This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

The Island

The Island was about eight and a half miles by five miles. A circular reef surrounded it. From the sky it would appear very much as the Yin symbol from the Yin/Yang design. To the north the ground rose sharply. A curved plateau ran southwards and was thickly forested. The eastern rocky shore formed a crescent. A stream ran down the hillside with the promise of fresh drinking water. The shore gave way to scrubland, dotted with bushes or tussocks, rising up several hundred yards to the top of the incline. It seemed likely that the western side was a cliff, dropping some two hundred and fifty yards to the sea. We had arrived at night and selected a flat, rocky surface some yards above the high water mark as the site for our Shelters. At the northern end of the island was perhaps the smallest volcano I’ve ever seen, with just a wisp of smoke emerging from the crater.

The Mission

We had two Shelters, four Zoologists, and twenty four hours before our absence had to be explained to anyone. I had identified a small island that seemed to show great promise. We were to arrive at night, assemble a couple of sampling cages, and wait for the early dawn before setting out to capture, sample, photograph, and record any of the island fauna we could find. Of course we couldn’t actually collect any Flora or Fauna for obvious reasons. I had certain expectations which I did not reveal to my team, as at that time I had no hard evidence to support my conjectures. Two teams would be used, one to survey the hillside and low vegetation there, the other to ascend to the plateau and survey the forest. A likely route up was alongside the stream. There was no necessity for radio silence so we would be in touch. However it was vitally important not to disturb any inhabitants so the volume would be kept to a minimum.

The Background

Reg met me outside Attenborough. As usual he wore his brown storeman’s coat. We’d never really taken to jumpsuits at St David’s. A small sprig of mistletoe had been added to his clipboard for the forthcoming occasion. “Numbers three and four are fully charged and re-supplied. They won’t be inspected until Boxing Day. You have twenty four hours. We never had this conversation!” Jake, Carol, and Dr Rumstead were all ready to come with me, in flagrant defiance of standing orders. They all knew how I felt about the impending festivities, and for their own reasons had agreed to accompany me. I’m going to try to document what happened, but I’m not a historian. I’m not a skilled writer. My words don’t flow, I fall over my adjectives, and I miss things out only to remember them later. I run out of synonyms. So I’ll just try to set down the story.

It all started so well!

Jake and Carol were to survey the forested area on the top of the ridge. Being somewhat younger and fitter than the good Doctor and they thought they were better fitted for the climb. We didn’t argue. They carried one of our sampling cages and positioned it close to the stream. The other cage Rumstead and I carried uphill into the darkness, and found a level spot to set it up. Standard trap cages they were, baited with fruit. We returned to the shelters to wait until first light and make a nice cup of tea. As the light of false dawn began to illuminate the island Jake and Carol headed off to begin the arduous climb up the stream bank to the forest. Dr Rumstead and I headed up the hill into the fog. The hillside was covered in a hazy mist that seemed to be rolling down the hill from the ridge. It made finding out footing very awkward and we were glad of our sampling sticks for additional support! As the sun rose the mist dimished to a layer about chest height. There seemed to be movement in the mist. Hummocky boulders and plants were slowly revealed. Something rushed past my feet and a strange but immensely welcome sound began to issue from the haze:

Grockle Grockle Grockle, Grockle Grockle!

And then we saw them, Unmistakable Dodos in the early morning haze! They were everywhere, fossicking about, bumping into rocks and each other in their joyful greeting of the dawn. My theories seemed to be correct. We had found the lost colony! For several hours we recorded their antics and took samples for later analysis. They ate grubs and roots mostly, but they seemed to mistake shoelaces for worms, and set about them with enthusiasm. I had to turf one out of my sampling bag, in which it wanted to take up residence. Odd behaviour. They evinced not a scrap of fear in our presence, and fairly soon we were surrounded by curious dodos, grockling happily. On closer inspection I could see that they had certain differences to the Mauritius Dodos, insomuch as they were somewhat smaller, and had less bone growth to the forepart of their bills. This was not Raphus Cucullatus but seemed more like the Rodrigues solitaire dodo. So we had a dodo variation hitherto unknown to science! To say that Rumstead and I were as happy as pigs in clover was to put it mildly!

Meanwhile Uphill

Jake and Carol made slow work of the ascension. The rounded boulders along the stream bank seemed to afford good footing, but had a nasty habit of moving when weight was placed on them. This made the footing somewhat treacherous. Climbing carefully, they took a couple of hours to reach the ridge. The humidity was appalling and they were both drenched with sweat which attracted a number of attentive mosquitoes. Burdened as they were with their rucksacks they took a few minutes to refresh themselves before plunging into the surprisingly dense forest. Jake carried the instrument bag and Carol the water, sandwiches, and sampling equipment. Something fairly large was moving about in the forest. As they made their way into the forest a pungent smell grew. It had overtones of rotting corpses and burned feathers. Not a pleasant smell at all. “Perhaps we could find a clearing?” Carol enquired. They moved cautiously into the trees. A riot of brightly coloured birds took to the sky. Jake did his best to record them, but they stayed up high in the treetops.

A low rumbling sound seemed to come from the very ground itself, which shook for a few seconds. Jake and Carol looked at each other and started to stow their gear. Standing orders were to return to the Shelters if there were any quakes. Jake was just hoisting the instrument bag when it all went bad.

GROCKLE

A huge bird burst from the trees, standing about nine feet tall. It appeared to be a giant dodo. But this dodo clearly didn’t waste time grubbing for roots and insects. It wanted Zoologist, and took a large bite out of Jake. Fortunately it connected with his backpack which it wrenched off and shook before smashing it repeatedly on a convenient rock. Jake and Carol eased away slowly. They had to run for the shelters and avoid becoming lunch in the process. There was further movement in the forest and Jake and Carol had to leap out of the way when another giant dodo advanced on them. They ran. After crashing through the forest they suddenly realised that they were lost. The compass had been in Jake’s rucksack.

Another deep rumbling was accompanied by an unmistakable belch from the direction of the volcano. With North established they worked their way back to the slope as quickly and quietly as they could. Jake wanted to go back for the instrument bag. “We can’t leave it behind. Wait here for ten minutes and if I don’t come back you’ll have to go on without me”

As Jake wormed his way back to the clearing Carol waited and worried before deciding that she better make use of the remaining time on the plateau. A few minutes later a crashing in the undergrowth revealed Jake, minus the instrument bag and running hard. Sounds of enthusiastic pursuit came from close behind him. They both ran. As they did so Jake noticed packets of sandwiches discarded on the ground. Carol had used her time well and soon the dodos had to choose between sandwiches and zoologist. It didn’t hold the birds long though. As they reached the forest edge they could see the volcano had woken up. A steady stream of smoke issued from the cauldron. The giant dodo emerged from the forest, and plunged down the slope behind them, it’s great beak snapping closed on empty air with a loud Clopping sound.

At that moment the volcano erupted. A circular smoke cloud puffed up from the crater, followed by the smallest and most flatulent eruption imaginable. The volcano cleared its throat. A scattering of lava bombs hurtled up from the crater and lazily began to fall back to ground. One of them seemed to be getting closer and closer. The Giant Dodo was catching up. Jake and Carol still had several hundred yards to go before reaching the beach. That didn’t seem to be getting any closer at all!

Lava began to spill down the flanks of the volcano, and within minutes a large fire had started to the north.

Just as Jake and Carol turned to meet the enraged bird the incoming lava bomb hit it. It went up in a sheet of flames and collapsed. They ran for the beach.

The good doctor and I were waiting by the shelters estimating the time it would take for the lava flow to reach us. This was exactly why safety protocols were established and we had ignored them. We were going to be in considerable trouble.

Jake and Carol arrived safely and we began the departure procedures. They babbled about Giant carnivorous dodos and my heart froze. I had been right. What I wouldn’t give for a live specimen. My theories of small island gigantism were vindicated. Dr Rumstead suddenly shouted “The Cages!”

We had to get them back. They couldn’t be left behind and the idea of a trapped creature being immolated by boiling lava was not one to dwell upon. Jake and Carol set off for the one by the stream. Rumstead and I made our way uphill again. The lava was about a mile away and the sea was boiling. When we reached the cage we were surprised to see it crammed full of Dodos. Every part of the cage was filled with grey feathers and a crooning grockling issued forth. “We’ll have to empty the cage” Dr Rumstead yelled. “No. Those rules are suspended by their approaching extermination” I replied, “Get hold of the other end!” The cage was heavy. Dodos are solid birds, which perhaps explains their fate on the dinner table in their day on Mauritius. When we got back to the shelters Jake and Carol’s cage was also bulging with dodos.

Getting the cages into the shelters wasn’t easy, and they had to be upended, to the great displeasure of their occupants. The instrument panel completed its departure sequence without protest and the world went Green.

Attenborough was quiet as we opened the shelter doors and we began to hope that we might have got away with it. Fat Chance!

I rejoiced in the fun I would have examining all the scans and recordings that Jake and Carol had made up on the plateau. At least I would still have proof of my theories. Jake and Carol took me aside and for the first moment I saw that the instrumentation pack was missing. They told me of the attack and their subsequent escape and how it had been impossible to recover the recorders. Around us grockling dodos spread across Attenborough and started nibbling at things they shouldn’t. At any minute now I was going to be in the biggest trouble of my life, and apart from the valuable and engaging Dodos I had nothing to show for it. Jake and Carol were arguing, quietly. “He won’t have it, you know he doesn’t even like to hear the word!” “This is different Jake. It’s worth a try”

They turned to me and Carol presented me with her rucksack. It seemed fairly heavy. The smell of vegetation reached me as I opened the bag. There, nestled in grass were two huge eggs, Grey mottled with green. My heart seemed to stop and tears ran down my face.

“Happy Christmas Professor!” she said.

Charles Braham is a much loved Jodi Taylor fan, old hippy, tabletop RPGamer, Larper and cosplayer.

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If you would like to enter The Sands of Time competition please CLICK HERE

To enjoy reading all the entries please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Galactose Intolerant or Soylent Cheese by A.L. Taur

“So tell me about the cheese.”

“What cheese?”

“What do you mean, what cheese? This cheese. That cheese over there. The cheese all around us.”

“There isn’t that much cheese.”

“This vessel is approved by Section 31b of the Unarian Code to be used for hauling asteroids. It can hold a lot of cheese. It is, in fact, holding truly vast amounts of—hold on, have you shoved—you have. You’ve filled the left M-dimensional pocket with cheese, too.”

“I never.”

“I am literally looking at it right now. It’s actually bulging a little. How did you even manage to fill up an M-dimensional pocket? It’s used to contain neutrino reactions. The amount of cheese it would have to hold must be, what, close to the biomass of that last planet?”

“Well. Not exactly close.”

“How can it be ‘not exactly close’?”

“Just exactly that.”

“What?”

“What ‘what’?”

“What ‘exactly that’ is it?!”

“The amount of cheese. Is the biomass of that last planet. Exactly.”

“That...seems odd.”

“I take the fifth.”

“The fifth what?”

“Unsure. The inhabitants did seem to take a lot of it, though. Frankly surprised there’s any left at this point.”

“Well, you certainly took a lot of cheese with that. You realize customs will have questions?”

“Can’t imagine why. It’s just cheese. What sorts of questions?”

“The same sort I’m asking, I imagine. Like ‘why’. And ‘how’. And ‘from where did you manage to get this much cheese’.”

“Look. It’s simple. We’re allowed souvenirs, aren’t we? Well, I brought a souvenir.”

“You brought a celestial body’s mass worth of cheese!”

“Hey, Leskei yanked an entire nebula 17 quarks to the right on his last rotation. Why are you picking on me?”

“He tripped on the third magnetic resonance string. Could happen to anybody, and he righted it as soon as he noticed. Don’t change the subject.”

“What is the subject?”

“The cheese! The cheese all around us is the subject! On a semi-primitive planet, with barely an orbital flight system in place and no external colonies, where did you get this amount of cheese?!”

“If you must know, it all began when a girl met a boy...”

“Yes?”

“She had just come down to survey his planet for the standard report and he—”

“Hang on, are you the girl in this scenario?”

“Of course.”

“You have tentacles for eyeballs and your species has 37.5 genders. You are not a girl.”

“Rude. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Fine, fine.”

“So there I am, doing the usual flyovers, atmospheric samplings, bio-surveys, all the good stuff.”

“Right.”

“Just ticking off the boxes, filling specimen jars, noting gas concentrations, all that.”

“Right.”

“When lo and behold, here comes one of the local inhabitants, sounding off and brandishing some sort of weaponized stick. Apparently, he took exception to one of the specimens collected.”

“Family member? Happens.”

“Sort of. They bond with this kind of 4-limbed alarm system that gets a bit excitable when it sees something it hasn’t seen before. This one was called a ‘Rover’.”

“Seems questionably helpful, but all right.”

“So he demanded I give the specimen back.”

“Ah. But you’d already tagged and bagged it?”

“I had. And you know what that means, of course. Can’t open those jars in N-space; it’d make a hell of a mess. Have to get it back to the lab for proper containment.”

“Right.”

“So you know encounter regulations—engage with the locals, be a good sport, always remember we’re only ambassadors. All that jazz.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I explain. I’d love to give him his specimen back, but it would collapse the local space-time continuum, yadda-yadda, survey, yadda-yadda, pleased to meet him, all that. And he’s a bit upset at first, but you know, he plugs in pretty quick and before you can say ‘centripetal parlance’, he’s inviting me to dinner.”

“Admirably hospitable.”

“Right? And considering I’d just entombed his beloved alarm system in sub-orbital quantum space for the foreseeable future, surprisingly gentlemanly of him. So off we trip to his, and it’s lovely, I have to say.”

“Good food? Well, it’d have to be, looking at all this cheese. Is this where the cheese comes in?”

“Sort of. Hold your horses. So yes, there’s cheese—quite a selection, in fact—as well as all sorts of other goodies. Their salami is to die for and don’t get me started on the condiments. So I figure I’ll stick around a while. Really do the survey right. And, well, I don’t know. He got to me. With the salami and the talking, what can I say? I’m a sucker for romance, you know?”

