Outside Time
by robgruver
Brian emerged into the daylight at the front of his Cambridge flat. The light hurt his eyes and he held his hand up to shield them against its brilliance. It was the first time in five days he had seen natural light, and the slight autumn breeze felt good against his face, still mild and welcoming. The air smelled unusually fresh and even the normal levels of exhaust emissions were absent.
Lost in thought it took him some time to realize that the cars themselves were absent, as was the endemic rash of bicycles, and people. Even the Birds seemed strangely quiet. Save for the odd dog scavenging for food, he could have been totally alone.
Pages from a newspaper fluttered gently over the nearby cobbles. Brian walked down the stairs and caught one of the pages under his desert boot. It was yesterdays. News of the escalating Gulf situation filled the page the front page with the ominous headline ‘Apocalypse Approaches’.
The headline said it all. He didn’t have to read further. Millennium celebrations had been put on hold, with the threat of impending nuclear holocaust. For the second time in a decade, Iraq had invaded Kuwait and the world had responded just as they previously had.
Only this time Iraq was known to have nuclear capability, and the means to deliver warheads anywhere throughout Europe. Rumors abounded that Nuclear weapons were already in place in all the major European cities sited anonymously in a basement, or a lock-up, or a factory unit or...
Saddam’s deadline was in two days' time. Midday GMT on 22 of September, all foreign troops out of Kuwait and Saudi, and out of the Gulf or Apocalypse 1999. No compromise.
Brian strolled down to the shop on the corner. It was empty and partly looted. He helped himself to what pre-packaged food and canned drink he could find. Enough for two days should be plenty, he thought. He smiled to himself. ‘Or maybe not?’
A brief walk in the fresh air and back to his temporary basement lab. He cleared the table in the corner with his forearm, depositing half-eaten sandwiches, biscuits, empty crisp packets and drinks cans on the floor, replacing them with the proceeds of his pillaging.
Almost archetypal in his student lifestyle and looks, he had one of the most brilliant minds of all time. He was being hailed as the new Stephen Hawking, but without the wheels - lean and hungry, both physically and intellectually.
Back to the problem. Brian was in his final Ph.D. year, studying under Professor Hawking. The man with the planet sized brain. Space/Time manipulation had been one of the Holy Grails of physics for many years. Quantum physics and Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity had led mathematicians and physicists around by the nose for years. If there was to be a breakthrough, it had to be now.
In his arrogance, or maybe his supreme confidence, Brian reckoned he’d cracked the problem. If he had, he could manipulate time to advantage and pre-empt a nuclear catastrophe. The Iraqis weren’t bluffing this time and it was a logistical impossibility to clear the entire area in the time available. Besides the US did not give in to blackmail (at least not publicly). Bugger the UK!
No one actually believed he could do it, but Hawking was compelled by Brian’s math to give him ‘theoretical’ backing. It seemed to the military and the politicians that there was nothing left to lose, so Brian was given unprecedented access to financial and technological resources, for the one- in-a-million chance that he may just do it. If he didn’t, the waste would be of no consequence.
Faith in the project didn’t extend to waiting around to see if it worked. Most of Cambridge had been evacuated, save for those elderly and bloody minded who would not leave. This was the pattern within a 50-mile radius of London with millions of people scrabbling north or to the West-country to escape the worst of the devastation and subsequent radiation. It wasn’t possible to evacuate any further, though many living further afield did vacate their homes and move to ‘safer’ areas. Politicians and other VIPs soon would be securely established in nuclear bunkers hastily pushed back into service, after their apparent obsolescence after the breakup of the Soviet Union.
Brian didn’t doubt himself for a minute. His basement, though grossly untidy now, was crammed with state-of-the-art technology and he was having the time of his life. But his work was now completed, and he was double-checking his previous double checking before he allowed himself a break.
He would travel back in time, to 1997, just before the Iraqis gained their nuclear advantage. With him he would take papers from leading scientists, the Prime Minister and other members of his cabinet, authenticated with signatures, fingerprints and other information not in the public domain.
