onto a table.

“The Book of Acts was written by Barnabus. I would assume that your previous assignment is related to your next.” Eric stepped close to the glass. “The UN is anxious for the assassination of this Barnabas character.”

“No, Eric. I’m not going to kill for Time Mod anymore. I just want to get paid and go home.”

Eric chuckled.

“There isn’t any going home now, John. The UN is, of course, unaware that anything has changed and desires the historical eradication of the Christian church. We were paid handsomely for this mission. You have to go back and kill Barnabas so that there isn’t anybody else to take up the foolish quest for Christ.”

“I won’t do it.” He said firmly.

“Don’t be silly, John. You can either finish this job or I’ll be sending someone to visit Katie and Jerry. Soon.”

John tensed at the overt threat.

“Ok. You win. Give me a few hours, but don’t harm my family.”

“You don't just walk away from Time Mod, John.”

John reached down to change the settings on his wristband. He hit the activation button and the LED blinked twice. The room shimmered as gamma ignited time's molecular fabric.

He stood in the darkened bedroom of Jorge Velazcul.

Time Mod would never honor the agreement to let him out. He would not be treated as a pawn. What other recourse than to assassinate the man who created the Gamma Reactor?

John Malin reached for the 9MM holstered at his thigh. Drawing the gun, he pulled the slide back and aimed it at the scientist who started it all.

“I’m sorry.”

John squeezed the trigger and put two bullets into the sleeping man.

He glanced down at his wrist. The band that once held the tiny Gamma Reactor was gone.

It worked, he thought. But now he was stuck in the past.

The door suddenly shattered inward. Men swarmed into the room. All were armed with automatic rifles and they were all pointed at John.

“Down on the floor!” One of the men screamed.

John complied.

“You don't just walk away, Mr. Malin.” Said a familiar voice.

John tilted his head to see Eric Pateau smiling at him. Eric tapped his wrist and John noticed a familiar LED.

Blink. Blink.

Isaac continued to write as the professor droned on.
“Therefore,” he said, “according to theories postulated in the mid to late 1900s, time is a unidirectional axis that flows one way. The study of time travel has progressed greatly since research has shown the new perspective we now hold.”
Anne leaned over to Isaac. “What are you doing? You’ve been writing all session. You aren’t working on that time machine again, are you?”
Isaac nodded. “I think I’ve got it this time. If I treat time as a plane, or even a three-dimensional space, then I may be able to travel outside the flow of time itself.”
“Just like Ian Hendric. Remember what they say about him? About how he was going to travel to a parallel coplanar point in time, and was never heard from again?”
“Maybe I’ll find out what happened to him.”

After class, Isaac and Anne returned to Isaac’s workshop.
“All I have to do is make some optimizations…” Isaac said, typing frantically into the keypad on the unit.
Anne was still concerned. “You’re sure this is what you want to do? Another one who is just following the footsteps of another, and might never come back?”
Isaac suddenly became defensive. “Don’t you have any faith in me? Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
Anne fell silent. She knew he was smart, even brilliant, but she knew he wasn’t perfect.
Stepping onto the platform, Isaac powered up the machine. He plotted a point in the graph just to the positive side of the Y axis.
“I’m only concerned because I care about you,” she said.
He smiled. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
His hand moved to the ENGAGE button.

There was a feeling of intense pulling, then the world started to twist and deform. Anne’s frame began to waver, then distort, until everything was swirled into light and color. Everything faded to white, then...

Anne’s voice. “See? I told you it wouldn’t work. Just like that guy on the vids who tried it.”
Isaac opened his eyes. Everything was the same. Anne was still standing there, and everything was normal.
“You okay?” Anne asked. “It didn’t do anything, but it looks like it kicked you in the head.”
“Wait a minute,” Isaac said. “Just a second ago you were worried that I would disappear like Ian Hendric did.”
“Disappear?” Anne said. “No, I said it was going to be the same result as him, but not disappear. Nothing. That’s what I predicted. And that’s what happened.”
“Nothing? I...” Isaac was confused. “When Ian did his experiment last year, he disappeared. Nobody heard from him again.”
“That machine screwed you up pretty bad, didn’t it?” Anne sat down on the couch. “He didn’t disappear, I told you. He failed. He never tried again. They say his funding was pulled. Nobody knows where he is now. So I guess you could say that nobody heard from him again.” She chuckled a little at that.
Isaac ran to the vidscreen. Anne watched him intently as he rapidly scanned the directories. “Archive...Hendric...” he said under his breath.
An image flashed up on the screen. The familiar image of Ian stepping up on the machine platform, giving his speech, pressing the button, and...nothing. A bright flash, and then Ian standing there, looking blasted, but still definitely there. Anne was right.
But Isaac had seen that clip time and time again, and he had disappeared. But now not? What was going on? He went to the directory again.
It took him several hours, but he stuck to his search. Anne lost interest, seemingly uninterested in his time travel aspirations (she had before been so involved, if a little concerned...). By the time he found what he was looking for, the sky had darkened, and the clock was nearing 12:00. He punched in the numbers, and a face came up on the screen.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Hendric?”
“Yeah, who is this? Another one of those...”
“I have found something you might like to know.”