“You’re practically made of actual suckers. While I am a being made of the vibrational equivalent of chaotically structural gluon bonds. I am not sure I am familiar with ‘romance’.”

“Oh, hush. You’re just a prude. Anyway. Romance in the air. Rose petals, quince slices, more salami than you can shake a salami stick at—”

“And cheese?”

“Oy vey, yes, cheese. You with the cheese!”

“Me with the cheese?!”

“All right, all right, yes, me also with the cheese. Anyway. So there we are. A little time goes by. We hit the sights, hit the town, hit the hay. Survey’s going swimmingly, best one I’ve ever done. Certainly the most thorough. And, well, one thing leads to another and before you know it, we’ve got a couple of rugrats running around.”

“Progeny?”

“So much progeny. Almost a little too much. Frankly, I was tempted to eat a couple—hey, don’t knock it ‘till you try it, my species habitually swills back three-quarters of the next generation and be grateful we do, or the whole cosmos’d be swimming in nothing but us and then where would we be, never mind that the little buggers taste like smoky caviar—but I digress. Apparently, cannibalism is heavily frowned upon by these people and when in Rome, you know. So I let ‘em all live, so sue me.”

“You’re all heart.”

“Well, I should be, I do have 17 of them. And what the heart wants—”

“Which one?”

“Second in from the fifth tentacle, I think. Anyway. Rugrats, rugrats, all around. And then, of course, before we’d even noticed, they’d gotten old enough to run about and have some of their own, and before I know it, I’m dandling grandrugrats from every limb.”

“Well, as you say, when in Rome.”

“Right. And hereabout is when hubby starts sounding off about that alarm system still in stasis and isn’t it about time we let him out, surely the seal can be safely cracked by now and, well—”

“Hang on, you didn’t explain the containment procedure? That you’d have to get it back to the lab to open it and that the trip—one way, mind you—would take, what, around 100 of his lifetimes?”

“More like 200. They don’t live long, especially the males. Keep sticking their bits where they don’t belong and more often than not it’s fatal. More than half die off in their adolescence! Really don’t see that we would have missed them if I’d eaten a few of mine… But no, I might not have explained precisely…”

“In other words, you didn’t explain at all?”

“Wellllll, have you ever tried teaching Trinagorian physics to a being stuck in only four dimensions? Half the time, their heads explode. Literally. And I’d gotten rather fond of the old duffer.”

“But where does the cheese come in?”

“Keep your hat on, I’m getting there. So I try and put him off, but he’s not having it. And anyway, by this time he’s pretty good at sussing me out, so out it comes. The containment issue, the timeline, the survey. And, well…”

“Oh, no! You didn’t!”

“I might have. I did. He winkled it out of me. Look, the survey had gathered enough material by this point to satisfy even my old prefect. It was beginning to hit redundancies in sampling. Believe me, by the time you’ve filled 37,000 containment jars with sheep specimens, you’ve seen enough sheep.”

“What’s a ‘sheep’?”

“A hideously mobile brick of terror-soaked protein with the intelligence of an asteroid chunk peacefully floating through deep space. Awfully tasty with a rosemary rub, though.”

“And speaking of asteroids—”

“Exactly. The more I explained, the more he tangled me in details, and the more I had to explain.”

“Couldn’t you have just claimed you couldn’t say?”

“Not after 68 years of marriage! That bugger had enough emotional blackmail stored up for another 37,000 containment jars, believe me. Every day with the damn dishes, and how I never remembered which orifice the cat wanted the pill in, and don’t get me started on what happened to his mother, as if it were my fault the daft bat wandered into the line of the neutrino scanner and got herself well and roasted—”

“The neutrino scanner? Doesn’t this vessel come with the Q616 model, the one with the two tiers of redundant safety locks?”

“Yes, well, shush, will you. ‘Oh, but the tentacles! Oh, but there are so many! Oh, oh, but what will the children be like! Oh, oh, little Marci’s being ever so teased in school!’ All the livelong day, I swear. Not all of us can be ideal vibrational equivalents of chaotically structural gluon bonds, all right? Some of us just want some peace and quiet eventually.”

“Yes, yes, we all have mothers-in-law. Go on.”

“So one explanation led to another and then another and then another and you get it—out pops the reason for the survey.”

“You told him.”

“I told him.”

“Never tell them.”

“I know, I know. But it’s hard, you know? There he was, with all that pinkness and his adorably glassy eyeballs and all our ridiculously numerous progeny frolicking around us. And incidentally, little Marci was being teased in school, too. And I just blurted it out.”

“And how did he—hang on, did that cheese bit just move?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I’m going to worry about it.”

“Trust me, it’s fine. Anyway, he took it rather well, all things considered. Went away for a while, stood on a hill with some of the sheep that hadn’t fit in the specimen jars—they breed like mad, you know, the sheep, that is, not the jars—set a chunk of bark on fire and licked it a bit, then came back.”

“Religious rite? The flaming bark licking?”

“You know, I never could figure that out. So back he popped and wouldn’t you know. The man demanded I do something about it.”

“About what?”

“Why, the asteroid, of course.”

“Do something? About the asteroid the size of this ship, due to demolish at least two planetary systems before hurtling through their corner of space and wiping out the whole lot?”

“That’d be the one.”

“What in the world was he expecting you to do?”

“Why, save them, of course.”

“Save who?”

“The whole bloody lot of them, that’s who. The people, the chickens, the alarm systems, even the vegetation. I asked if we could at least forget the sheep—would’ve lightened the load considerably, let me tell you—but noooo, the sheep had to come, too. Apparently, it just wouldn’t be the same without them.”

“You do have me curious about the sheep.”

“Well, you’re welcome to grab one of the specimen jars. I certainly have enough of them.”

“Much obliged. So how did he take it?”

“Uh. Take what, exactly?”

“When you said there was nothing you could do? You did tell him eventually, didn’t you?”

“I did not, in fact, do perhaps exactly that.”

“Surely you didn’t just abandon the man? Oh, no, you did, didn’t you? And then absconded with all his cheese?”

“You do insist on thinking the worst of me.”

“True, but that’s only because I know you so well. So?”

“Of course I didn’t just abandon him! How could I? The big lug picked flowers for me! He filed down my dewclaws, even the worky ones on my left hind tentacle! He once named a sheep for me—incidentally, currently contained in specimen jar #13,471—and then for some fool reason, refused to let me eat it! As I said, it was girl met boy—”

“Still not a girl. Way too many tentacles.”

“—girl fell hard for boy—”

“Seriously, we could pave an interstellar highway with the regulations you’ve trampled.”

“—girl turned entire boy’s planet into cheese to save them. The end. Timeless story. They’ll be singing it for ages.”

“You what the WHAT.”

“What?”

“Don’t start that again. Oh, Lord Quinzlchthuihl of the 12th Dimension, I’m having heart palpitations—”

“Do vibrational equivalents of chaotically structural gluon bonds have hearts?”

“Shut up. Is this what you meant by the amount of cheese being exactly equivalent to the biomass of that planet? Do you mean to tell me that you somehow transmogrified every living thing on that Quinzlchthuihl-forsaken rock into cheese?!”

“I did.”

“HOW?!”

“I tinker in my spare time. It’s a hobby. I might have altered a few of the scanners here and there.”

“And are you—that bit of cheese is moving again! Are you telling me they’re still alive? As cheese? Is all this cheese sentient?!”

“Of course not. What kind of monster do you take me for? They’re not aware. Just—semi-aware. As much as cheese ever is. Which, actually—well, never mind. And I’ll turn them back. As soon as I get back into the lab, we can pull up a nice empty Red Dwarf, dust it off, and slap ‘em right back on. Moss and chickens and sheep and all. It’ll be great.”

“Are you insane? Customs will never let you through with them! They could be carrying anything! Put them back now!”

“I will not! You just said—customs would never let me through with them.”

“I mean put them back where they came from or so help me!”

“Spoilsport. They’ll get wiped out.”

“But they’re cheese! They’ll have to spend the next—what has it been? Already 20? They’ll have to spend roughly another 180 of their lifetimes as cheese!”

“So what? Cheese doesn’t spoil. The cheese will abide.”

“The cheese is moving! Look, that lump right there, it’s wriggling!”

“Oh, no, that’s just an experimental bit. I had to make sure I could flip them back and forth safely, you know.”

“I don’t think you managed it as well as you think. Is it supposed to look like that?”

“That’s what it originally looked like, yes.”

“But it’s oozing!”

“They call it ‘drooling’ and yes, apparently it’s normal for this type of alarm system. I believe it’s called a ‘pug’.”

“It’s certainly alarming me. Look, you can’t do this. There’s a natural order. You have to put them back.”

“But they’re so cute! Did you know they think they invented hate and were trying really hard to feel bad about it?”

“Oh, please. Wait until they meet the Zsx lot. Actually, don’t I remember the historical brief noting those bastards did a buzz-through through their neighbourhood?”

“They did. Left a few of their own behind, too. The descendents devolved a bit, naturally, but they’re still around. Locals call them ‘mosquitoes’.”

“Do not tell me they’re in the cheese, too?”

“Afraid so.”

“Oh, that is just disgusting. Zsx-infested cheese. Customs will have you up on sanitation charges, if nothing else.”

“Nah, it’s all cheese at the moment. Pretty homogeneous.”

“Except for that alarm system.”

“Except for that, yes.”

“All right, tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“What are you going to do about that bit?”

“Which bit?”

“The bit the alarm system just ate.”

“It—well, shoot. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It’ll separate out at the end.”

“...”

“Admit it. You’re a little impressed.”

“You turned a planet. Into cheese.”

“I did.”

“And you’re going to turn all this cheese back into a planet?”

“I am.”

“‘Impressed’ is not the word I’m looking for.”

“Aw, you’re just cranky you didn’t think of it first.”

“Did hubby know he would be cheese?”

“Define ‘know’.”

“The usual amount of awareness, I would think.”

“Well, I warned him I’d have to conglomerate the intended biological volume into an appropriate matrix.”

“And?”

“And he muttered something about how he wasn’t about to go the way of the dinosaurs if he could help it and told me to do my worst.”

“You certainly did that.”

“Thank you.”

“Just one last question.”

“Yes?”

“If the left M-dimensional pocket is full of cheese—”

“Yes?”

“—and between that and the rest of the cheese in here, that accounts for the entire biomass you perverted the laws of nature and all known sentient races for—”

“Yes?”

“What is that in the other pocket?”

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To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Five thousand words? More than I Need by Vivien Deacon

Five thousand words? More than I need. I don’t have long to get it done though, barely enough time, forgive the typos, grammar, wish I’d known about this opportunity sooner. Lucky for me, I bump into this guy in the pub, literally bump, because he’s there with his wife and little boy, just collecting their lunch from the bar, and somehow I manage not to see him, this really tall bloke with a plate of sandwiches, and I stand on his foot, hard, and you know, grindingly, and I’m wearing serious boots. I apologise comprehensively but he just grins, Don’t worry, he says, it didn’t hurt, it’s bionic.

Whoah, really? I say, for real? I thought they were just in books.

He grins again and does the eyebrow thing. Then he sees me clutching my laptop; it’s open, and he sees what I’m doing. You writing? He says, what? And excuses himself, sorry, I shouldn’t be nosy.

And in case he’s managed to read even a little bit of it, I tell him it’s a science fiction short story, which is not true at all, it’s the total truth, it’s just below, and now I’m adding this introduction. So he tells me about this competition, how to enter, website for the details, everything.

What? I say, so are we in it, or is it about us?

He laughs. It’s a bit meta, he says, as his wife yells at him, David, sandwiches! and he waves at her cheerily.

So here I am. It’s a real opportunity to reach an open-minded audience, so it’s got to be good enough to get published, then maybe someone useful will read it. I’ve got a chance here. Maybe my only chance. They’re after me.

Okay. So.

The first thing is, I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me, I’m completely innocent, I wasn’t even there, and anyhow, I’ve got an alibi, I was at Thornborough Henges.

Which is miles from Gormire. And this murder, this outrageous and egregious alleged murder, if it ever happened (which it didn’t), happened in Lake Gormire in North Yorkshire. Gormire is just a small lake, surrounded by a curious circular ridge, just under Whitestone Cliffs (that’s Wissoncliff to you, apparently), and it’s said to be post-glacial. It has neither streams flowing in nor streams flowing out. You look at it though, either IRL or in pictures. Obvious meteorite strike, or maybe alien spaceship crash site (and in some cases, there may not be much difference, eh?). Lots of legends, Wikipedia says – various devilish chases (aliens), it’s bottomless, and forms the entrance to Hell (meteorite, aliens), hiding a lost village (meteorite, aliens), and a goose fell in and came out again twelve miles away in Kirby Moorside, bald. I don’t rate this last one. Also it’s full of wriggly things (lake, not goose), which are allegedly leeches (alien security measure). Note that there are no roads leading to, or running around the lake, and only one very steep, very tricky path, coming down from the main clifftop footpath.

I went there, about a month ago. I was on my own, and I know how to be very quiet. I stayed a while, it’s a Site of Special Scientific Interest. You bet it is. They have rare birds.

Yeah.

So: The Victim (alleged) is a serious alien investigator (investigating aliens, not one herself) (though you never know, good cover), called Friuli Lupanska, known as Froot Loops, who has made many contributions to ALIEN, the ALien Investigators E-Newsletter. I write for them too, it’s just voluntary, I don’t get paid. Frooty wears brightly coloured dungarees, and has her hair in bunches. I don’t. I’m more of a jeans and T-shirt girl. The alleged rivalry between us arose out of a response I wrote to her review of increased alien activity round Ilkley. I regret now that I said that the aliens were probably drawn by the prospect of afternoon tea at Bettys, the famous restaurant (no apostrophe, I know, jarring, isn’t it?); but really, some of the accounts that she just accepted without question, they were unbelievable. Also, it is not true that I invented her nickname of Froot Loops, though it is pretty funny.

