The Man Who Broke Sunday

He appeared in the room, and it seemed he had always been there, but also somehow wasn’t there yet.  He flipped up his goggles and flipped open a small pocketwatch, studying it briefly.  With a snap, he closed it again, looking around.  “Well, I’ve done it,” he said.  “I made it as far as 1873.”  He smiled. “I made it past the 20th Century.”

“How inspiring,” a woman said from across the room.  He looked up, and saw her lying atop a made bed.  “Now please stop,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because you can’t travel through time,” she said, sitting up.  “Well, you can, obviously, and I do it all the time.”  She stood, though she leaned against one of the bedposts.  “But time takes things from you, when you travel through it.  It eats at you.”  She looked hard at him and he swallowed uneasily.  “But not you.  Time can’t touch you.”  She approached him slowly.  “You backflipped over an entire century and it cost you nothing.”

He cleared his throat.  “Well, I, um, I hadn’t realized that I...”

“You have a machine, I take it?”

“Yes.”

She stood directly before him, holding his eyes with her own.  “I’ve known plenty of geniuses with machines, who ended up the way I am now, became what I’m becoming.  What’s so different about your machine?”

“N-nothing.  I mean, I...”  He looked down, then up again.  She was still staring at him.  “What... um, what are you becoming?”

She held his gaze a few more moments, then looked away herself.  He looked down again.  She was hard to look at.  She wasn’t always there, even though he knew she was.

“Living time, that’s what I’m becoming,” she said.  “I’m what’s left of all that time’s taken from me, over and over.”  She sighed, a weary sound.  “I can step from yesterday to tomorrow and exist simultaneously across myriad todays, but sometimes I forget my own name.”

“What is your name?”

A long pause, then a slight whimper followed by another sigh.  “I don’t remember.”

“I...I’m...”

“I’ll tell you what I do remember,” she said.  “I remember another genius, with his machine.  From 500 years away to 1000 years ago and back again, he stomped across time like it was his backyard.  Eventually he got what was his.  Time ate his life, one year at a time, until there was nothing left of him but probability, a living deja vu, but not before his blundering about the past caused the death of my great-grandfather.  I should have ceased to exist,” she shrugged, “but instead I stepped outside of time, and when I stepped back in, I was years in the past.  I found I could move through time at will -with a bit of help, at first- and discovered the time traveler who’d caused all my problems.  I raced to the date he killed my great-grandfather, but even after I’d stopped him, time had changed enough that when I returned to my present, I found I was already there.  Though I existed in this new timeline, I also did not.  So, I left my other self alone and began to wander the timestream, each journey losing more and more of myself, until one day I’ll be little more than a living day of the week, or a sentient appointment in someone’s calendar.”  

“That’s horrible.”

She shook her head.  “You don’t get it.  Time has to do this.”  She fixed him a stern glare.  “Every time one of you idiots hops in his machine and goes wandering about outside the flow of history, time gets broken.  And the only way time can repair itself, is by using all the potential days in the life of a time traveler.”

“Which creates a sort of equilibrium.  A time traveler breaks time, then is cannibalized to fix what was broken,” he said.

She nodded.  “But you throw everything out of balance.  The more you travel, the more time will take from people like me, and once we’re gone, time will break even further, perhaps stop working altogether.  Every era in history will collide with one another.  Humanity will cease to exist, save for people like me, lost and wandering a broken timestream through eternal now.  Is that what you want?”

He rubbed the back of his head.  “Well, no.  No, not as such, but...”

“Please,” she said, “stop traveling.  Return to your era and stay there.  Time can still recover without too much...”

“No,” he said.  “No, I think I’m going to keep traveling.  I’m sorry, but this is my life’s work.  I can’t...” his face hardened.  “I won’t give it up.”  He pulled out his pocketwatch and clicked a small button.  Immediately he disappeared, though it was more like he was never there.

He rematerialized over a century later in that same room, next to the machine.  He flipped a few switches, pulled a lever and turned a few dials, reducing the whine of the time machinery to a low hum.

“Oh, I see,” she said, standing behind him.  “The machine acts as an anchor.  You stay tethered to it in your present, allowing you to remain within the flow of history, while at the same time removing yourself from it.  Clever,” she nodded.  She grabbed the back of his head and smashed his face into the side of the machine.  “A bit too clever.”  She pulled him back and took his pocketwatch, tossing it on the floor.  “Now, your tether’s been unhooked,” she said, “you should be fair game.  So, off you go!”  She shoved him, and he vanished, swallowed up by the timestream.