With these he would persuade the same scientists and politicians of his validity and advise them of his mission. They had to believe him. The combined evidence was irrefutable.
By now it was known how and when Iraq had graduated to nuclear capability, and the source of their technology and weapons-grade plutonium. Once briefed the politicians of 1997 would, no doubt, arrange for some military unit or other to cut supply lines and reinforce the as yet unrescinded UN sanctions and directives prohibiting the development of nuclear weaponry. Game, Set and Match!
The rest of that day was spent zapping empty cans and unwanted bric-a-brac into the past. The proof of the equipment, would be their return, back onto the plinth from which they were originally zapped. After five attempts he manage to retrieve a half-eaten sandwich. Four crumpled cola cans were no doubt puzzling someone, somewhere, some when.
Brian stopped for the night, celebrated his success, got drunk, lay down and had his first good sleep for a week. When he awoke, it was to a headache and a scene of devastation. More or less the same as yesterday he thought. Then he focused on the hardened half-eaten sandwich on the plinth. His headache was no longer of consequence.
He checked his watch. 11:35am just over 24 hours to go. Since he was going back in time, this was almost irrelevant, so long as he left before midday of the following day.
First breakfast, then he would phone the PM’s mobile number and bring him up to date. He might even talk to the two armed SAS soldiers outside who had been left to guard him. He’d ignored them thus far. He didn’t like violence, ergo he didn’t like those involved with the practice and execution of violence, but he was feeling mellow and triumphant. So long as they didn’t talk about football or humping...
By 3.00 P.M. Brian’s nerves were jangling. Conversation with HM’s finest had absorbed him for all of three minutes. There didn’t seem to be much point in hanging about so he decided to go.
He backpacked what he needed: documents, emergency supplies, currency, change of clothing... Back in 1997 it would be another year and a half before he took out the lease on his flat. If his math was correct, he would appear on an area of common ground shielded by trees at the outskirts of the town just another student enjoying the autumn sunshine. Leastwise he hoped it would be sunny.
Last thing to do was to calibrate the tracker, the device which would return him to his flat in 1999 if he was successful. If he wasn’t successful, he would have three years to work on the problem.
Quite what would happen if he met his other self, he hadn’t worked out. However as his other self was, in 1997, part of an exchange program on the other side of the Atlantic, at MIT, it shouldn’t be a problem in the short term.
He stepped onto the dais with the remote tracker in his hand. His palms were slippery with sweat and he could feel his heartbeat trying to burst out of his throat. Time to go before his shaking legs gave out totally. He closed his eyes, took one last deep breath and pressed the GO button.
For an indeterminate time he floated free. What he felt, saw and heard would be impossible for him to describe; it was like a psychedelic hallucination, but much much more. Ultimately he ‘arrived’ at the common. His head still swam and his legs gave way and he fell heavily, sideways. The tracker had slipped out of his hand and his knee caught it on his way down, catching it against one of the four cola cans on the ground. He lay for a while feeling euphoric but dizzy. He looked around and, although unable to focus properly, could see no surprises. No one watching, no one to see his moment of triumph.
Brian sat up. He became aware of a total lack of sound. Nothing, not even the sound of wind noise of leaves rustling, although he could see the tufts of long grass bent as if blown by the wind.
He felt uneasy. Things didn’t seem quite right. Then he noticed an early leaf-fall. Just three leaves, but they hung static in the air. His brain went into overdrive. Something has gone wrong, he thought. He looked at his tracker; the counter had stopped and there was a large crack across the dial. ‘Bloody cheap plastic,’ he thought, ‘I should have made it more robust, aluminum or something.’
He checked his watch. Its hands weren’t moving either. ‘Could be a result of the transfer,’ he thought, ‘but what if...’ he didn’t like the alternative. Plucking one of the leaves from the air he felt its texture and crushed it. There was no sound of rustling leaves. More puzzling, the leafy remnants he blew off his hands stayed where he’d blown them in mid air.
"My God! I’ve not only traveled back but I’ve stopped time!" he said aloud. A flood of thoughts and emotions mugged his senses and he broke into a cold sweat. "Shhhhhit! What do I do now?"