So just a few days ago, she disappeared whilst investigating Gormire, and the police are treating it as murder. They’re struggling though. It’s almost a locked room mystery with no walls. There is some evidence that she was there: a family on the main path saw her turn off down the little path to the lake, and a different couple heard her yell as she slipped, though it didn’t sound too bad. The police found footprints going down – it’s not a well-used path – with signs of a slip, and then continuing, but after that, the path was dry and gravelly. No footprints coming up. A police dog was able to follow her scent down, but once at the lakeside, it sat down and refused to go any further.

The Witness to her background is her boyf

Got disturbed there, the bionic foot guy comes over again, says Ms T, she’s judging this short story competition, she loves dodos, so put one in, she’ll love it, and so does her colleague Mr – and then he leans over and presses the f key so her colleague is called Mr fffffffffffffffffffff.

This dodo thing gives me a real fright, you’ll see why in a minute, and I smile and say thanks. He smiles too, and says okay sorry, just trying to be helpful, and off he goes.

The truth is what I’m writing here, not dodo’d fiction. Where was I? Yes.

The Witness is her boyfriend Lionel Thackeray, who likes to be known as Zak (Zak Thack? Can he be serious? Alas yes, though it is true that the name Lionel is cool in the same way as an ice cream down your shirt). Furthermore, it is true that he and I were an item a while ago, though I want to make it clear that I dumped him, not the other way around, however he likes to put it. He now helps Froot Loops with her investigations, though he used to help me, and has supplied her with some of the information that I collected and told him about, clearly a man of no honour whatsoever.

So a week before the alleged murder, Zak (heh) trips over his own shoelaces, falls over and breaks his fool wrist. So he can’t manage the steep footpath down from the clifftop, which is hazardous even if you’ve got two good hands. And it’s raining, which will make the dodgy footpath dodgier. So he stays in the car, and off goes Frooty on her own, says she’ll be a couple of hours. Yes it is true that when we were all in the pub two nights before, they told us they were going to Gormire, and yes it is true that Frooty and I fell out over an article I’d written for ALIEN which she said was just a rehash of something she’d written for a rival publication called ACTREX, Alien Conspiracy Theories Re-EXamined. Which it wasn’t, it just happened to be on a similar topic, and we may both have lost our tempers a bit. It is certainly not true that I did the usual detective story thing, and shouted, I’ll kill you, Froot Loops! Because I didn’t.

So back at Lake Gormire, two hours later, no Frooty, no response on her mobile, though there are some major fluctuating signal problems around Gormire, as we all know, and Zak goes to the top of the dodgy path downwards, and thinks about it, and calls the police. They search the area round the lake, find firstly no sign of Frooty around the water, or in the woods. The trees come right down to the lakeside, so it’s all rooty and stony, no chance of tracks, or they’d maybe have seen something, yeah something, but they didn’t. Secondly, the police divers can’t find her in the lake, which turns out to be twenty feet deep max and most of it’s much shallower. It’s far from bottomless. One of the police divers gets interviewed on the local News, and he’s unwilling to say much, except the water’s unexpectedly warm.

What Zak doesn’t tell them is that from the top of the path that leads down, he saw flickering lights over the lake, and he doesn’t say it because he thinks the police will think he’s crackers, which I have some sympathy with (Zak, not police), but in the pub yesterday afternoon, he does tell us. He says he thinks it’s aliens, and she’s been abducted. Why any self-respecting alien would want to abduct Frooty, I don’t know. Paul, who was abducted twenty years ago (he says), and never stops telling us about it, says you don’t seem to get many abductions these days, maybe they’ve learned all they need to know, but Zak insists that aliens have taken her. Then he says, but don’t worry, she’ll be fine, they’ll give her back in a couple of days. She’s fine, he says, he just knows. He taps his head meaningfully and says he’s in communication with the aliens, she’s just going for re-training, and Paul is madly jealous.

Then the police come in and ask me if I’d be willing to go down to the station and answer a few questions.

Am I under arrest?

No, it’d be voluntary.

And if I say no?

You’d be under arrest.

Lawyer.

You don’t need a lawyer, it’s voluntary.

Lawyer.

I’ve watched enough cop shows to know that the only thing you say to the police without a lawyer is can I have a cup of tea?

This is all very very scary, but we go down to the police station, and they get the duty solicitor, because I don’t have one of my own. He looks about twelve years old, blond, does he even need to shave in the morning? Expensive looking suit though. He introduces himself as Gareth Wainwright. We get to talk in private, no cops, so he can advise me. But it’s not like that at all.

Gormire eh? he says. Did you see any dodos? Apparently there’s a small colony, they like the dense woodland, and their plumage has grown much thicker, because of course it’s not as warm as Mauritius. And he looks at me, question-eyes.

Oh deary me. Oh deary deary me.

That’s not exactly what I said to myself, but I’m maybe not allowed to use any fruity language (heh heh) in the august publication. So what I said to him was, er… no. But of course I didn’t go down there with Frooty, I mean Ms Lupanska, because I went off on my own to Thornborough Henges that afternoon.

Really? Why?

To commune with the Ancients, I tell him.

He looks puzzled. But it was raining, he says.

The Ancients don’t mind a bit of rain.

I don’t tell him that I think Frooty was abducted by aliens, because he won’t relate to that as a theory, but I do explain that I didn’t do it –

– do what? he says –

– anything, because I wasn’t even there, and I’ve got an alibi, I was at Thornborough Henges.

Did anybody see you?

Hmm, maybe not. I didn’t see anybody else there, so I doubt it. It was raining.

Not much of an alibi then.

You’re supposed to be my lawyer, I say, and he grins.

So then we do the whole same thing with the police, but they don’t grin. And they make a lot of me and Frooty falling out, and Frooty stealing my boyfriend –

– It wasn’t like that, I say, I dumped him. And they do me the eyebrows thing.

– and stealing your work, they say, and catch you out stealing hers.

Gareth protests.

– and having an alibi that can’t be confirmed –

– I didn’t know I’d need one, or I’d have gone into Leeds and found a nice young copper and asked him the time.

Gareth smirks.

They can’t arrest me, they haven’t even got a crime, so they have to let me go, but they give me a look which says we know you did it, and as soon as we can find out exactly what it was you did, we’ll do you for it.

I get outside, it’s all been very alarming, but I got arrested a couple of times in my young days, going on protests. I’d have felt a lot worse if I hadn’t have had some experience. So, big sigh, put it behind you, they’ve got absolutely nothing, and Gareth says, can I give you a lift anywhere? I’m not in a rush.

Are lawyers allowed to give clients lifts? I ask him.

Who’s to know? he says. And you know what? I’d really like to take you for afternoon tea at Bettys.

Oh, I say, well, you can give me a lift, thanks, because it’s dark and it’s raining, and already I’m feeling cold raindrops on my shoulders through my T-shirt. No coat alas. We walk down the road a little way. Here’s my car he says, it’s a little Toyota, and he unlocks it, ker-dunk, and we get in. He turns to look at me, suddenly very serious.

It’s the dodo mating season, he says, if all this disturbance doesn’t stop soon, it’ll be a disastrous year, practically anything puts them off doing their duty.

All I can do is look at him.

Yes, he says. They’re very precious, you know. We’ve done our very best with them for years, but they so vulnerable to even the slightest setback. Please don’t tell anyone about them. You saw them, didn’t you, a month ago? When you went down to Gormire on your own?

Oh deary me. Oh deary deary me.

Right, I say. No, I won’t. I won’t tell anybody. It was a month ago and I haven’t.

I’m not at all sure I want to be in this car with him.

He nods, turns on the engine and the fan, and the windscreen steams up. He can’t find the cloth to clear it, so he turns the interior light back on, and locates the cloth, leaning forward to wipe the screen. Watching him, I haven’t quite got round to putting my seatbelt on.

These are all strokes of very good luck for me, because as he leans forward, his sleeve rides up and I see that his forearm is bright green and scaly.

Yikes! I say, or something similar, grab the door release, leap out and sprint down the road. There are pedestrians in groups, laughing and milling around, there’s traffic, and I run across the road, don’t get hit, and dive into a big group of noisy lively folk out for the evening, seethe around with them for a while, find myself in the bus station and jump on one of those coach-like, limited stop, town-to-town buses. I crouch down in my seat. He doesn’t find me.

Phew.

I can afford a night in a hotel or a pub, I have a proper job, you know, so I stay on the bus, though I don’t know where it’s going, there was no time to look at the front destination board. I decide I’ll stay on it till it gets there, wherever ‘there’ is, and put a bit of distance between me and Mr so-called Gareth Wainwright.

Nice pub in a nice little town , looks prosperous, but I guess most of the people who live here work somewhere else. The pub’s old, charmingly crooked, and I get a room, though they don’t quite like the look of me, it’s late and I don’t have proper luggage. Still, I pay upfront, I have to use my card – does anyone have cash these days? So it’s either card or sleep under a hedge, so if Mr so-called Gareth Wainwright and his pals, because he’s not on his own, is he? is into banks and bank accounts, then I’m doomed.

So I’m having a decent lunch before my doom arrives, and a bit of a think. The only protection is the threat of spreading the truth around. So I start writing this, and then this David fellow turns up and offers me a place to send it. I have the website and competition page open, all my details filled in, ready to save, then upload and submit.

Oh yikes garth wainwright just wal

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About Vivien Deacon:

I’m a woman of mystery, so I can’t possibly tell you anything. I’m not an alien though.

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This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

By Proxi And Error by Joy Wright

I must stress, before we go any further, that I was not supposed to be there.
Not in the Capsule. Not on Earth. Certainly not in Edinburgh in the year 1822.

I originate from Proxi, short for Proxima Centauri b. Essentially two doors down from Alpha Centauri A and B. The slightly scruffier end of the galaxy but it keeps us alive.
It is not the easiest of worlds. The stellar flares can knock out your communications without warning; the surface storms regularly rearrange an entire settlement block; and the ground itself has the unnerving habit of humming under your feet when the magnetics spike. It causes havoc with static on the chair. But it is home.

That morning, my involvement was minimal. A tray of tea. That was all. A tray of tea rolled across the bay while the Chrono-Capsule was prepared for a routine local hop.

Then Mandy X got involved.
She always does.

“Only a smidge,” she said, adjusting the settings with her habitual disregard for procedure. “This will shave a fraction off the power curve.”

Mandy X is a Chrono-Capsule Operator charged with the dubious responsibility of locating a new home for us for one hundred-or-so years whilst Proxi has a close brush with a black hole. She spends her time wandering the planets and time-lines, creating data logs and research. She feeds all these back to Director Stowe. He’s the Director of the Institute of Applied Chronology and Stellar Cartography. His intention is to relocate us, temporarily, until we are less likely to be slurped off the planet like a like a milkshake through a very long interstellar straw. In theory it’s a measured, carefully audited operation; in practice it means Mandy X joyrides the continuum while I file the reports, pack the biscuits, and pray the new address comes with rails.

A Chrono-Capsule operator with imagination is a dangerous thing. Particularly when Proxi’s magnetic field is already playing skittles with precision. A Chrono-Capsule operator who is slightly clumsy and scatter brained and hasn’t picked up the chronodriver she dropped earlier is even more dangerous. Possibly lethal.

Normally, the droplet of tea that leapt from my tray onto the controls would have produced nothing worse than a hiss, perhaps a spark. At most, the Capsule might have twitched twenty metres sideways and deposited me outside the archives last Tuesday.

But not under a Proxi stellar flare. Every small error is magnified four thousand times. The droplet became a calamity.
The Capsule convulsed. The world went blue and tore sideways. We were flung through time and space like a cork from a champagne bottle.

When the Capsule steadied, the screen offered its verdict:
Coordinates: Edinburgh. Planet: Earth. Chronodate: 15^th August 1822. Location: 4.3 light years from Proxima Centauri b. Local hazard: Cobbles.
The door squeeeed open. And smoke poured from the console.

I pulled myself to the door which now opened out onto a wide courtyard. The stones before me were uneven, slick with damp. The air smelled of coal smoke and wet wool. Somewhere nearby, a piper was torturing an instrument.

And there, looming over me, was a building that scratched at the back of my memory. Tall windows. A turret. Carved reliefs. Beautiful architecture, unlike anything I’d seen in person before.
Buildings are cut into the rock on Proxi, with two metres of stone on all sides, to protect us all from the radiation. I knew I had seen that building before, despite never having visited Earth, but I couldn’t fathom it. Not then. Not in the moment.

Mandy X stepped out, arms folded. “You’ll never manage on those cobbles in that chair and they’ll think it’s from outer space with all that chrome.”

“It is from outer space. And I don’t intend to manage,” I said, clinging to the Capsule doorframe and considering the smoke. “I intend to sit here until we go home.”

“We need to purge the smoke and kill the power,” she said, already on the manual levers. “But the cloaking only comes on properly with the door shut. And we can’t leave it open because it looks like a door hanging in mid-air. People notice that sort of thing.”

“Charming,” I said, eyes watering. The little space was filling faster and the smoke was pouring out of the door. “So I can’t stay inside, and you can’t shut the door if I do.”

“Exactly. Also,” She said squinting past me. “we’ll need a coupling for the cooling vanes, something I can bodge from a bit of strapping or something. I am not leaving you alone to go shopping in 1822.”

I looked at the smoke. I looked at the chair. I looked at the very real prospect of being discovered inside a glowing cupboard from nowhere. “Right, we close up. The chair stays. I go with you.”

“Thank you,” she said, already moving “On three.”With one hand on the jamb and one on her arm, I hopped out, practiced, undignified, and braced on the threshold. The smoke made a grab for my lungs.
“Ready?” she said.