Hendric lived relatively close, and by 1:30 he was at Isaac’s apartment. He knocked the door, and Isaac opened it.
“What is this that’s so important?”
Isaac led him in. “I need to show you something.” He ushered him to the machine. “Remember this?”
“How could I forget? It ruined me.” A tone of melancholy rose in his voice.
“Maybe here, it did. But somewhere...rather, somewhen else, it put you in the history books.”
The old man’s face lit up. “What?”
“Take a seat, it’s kind of a long story...”

Isaac told him about the incident, and the disappearance, and the old man listened raptly. Halfway through, Hendric jumped up ecstatically. “I understand!”
Taken aback, Isaac said, “Understand? I was just telling you what happened...”
“It’s an offset in time! We have managed to travel...laterally in time, causing us to slip outside the stream of our previous lives. However, nature, always seeking balance, pushed us back into line with the rest. We came back in a split second ahead or behind (I’m leaning toward ahead) of the rest of our previous...” he trailed off.
“I know what you’re saying. And I think I can get us back.”

Anne sat on the chair, a deep sadness overtaken her. She realized she had been right, and that she would never see Isaac again. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, and there stood Isaac, and someone else.
Her heart skipped a beat as she realized what had happened. Isaac ran up to her and hugged her. He proclaimed, “I figured it out!”

It was a typical Friday afternoon at the White Horse Inn. Rowdy undergrads played drinking games and made ungainly advances on the significantly outnumbered females. In the booths toward the rear of the establishment, things were quieter. Pete Sager, Dan McCloud, and Rob Mayer were enjoying a refreshing and well-deserved drink. While physically seated at the White Horse, the minds of all three men were on their work back at the University. The silence in the booth was as thick and heady as the stout in their glasses. One could almost hear the gears of genius spinning, or in Pete’s case, grinding into a previously unknown gear. The other two jumped when he spoke into the silence. “Guys, I just had the craziest, most amazing brainstorm! Listen to this.”
---
The SERENDIP IV project was the first to go public with the news. The great Arecibo radio telescope in Puerto Rico had been receiving a non-natural signal from outside the solar system. The signal was, coincidentally enough, a continuous repetition of the first twenty-five prime numbers, in sequence.

Soon, observatories and SETI projects from around the world were confirming the initial discovery or reporting new ones. The Parkes telescope in New South Wales discovered a remarkable four separate signals in the first week. Even the relatively small National Radio Astronomy Observatory in Green Bank, West Virginia got in on the action by providing U.S. government substantiation of the phenomena.

The observation that silenced the skeptics was from the Lick Observatory in Mountain View, California. An optical system had found, recorded, and confirmed a light pulse signal, emanating from the Alpha Centauri Stellar Group in the constellation Centaurus. The only possible source of light so coherent and so bright was a laser deliberately aimed towards us as a beacon of some sort.
---
It seemed that no matter where astronomers turned their scopes, they found a signal. For decades, humanity had fruitlessly search the skies for a sign that we were not alone. Now, suddenly, the proof was everywhere. And just as suddenly, all of our mechanical eyes and ears tuned them out, except for one. The optical signal from Alpha Centauri was found to be accompanied by a radio signal, which turned out to be a message. Broadcast simultaneously in over a dozen languages, the first alien message was heard and understood by over three billion earthbound eavesdroppers. The content of that message was the source of countless scientific papers, numerous arguments and discussions, and not a few fistfights. The voice was female, soothing, and very matter-of-fact. This is what she said:

Citizens of Earth: We, your nearest neighbors send greetings and welcome you into a new age. Doubtless, you have recently become aware of hundreds of signals and transmissions not of terrestrial origin. Because we are closest to you, both spatially and intellectually, we have been designated as ambassadors. This message is transmitted in an attempt to enlighten you, to explain the universe in which you now find yourselves.