Ignoring the ache from his knee, he walked back to the town and along the river, passing by the riverside Colleges. The rippling of moving water was frozen in time like a photograph. It looked quite pretty, but there were no punts, no students along the riverbanks posing in the autumn sunshine a complete lack of everything which showed ‘life’. He could just detect weak, low rumblings when he passed close to birds.
The story was the same when he passed through street after empty street. The unwelcome truth began to dawn on him, finally confirmed by the abandoned and looted shops and the headline board outside one of the paper shops. Was it his math? Was it his calibrations? He had stopped time, that much was obvious, but he hadn’t gone back in time at all. Further confirmation came from every unmoving clock he passed.
Panic began to build in him, and that sick helpless feeling that comes when you have really fouled up. He tapped a program sequence into his tracker. Nothing. Prizing its case open his, heart sank even further. The Pentium IV chip at the heart of the tracker had a crack across the middle. His head spun, he fell to his knees and threw up.
Once the vomit exited his mouth, it hung motionless in the air, frozen in time like everything else round about him. He rolled on his back and closed his eyes tight, mentally screamed, and blacked out.
He lay for an hour or so in his time but when he opened his eyes it hadn’t made any difference to his surroundings. Then he noticed it. It made a difference to his mood. The vomit, his vomit, which had hung frozen in the air close to the ground where he had knelt, now formed a splash pattern on the ground complete with ejecta around it.
Time isn’t frozen. Not totally. Just slowed down. But by how much? How could he measure it? He found a cafe and pillaged some food. The problem came when he tried to dispense a diet coke from the pump on the counter it dispensed in slowed time. He opened a can and it poured in slowed time. Then his analytical mind figure it out. If he wanted a drink, he had to impose his time frame on it suck it up through a straw. Simple.
He could still influence the future. Quite how he didn’t know. He could put a note in front of the PM or cabinet minister, but that wouldn’t give them any advantage. He could look for the location of a hidden device in London itself, but London was a very big place.
He slapped his forehead. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid’, he thought. I’ll get back to the basement and reset the controls of the Space/Time Manipulator he hadn’t had time to give it a trendy mnemonic name as yet.
He was approaching his flat with new anticipation. Fifty yards from his front door he saw his two guards frozen in the act of falling headlong into a doorway, away from the flat. Although puzzled he made to run toward his flat but was stopped before he had properly started.
A bright flash spread outwards from his window. Instinctively he turned his back and dropped to the ground. An almost imperceptibly low, but loud, growl followed the flash. Small pieces of glass, stone and wood flew past him at a speed he hadn’t seen since his arrival on the common. He didn’t want to believe what he was thinking. From ground level he looked back at his flat, shielding his face with his hand. Following the speeding missiles he could see the wall of the top of his flat and the one above deforming like a balloon inflating.
"Bastards!" he screamed, knowing his guards couldn’t hear him, as he watched the slowed down motion of his flat disappearing below the rubble of the building above. "Why? Why?" He sat up and watched the slow motion collapse until several of his hours had passed and he felt hungry again.
By the time several of his days had passed he had worked out by how much time had been slowed. When he had gone looking for more food, he had relieved a local sports-shop of a stopwatch which counted time in thousandths of a second.
A one elephant, two elephants, type count suggested a time dilution of about 500 times. This was confirmed by observing television pictures being formed at 25 frames per second. Each frame taking 20 seconds to fully form. Night time would be a real joy with mains lighting of 50 Hz each complete cycle, from fully-on through fully-off and back to fully-on taking 10 seconds. A life of constantly changing artificial light. But he had months before night fell.
Brian would also have to get used to the thought of the time that lay ahead of him more than fourteen months in his time, before The Armageddon. Plenty time to look for a nuclear device. Plenty of time in which not to find it. He chose instead to go to London and pillage the universities and colleges there for the means to rebuild his Space/Time Manipulator and this time, perhaps, get it right.