“Shut it,” I croaked. She folded my chair with ruthless efficiency, shoved it back inside.
The door sealed; the cloak hummed; the Capsule vanished. Which is to say, it stopped being a conspicuous, smoky rectangle with an open door in the middle of the air. There was a strange vision of smoke suddenly appearing several feet above our heads but I doubted if anyone would notice that amongst the peaty smell of wood fires and the smoky miasma which hovered above.

“Right,” she said briskly. “Cobbler for a strap. Maybe an oil-lamp wick as packing. Also spirits to clean the contacts, if whisky is the only spirit available, we shall make sacrifices.”

“Grand,” I said, eyeing the cobbles glaring back. “Unless Edinburgh has invented ramps in the last thirty seconds, you’re going to need to find me something like crutches.”

“Understood,” Mandy X said, taking my weight for the first careful step into the close. “We fetch the strap together. Then we come back and pretend this never happened.”
Which, of course, is how the rest of it happened.
“Won’t be a jiffy,” she declared, and left me on a short grey stone wall.
I could hear fuss, hundreds of people and voices, though the square we were in was quiet. A few stragglers passed, scarcely noticing me. They hurried ahead, through an arch and vanished into the noise.

She returned a few minutes later with a pony.
A broad, shaggy beast with a mane like unwashed yarn and the eyes of a sardonic teenager. The pony considered me with mild interest, as if to say: You? Really?
“This is Morag,” said Mandy X. “Bombproof.”
“I don’t ride,” I said.
“You do now,” she said.

There are three things you need to know about hoisting oneself onto a horse when you are me.
First, saddles are not chairs. Chairs are dependable, predictable, and inclined to stay where you put them. Mostly. Saddles, by contrast, are wedges with delusions of grandeur.

Second, balance is suddenly your entire personality. I am, under ordinary circumstances, quite content with the balance I’ve got. It allows me to reach the kettle, shuffle my papers, and wheel sensibly down corridors without incident. What it does not allow me to do is perch atop half a ton of living animal whilst people make loud noises. Therefore making the considerable heft of the animal a new threat which could boost me like an ejector seat at any moment.

Third, horses seem to know things. Morag in particular knew I had no business being anywhere near her back. She rolled one eye at me with infinite resignation, like a teacher confronted with yet another hopeless essay.

Mandy X, of course, was all encouragement. “There you are. Look at you! Perfect.”

“I look,” I muttered, “like laundry on the wrong piece of furniture.”
But the damage was done. We clopped out of the close onto the Royal Mile, and that was when the crowd noticed me.

Edinburgh in August 1822 was thrumming with excitement. Walter Scott had convinced the King to visit Scotland for the first time in over a century. Tartan had been dusted off, invented, or borrowed wholesale, and every man, woman, and child was determined to look more Scottish than the next. The result was a riot of plaid, bonnets, banners, and bagpipes.
And into this sea of tartan clopped one reluctant man on a pony.

They saw the plaid shawl Mandy X had flung across my knees, a scrap of cloth wrapped where my foot had been, my pained expression from sitting aside what felt like a barrel and the lingering cough from the smoke. That along with the resigned pony which carried me slowly and they drew the least obvious conclusion.

“A veteran!” someone cried.
“God bless ye, sir!” shouted another.
A child saluted me with such fervour I nearly fell off saluting back. Women dabbed at their eyes. Men raised flasks in my honour.
I tried to protest, but when you’re clinging to a pony with both hands, protests come out as strangled squeaks.

It occurred to me, in one of those bleak flashes of clarity you get when you’re being cheered for something you didn’t do, that I was here entirely by proxy.
Not Proxi, my world of storms and stellar tantrums, though yes, technically that too. I mean proxy in the sense of standing in for someone else.
Normally it would be Mandy X swept along, applauded, saluted, and probably setting something on fire.
This time it was me.
I was Mandy X by proxy. And believe me, that is not a role I auditioned for. I yearned for the safety of my office, the limits of excitement either being the antics of Mandy X, or the characters of my latest novel.

A burly gentleman in a bonnet thrust a silver flask into my hand. “To yer health, sir! For service rendered to King and country!”

I opened my mouth to explain that my service was largely confined to filing cabinets and tea trays. He misunderstood, assuming I was too overcome by emotion to speak, and clapped me heartily on the back. Whisky sloshed over my lap.

“You’ll feel better once you’ve had a dram,” Mandy X said sweetly, though her eyes danced with wicked amusement before she vanished into a shop with a low hanging canopy outside.

The crowd roared their approval. Someone struck up a chorus of Scots Wha Hae. A flag waved dangerously close to Morag’s nose. I did the only thing I could do. I drank.

It burned. It scorched. It set up permanent residence somewhere near my socks. My eyes watered. My dignity wept. My spine relaxed.

“That’s the ticket!” bellowed the man, refilling it.

The second dram went down easier than the first. So did the third. By the fourth, I was humming along with the pipers as we gradually made our way up the hill and patting Morag’s mane as if I’d been born in the saddle.

“See?” said the man, nudging Morag forward with a grin. “You’re a hero.”

“You know,” I said grandly, “I could be.”

More whisky was passed along, a nip here and a slug there. “Slàinte mhath.” A voice cried and everyone with a flask took a drink. I quickly learned this toast was an indicator to take a sip and over Morag’s impossibly slow hooves I participated often and she climbed the hill behind the crowds

Mandy X appeared beside me, a length of something in her hands and a glint in her eyes.
“You’re drunk,” she said.

“Semantics,” I replied, waving regally at a knot of cheering women who responded by throwing posies at me. One struck me squarely in the face. I sniffed it, decided it was not unpleasant, and tucked it behind Morag’s ear. She flicked an ear at me but bore it with stoic dignity.

The whisky blurred the edges of panic. The cobbles no longer seemed quite so malicious. Even the King himself, perched absurdly in tartan and pink tights, seemed less like a catastrophic mistake in upholstery and more like a kindly uncle at a wedding. He sat on a throne that looked as if it must have come with him, all fancy and shining against the grey of the Edinburgh stone, dull even in the Scottish sun. He was dabbing at his brow with what might once have been a handkerchief, beaming in that vague way of men assured they are having a marvellous time. He lifted a goblet, attempted a gallant nod in three directions at once, and muttered what I think was meant to be “slàinte,” whereupon the crowd cheered as if he’d personally invented whisky.

“Good fellow!” he boomed when I drew close. “Wounded at Waterloo, eh?”
I blinked. “Possibly,” I said, because the whisky had eroded my ability to argue.
The King’s eyes misted. “Splendid! Brave chap! A toast!”
Before I could object, another steward materialised with a goblet of something amber and perilous. I drank it, because the crowd was watching, and besides, it seemed rude not to.
By the time the goblet was retrieved, I was beginning to feel quite… agreeable.

Which is how I very nearly ended up drafted into His Majesty’s retinue.
“Symbolic!” declared the steward with the wig. “A wounded veteran to ride beside the King! Scotland’s gratitude incarnate!”
“Yes, yes,” I murmured, swaying slightly in the saddle. “Very grateful. Quite incarnate. Lovely day for it.” I squinted at the sun.

Mandy X pinched my arm. Hard. “Time to go,” she hissed. “Three minutes or the Chrono Window will close.” She glanced anxiously at the device on her wrist. “Or we’ll be here until tomorrow.”

Whisky had ploughed a furrow in my thoughts and suddenly it seemed like a good idea. I could stay with Morag who would take the place of my wheels and perhaps my sanity. Maybe even my decision making.

“No.” Said Mandy X, seeming to see the dawning of bizarre and intoxicated ideas crossing my features. “We’re going now. Back to Proxi.”

“I was just about to suggest it myself,” I said, because by then I had entered that perilous stage of intoxication in which one believes oneself charming.

The steward beamed, entirely misinterpreting. “Splendid! This way!”
He reached for Morag’s bridle. Morag flattened her ears, not impressed.
Mandy X leaned close. “If you let him lead you to that platform, you will be in every painting, sketch, and broadsheet produced this year.”

I pictured it: me, draped over a pony, whisky-flushed, forever immortalised beside George IV in pink tights. Even in my condition, I recognised disaster. Stowe would not like it. Not one bit.
“Absolutely not,” I said firmly.
Morag chose that moment to sidestep neatly, dislodging the steward and clearing us a path down a side close.

“Good girl,” I whispered. “You and I understand each other.” She took this as an invitation and we were off like a Flare Skiff on Proxi. Cantering down the streets though without the finesse of the lower thrusters of the Skiff. Instead the flight through Edinburgh was chaos wrapped in tartan.

Pie sellers shouted. Children darted underfoot. A piper skidded sideways when Morag brushed past. Mandy X strode ahead as if a mag-halo had shouldered the dust squall aside scattering onlookers with brisk elbows and an air of unimpeachable purpose.

“Two minutes!” she called back.
“I’ve never felt better!” I called, because the whisky was singing in my veins and Morag’s steady gait had convinced me I was practically cavalry. “Let’s do this again sometime!”
“You are insufferable,” she muttered, though I swear I saw her grin.

We burst back into the courtyard away from the crowds and hustle and bustle. I burped whisky flavoured burps cheerfully as Mandy X opened the Chrono Capsule and helped post me back through the door and onto a seat. She had the repairs made double quick time whilst Morag stuck her head through the doorway and licked suspiciously at the smokey spilled tea on the floor.

“Here, all done! Window opening in forty seconds!”

“What window?” I asked cheerfully, though by now I had a fair idea.

“The one that saves us,” said Mandy X, grabbing Morag’s bridle and pushed her backwards, but Morag refused, so Mandy X pulled her inside instead.

The console hiccuped as the door squeeed back into place. The world went blue.

The delivery yard had never looked so beautiful. The familiar smell of oil, stone, and damp paper wrapped around me like a blanket. The Capsule shimmered into view, smugly humming as if to say you dropped tea on me, but I fixed it anyway.
Morag shook herself. The posy fell from behind her ear. She bent and ate it.
Mandy X was already unfolding my chair with the efficiency of a woman tidying away evidence. “See? Perfectly fine.”

“I am not fine. I am whisky-soaked, flower-strewn, and quite possibly a decorated veteran of a battle I wasn’t at.”

“You were magnificent,” she said.

“Morag was magnificent,” I said. “I held on.”

“That counts,” she said.

Later, after tea (real tea, not history-ruining tea) and a restorative biscuit, I wrote the report which Stowe insisted upon.

Incident: Edinburgh, 1822.
Cause: Tea.
Complication: Cobbles, Kings, Whisky.
Local Solution: Pony.
Outcome: Embarrassing.
Recommendations: 1) Forbid Mandy X from consoles. 2) Suggest to Director Stowe he arranges to install cup holders in Capsules. 3) Purchase apples for Morag.

Then, in my private digi-book, the one where I write things down under false names and never admit how true they are, I scribbled the whole sorry tale. And here it is. A secret. My first true manuscript, one I might never publish. Who knows. Because if history insists on dragging me along, whisky-flushed and unwilling, then I might as well be the one to tell it.
And if anyone asks, no , I did not consent.
I never do.
But I will, inevitably, end up bouncing around time and space again. Because I report to Mandy X and Mandy X is a product of chaos. Next time, however, I’m bringing the whisky myself.

And it was only later, leafing through a battered Earth history volume about Edinburgh, its plates smudged and faded, that I saw the photograph. Stone façade, tall windows, turret, carved reliefs. Edinburgh, 21st century.
The Writers’ Museum.

I stared at the image for a long time, realising with a shiver that I had stood there myself, two centuries earlier, in the wrong year, on the wrong planet, dragged along entirely against my will.

And I laughed, because it was absurd, and because on Proxi we have another saying: if the universe insists on making you the punchline, you might as well deliver it well.

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About Joy Wright:

A fan. A wannabe writer with several manuscripts loitering digitally on my laptop. One is out gallivanting with agents, or rogueishly it may have escaped into the wild which would explain the silence. Vaguely/slightly/sort of published at the BBC and British Museum, which sounds far fancier than the reality. Theatre reviewer. Therapist. Cat slave -aka possessor of thumbs. Mother of three; I would say dragons but that’s taken. So I’ll go with young people, its mostly the same. Stood outside the Writers Museum In Edinburgh and had this idea :)

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This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

The Turning of the Hourglass by Snezhina Gulubova

The hourglass kept spinning frantically.

It wasn’t supposed to do that.

It should have turned just a few times, settled on the right date and time, then stilled – beginning the countdown. Only then could I begin the journey. I pictured the sand slipping through the centre, grain by grain. That span – no longer, no less – was the time I had to complete the mission. If I failed, I would vanish into nothingness, like all the others.

I am the last of the time warriors – Aeon Veers – or so people call us. We are an order based on Titan, tasked with protecting life across distant worlds. The ancient hourglass, sealed with the sands of time, is known as Mór-Kala to the few across the universe who are aware of its existence. Created by ancient mystic-scientists, the hourglass is powered by a compressed black hole which bends space-time, allowing us to move across it. The sand which transports us is stardust – the tiniest ingredient of creation which makes up the entire universe. Ancient enchantments in a language long forgotten keep the black hole from swallowing us as we transport ourselves.

Four meters tall and almost two meters wide, Mór-Kala is hidden in deep underground chambers bellow Titan’s ice caps. It is the only device in the universe which allows us to move through space-time to carry out what the archives call “the great missions.” We save visionary leaders, rescue scientists, prevent the collapse of societies. Once, we were twelve – chosen from across the Virgo Supercluster, we were made immune to age, but not to death. And now, only I remain.

Aeon Veers are required to leave missions’ times no later than twelve minutes before the precise moment of the event we are meant to change. That is usually when the last grain of sand begins its journey through the hourglass which activates a light in the pocket-sized transporters we carry. From that moment, we have exactly thirty seconds to press the return button and make our way back to Titan.

Miss the window, and we are lost – unable to rejoin the sands of the hourglass. We don’t belong to the era we are working in, and the timeline knows it. It defends itself. We vanish – not dead, just erased, as if we were never there at all.

That was the fate of my brothers and sisters who tried to save Atlantis. And Babylon. Others from my order were hunted down and killed by those who would do anything to preserve the past.