Only moments later, she vanished as well, and the room was quiet.  It was said that for years after, anyone attempting to spend the night in this room would be visited by dreams of every opportunity they'd ever let pass them by, and all the lost glories of their wasted potential.  

Few ever make it through the night.

A Balanced Prophecy

Anne Price sat back in her chair among the Inner Circle. Before that august body stood a boy, power practically radiating off him. He was stronger with the Spark than any of the novices and Adepts she'd seen in her long years as a Paladin. The boy had been found on some planet in the Far Reaches by a Ronin and brought before the Circle. The Ronin, one Twilya Borensz, was speaking.

"Surely you see what I see," she said calmly. It was best not to lose one's temper in Circle chambers, though Anne observed the effort she made. This one has been wandering the path of the Ronin too long, she thought. It's past time for her to start the Paladin's road.

The Ronin persisted. "You must know what every Ronin and Paladin I met on the journey here knows. This boy is one of the Five Prophecies."

"Which?" asked a member of the Circle. "The Instrument of Balance or The Indefensible Victim?" Only two of the Five involved individual people, the rest pertained to groups or events.

"The Instrument," Twilya said, as though it were obvious. Anne studied the Ronin's young charge. He was older than the average novice, but not by much. His eyes held wisdom far beyond him and Anne could see, even without reading his thoughts, that he knew how the Circle would react.

Indeed, it was Thella Dars, ancient matriarch of the Circle, who said, "Though this boy may be the Instrument, the Victim or neither, he is not to be trained. He is far to old to begin."

"He doesn't need to start at the beginning," Twilya said. "Give him the Adept's Test. I say he'll pass and then he doesn't have to take the novice classes. I would also say he could have only minimum Adept training before he was taken by a Paladin--"

"You say, " the matriarch looked at the young Ronin sternly. Twilya swallowed and said nothing.

"I will tutor him, brethren," Anne said with a smile. "Child of Prophecy or no, he is powerful and should be trained. And I agree with Ronin Borensz. I'll need to see his scores on the Adept Test, but he shouldn't need the full four years. He's already old enough, he has the power and has presumably demonstrated ability. A solid grounding in the Tenets is all he lacks."

Another member of the Circle glared at her. "Paladins do not train Adepts, they take Squires. Only Masters may train Adepts."

"I sit within the Inner Circle," Anne said. "That entitles me to certain rights of Mastery."

The matriarch raised an eyebrow. "You are new to this Circle, Paladin Price."

Anne nodded. "So I am. Therefore, if any respected elder can provide a compelling argument against training an obvious prodigy, I will gladly withdraw my tutor's petition."

There was silence. A telepathic conference ensued, followed by the matriarch speaking. "Your petition is accepted. It will be recorded that you are this boy's tutor."

Anne offered a slight bow.

Later, Anne and Twilya walked through the bustling corridors of the Magi sanctuary. Novices and Adepts went about their lessons and duties, while Magi from Ronin to Master walked its halls.

"Thank you, Anne," she said. "I knew you would see his potential. If you had seen him, on his planet..." she smiled. "I was surrounded by tigerhawks, bleeding out from a gash across my gut. I was barely able to render basic thought-forms, my concentration was shot. I poured all my will into making myself indestructible, hoping I'd be able to keep the shields up long enough, when that kid came diving in out of nowhere. He was a blur - a blur with the strength of ten. He took down the most vicious predatory hybrids in the galaxy with nothing but his body and a metal staff."

"So he performed what any new Squire fresh out of their Adept's colors could do. He used the Spark to enhance his own physical attributes."

Twilya smiled. "How easy was that for you to learn, during your Adept training?"

Anne grinned. "Not very, I'll admit."

"Well this boy taught himself how to do that, and more beside."

"And discipline? Was he teaching himself that, as well?"

She shook her head. "He's more driven than disciplined. Which is why his training is so important, and why I'm so glad he has you to--"

"Did you tell him about the Fell?"

She scoffed at this. "Enough so he knew who they were and what they did. I didn't focus on them much. So few remain, it's unlikely he'll ever meet any, let alone have to face one."

Anne nodded and moved ahead to talk with the boy.

They walked in silence for a while.

"Did Ronin Borensz tell you what she thinks you are?" Anne asked at last.