That is the ultimate tragedy. Our species, having conquered the heavens, will become extinct with no one left to remember or mourn. The ashes and bones of our once great civilization will rest through eternity in the cold and dark. But someone thought of a way to cheat the universe. Humanity need not follow the predestined timeline. You have gained the ability to move through space; you will learn to move through time. As the great Einstein taught, the universe is made of four dimensions, not just three. We need not be shackled. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” The barriers of time can, and will be broken. We, your children, welcome you, our parents, into the future you have made possible.
---
Across the globe, great minds wondered why the aliens (as they were still thought of) had chosen this particular moment to come calling. What had happened to trigger the fanfare? Were they there the entire time waiting? If the speaker was correct, they had been there before the Earth had cooled. Why delay contact until now? Perhaps alone in the universe, Pete Sager, Dan McCloud, and Rob Mayer knew why.

Maria D'Onofrio's reflection stared back at her from the beautiful mirror. As she studied the intricately carved frame, Maria had an odd feeling the reflection was studying her. She looked back into her own dark eyes and felt her hand move up to meet that of her reflection. Her fingertips brushed the glass and Maria felt her whole body shudder from some unseen force. She blinked, and when she looked at the mirror again Maria had an even stranger feeling that her reflection was now studying the frame while she looked on.

With a shock, Maria suddenly realized she was being propelled backwards against her will, and her reflection in the mirror disappeared out of sight. Maria walked backwards out of the formal dining room in which the mirror hung and went back down the hall the way she had come. She inadvertently stopped to examine a tapestry on the wall - the same one she had looked at before finding the mirror - and found it as uninteresting now as she had three minutes previously.

It took Maria a moment to realize she was exactly retracing the steps she had taken on her way to the dining room. As if on cue, the gentleman who had been in such a hurry appeared in front of her, mumbled an apology as he strode backwards, and collided with her shoulder before disappearing down the hall behind her. What was going on? wondered Maria.

When she stopped at the Grecian urn - still as beautiful as it had been earlier, but still unfortunately far beyond the purchasing power of her small antiquities store - Maria realized she had some time to catch her breath and attempt to figure out what had happened. If she was in fact retracing her earlier steps, she was about to spend several minutes with the urn, dreaming of unfeasible ways in which she might finance a bid on it at the auction later in the afternoon.

While Maria's body stepped around the urn, Maria's mind was hard at work. Who was she? As far as she could tell, she was still Maria D'Onofrio, small-time antiques collector. Where was she? At the Wilkinson estate sale, looking for pieces she could buy for her store. What was going on? Apparently touching a strange mirror in the dining room had reversed time, as if someone was watching the video of her life and had decided to press the rewind button. What to do? It seemed obvious to Maria that she must get back to the mirror and touch it before time reversed past when she arrived at the Wilkinson manor.

Maria was still engrossed in the urn, so she thought back. She had arrived shortly after two o'clock, and she figured she touched the mirror at two twenty. She had perhaps fifteen minutes left in which to somehow get back to the dining room. Had she walked near it before looking at the urn? Yes- the dining room had another doorway off the foyer. The next question was whether Maria had any physical control over her reversing body. Concentrating hard, she tried to scratch her cheek. She was walking backwards away from the urn when she managed to raise her arm and brush her face with her finger before time noticed the discrepancy with the past and forced her arm back down. Maria smiled inwardly at the new hope that she could break out of this odd situation she had landed in. From here, it was all a question of timing.

The minutes ticked down and Maria walked backwards past old chairs and suits of armor. She found herself reading the auction program and realized she was heading towards the foyer. There was the door to the dining room, and with a great effort she turned her leg and spun around, allowing her momentum to carry her forward through the doorway. Maria shut the door and collapsed on the floor, gasping from exertion.

When she had recovered, Maria looked up and promptly lost her breath again in shock, for calmly sitting in a chair beside the mirror was a distinguished looking gentleman who was watching her with a great deal of interest.

"Congratulations Madame D'Onofrio," said he. "You have discovered my little secret, and managed to prevent it from sweeping you away. Well done!"

The man stepped forward and extended his arm to help Maria off the floor.

"Who are you? What's going on?" she asked.