I wondered what fate awaited me at the end of this mission. I have learned how to save visionaries from execution, how to rescue artefacts before they are destroyed. But this? Changing the course of an entire planet’s history? Even I had never pushed the limits this far.

The hourglass spun faster. I had never seen it so indecisive. My nerves clawed at me. All around me, the Council of Elders watched in silence, their faces tense, their eyes fixed on the swirling sands.

The Council forms the core of our order’s structure – a constellation of scientists, historians, anthropologists, artists, and linguists. They study planets, peoples, and civilisations, preserving knowledge from the earliest days of this world cycle. Their archive is the most detailed library in the known universe, a vast and intricate map of our evolution, meticulously organised to guide us in our missions.

Why was it taking so long for Mór-Kala, the great hourglass, to pinpoint the right moment to send me back to prevent The Exchange?

My name is Rogelius, and I’ve been chose to go back in time to stop the annihilation of Earth. In 2052, multiple global powers pressed the red button simultaneously, unleashing a nuclear war that obliterated the planet and decimated its population. That moment became known as The Exchange – a tipping point where humanity, driven by greed and hubris, chose power over survival and erased its past, present, and future in a single act of destruction.

Those who didn’t perish in the initial blasts soon died from the poisoned air and water, or in brutal street wars over the last scraps of food and medicine. Earth – once the most vibrant, life-rich planet in the solar system – became a barren wasteland within two years. The ultra-rich, thinking themselves above fate, fled to space in hastily built ships. They never made it. Their vessels, unequipped for deep space, were pulverised by asteroids long before reaching their imagined sanctuary on the Moon.

It was then that the Elders decided I must go back to change history – to avert catastrophe before everything was lost forever.

People often say that history should not be altered, that tampering with time fractures the timeline. But that’s not quite true. Altering history doesn’t break time; it creates a parallel one – an alternate timeline. And if the conditions are right – if there’s minimal overlap of individual existence – those timelines can eventually merge. With all human life on Earth extinguished, the duplication risk was minimal. At least, that was the theory. That was the logic behind my mission.

The hourglass finally stopped.

Before anyone could even react, it swallowed me. I felt the pull of its sands, the shift in gravity, the disintegration of matter as I was hurled towards the chosen moment.

The last thing I saw before my departure was the expression on the Elders’ faces – bewilderment, and something else. Worry.

Something wasn’t right.

But it was too late now.

I braced myself for arrival.

I landed in the middle of what appeared to be a forest. Trees towered above me, their leaves whispering in the breeze, but something about the air felt… off.

I pulled out my locator and checked the coordinates: 51.7251° N, 0.8092° W.

Good. I was on the right planet and had landed near a city – exactly as planned.

In preparation for the mission, I had studied Earth extensively: its clothing, transport systems, food, customs. Blending in would be critical. A single misstep could alter the timeline in unintended ways.

Slipping out of my sand-coloured hooded robe – the ceremonial garb worn by Aeon Veers for millennia – I folded it carefully and tucked it away. No sense in being mistaken for a lunatic or a prophet. Earth had no patience for either.

I began walking, taking in the scenery. The ground was uneven, littered with the remnants of decaying leaves and the faint gleam of man-made debris. The records had warned me about this – how air and water pollution had steadily worsened for decades. How humanity, in its greed, had overexploited its natural resources, triggering devastating natural disasters – earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions.

The population had grown sicker, weaker, more isolated – disconnected from its original source: nature itself.

What struck me most was the irony.

This planet, rich with life and breathtaking beauty, had become a prison of its own making. People chose to live in concrete boxes, tethered to glowing screens, instead of walking freely beneath the sky. They created synthetic organs to delay their bodily decay, and worshipped artificial perfection through routine surgeries. Overconsumption was not discouraged – it was celebrated.

I inhaled deeply.

Beneath the pine and soil, I could taste the chemicals in the air. I could feel the quiet ache of a dying forest. Nature was still fighting – but the wounds ran deep.

Shaking off my thoughts, I forced my mind to focus on the task ahead. The burning questions returned, louder now, pressing against the walls of my skull.

How do I reach the world’s leaders?

What do I say to them?

Do I simply disable their nuclear systems?

But that wasn’t how our missions worked. We were trained to interfere as little as possible – nudging, not toppling. I couldn’t just dismantle every global arsenal. My purpose wasn’t destruction, but persuasion. The goal was to guide humanity toward recognising the urgency of their own self-destruction. Not just to change the past, but to shift perception – so that people, ideally, would choose to change.

From my satchel, I retrieved the documents I had prepared: a passport with multiple international visas under my assumed identity, several bank cards, and an international driving license. There was also a sleek mobile device that was, in reality, a satellite communicator disguised as a phone, already synced to local networks and set to follow my coordinates anywhere on the planet.

I powered it on. It connected instantly.

Then I checked the date.

What?

My heart lurched.

How?

And in that moment, I understood the bewildered looks on the faces of the Elders.
They knew.

Panic prickled under my skin. I hadn’t been sent back with a buffer of months, or even weeks, to prepare. I had landed at the exact start of the multilateral security and economic summit – the very negotiations that would spiral into The Exchange.

I had ten days to stop the most catastrophic event in human history.

Anxiety surged. This mission was already hanging by a thread.

I had trained for decades. I knew how to slow time with a single breath. But even so – for someone who lives outside of time, I suddenly had none.

There was no room for hesitation now.

I started walking, urgency pulsing through every step.

SUMMIT

“Welcome to Davos, Professor Greenwood. We are delighted to have such a distinguished scientist joining our World Economic Development and Security talks.

Here is your biometric pass. Bonne journée!”

Professor Martin Greenwood. That was the identity I had assumed for this mission. My cover was airtight – crafted with precision by my order, complete with a fabricated career as an environmental scientist and an extensive body of published research carefully planted into global databases.

Environmental scientists were often dismissed – sarcastically labelled “tree-huggers” – and rarely taken seriously in high-level negotiations. They were usually token invitees at summits like this, decorative proof that world leaders and corporate executives cared about the planet they were quietly destroying in pursuit of profit.

That made me useful. And more importantly, unthreatening.

I was exactly the kind of person they wanted on their panels, in their campaigns, featured in their glossy leaflets. Everyone needed a tree-hugger. They just didn’t want to listen to one.

But that gave me proximity.

And proximity was power.

It was the only way to stay close to the decision-makers – those who, in just over a week, would sign the documents, press the buttons, and ignite The Exchange.

Day One:

I had noticed the commotion outside the summit centre during yesterday’s opening, but paid it little mind at the time. Today, however, it seized both my eye and ear.

Twelve women danced and sang in a candlelit circle. They were of all colours and sizes, each dressed in her own distinct style. Around them, posters pointed in every direction:

“Dismantle and eliminate all nuclear weapons”

“End the era of greed”

“Honour your eternal bond with Mother Earth”

“Defend and preserve our planet”

“You are human – more than a machine”

I was drawn in – not just by their words, but by the sheer beauty of the sound. Using only their voices and hands, they created a rich tapestry of rhythm – chanting, humming, softly clapping – crafting music out of air and will alone.

Then the lyrics reached me:

“Destruction draws near.

And you are rushing to its gate.

Stop now – our voices hear

Before it is too late.

When the sky burns red,

Darkness will swallow the day

Poisoned Earth your final bed

As life slips silently away”

The words stopped me cold.

Could they somehow know about the coming nuclear exchange that would end all life on Earth?

Throughout human history, there had always been those who foresaw destruction – visionaries, prophets, outcasts. Earth had birthed vast religious and philosophical traditions, but they were more often tools of control, used to silence the outspoken, than vessels of change and liberation.

Yet these women seemed different. There was no anger, no spectacle – only quiet conviction. They moved with grace and certainty, tending their signs, holding space in silence between verses.

And then I saw her.

The thirteenth woman.

She stood at the far edge of the circle beside a sign that read: “Speak to us before it is too late to save the world!”

She looked young, but her long silver hair and piercing brown eyes gave her an ageless presence. Her gaze locked onto mine with quiet power. She nodded once, her smile knowing.

It unsettled me.

I dismissed the thought immediately. Earth had no representation on any cosmic council, no place in interstellar assemblies. Humanity still questioned whether other intelligent life even existed – clinging to the illusion of supremacy, unaware they were among the least advanced of all civilisations.

For her to know about the Aeon Veers – let alone recognise me – wasn’t just unlikely. It was impossible.

Still, I hurried through the summit gates, her eyes following me like a shadow I could not shake.

Day Three:

“We are in full support of the new satellite surveillance programme and the militarisation of leading global corporations,” declared Frank Donaldson, President of the North American Security Council (NASC). “It is time for governments and corporations to collaborate to ensure the smooth running of our societies. With a surveillance system operated entirely by Artificial Intelligence, we guarantee maximum productivity and eliminate the risk of human error.”

“What about human judgment and discretion? What about discernment?” I asked.

“There is no room for sentiment or common sense when it comes to security,” he replied coldly. “We must uphold the rule of law and ensure the continuous advancement of civilisation.”

The roundtable was ending. I couldn’t wait to speak with Donaldson alone.

He approached without hesitation. “Professor,” he said, “why are you here, trying to stall the forward march of civilisation? Shouldn’t you be working with bionics companies to perfect the human genome?”

“Good afternoon, President –” I began, but he cut me off with a wave.

“No need for pleasantries. We don’t waste time in the running of society. What do you truly want?”

“I want to ensure humanity’s survival,” I replied instinctively – then quickly amended myself. “Its true progress. That means protecting nature from nuclear devastation. Ensuring humans are free to express themselves without being governed by AI-derived statistics and automated surveillance.”

“There is no progress in regression, Professor. We are the masters of nature – we bend it to our will,” Donaldson snapped. “We can now predict and mitigate disasters, extract and control resources, and we are nearing the full realisation of bionic human bodies.”

In silence, I pulled out the compiled data from the Council’s library – scientific reports from Earth itself, collected over decades, exposing the full scope of environmental collapse, technological overreach, and the moral erosion pushing humanity to the edge.

I laid it out before him – evidence of widespread devastation caused by mining and fuel extraction; destabilised weather systems driven by reckless climate manipulation; nuclear contamination; and a human genome weakened by dependence on synthetic organs and pharmaceuticals.

I highlighted the surge in mental health disorders born of growing isolation and the breakdown of genuine human connection. I even presented records of AI surveillance failures – cases where innocent people had been falsely accused, detained, or killed by automated systems.

Donaldson barely glanced at the reports. He pushed them away and walked out without a word.

In that moment, I knew: humanity was in denial – incapable, or perhaps unwilling, to face the consequences of its own designs.

Leaving the building at dusk, weighed down by disappointment, I saw her again.

The silver-haired woman.

She stood outside the gates, holding a sign that read: “Love and nurture can never be coded or manufactured!”

Raising a microphone, she began to speak – not loudly, but with a clear, unwavering voice.

“Have you forgotten history?” she asked. “When greed and power consume humanity, the planet restores balance through catastrophe.

Forsaking the utterances of our souls, reshaping our bodies by machine logic – we deny who we are, and surrender our immortality.

Why is AI now issuing fines, rendering verdicts, monitoring our every move? Have we no reason left? Have our minds gone stale?”

Passers-by slowed, drawn in by her presence. A crowd formed. Some joined her chant, others hummed or sang. Candles passed from hand to hand, lit one by one by the other women.

I stood motionless, transfixed.

From a summit window above, I saw a figure move – a woman in a black suit, face twisted with panic. She snatched up a phone, gesturing furiously. Moments later, security spilled out, dispersing the crowd and scattering the circle of women.

Even in the chaos, the silver-haired woman walked slowly, untouched by panic. Insults hurled at her went unanswered. She moved with quiet resistance, calm and composed.

Just before she turned the corner, she looked back – locking eyes with me once more.

And smiled.

That smile stayed with me through the night – an anchor in the storm.

Day Five:

“Cosmetic surgeries should become compulsory for all children!” shouted the woman with the black suit – the same one who had called security on the protesters two days earlier. Georgia Antimony, Chief Executive of World Beauty, the dominant global cosmetics corporation, stood at the podium, radiating unnerving confidence.

“We must build a planet of beautiful people. There is no excuse for sore eyes – not when we can live surrounded by aesthetic perfection. And AI is the most efficient tool to determine the ideal look for each of us – how we can reach the pinnacle of beauty.”

She paused, her tone tightening.

“You have all seen the witches outside the summit gates,” she added, venom in her voice. “One of them is pregnant.”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the audience.

“She is dancing in the streets as if possessed – when she should be confined to a clinic, drip-fed with nutrients, protected from disease.”

A hush fell over the hall.

“Another one is breastfeeding – in public! Feeding her child unfortified milk, exposing it to the filth of the streets, flaunting this primitive act as though it were natural!”

She leaned forward dramatically.

“What could be more sickening – more threatening to the perfect society we are building – than these women and their backward practices?”

Murmurs of agreement began to swell.

“We must save these children from the ignorance of their own mothers! These women burn wax and herbs like savages – undermining the hard-won progress of our civilisation!”

Her voice now boomed across the room.

“No, my friends. This cannot continue. We must act – now.”

The room stirred with growing unrest.

I rose. “Shouldn’t we allow freedom of choice – in how we raise our children and live our lives?”

She cut me off with cool condescension.

“There can be no freedom that allows ignorance and savagery to persist and threaten our future,” she said with icy poise. “That is why corporations like World Beauty must influence policy – and be authorised to raise official armies.”

I stood, ready to object again.

“There’s no need for another lecture, Professor Greenwood,” she said, stressing my title with mocking precision. “You, of all people, should understand the value of corporate secrets. World Beauty has the right to defend its data, facilities, and personnel by any means necessary, including a targeted nuclear arsenal.”

Her eyes gleamed with cruelty.