The boy nodded.

They walked a while, not speaking again. Anne studied the boy. Then, with a grin, she reached out for a handful of the universe and used its energy to build a floating geometric shape from solid light. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Brin," the boy said. "Brin Darkstar."

"Darkstar," Anne repeated. "That's a Far Reaches name."

Brin nodded again. "Grew up on a cargo ship, running the old merchant spaceways with my family. We come out of the Colonies, generations back, but I spent some time on the Capitol worlds." He watched the spinning shapes -for there were more of them now- a look of awe on his face. "Will I learn to do that?"

Anne smiled kindly. "Soon enough. I'm to train you."

"You are?"

"I am. But there is testing to be done yet to decide where I'm to begin."

"Testing?"

"Standard among the Magi, to determine placement within the Order." Anne waved the question aside. "But there is the matter of your Prophecy to discuss."

"So, you think I am..."

"The Instrument of Balance, yes."

"Well, that's good, isn't it? Ronin Borensz says it is." The thoughtforms danced and spun around him. He caught at them and grinned as they slipped through his fingers, grinned at the thought that the Paladin was making it happen, that someday he would make it happen. Maybe make other things happen.

"Balance is neither good nor evil," Anne said, her smile turning thoughtful. "That's really the whole point. My concern is how you’ll actually bring about this balance."

Brin looked quizzically over at the Paladin.

"You know the Fell, yes?"

"The Ronin told me. They use the Spark for evil, perverting the Magi way."

"Yes," Anne said, "that is the Fell, essentially. They have all the power of the Magi and none of the discipline, none of the control. They rose to power a thousand years ago, enslaved half the galaxy and slaughtered most of the other half. It took centuries to bring them down, but over those centuries we became so successful at hunting them, and cleaning up their collateral criminal activity, that the Magi have become the de facto law enforcement for most of the galaxy. Our numbers grow as the Fell diminish to nothing."

"But isn't that good?" Brin was confused. The thoughtforms pulsed and changed and moved slowly about his head.

"It is," Anne nodded. "I won't ever be truly happy until every last Fell is dead." She paused. "Which brings us back to the matter of the prophecy."

"I don't understand."

Anne stopped walking and turned to face Brin. "If you are to bring balance between the Magi and the Fell, then you're either going to make a great deal more of them or a great deal less of us." She favored the boy with a sympathetic smile. "I’m sorry Brin, but I'm afraid I find neither option terribly appealing."

"I don’t underst--hnk!" The Child of Prophecy's last words ended in a choked grunt as the brilliant shimmering shapes became deadly glittering spikes that drove simultaneously through Brin Darkstar's brain.

Three Masters of the Inner Circle approached, the matriarch among them. "What is this?" she demanded.

"A dead child, Masters."

"Why did you kill this boy, believed by many, including yourself, to be one of the Five Prophecies?"

"Masters," Anne bowed, spreading her hands in reverent supplication. "I humbly submit to you, that I only acted according to the will of the most venerated Prophets."

"The last of the Five Prophets rejoined the Spark over three thousand years ago," the matriarch said. "How do you presume to know their will?"

Still retaining her submissive posture, Anne smiled. "Most honored Masters, I would think it obvious," she said. "Balance between the Magi and the Fell would bring disaster upon our order, would it not?"

"While of course true, that is irrelevant," a Master scolded. "One does not seek to thwart a Prophecy. Would you do the same to the Indefensible Victim, were she found and brought before you?"

"As the Indefensible Victim is said to usher in the next age of barbarism, then yes, I would drive a spike through her brain as readily as I did this poor bastard." Anne was calm, standing and meeting the gaze of each Master in turn. "Truly, Masters, do you hold to dogma and ritual at the cost of all reason and sense? Can you not see the only logical course?" When she was met with silence, she turned and continued down the hall, throwing one final thought to her ancient brethren over her shoulder.

"What purpose should Prophecy serve," she said, "save to provide the means to thwart its outcome?"

The Broken Tomorrow of Josephine Sunday

Of course, Sunday wasn’t her real last name. People didn’t have days of the week for their last names, not real people.

But then, she wasn’t a real person any more, was she?

Josephine closed her eyes, willing her normal life - Josephine Watley’s normal life - to be there when she opened them. But no, it was just the same train station, the same bleached-out colors and insubstantial people. She flipped the hood of her ragged coat up over her head. It was starting to snow.