"I am the late lamented Mr. Wilkinson," he replied. "However, thanks to the mechanics of my mirror, I arranged for me to come back for the auction. I understand there's a piece that you're particularly interested in?"

"The Grecian urn!" Maria blurted it out before she could stop herself. "But it's worth far more than what I can afford," she added hurriedly.

Wilkinson waved his arm dismissively. "I think this should cover it, my dear." He handed her a folded piece of paper. "You'll naturally want to purchase the mirror as well. Good luck to you!"

So saying, he exited the dining room and closed the door.

Maria stared at the check in her hand, and walked to the mirror. She slowly reached out her hand, and as she touched it her body shook from the same invisible force as before. Maria felt herself step backwards from the dining room and spin around. Smiling, she walked back to take another look at her unexpected gift.

I backed off from my invention. It was a beautiful thing, intricate spinning wheels, which were all handcrafted, spinning every which-way in perfect rhythm; made entirely out of chrome polished to a resplendent glow. It was my time machine, and today was to be it’s first test.

I set the dial for October 28th, 312 AD, the day that Constantine the Great won his battle with the aid of God. I always loved Rome, and, despite being a devout Christian, I attribute the fall of the Roman Empire to the creation of a state religion for the first time in Rome’s history. I just wanted to know what really caused Constantine to undergo such a dramatic change, since the histories from the time are sketchy at best. Oh, there was much more to see, besides just Constantine, but this battle had plagued my mind ever since we first learned about it in school.

I climbed carefully into my contraption, sitting down on the custom leather seat. My hand clenched the go lever. I was about to pull, when an amazing flash struck the room, temporarily blinding me. My hand shot off the go lever, and to my aching eyes, trying to rub the pain out of them.

My vision came back slowly, to reveal the source of the flash of light. Sitting parallel to my machine, was my machine again. I was sitting in the machine rubbing my eyes, trying to clear the blindness. Trying to understand what I was seeing, I rubbed my eyes again.

I finished rubbing my eyes, and got out of the machine to talk to me. “Don’t be nervous,” I said to me, “I was in your position before, so I understand that this is very confusing.” My jaw dropped… the actual me that is, not the other me that was talking to me. “But anyway, I came for a reason. Do not, I repeat, do not use your time machine.”

My mind was running circles, still trying to grasp what was happening. My jaw worked itself open and closed several times before I was able to coalesce my thoughts and say something; “Hey, it works!”

“Yes, unfortunately it does. But don’t use it,” I replied.

“Well you obviously did… I mean, you’re here after all.”

“I know, but you can’t use it at all. It messes up time far too much.”

“How do you know?”

“I tried going back in time and really messed things up. I want to save you from that fate.”

“But you said you were me before… soooo… didn’t you get the same warning?”

“Um… well, yes, but uh… I was stupid and I didn’t listen to myself. I want to change that in this time.”

“But I’m just you, but earlier, so won’t I make the same decisions?”

“Apparently, because I said the same things as you just did.”

“Creepy. So what’s the point of coming to talk to me then if you know that I was going to be you and make the same choice as you did?”

“Um… you know, I wasn’t really thinking about that at the time.” The other I trailed off, retreating into his own thought.

“Well… I’ll uh… guess I won’t be seeing you but uh… I’ll be being you sometime soon.”

“Yeah…”

I pushed the go lever. The machine whirred to life, all its immaculate gears and glistening parts humming and spinning. Time slowed to a halt around me, and then the world flared up into a bright flash.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear them of their blindness. ‘I’ll have to remember to close them next time,’ I thought to myself. As my vision cleared, I noticed that I was in a large purple tent, held up by a pole in the middle. A middle-aged man in battle attire was kneeling down, his sword in front of him, babbling incoherently. This seemed like an appropriate reaction, since he probably had less idea of what was going on than I did when I met my first time traveler.

It was then that I realized the man wasn’t incoherent, it was that he was babbling in Latin. I heard the name of Jesus said repeatedly, and he was obviously thanking him for something, guessing by his tone of voice and movements. He was staring straight at me, but seemed to be staring through me. ‘Must still be blinded’ I figured. I only hoped that when he did see me, that he didn’t decided to use that sword on me in his fear and surprise.

‘Wait,’ I thought to myself, ‘sword. He had it in front of him when he was blinded… it’s shaped like a… oh crap.’ The force of what I had done hit me. Constantine hadn’t seen any sign from God; he had been blinded by my time machine, with the shape of his sword, and thus a cross, imprinted on his eyes. It was my fault that Christianity was accepted as Rome’s state religion, it was my fault that the Roman Empire had fallen, it was my fault that Christianity had spread. I had unwittingly altered the course of history in my ignorance.

