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E. Mark Mitchell is a loquacious maximalist. To his mind, there’s never a sentiment expressed in 6 words that can’t be equally expressed in 60. Therefore, short story writing is difficult, but if boiling a story down to its essentials makes it more powerful, then that’s a worthwhile effort. Mr. Mitchell has many unrelated nicknames in use amongst his friends, who are scattered across several countries on several continents. He currently lives in Chicago with his lovely wife and his adorable and brilliant giant mutant daughter. 
This story first appeared in the June 2005 issue of Analog. |
“Long tunnel,” Bill finally said, breaking the silence. They’d been walking for half an hour through a semicircular tunnel apparently carved through glassy obsidian, with little greenish light bulbs spaced every few meters along the center of the curved ceiling. There were no branches, and no change in angle after that first turn. “I feel like something’s dragging on me, but I can’t pinpoint the exact sensation.” Greg turned to the fish in Bill’s hand. “Hey, um, trout, do you know where this tunnel is going?” “Hey, I can talk, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m clairvoyant,” the fish said, somewhat testily. “Why do people always think the dead have supernatural powers?” “Um...” Bill started to answer, but thought better of it. For just then, a fourth voice boomed through the air, deep and powerful and electronic, like James Earl Jones crossed with a Speak-and-Spell. “Approach, humans. I have found your language, and I am now able to communicate.” They paused, waiting for something to reveal itself, but nothing else happened. They looked at each other, shrugged, and kept walking. Another half-hour and they noticed a variation in the lights ahead. Eventually, the passage opened up to a large chamber. The opposite wall held a single luminescent blue tube, and in the center sat a large pink brocade couch. “Sit, humans, if you are tired. You have come a long way.” The voice seemed to come from the blue light, but it filled the entire space. “Thanks,” Bill said, crossing to the couch and taking a seat. He didn’t want to seem impolite. “My trout suggested you could help us.” “Yes. Your experiments have caused physical reality to revert to a primordial formlessness, easily malleable by the energy of intelligent thought.” “Could you tell us what we did to make that happen?” Greg sat on the arm of the couch, leaning forward, enraptured. “It was a fluke, specific neutrino and tachyon interference with your probability experiments at precisely the moment necessary to set up the reverberations in the local subatomic particles. The effect spread out naturally from that epicenter.” “Oh, naturally.” Bill kind of followed the voice’s explanation, but it was way too calm and matter-of-fact to be talking about the breakdown of reality. “You said the effect was malleable to thought. Why did it respond to our words, and not just our thoughts?” “Language is intelligent thought given physical form.” Bill waited, but no more was forthcoming. “Ah. I see. Well, then, can you help us put everything back to normal?” “I cannot cause your reality to resume its previous form. Once released, primordial formlessness cannot be completely bound again.” Greg groaned. Bill thought of DaVinci, his apartment, his whole life. All gone, by this time. He hoped the DaVinci dog had at least chewed on a Mongol… “However, I can return you to your time period before the event occurs. You would replace your earlier selves, and could thereby alter the timing of the test. Starting a microsecond earlier or later would be enough to throw off the fatal interaction.” Greg blinked. “Would we run into problems again?” “Unlikely. Your discovery, while interesting, is not cost-effective, and has no foreseeable practical development with the current methodology. Your funding will be cut within the year.” Greg flinched. “Besides, you are more likely to start another baby universe with your experiments than you are to experience another confluence such as the one that started this.” Bill noted the voice didn’t provide any specific probabilities on either occurrence, which was worrisome. Then he registered something the voice had said. “You said ‘our time period.’ Are we not currently in our time period?” “In order to speak to an intelligence capable of helping you, it was necessary for you to come forward in time approximately 1.3 million years.” “Million...” Greg just about fell off the couch. “Before you ask, I cannot tell you anything about this world, or the fate of humanity. I will say that you both have achievements yet to make, particularly you, Doctor.” “But...” Greg started, but the voice abruptly cut him off. “I am starting the process now. You may experience observer-based side effects for a short period, but it will pass.” The blue light was getting hazy; in fact, everything was graying out, from Bill’s perspective. In a few moments, subjectively, he was awoken by DaVinci the cat in the usual way, with the feline sitting on the human’s head. It was the morning of the previous day, and there was more than enough time to make things right.  The next evening, instead of fleeing Mongol warriors, Greg stopped by Bill’s apartment. “Hey, I’ve got a couch like this in my office waiting area,” Greg said, as Bill brought him a beer. “Yeah, it seems to be a leftover. It’s too big for me to move it out; believe me, I’ve tried. So I guess I’ll have to get used to it.” Bill turned on the TV, muting the sound. “I don’t remember that fish tank being there.” “No, that’s new. It’s the least I could do to say thanks.” Bill grinned at the small trout swimming in the large tank. With no predators, no fishermen, and no competition for food, he hoped the trout would enjoy a long, content life. As far as trout go, at least. “But how did...” “Wait, hold on a second.” The lottery drawing was coming on, and Bill pulled out a ticket. “I don’t know if simply stating that I was buying the winning ticket was enough, so I’ve got to focus.” As the announcer was giving the warm-up, Bill started chanting his lottery numbers softly, under his breath. Greg’s eyes widened as, one by one, Bill’s numbers appeared on the little balls that popped out of the machine. Bill put his ticket back in his pocket, smiling. “You just won sixty million dollars!” Greg gaped. “Unless I have to share with someone. Which I am, by the way; I’m cutting you in for half. There’s a big chunk of taxes, and they pay it out over the course of years, but still...” “But how did... Binky, you just...” “And don’t call me Binky.” “But Bill...” Greg paused. “Bill...” His brow furrowed. He raised his chin and said, carefully and distinctly, “Bill.” The scientist blinked quickly. “I can’t say it. Every time I try...” Bill grinned even wider, and held up a hand to quiet Greg’s babble. “You remember when the voice said something about observer-based side effects lingering for a short time?” He glanced significantly at the fish tank, then patted his pocket. “You mean...” Realization dawned on Greg’s face. It was a wonderful thing to see. “You want to call your wife? Maybe she wants to come out with us tonight. Better hurry; we don’t know how long this will last.” Copyright © 2005, 2006 E. Mark Mitchell |
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