The Chronotope and Other Speculative Fictions. Michael Hemmingson
and he never came back. At first no one knew what he had done, because the entire history of earth had changed. It so happened that a customer who was in ancient Sumeria returned with his memories intact of a history no one else recalled. That person was—is—me. I know this may not make sense to you gentlemen, so I will get right down to it: The Journalist introduced to the British Empire certain concepts of steam-based technology that powered airships, naval vessels, and weapons of mass destruction; a technology that aided England in defeating the American Revolution and maintaining control of the colonies—the result eradicating many major events that would follow, such as the American Civil War, the Spanish Civil War, World Wars One and Two, the Jihads Uprising.…’
‘Pardon me,’ said Q., ‘did you say steam-based technology?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have that now.’
‘You should not. It was introduced into this timeline one hundred years before it was meant to.’
‘Thus creating an alternate timeline,’ said V.
The Time Traveler stared at V. for a long moment, and the energy in the air was quite uncomfortable. The Time Traveler stated: ‘Exactly. A completely different future history.’
‘If all those wars were avoided,’ said V., ‘would not that be a good thing?’
‘Stopping any war is good for mankind,’ said A.
‘Not if the end result are wars more horrible,’ said the Time Traveler. ‘To stop the power-hungry monarchy of the England of the nineteenth century, France developed, or will, the atomic bomb in 1887, rushing forth a time of massive nuclear warfare, nearly destroying all of our race. By 1890, there was, or will be, a total of five thousand human beings left, living underground.’
‘All because of steam technology?’ asked K.
‘Yes. The consequences of innovation.’
‘This is completely insane and absurd!’ cried Q. ‘The Empire losing the colonies? That would have been impossible.’
‘I assure you,’ the Time Traveler replied, ‘it was once a true course.’
‘I refuse to accept that those uneducated, uncouth colonial barbarians could defeat Her Majesty’s armies,’ said A.
We all agreed and toasted the Empire. The Time Traveler did not join us.
‘We must know, sir,’ said V. rather slowly, ‘why are you here narrating this tale of impossible wonder?’
The Time Traveler glared at V. and stated: ‘Oh, you know why, Mr. Vance.’
We all turned to V. in unison. Vance? That was not the name we knew him by.
I hope, dear sister, you are still reading attentively and not laughing, deciding that your older brother has been composing a humorous false letter or has fallen ill to hallucination. I assure you: I am quite sincerely serious about what I heard this man declare, and what was about to transpire.
V. and the Time Traveler continued to stare at one another.
‘Well, that certainly is quite the adventure story,’ said W., breaking the tension at the table.
‘Gentlemen,’ said V., ‘I regret to inform you that everything you have heard from our visitor is true. To the best of my knowledge, that is. I am the Journalist our friend speaks of; and I come from the future just as he. However, I was not aware that my actions had such negative repercussions on history. My initial intention was merely to get away from the life I once had. I was not happy in the twenty-second century, I had lost people I loved and my heart was broken. I did not go to the ChronoB with the intention of escaping into the past. It was only when I went back to 1769, and spoke with the young lady in my company, that I decided the eighteenth century would be a better era to live. The Empire was at its height of power; morality was decent, and I was then, as I am now, a true British citizen at heart. When I went back, and it seemed to me no one was going to come for me, I settled down to a new life. In fact, I married the young trollop in the brothel; you all know my wife, Christine, and that is her secret past. We had a child. I wanted a better United Kingdom for my family, so I drew up designs I had seen before in libraries, technology I remembered from my college days: designs for airships, battleships, tanks, troop transports, and mechanical armor suits, all operated on the single concept of steam power from coal. It was the best available technology to acquire, albeit too soon.
‘Yes, gentlemen,’ V. continued, his head down in shame, ‘it would appear I am a temporal criminal. Millions have perished as a result of one single act by me, and a desire to create a better world. Instead, I fashioned one that was—or will be—worse.’
‘It took a lot of energy and effort to finally locate you,’ said the Time Traveler.
‘I did not want to be found,’ said V., ‘yet here you are. You have me. What is next?’
‘Will you resist arrest?’
‘No at all.’
‘Arrest?!’ said K., a retired barrister. ‘On what ground, on what authority? I demand to see your constable badge and a writ for such a detainment!’
‘It is quite all right, my friend,’ said V., standing up from the table, ‘this gentlemen has the authority to take me…back to whence I came…so I can face judgment.’
‘Say here,’ protested W. to the Time Traveler, ‘what will happen to him?’
‘History will be shifted back to its proper course,’ responded the Time Traveler.
K. inquired: ‘How do you know the future history our friend here created by his actions is not, in fact, the more proper history, and the one you know is wrong?’
The Time Traveler did not offer an answer.
What happened next, dear sister, neither my colleagues nor I were prepared for. V. walked toward the Time Traveler and the two men stood side by side. The Time Traveler did something with his belt and I saw some odd lights emit from his body and.…
I am not quite sure how to convey this other than to write: V. and the Time Traveler vanished right before our eyes!
I swear on the graves of our parents that this is what happened!
It has indeed crossed my mind—and the minds of the others—that this was all an elaborate hoax concocted by V. for some nefarious amusement. Magicians can do wonders today with smoke and mirrors, and the vanishing act could have been contrived via the magical arts.
The more I ponder on this, the more I believe it to be so, and soon V. will return to our weekly gatherings and confess to his trickery. To think that the colonies did not persevere and there was never a United States is indeed an absurd notion!
If you have had a laugh from this letter, it is my sincere desire that it was a good chortle.
I remain, as always,
Your Loving Brother,
Prescott Wells
III.
Seventeen-year-old Christine Williams waited in her chambers for the next customer, who would be coming from the “portal” rather than downstairs. She never quite understood what this portal thing was, beyond the doors of the closet, and Mr. Chamberlain, the man who owned the brothel, told her not think about these things too much. One matter was for sure: the customers who came from the portal were better dressed and smelled nicer and treated her more kindly than the inebriated, rough “gentlemen” of London.
The customer who emerged from the portal was a tall man with a beard, wearing an odd body-hugging black fabric.
Christine sat up from the bed, letting her robe fall so the customer could get a good view of her body.
He wasn’t interested in her body.
—Some other time, my dear, he said with an accent, a curious accent, and one