‘I have to stop myself from doing this,’ I thought, becoming more panicked by the second. ‘I have the machine, I can go back to just before I left and stop myself! That’s what I’ll do! Everything will be right again, I won’t have botched up royally.’

I set the dial for my time, and pressed the go lever. One blinding flash later, there I was, staring at myself rubbing my eyes.

“Don’t be nervous,” I began.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah Tommy?"

"You hear sumthin'?"

Charlie tilted his head. "Maybe. Is it like a real quiet, high-pitched scream?" Tommy nodded. "Yeah, I hear it. It's gettin' closer. Where's it comin' from?"

"Sounds like it's above us."

"Yeah, but who's doin' the screamin'?"

Tommy looked up and pointed. "Offhand, I'd say it's prob'ly him."

Charlie looked up and nodded. "Yeah, I'd say so, too." They both watched as the young man plummeted through the bright blue sky, his panicked scream growing louder and louder. They flinched when he hit not three feet in front of them, and then peered into the crater his collision left in the soft prairie soil.

Tommy looked in first. "Hey, you all right down there?" he called, swinging his rifle off his shoulder just in case.

The man in the crater groaned and tried to sit up. Charlie walked over and watched as Tommy slid down into the hole. "Hold on, bud, don't try nothin' 'til you've had a drink." He pulled out a hip flask and handed it to him. "Where'd you come from, anyway? What's your name?"

The young man took a sip from the flask and coughed. "Stephen," he said, spluttering as the whiskey went down. "What happened?"

Tommy grinned. "Near as I can figure, somebody pushed you out of a plane without a 'chute. Say, where's your uniform?"

"What uniform?" Stephen sat up, fortified by deep breaths and malt liquor. "I'm a student. I tripped and fell in front of a bus, and suddenly I'm here. Oh God, where's 'here'?" he continued, scrambling to his feet. "Where am I?"

Squatting at the edge of the eight-foot hole, Charlie looked down at them and chuckled. "I think that hit rattled his brain. Here, boost 'im up." He held down a hand and pulled Stephen up by the arm while Tommy pushed from below. "You comin' up too, Tommy?"

"Nah, I'm gonna stay down here and look around. Base'll wanna know about this."

Charlie and Stephen moved a little ways off and stood looking at each other. "So," said Stephen, taking in Charlie's worn uniform and weapons, "am I in the middle of a war?"

Charlie guffawed. "You kiddin'? Who would have a war out here?" He gestured toward the flat, empty landscape. "We're just border guards, is all. Where're you from, anyway? I ain't seen clothes like those before."

"Huh?" Stephen looked down at himself. "You've never seen a t-shirt and jeans?"

"Oh, sure, I've seen those, just not like the ones you're wearin'. What's that say across the chest there?"

Stephen goggled at him. "It says 'Indiana.' That's my school. What state is this?"

"State? Whaddya mean, state? This is the independent republic of Kansas."

Stephen took a step back. "What? What are you, some sort of militia? Why wasn't this in the news? When did this happen?"

"2043, don't you know that? We ain't been a state for forty years. I thought you said you was a student. Hey, what's the matter with you?"

Stephen sank to the ground and put his head between his knees. "I'm dreaming, I've gotta be dreaming," he said weakly. "I'm in a coma, I hit my head and I'm in a coma. I'm in the hospital right now and soon I'll wake up and everything will be fine . . . "

"What're you talkin' about, Steve? You musta hit your head harder'n I thought. Hey Tommy, I think we need to get this guy a doctor! Where'd you—hey, stop that! What're you tryin' to do, bite your fingers off?" Stephen took his hand out of his mouth, tears in his eyes from the pain. "What's the matter with you, kid?"

Stephen groaned and banged his forehead with his fist. "Why can't I be the fainting type?" He looked up at Charlie. "What year is this?"

"What are you—what, Tommy?"

Tommy hauled himself up over the edge of the crater. "C'mere and look at this, Charlie." He held up a small object that glittered in the sunlight.

Stephen jumped to his feet, followed Charlie and looked over his shoulder at the object in Tommy's hand. "My cell phone!" He reached for it, but Tommy pulled it away. "Hey!"