“Beauty must be protected. That is our company’s mission – to create a more harmonious world for all to enjoy. Isn’t that the very purpose of life?” she asked, staring me down like a serpent poised to strike.

“And most importantly,” she added, chin lifted, voice triumphant, “we are the only organisation in the universe capable of prolonging life – and soon, achieving immortality.”

The room erupted in thunderous applause. Everyone stood.

It took everything in me not to speak the truth – that Earth was one of the most primitive planets in the known universe. That immortality doesn’t exist. That life has meaning because death makes room for renewal – and that the soul needs death to continue its journey, on Earth or beyond.

That day, global security firms and corporate entities were granted free rein to deploy nuclear arsenals and AI surveillance against citizens.

I left the hall, mind spinning. Another day. Another failure. For a brief, bitter moment, I even wondered whether humanity deserved its fate – then shook the thought away.

Outside, I heard the soft chanting again. The women had returned. They were trying to speak with officials, only to be shoved aside by private security. Guards joined in, barking threats as they pushed them back.

I tried to avoid the chaos – until I heard a voice behind me.

“Rough day, Timeless?”

I froze.

Timeless?

I wanted to keep walking – that was protocol. Minimal contact. But I turned around.

There she was. The silver-haired woman.

“My name is Diana,” she said softly, extending her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

I should have walked away. I didn’t.

Instead, I took her warm, steady hand and replied, perhaps a bit too eagerly, “Hello, Diana. My name is Professor Martin Greenwood. It is very nice to meet you, indeed.”

“Oh! The environmental scientist,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “How wonderful.”

I was surprised she knew my name.

“We hope you can still influence the outcome of the summit, Professor Greenwood. Unnecessary body alterations, nuclearised corporations, AI surveillance of independent thinkers – it all goes against nature. Against the well-being of the planet. Don’t you agree?”

I hesitated. “I do.”

“So… what are you going to do about it, Professor?” she asked, her voice gentle, but resolute.

Before I could answer – or ask why she called me Timeless – sirens cut through the air.

Police. Antimony had called them in again.

I turned to say something else – but Diana was gone.

At my feet lay a single rose, red and white petals glistening in the fading light. I picked it up, brought it to my nose, and inhaled its delicate, living scent.

What a strange and enigmatic woman, I thought – a foolish grin spreading across my face.

Day Seven:

My frustrations were growing by the hour.

Despite countless roundtables and bilateral meetings with government officials and corporate executives – armed with rigorous scientific evidence of the looming catastrophe driven by nuclear armament, genetic degradation caused by overmedication, widespread consumption of artificial food and synthetic replacements, and the unchecked dangers of AI surveillance – I had not managed to bring a single organisation to my side.

Instead, I was repeatedly offered increasingly generous compensation to join their companies and act as a greenwashed figurehead – ensuring they appeared compliant with official sustainability policies to secure more funding.

It was my final opportunity to make any meaningful impact at the summit when I heard shouting outside the building. I rushed out.

Antimony was at the gates, screaming at the top of her lungs that the summit had been compromised – claiming the women’s “savagery” was spreading disease.

I watched as officials and corporate elites fled the premises, shielding their faces, eager to escape the perceived contamination.

Diana and her circle had been peacefully demanding a seat at the negotiating table for days. They were dismissed, mocked, and treated as a nuisance. And now, this.

I caught sight of Antimony’s face – sharp, calculated, brimming with malice. It was clear. The collapse of the summit had been orchestrated.

My plan had failed. There was no recovering it now. I had no choice but to initiate the next phase of the mission I’d been quietly developing.

As I turned to return to my car, I stole one last glance at Diana. She stood tall, unwavering, facing down the police without an ounce of fear or hostility. Her presence, as always, was composed but powerful – rooted in conviction.

I longed to stand beside her, to share in her quiet defiance. But I couldn’t. It took all my willpower to tear myself away, to push forward with the new strategy.

While these brave women unknowingly shared my mission, theirs was destined to fail.

Which made my success all the more urgent.

For humanity to survive – for Diana to live – I had to succeed.

IONA

I arrived in Geneva and made my way briskly to the headquarters of the International Organisation for Nuclear Advancement (IONA) – the sole body with access to all nuclear arsenals held by both military states and private corporations, and the authority to approve their use.

Only two days had passed since the summit, and already the world teetered on the brink of nuclear war.

Large corporations were issuing threats against smaller competitors, accusing them of stealing proprietary data and warning of imminent strikes on their facilities. Others were turning their weapons on remote communities, claiming they posed a threat to infrastructure or resource sites.

Governments, meanwhile, had all but abdicated responsibility – handing over decision-making power to corporate boards and security councils.

“Madam, our AI intelligence unit reports that sixteen nuclear sites across Asia have locked their coordinates on us.”

“Sir, it appears NASC has just re-aimed their warheads – directly at our territory.”

Warnings were flooding every screen in the IONA control room – automated threat alerts, urgent approval requests for counterstrikes, and desperate attempts at communication from every corner of the globe.

“President Donaldson,” I called out into the main terminal. His face flickered onto the screen a moment later.

“You’re the only one with the influence to stop this. Please” I begged him. “Call for an immediate global ceasefire. Before it’s too late.”

He sneered. “Are you working for one of our enemies now, Greenwood? Always trying to tie our hands when it comes to defending ourselves?”

The screen cut to black.

I turned to face another official, raising my voice over the growing chaos. “Missiles don’t respect borders. Their impact isn’t contained. You can’t pretend these strikes won’t devastate ecosystems, neighbouring populations, and our entire atmospheric balance!”

A voice shouted back, “Missiles have limited range! You’re exaggerating the fallout. Our request is within regulation!”

Frazzled, I opened my mouth to argue further – but then I heard someone quietly clear their throat.

Turning, I saw one of the front-desk receptionists standing nearby, wringing his hands nervously.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Professor Greenwood,” the receptionist said quietly, “but there’s a woman demanding to see you at the gates. Her name is Diana.”

How does she know I’m here?

As I approached the front entrance, Diana broke into a run. She grasped my hand in both of hers, urgency radiating from her voice and eyes.

“I know what you’re trying to do. Please don’t,” she pleaded, her gaze full of desperate clarity.

I froze, stunned. How could she possibly know what I was planning? And more confusing – why would she want to stop me from saving her… from saving her entire planet?

“I know your mission is to try and save Earth – but it’s too late now,” she said gently, yet firmly. “The planet needs to purge itself of this poison and begin again. It must free the souls trapped in a relentless cycle of violence and greed.”

I flinched. Was she saying humanity deserved to die?

“We tried for years to stop them. It didn’t work. They didn’t listen. If anything, they became more violent, more obsessed with power. They extended their lives with synthetic organs, clinging to failing bodies – their souls trapped.”

She paused, waiting for a reply. But I couldn’t speak. I was dumbstruck.

“I need to go now,” she said at last, her voice cracking. “I have to reach my shelter. Come with me,” she implored softly, reaching once more for my hand.

I looked at her in disbelief – and shoved her hand away.

“You’re mad!” I shouted, turning and running back into the building.

“Remember!” her voice echoed behind me, unwavering and haunting. “This is not the end. It is only the beginning!”

I couldn’t believe it. As the world stood on the edge of nuclear war, this woman – so seemingly grounded and yet so otherworldly – was telling me to let it happen.

Frustration consumed me. The mission was on the brink of collapse. And in that moment, I wanted to blame her - for everything. For Earth’s failures. For my own.

But I knew the truth. My anger was not with her. It was with myself.

Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about her – the intensity of her gentle touch, the raw plea in her voice, her quiet, impossible hope.

I wanted to lose myself in her presence, to believe – if only for a moment – that this wasn’t the end.

But I had to shake it off.

Time was running out. I turned back to the control hub. I had one last chance to reach those with their fingers on the red buttons – and convince them not to press them.

Twenty-four hours later, I had failed.

Not a single corporation or government had agreed to declare a cessation of hostilities.

Desperation clawed at my chest. With just hours left before The Exchange commenced, I had no choice.

I began disarming the global weapons systems myself.

But I hadn’t anticipated the scale of the task: the vastness of the arsenals, the sheer number of hidden facilities lighting up my screen – each one a death sentence waiting to be triggered.

Exhausted. Frantic. Hopeless.

I glanced at the time. Twenty minutes left.

My stomach clenched. My chest burned with despair.

I felt like a wild animal, trapped – powerless to act, yet unable to give up.

I had never failed a mission before.

And yet… I had failed now.

If only I’d had a few more days.

If only I hadn’t wasted time trying to reason with people who were already lost to power and greed.

I had failed Earth.

I had failed her.

With a heavy heart, I stepped away from the terminal and headed to the rest chamber.

I changed back into my robes and retrieved the hourglass.

Fifteen seconds left.

My hands trembled as I pressed the return button.

I wish I could have saved this world.

I wish I could have seen her… one last time.

A sudden flash.

The sands rose.

And I was pulled back into the flow.

Was I going to vanish into nothingness… or return to Titan?

THE AFTERMATH

I slowly opened my eyes and took in the scenery around me.

Unspoiled greenery stretched in every direction. A stream trickled nearby. Birds chirped. Crickets sang. Sunrays fell gently across my face.

It all felt strangely familiar… yet undeniably different.

Is this the afterlife?

One thing was certain – I was not on Titan.

Where had I landed?

I reached into my robe and pulled out the locator. A wave of relief surged through me. I hadn’t vanished into nothingness, after all.

But when I checked the coordinates, I froze.

51.7251° N, 0.8092° W.

No. That can’t be right.

The exact coordinates where I had arrived on Earth for my failed mission.

I tapped the screen. Recalibrated the device. Checked for malfunctions.

Everything was working perfectly.

Could this be a second chance?

A chance to complete what I could not before?

That had never happened in the history of the Order. Missions, once failed, were considered closed – irreversible chapters in the timeline.

I stood slowly and inhaled deeply, letting the scent of wildflowers and fresh soil flood my senses.

Everything around me was alive and whole.

Looking around, utterly unsure of what I was meant to do, I got to my feet and started down a narrow path, trying to make sense of why I had been sent to Earth again.

I pulled the satellite phone from my pocket and powered it on. No connection.

Strange. There should always be a satellite nearby – always a signal. I decided to walk a bit, hoping to find a connection.

Just over an hour later, the phone began to beep intermittently. It was connecting.

I glanced at the screen – a chill ran through me.

I was on Earth fifty years after The Exchange.

This was the future, not the past where our missions had always taken place. We never went to the future. It was forbidden. Those who attempted it were tried and imprisoned.

My bewilderment grew exponentially. Now, I was truly worried. Something must be wrong with Mór-Kala. Perhaps the black hole had collapsed… or exploded. Maybe the Order had been discovered and attacked. Maybe the Elders were gone.

Or maybe – this was my punishment for failing the mission.

Stranded alone on Earth, left to bear the consequences of allowing humanity to be wiped out.

I was beginning to panic, when I heard a soft voice behind me.

“Hello, Timeless! I have been waiting for you”.

Everything around me fell away as I slowly turned around.

My eyes could hardly believe what they were seeing. She had aged – but still looked strong, her presence undiminished, her face younger than her years. Her eyes retained their childlike twinkle, and her voice still carried the same strength and clarity.

“Diana!”, I whispered.

She nodded with a playful smile and handed me a rose with red and white petals.

“I knew you’d come back – so you could understand,” she said. “Come, join us for some food. No need to change out of your robes,” she added, a twinkle in her eyes.

I stood there, stunned.

Humans had prevented their own destruction.

But how?

“Do you remember our songs, Timeless? They spoke of the end. We always knew that the obsession with power, wealth, and immortality went against the natural rhythms of our planet. And what is nature, if not human nature? We are one and the same – we cannot survive without it.

We saw the signs. But those in power, blinded by greed, refused to listen. So we had to act on our own.

We began preparing twenty years before The Exchange, when we realised the world as we knew it was coming to an end. We still did everything we could to prevent the disaster, but deep down, we knew the odds of changing the minds of those in charge were slim. That’s the cruel irony of human nature – we only realise what we had once it is lost forever.

We formed a global network of those committed to living in harmony with the Earth. We mapped out caves and underground chambers where we could survive the attack and the poisoned months that followed – air, water, soil, all contaminated. We stored seeds, animals, insects, clean water. We used technology to build pipelines to deep aquifers we knew would remain mostly pure.

We established communications centres, linking ourselves to satellites orbiting Earth so we could stay in contact across the globe. We expected some would be destroyed, but many remained functional. Turns out our hackers were better than the government and corporate ones – they were never caught setting up the networks.

We even collected embryos – donated by couples who wanted their children to be part of the new Earth. We carried them in our wombs and gave birth to many, creating families with diverse genetic lines to preserve as much biodiversity as possible.

It felt like an impossible task. Yet we did it.

The hardest part wasn’t preparing for the aftermath of The Exchange – it was letting go of the old world. Accepting that something had to end for something new to begin. Our failure to stop the collapse made us feel powerless, defeated. But we kept trying, right up until the very end.

It was only minutes before The Exchange that I reached my shelter and sealed the hermetic doors.”

I could never have imagined that this powerful, enigmatic being could feel weak – incapable. And if she did, what did that mean for the rest of us?

Sensing my thoughts, she continued, “I saw the same frustration in your eyes at the end of each day of the summit. I knew you felt it too.”

“How did you know who I was?” I asked.

“I didn’t,” Diana said softly. “I still don’t. I don’t even know your name, do I? I doubt it’s really Martin Greenwood.”

“My name is Rogelius,” I said, extending my hand as if we were meeting for the first time.

She took it warmly, her playful smile returning.

“It’s very nice to meet you again, Rogelius.”

“You see, Rogelius” she said, “I have dreams and meditative journeys.

A long time ago, during one of these meditations, I was guided to an underground chamber where cloaked figures stood gathered around an ancient instrument that looked like an hourglass. A man sat cross-legged before it, holding a smaller hourglass in his hand. He was striking – long dreadlocks resting on his shoulders, a strong, solemn face.