One small flaw in his plan, however, was that a main computer processor component for his device had been flown in from the US. He would have to hope that an academic acquaintance, he knew to be working on roughly similar lines, in London, would have equipment and materials which would be compatible to his requirements.
The trip to London proved to be a largely surrealistic experience. The only kind of machine which would provide him with a useful alternative to walking the 50 miles to London was a bicycle. At least in Cambridge there had been a more than adequate choice of machines to choose from.
Cycling down the M11 was bizarre. Empty roads going south, apart from the odd, nearly static, military vehicle, and mega slowly moving traffic build-ups going north. There was no hurry. Brian reckoned he had more than 420 of his days before ‘zero’ hour arrived.
Along the way he saw many accidents caused, no doubt, by panic. He was used to seeing slow-mo, mock deaths in action movies, but people dying 500 times slower than ‘reality’ was sickening. He couldn’t look. Flames and smoke looked frozen against the static sky. They were moving but so, so, slowly. His three-hour cycle was nowhere near as pleasant as he thought it would be.
A quick calculation depressed him even more. In about 100 days time he would enter night time 210 days of darkness with mains lighting pulsing at 50Hz, in his reality that was light dark light... once every 10 seconds. Like living a bad acid trip. To work he would have to surround himself with DC lighting torches.
While contemplating this, another reality struck home all the power he would need to re-calibrate any new device he might build would be built around 50Hz mains power. He could possibly reconfigure the electronics to work on a DC buffer yes that would work but the problem was awesome...
Time dragged slowly. During the 200 days of ‘night time’ Brian found it impossible to work properly. Instead he got up to mischief with the military presence that was still anxiously seeking the nuclear device.
It was schoolboy stuff mostly: tying bootlaces together; closing open doors; removing pencils from hands; removing clothing; Turning soldiers around to face in a different direction... In their time-frame they wouldn’t have a clue to what was happening. This kept him amused for a while.
He also availed himself of the University libraries dotted around London, especially those specializing in electronics and quantum physics. Under his array of torches, linked to car batteries, he studied. The new myriad of city sounds he could hear were slowly driving him mad. Normal speech, wind and birdsong noises had given way to high frequency sounds, low enough, now, for him to hear. Individual vehicle cylinders firing, electrical equipment noise, and a plethora of sounds he couldn’t identify, constantly against the surrealistic background.
Daylight came at last. Now he was very disheveled and in danger of crossing the narrow border where genius becomes insanity. Another 105 days of continuing absurdity and he was ready to try again. Well, as ready as he could be. Genius does not always come with common sense during the course of time it became blindingly obvious that he hadn’t originally slowed time around him he had accelerated himself in time.
This time he was sure he’d got it right. He could have kicked himself for the elementary mistakes he’d made the last time. This time he would leave from London University High Energy Lab and send himself back to his own basement. A few minutes after he had originally left should do it no point is risking a time dichotomy. Then, having re-ordered his own time frame he would try again. With the extra knowledge gleaned over the last 14 months it would be that much easier. A re-calibration and a few adjustments, and bingo back into the past as originally planned. Easy.
He readied himself. Again his heart beat as if trying to burst out of his chest. His mouth ran dry. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his Versace jeans. A present to himself from the future.
His finger trembled on the trigger button. He closed his eyes. His legs shook. He took a deep breath and pressed down, hard.
Time, for a while, had no meaning. Like last time he floated, at peace, suspended like before somewhere outside time.
He opened his eyes and smiled with relief. His basement was just as he’d left it. Messy, stale with his own sweat but home. He let out a rebel yell, and was surprised, and offended, when his guards didn‘t burst through his door to find out what was wrong.
As he walked to the door he became aware of the wind noise, outside, and the bark of a distant dog. Sweet sounds. Through the door and he could hear what sounded like someone running. The soldiers? Why were they running?
A thought struck him there was no way he could have accounted for the amount of time he’d spent ‘outside time’.
He looked back, into the basement room, just in time to see the first milliseconds of a bright flash.
Just in time to feel the first few milliseconds of exquisite, explosive pain.