"Steve, pal, could you give us a minute here, please?" Tommy said in a flat voice. Stephen didn't move. "Now." He put a hand on his rifle. Stephen backed away about six feet and tried to look innocent.
Tommy and Charlie put their heads together, muttering in low voices and shooting occasional suspicious glances at Stephen. After a minute they broke their huddle and beckoned him over. Tommy held up the phone. "Where'd you get this?" he asked in a low voice.

Stephen swallowed hard. "I got it for my birthday last year."

"That's what I thought." Tommy pocketed the phone and pulled up his rifle. "Put your hands up."

"What?" Stephen looked at Charlie. "What's he talking about?"

Charlie looked at him impassively. "You're from out East, aren't you?"

"What? No! I told you! It's right there on my shirt!"

"Look, we ain't stupid. The only universities are out on the coasts, and the east coast's the only one with phones. Just tell the truth."

"I am telling the truth!" Stephen shouted, visibly trembling. "I was walking down the sidewalk at Indiana University and I went to cross the street and a bus came out of nowhere and now I'm here with you two weirdos pointing guns at me and telling me that Kansas isn't a state! What the heck is going on?"

Charlie pulled out a radio. "Base, this is TC. We got us a live one."

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a strange black metal box.

"If I tell you, do you promise not to say anything?"

It was the 21st of September. A cold night by any man's standards. He had shown me to his lab after a drink at the local pub. We had gotten into a long discussion about the possibility of time travel. I told him my theory and he told me his. After a while, he told me had had to show me something back at his house. I mistook it for some sort of pick up line, but I was cold and had nowhere to go that night so I accepted.

When we got out of his Mercedes, I was shocked to see what looked like a castle out of some old horror movie. "It's beautiful" I said gaping. He smiled smugly as we ambled towards the door.

Back to the lab. It was large and somewhat dark. Full of odds and ends. When we got towards the back there was a large wardrobe. Inside was the metal box. About three feet in length, two feet high and the same wide. I was confused, but intrigued as he proceeded to open the lid.

A glowing light cascaded from the open box. Cautious, I edged towards him to peek inside. "You swear you will not whisper a word of this to anyone?" I nodded, my mouth hanging open from awe.

Inside the container, a swirling sphere of light whirled silently. Looking closer, I could see what looked like people and landscapes changing and turning rapidly. I guess I lost track of what I was doing for a minute because I reached towards the ball as if to touch it, when suddenly the lid slammed shut.

"Don't touch it!" he screamed. His features softened and he looked as though he was thinking about something. Hard. Walking towards me, he once again opened the box. A look of madness crept across his face.

"Touch it," he smiled gently "take it in your hands and think of any other time you'd rather be. Take your time, it's a tough decision."

Confused, I took the ball in my hands and watched it spin. Though it must have been two feet across, it was weightless. I started to think of when I was a child, about my family. About the time I ran away. If I could only go back to thet day, I thought for sure things would be different.

I looked at the sphere of glowing light in my hands all the while. Suddenly I saw myself. I felt faint, and as if something was pulling me into the swirling light. And then there I was. Seven years old and crying in my bed thinking that they'd be happier without me. I remembered that night perfectly, I knew what happened next.

I told myself not to run away, that I would be fine if I stayed in my room and I'd feel better in the morning. The window was open; it was so tempting to just hop out like I had before. But I remembered how tough it had been on the streets and wanted desperately to know what it was like to grow up with a family.

My mother walked in. She was different than I remember. She looked old and tired. She looked at me like I shouldn't be there. Her eyes wide, she mouthed for me to leave. She looked terrified. Behind her was a man I'd never seen before.

He was carrying a handgun and he pointed it at my mother's head, with an evil scowl on his face. I didn't want to see my mom in trouble, but I couldn't help her in this seven-year-old body, so, like before I jumped out the open window, this time to get help.

I ran down the street in the direction I had gone the last time. I knew there was a police station just a couple blocks down. Then I remembered what happened when I got a block away from my house. That man in the truck. I took a shortcut through a back-alley, just in time to see him roll slowly down the street where I was just standing.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I continued on my way. I made it to the police station without incident, but by the time we got back... we were too late.

Long story short, they put me in a foster home. I heard a voice say "You can't change the past" The voice echoed around me for a while, then I felt myself being lifted out of the past and I was standing in the laboratory.

"You can't change what's imminent" he said to me. We left his house and he drove me home. Since that night I've been here in my room, thinking about what he said. You can't change the Imminent... so just accept life for what it is.