I became lost in the depths of his piercing black eyes, where I saw entire worlds created and destroyed, stories beyond the bounds of human imagination. As I bathed in the ocean of his gaze, the man vanished – dissolved into the hourglass. That’s when I knew: he was coming to me.

A few weeks later, I saw him walk into the summit building at Davos. I didn’t know who he was, or where he had come from – but I knew. We were here for the same reason.”

I was mesmerised by Diana’s precise description of the Order and the hourglass. A tingle stirred in my stomach, warmth spreading through my body as I listened to her describe me.

What surprised me most was her ability to follow her soul’s journey beyond the limits of what should be possible for a human.

Even though the soul is free and immortal, it remains bound by the physical laws of the planet where it incarnates. On Earth, the soul travels the shortest distance from its body – its flight path in dreams and meditations constrained, fleeting.

And yet, she had seen beyond.

I had always followed the rules of the Order, guarding its secrets from anyone uninitiated. But with Diana, it felt only right to share the full truth – about Mór-Kala, the Aeon Veers, and our missions.

She listened intently, wonder and curiosity shining in her eyes as she absorbed every word about our lives and travels.

We spoke for hours. And as I told my story, I felt something I had never felt before – a weight lifting from my shoulders. For once, I felt seen and heard. I was free to be myself: Rogelius – not just an Aeon Veer, but a man, a brother, a son, an explorer.

For the first time, I sensed there might be more to existence than missions, Council meetings, and endless studies.

I felt younger – lighter – than the thousands of years I carried within me.

“How are your abilities to see the future so advanced?” I asked Diana.

“They’re not,” she replied, shaking her head gently. “Our souls already hold all the answers – they are part of the original source of creation. When we consciously quiet the noise of our busy minds, we gain access to the past and the future.

We use logic, mathematics, philosophy, history, and science. We attune ourselves to Earth’s rhythms – her heartbeat. When she becomes dangerously unbalanced, we can sense it. That’s how we know when her time has come to cleanse the poison from her womb.”

She paused, then continued with calm reverence.

“Earth is generous. She gave us a new beginning – and in just fifty years, she recovered, returning to a state of pristine beauty. She empowered us – especially women – to carry multiple pregnancies, even into our fifties, and to live longer than the humanity that had grown obsessed with synthetic organs, cosmetic enhancements, and the overconsumption of medication.”

“So you’re against the advancement of technology?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said. “Technology is part of nature. We used the most advanced systems to survive and rebuild. But its purpose must never be power, control, abuse, or the deformation of our bodies and minds.

There’s a difference between using a prosthetic leg after losing one – and replacing your legs because an AI tool told you that ‘perfection’ requires different ones. Continuously abusing drugs, alcohol, and tobacco just to replace failing organs with synthetic ones isn’t a solution – it is the very problem.

Our umbilical cord to nature must never be severed. We are, and will always be, her children.”

“You know, Diana,” I said seriously, though a soft tingling stirred within me at the thought of sharing millennia in her company, “maybe you should join the Council of Elders on Titan. It’s probably time Earth had a representative.”

She smiled, deeply grateful. “That would be such an honour,” she said. “But soon it will be time for me to return to Mother Earth. And wherever my soul travels next, I will do my best to serve its mission.”

Then she looked into my eyes – her gaze playful, yet filled with a quiet depth – and whispered, “I think I only lasted this long because I was waiting to see you again.”

EPILOGUE

Some events are not meant to be changed. Some histories – heartbreaking, devastating – are destined to unfold exactly as they do, so they can mark the beginning of a new future. One we are meant to walk, and help create.

Perhaps that is why all time warriors, at one point or another, met their end through accidents, through forces no prediction could prevent. Fate, it seems, is stronger than space-time itself. It bends it to its will. And destiny always finds a way to fulfil itself, no matter how many times we try to alter its course.

And what of my own destiny?

Perhaps this mission was always meant to save me, as much as it was meant to save Earth.

In a matter of days, I had learned more than I thought possible about the abilities of the least developed civilisation in the universe. And the immense power they held – balanced precariously between advancement and annihilation.

I had come to understand that there is something greater than the libraries and research centres of our Order, greater than our conviction that we know it all, and know it best.

I had felt emotions I thought long buried – feelings I didn’t know I was still capable of. Millennia had passed since I gave up my life on Kepler and became an Aeon Veer, pledging myself entirely to the Order.

And now – how was I meant to return, to carry on as if nothing had changed? As if this had been just another mission, completed and filed away, leaving no trace behind?

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About Snezhina Gulubova:

Dr Snezhina Gulubova is a British-Bulgarian writer and poet whose work blends lyrical intensity with speculative imagination. Her fiction explores themes of memory, myth, and survival, often blurring the line between reality and the surreal. She has performed at venues across London and was featured at the Saudha International Literature Festival. Alongside her creative work, Snezhina holds a PhD in ethnomusicology and explores sound, identity, and urban life through her academic writing. Her voice is shaped by cross-cultural narratives and a deep fascination with the human condition.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

The Trouble with Tuesdays by Alison Jones

Raine had long suspected Tuesdays were a conspiracy. It wasn’t paranoia, at least not in the bad sense of the word. She considered it more of a personal philosophy. Mondays were universally disliked, Wednesdays had camel memes, Thursdays were the anticipation of Friday, and Friday itself was a carnival of pub trips and paydays. Saturdays and Sundays were sanctified.
But Tuesday?
Tuesday lingered. Tuesday loitered. Tuesday was suspicious.
Raine had tried to explain this once to her flatmate Leonie as they sat in their kitchen, which was roughly the size of a shoebox designed by someone who hated feet.

“Think about it,” Raine said, waving her fork at Leonie as though it were a sceptre of universal truth. “Tuesday is the day nothing happens. No one talks about it. No songs about Tuesday, no movies about Tuesday. It’s hiding something.”
Leonie, half-asleep over her cereal, muttered something about cornflakes being eternal and went back to staring at the wall.
So when, on a Tuesday morning, a man in a lime-green suit materialised in their kitchen, Raine felt vindicated.

The man was tall, thin, and had a hairstyle that looked as though it had been designed by a committee of frightened pigeons. He carried a briefcase that wheezed every time he moved it, as though carrying the existential exhaustion of countless forms.
“Good morning!” he announced. “Terribly sorry for the intrusion, but you’ve both been time-travelling illegally.”
Leonie blinked. “We’ve both been what?”
“Time travelling illegally,” the man repeated. “Dreadfully sorry, paperwork nightmare, really. I’d rather be at home polishing my gorgonzola collection, but alas, duty calls. The Department is quite firm on these matters.”
Raine set her toast down. “We’ve never time-travelled.”
“Of course you haven’t. Not yet. But you will. Which means you already have. Temporal enforcement, you see. Cause and effect are just dreadfully bureaucratic suggestions.” He smiled in a way that suggested he did this sort of thing far too often.

Leonie groaned. “I knew the milk was off. This is an hallucination.”
“Oh no, it’s very real. Allow me to introduce myself.” The man struck a pose entirely unsuited to a man in a lime suit. “Atticus Lattie, Junior Assistant Deputy Clerk of the Department of Time. But you may call me Attie Lattie. Everyone does, except my mother, who calls me ‘mistake.’”
Raine tilted her head. “And you’re here because…?”
“Because you’re about to steal a time machine.”

The Clock with Low Self-Esteem

Attie Lattie led them out of the flat, down three flights of stairs, across the road, and into the belly of a grandfather clock.
Not just any grandfather clock. This one stood in the lobby of the South Bampton Public Library, wedged between a shelf of self-help books and a taxidermy weasel that had been dressed as Sherlock Holmes for reasons no one had successfully explained.
To enter, one had to insult the clock three times in a row until it grudgingly let you in.
“Pretentious antique!” Raine said.
“Your pendulum is compensating for something,” Leonie added.
“You smell faintly of cabbage,” Attie concluded.
The clock gave a weary sigh, as though it had long ago given up expecting respect, and swung open to reveal a vast, humming chamber.

The Department of Time’s headquarters looked like an unholy fusion of the Ministry of Magic, a mid-tier IKEA, and the inside of a metronome. Clerks in flowing robes zipped past, pushing trolleys piled high with glowing hourglasses, stacks of calendars, and the occasional screaming stopwatch.
At the front desk, a receptionist with six pairs of glasses perched on her nose raised a hand. “Take a number.”
Attie handed them slips of paper. Raine’s said Tuesday. Leonie’s said Pi.
“These aren’t numbers,” Raine said flatly.
“They are if you believe in them,” Attie said.

Why the Department of Time Is Closed on Wednesdays

“Let me get this straight,” Leonie said as they sat in a waiting room that smelled faintly of centuries-old popcorn. “You’re accusing us of a crime we haven’t committed yet?”
“Precisely,” Attie said, flipping through a file that seemed to be written in a combination of crayon and Latin. “At 3:42 p.m. this very Tuesday, you will, in fact, steal a Mark IV Chrono-Hopper from the Department of Time. Which means, of course, you already have.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Raine protested.
“Of course it doesn’t,” Attie agreed. “That’s why we have forms. Now, the Department is closed on Wednesdays, so we’ll have to deal with this quickly.”
“Why is it closed on Wednesdays?” Leonie asked.
“Because Wednesdays are unstable,” Attie whispered. “Terribly volatile. Try to time-travel on a Wednesday and you’ll end up inside a soup can in 1832.”

A Slightly Stolen Time Machine

At exactly 3:42 p.m., Raine tripped over a filing cabinet, Leonie caught her, Attie dropped his briefcase, and somehow the three of them tumbled directly into a Mark IV Chrono-Hopper.
It looked, disappointingly, like a shed.
Not a futuristic pod, not a sleek silver craft, but a shed. A slightly rusty, leaky-roofed garden shed with a faint smell of fertiliser.
The door slammed shut, lights flickered, and with a horrible whoomp, the shed vanished from the Department of Time.
“See?” Attie said from the floor, pinned under his briefcase. “Told you so.”
Raine scrambled upright. “We didn’t mean to steal it!”
“No one ever means to,” Attie said, brushing dust off his lime-green lapels. “It’s very inconvenient.”
Leonie groaned. “Where are we?”
Attie peeked out the shed’s tiny window. “Ah. Ancient Rome. Lovely architecture, terrible plumbing.”

A Gladiator, a Giraffe, and a Very Poorly Timed Joke

The shed had landed smack in the middle of the Colosseum. A gladiatorial fight was in progress.
The Romans looked up, confused, as a rusty shed materialised with a cough of smoke.
“Don’t panic,” Attie whispered. “Just blend in.”
“Blend in?!” Leonie hissed. “We’re in jeans and hoodies!”
“Romans were very forgiving fashion critics,” Attie lied.
A gladiator in full armour approached, glaring. “Quid est hoc?”
Raine froze. “ I-I think he’s asking what this is.”
Attie clapped. “Wonderful! You speak Latin.”
“No, I don’t!”
“Well, you do now. Time machines have translation fields. Very handy at diplomatic dinners.”
The gladiator tapped the shed with his sword. “Looks like an outhouse,” he muttered.
The crowd roared with laughter. Someone released a giraffe, for reasons lost to history. The giraffe immediately stole the gladiator’s helmet and began parading around like a champion.
Amid the chaos, Raine, Leonie, and Attie scrambled back into the shed.

“Where to next?” Raine demanded.
Attie shrugged. “Anywhere but here.”
The shed vanished again.

Napoleon Hates Garden Sheds

The shed reappeared on a battlefield. Cannon fire thundered in the distance. Soldiers marched in neat lines. At the centre of it all, a small but furious man in a big hat pointed at the shed and screamed in French.
“Ah,” Attie said cheerfully. “Napoleonic Wars. He hates sheds, you know. Bad childhood experience.”
“Why do we keep landing in the middle of famous historical events?” Leonie demanded.

“Because you’re protagonists,” Attie explained. “It’s compulsory.”
Napoleon stormed up, shouting furiously. Raine didn’t need a translation field to know he was saying something along the lines of “Get this bloody shed off my battlefield.”
The shed shuddered again and whisked them away before Napoleon could kick it.

The Future Has Terrible Sandwiches

This time, the shed landed in the year 2437.
They emerged into a gleaming city of silver towers, floating cars, and holographic advertisements for something called Quantum Yoghurt™.
Leonie picked up a sandwich from a street vendor. She took one bite and gagged. “This tastes like sadness and shoe polish.”
“Ah, yes,” Attie nodded. “Future cuisine. They managed to cure disease and end war, but sandwiches remain appalling.”
A robot wheeled up. “Citizen identification, please.”
“We don’t have any,” Raine admitted.
The robot blinked. “Then you are… illegal time tourists!”
“RUN!” Attie yelled.
They bolted back into the shed.

The Department of Paradoxes

After several more chaotic jumps—including but not limited to a brief detour through the Cretaceous period where a T. rex tried to use the shed as a scratching post—the group finally landed back in the Department of Time.
But not the same Department.
This one was upside down. Literally. Desks and filing cabinets clung to the ceiling. Hourglasses floated sideways. A clerk with two heads waved.
“Welcome to the Department of Paradoxes,” Attie said grimly. “We’re in trouble now.”
“What kind of trouble?” Raine asked.
“The kind that gets you fined thirty-seven temporal credits and possibly turned into a salad.”

Trial by Bureaucracy

The three of them were hauled before a tribunal of extremely bored-looking officials. Each official had a gavel, a stopwatch, and a packet of crisps.
The lead judge spoke. “You are accused of time theft, paradox propagation, and giraffe misplacement.”
“The giraffe was an accident!” Raine protested.
“Silence. How do you plead?”

Leonie crossed her arms. “Hungry.”
The judge sighed. “Very well. We sentence you to community service: repairing the timeline you’ve broken.”