A few minutes later, the train pulled up. Josephine climbed the steps, turned right into a car, and sat against the window of a two-person seat. The car was nearly deserted, so she set her bag down next to her. The conductor approached.

“Ticket?”

She flashed her pass, and was putting it back in her bag when the conductor’s voice brought her up short.

“Hold it.”

She looked up.

“Let me see that.”

She handed up the pass.

The conductor scrutinized it. “Don’t normally see these stations on a pass.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, Tomorrow Station is a one-way trip. People usually buy single tickets for that one. And I didn’t think we even had service to Yesterday Station any more.”

She smiled. “I wanted my pass to be comprehensive.”

The conductor smiled back, returning the pass. “Where you headed?”

“Tomorrow Station is always where I’m headed, but I am unfortunately getting off long before then.”

“And where would that be?”

“I believe you're supposed to tell me.”

“Ah, right.” The conductor fumbled with a map, studying it. “ Let's see... ah. Here it is. You’ll want to get off on a Saturday afternoon in the spring of 1987.”

The train lurched and the conductor stumbled, then began stammering, looking quizzically at the map. “Um, what? No, I’m sorry. That’s ridiculous. You’ll want the West Idleston station. The one after next.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’m so sorry for that... um, whatever that was. I don’t even really remember...”

“Not at all.” Josephine smiled up.

“Must be one of those days.”

“It always is.”

The conductor walked on, and Josephine put her pass away, rummaging through her bag. She took out a small journal and began writing. She was finding it harder to put her thoughts on paper, but she forced herself to write at least two pages. She knew she would one day lose writing, just like she lost her proper name. Eventually, even Josephine would be gone and she’d just be Sunday, a living day of the week. After that she would become woven into spacetime itself, a barely sentient waveform of shifting probabilities.

Soon, the conductor announced West Idleston. Josephine put away her journal and zipped up her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she left the train. Her phone rang and she answered it.

“Sunday.”

“Josephine, this is Calendar. Are you then?”

She looked around, had a good chuckle at some of the fashions on display, and said, “Spring. 1987. Feels like a Saturday.”

“Good. Now, where are you?”

“Town called West Idleston.”

“Perfect!” Josephine held her phone away from her ear. Calendar was still going on. “Dispatch got you on the right train for once. Okay, you want to get to a highway overpass about... three blocks from where you are.”

She started moving. “So how is visiting some overpass in 1987 going to help me stop being erased from existence?”

“Well, West Idleston was your grandfather’s home town, and you’re at the day after his junior prom,” Calendar said. “But, more importantly, it’s also the day he’s going to kill himself.”

Deliverance (a sermon)

In the old time under the Green Men, those vicious monsters of space, the last of Earth’s authority came together. The armies of the world were long since made rubble and corpses, human science a thing of legend, so the only avenue left those former kings and merchant princes was religion. Clergy from all faiths urged their people to join in prayer, a fervent appeal to their Higher Power to deliver them from the invaders. This global clergy, united for the first time in history in the face of this universal Other, poured over their texts and sacred books, seeking the means to call down that deliverance.

It was a Muslim cleric and a Wiccan high priestess who found the incantation, in a book buried deep beneath the Vatican; an incantation that would summon a holy warrior, one that would bring the great and terrible Wrath of the Divine. With the incantation they’d found, humanity could call down God’s Worst Bastard.

And when he came among the last humans, he was known as Pope Adam the Destroyer. His was a hunger of infinite measure, satisfied only by the souls of aliens. With each soul devoured, Pope Adam the Destroyer added one more mindless drone to his growing army. They swept across the globe, the remaining aliens fleeing before such a fate. When the last of the invaders had gone, humanity’s savior presented them with the God Factory, a vast industrial complex fueled by the souls he’d taken, worked by the bodies those souls had once inhabited. The God Factory made the machines that made everything the recovering human race could need, bringing about a paradise from their blasted and blighted Earth.

And so it is, in this, the year of the Destroyer 117, a century since our deliverer had left us, that we are recovered enough to think on vengeance. We go now to the God Factory to build new machines, sacred machines that only the Mechanics of the Holy Order can operate; machines to find the aliens’ homeworld and machines we can use to kill everything we see once we get there.

Blessed, blessed, thrice blessed are the warriors in the Destroyer’s armies, for theirs is the right and the power of the Divine.

Praise Be.