The Day That Never Was

Their punishment began with fixing the Day That Never Was—a Tuesday in 1753 that somehow got skipped due to a calendar reform error.
“See?” Raine whispered smugly as they reappeared in 1753. “I told you Tuesdays were a conspiracy.”
They spent the day frantically convincing villagers that, yes, today did exist, no, they weren’t hallucinating, and please stop burning the shed as a witch.
By sunset, the day was restored, though everyone in town now believed “Tuesday” was a magical holiday involving excessive cheese consumption.

Infinite Sheds

Eventually, through a series of fixes involving tea with Cleopatra, teaching Shakespeare how to spell his own name, and convincing Albert Einstein not to pursue a career in competitive knitting, Raine and Leonie became something like competent time travellers.
The shed, however, developed a quirk.
It began duplicating itself.
Every time they jumped, another shed was left behind. By the end of the week, there were seventeen identical sheds scattered throughout history. One in Victorian London, one on the Moon, one inside the digestive tract of a whale.
The Department was livid.
“Do you realize how much paperwork seventeen extra sheds generate?!” the judge shrieked.

Closing the Loop

At last, after countless adventures, paradoxes, and far too many sandwiches, Raine, Leonie, and Attie returned to the very moment they had first left their flat.
The shed deposited them gently back into their kitchen, as though nothing had happened.
Raine blinked. “Wait. Did we… fix it?”
Leonie checked her phone. “It’s still Tuesday.”
Attie adjusted his lime-green tie. “Well, technically, yes. The timeline is stable. More or less. Except for the giraffe situation. And the fact Napoleon now has an irrational fear of sheds. But otherwise, yes. Splendid job!”
He picked up his briefcase, which wheezed affectionately. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must file seventeen thousand forms.”
And with that, he vanished.

Raine and Leonie sat in silence.
Finally, Raine said, “I still don’t trust Tuesdays.”
Leonie groaned. “I need a sandwich.”
From the corner of the room, the shed coughed.

The End (or possibly the Beginning, depending on your point of view).

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About Alison Jones:

I’m 68 years old, love history and Sci-Fi.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

A Cat.1 Emergency by Jackie O’Sullivan

Chapter 1, Life does not always go to plan.

The first time it happened, I just thought it was a hallucination.

The kind you get when you have been partaking of the quality sort of medications you get to go home with after major surgery. You know, the really good stuff that induces wobbliness, weakness and sleeping at all hours because for some reason your eyes weigh 20Kg each.

When it happened again a few days later, I was less sure that it was the reason and began to ponder why I might have even imagined seeing such a thing happen. After all, I had never imagined or dreamt anything like that before, so why now? It turns out the surgery did have a part to play in it, though, and how I had worked my life around needing a major operation and some care afterwards had definitely contributed to the problem.

Humanity is a bit slow on the uptake, really. We regularly fail to either see or understand what is right in front of us. In fact, far more often than you would think, it turns out. We have not been alone for millennia. They have lived among us since before humanity was able to record its progress through history. We once even worshipped them as Gods. Over time there have been dawnings or enlightenment about the truth. In the Western world’s medieval period, suspicions were raised in many places about their true nature, but the mud that was thrown really did not stick, except maybe as a suspicion of all black ones, and so their secret purpose was maintained. I have, however, been let into that secret because humanity has really messed things up this time, and the secret help and support we did not know was working to our benefit has been short-circuited and disrupted. Now those who nurtured us and then let us rule ourselves while secretly keeping us on the straight and narrow really need our help to save us from ourselves. Again.

But I am really jumping ahead here and need to backtrack a little. I have two cats, never really been a dog person, and cats seem to like me, more of that later, but that saying about cats choosing who they trust is apparently true. I also live alone and have done so for some time. Going back to the medieval period, I suspect I may have been tarred with a witchy type of brush, especially as I am a nurse by trade. Yeah, single woman who does healing and lives with cats. Nothing suspicious there at all, really. The surgery that set all this off was a bit unexpected. A series of unfortunate events leading to some weird test results that set off a hunt and found a reason that turned life upside down for a while. The sort of thing that happens to about 1000 people a day, apparently. The living alone thing turns out to be a bit of a problem after operations, apparently, the expectation is you will not be on your own for a while, so my life choice threw some metal tools into machinery and created panic in the extended family. So, rather suddenly, my two cats, who went out around the back lanes and seemed not to go much further, were shipped off to stay with a niece, where they spent 7 weeks imprisoned in a room with a view of the outside world through a window only. Said niece has her own cat, who is not friendly to others. Her home also backs onto a small stream, a railway line and has a busy urban road at the front. Not the kind of rural idyll my pair are used to at all, so yeah, safety first, a large indoor, upstairs cat den it was then. They got regular cuddles and apparently fought for a place on my niece’s lap when she sat in the rocking chair in the room. I am not in any way jealous! Nope, I really am not. Much. They also seriously let me know I was no longer their best friend when I visited them.

When we all got safely back home, the pair of them were outside and marking their area as fast as they could. They treated me with disdain for 24 hours and then kept coming to check I was still in the living room for the day after that. And then they both disappeared. For days.

The older one came back first after 4 nights away. She sauntered in and announced loudly that she was back and needed to be fed immediately. No please or thanks, just a lot of racket until the food bowl was suitably full and she tucked in with relish. There then followed another week of anxiety, wondering where on earth the younger one had got to. I was increasing my exercise level and walked the village and the local lanes every day with no sign of her. I propped the cat flap open at night, having left the back door open until late each night, risking visits from the brother of the older cat who lived next door and thought it was his right to come and help himself to any food he could access. This was the time I spotted my older cat sitting on the wall of the back yard next to a large fluffy tabby cat, who I had seen several times before. The tabby always ran away as soon as he spotted me, but this time, some intense communication seemed to be happening before they touched noses and went their separate ways. I really thought they were having quite an intense discussion about something, but that just could not possibly be right at all. Could It?

That week, some new medications were started. A known side effect is listed as vivid, realistic dreams as well as all the more common things like tummy upsets and rashes and the like. Two days after starting this I woke from a very weird dream that involved being chased by a large skeletal rabbit waving a flag. This meant a trip downstairs as the bathroom in this old Victorian era cottage is downstairs at the back of the house, not terribly convenient but nowhere for it to be moved upstairs. While there, I thought I heard a cat meowing, so I went to investigate. My younger cat was back, very thin and unable to jump over the gate to get into the yard. She whizzed straight indoors as soon as that gate was open, yowling her joy before eating so fast I am surprised there was no mess to clear up.

Apart from being thin she was unharmed and once fed settled to sleep at the foot of my bed. She and my other cat did not usually spend much time together but the older one had been very anxious at her absence for the previous 9 days, kept going and sitting on the back wall often and then coming in looking sad and lonely. She had also lost a little weight because she was not eating as much as usual.

Life settled down to what was now a new normal while I dealt with all this rubbish medication. The cats , Razi who is the older one, and Squeaky, her daughter, a mere 10 months younger, settled back into standard cat behaviour. Hiding in impossibly tiny spaces, appearing at lightning speed as soon as I opened the fridge door. deigning now and again to come and use my lap as a convenient place to snooze, causing extreme bladder distress on occasions, as moving causes some serious glaring and occasionally clawing. Yep, cats really like you to know who is the boss in the house; you are merely there to operate a tin opener. If they trust you they really let you know, especially by using you as a convenient snoozing spot the second you sit down, or snuggling up in your pile of ironing so that you proudly wear their hair on every item. Contented purrs and chirrups of chat are meant to be reward enough for being their chosen slave.

And then it happened again.

In the middle of the night I spotted Razi having a conversation again with the fluffy tabby cat and her super chunky brother from next door as they all sat on the back yard wall. Her brother is known as Big Nose due to his markings, a huge white nose in an otherwise black face. He also happens to be Squeaky’s dad I think, as well as her uncle. I would find him stalking haughtily down the stairs in my house, stopping to give me a “what?” stare as if he were a teenager being asked to put the bins out or clean his bedroom. Magnetic cat flaps appear to be able to allow the neighbours in if they tailgate close enough!

So, there they were sitting on the wall having a deep and meaningful discussion. I watched them through the kitchen window with the light off for a full minute before they became aware of me. They then instantly swiped at each other’s noses and yowled and hissed and floofed up tails to immense bottlebrush proportions. Big Nose and Tabby disappeared, and Razi just stalked back through the cat flap as though nothing unusual could possibly have happened. I have no bathroom privacy from my cats; they want to come and have their ears scratched, as apparently that is a really convenient time for them to seek my approval. So while Razi was there, I directly asked her what on earth was going on on the wall, as it looked like a really serious chat she had been having.

And then she answered me.

Really.

It is a good job I was already sitting down.

Chapter 2. Lies to children have grains of truth in them.

“Well spotted,” she said, “We thought you were beginning to notice more than you should do.”

My immediate response was not a useful one, really. Well apart from the perspective of my bladder. I just stared at her. She sat and stared back. Cat stares are pretty defiant, they really challenge the power balance and can hold them for eyewatering eons of time. My brain was really struggling here. It was the middle of the night. I had woken from one of those weird, vivid dreams again. My cat was not actually talking to me because that just isn’t real at all is it?

She sat there contentedly just licking a paw after examining it carefully. “We were wondering if you could maybe be a bit of an ally and help us out a little” . Another useful response from me, more staring and then just “oh”. I completed what I had started and then headed to put on the kettle because a brew fixes so many things in life.

Razi followed me and patiently waited until I was comfy on the sofa with the warm mug in hand. She sat next to me and waited again, watching intently for a good 5 minutes before speaking again. This time I was less fazed by the weirdness of it all.

My CAT WAS TALKING TO ME.

In English.

In full sentences that made absolute sense. Yep, I was staring with my mouth open. I shut it and thought carefully before answering her.

“How come you can talk but have waited until now?”

“Well, that is a question needing a long and detailed response,” said Razi, “I can tell you it all, but it may take a while”. Since she had my full attention and a return to sleep was not happening any time soon, I just nodded and let her begin.

Cats have been around humans for a really long time. They are considered to be domesticated but far less so than the dogs descended from wolves, the sheep we now need to shear because they no longer shed their own fleeces and the cows that can produce enormous quantities of milk, way more than any calf would ever need. It is thought that cats were small mammals that declared their usefulness in protecting grain stores from attack by rodents when man first started to stay in one place, collecting and storing foods to last over winter, when little could be gathered to provide nutrition. Razi said there is a grain of truth in this, no pun intended.

They arrived here by accident from another galaxy, and she was not sure how far far away that may have been, though. Some things just get lost in the mists of time. There were multiple landings in different parts of the world, which apparently accounts for the many variants of Felidae across the globe. Felis catus were the ones who found themselves able to help and nurture a promising hominid species native to the planet. The larger cat species that became leopards, lions, tigers and such landed in more isolated areas and had less interaction, so they became genetically more isolated and resolved into their current forms over time. In fact, where they came from, the smaller Felis Cats were the thinkers and scholars, the Felidae were larger and more keen on hunting and fighting, so were the natural soldier elements of their planet. They made themselves really at home in wide open spaces where they could hunt in packs and be the apex predators, or in jungles where they could be silent, sleek bringers of fear and death.

Those who allied themselves to the hominids helped the developing small bipedal mammals to organise themselves effectively, to improve their communication, to develop and progress and survive. We were basically groomed by cats as if we were kittens. The hominids and then humans treated the cats well; they did, in effect, worship them as Gods. That saying also has a grain of truth; we were in awe of the aliens from another planet who nurtured and developed us into the thriving communities that were able to develop themselves and use the resources of the planet to become the dominant species who spread across the globe.

As human awareness and communication grew, the cats knew they would have to be less dominant. They were onto a good thing; they were valued and catered for by their former students. However, they still congregated and shared information between communities and influenced how humanity managed themselves where they could. Cats have been part of the lives of many famed and notable people. We all know about the Egyptians’ regard for them, but in Asia, there were well-regarded populations in Japanese palaces, and the Chinese Emperors had many cats in their closed palace networks. These cats would elect members to be the favoured ones of the most senior humans; they would appear to sleep in important meetings and in the bedrooms of the elite. Then, when possible, the information and knowledge they had gleaned would be shared at gatherings of cats and distributed around their communities.

The same applied in Europe, a well-known cat in a high place was Micette, who was the favoured animal of Pope Leo XII. The cat would be present, hidden in his long papal robes, at all meetings. That kitty would have heard so much that needed to be shared during the period of change after the Napoleonic wars. Feral cats are also a really useful means of this information being spread, as humans do not notice them vanishing for weeks at a time, as they distribute intelligence far and wide to other communities. Until about 150 years ago, freedom was the right of almost all cats.

At this point I remember thinking that the Aristocats film suddenly made a lot more sense and wondered if the Sherman brothers may at some point have experienced what I was having now, a bizarre chat with a Cat. I mean who is actually going to believe this outside of a cartoon film?

Chapter 3: Catastrophe after catastrophe

So that was the basics, cats are actually aliens who made the Earth their home. And like the mice in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, they still have an element of control over what happens here, even though the apparently super-brainy humans have failed to notice. Did Douglas Adams own a Cat?

There have been a host of attempts at outing catkind over the years, and cats have helped humanity in many ways over time, too, with lots of their efforts being documented as plucky, lovely furballs being super special in the subsequent writings about them. In various periods of human history, cats have had a very bad name, though, especially black ones, being linked with witchcraft multiple times in more than one place. Witchfinders may have suspected the true nature of catkind and tried to discredit them and turn humanity against them. They could not outright say they thought cats were not of this world, but they could use religious ideology to make them appear demonic and evil. Genghis Khan was a supreme cat hater who may have suspected more than was good for him. The Chinese had a reverence for cats akin to that of the Egyptians. All cities had resident populations, and Genghis used that to great effect to destroy a city he besieged. He demanded a ransom of many thousands of cats, when the ransom was delivered he had fireworks and combustible materials strapped to them before setting some alight and letting all the cats flee back into the city to destroy it by fire. Wow! That was a gut-churner,

Razi was reflectively quiet for a while after sharing that part of the tale. I went and made another cuppa and found her a much-needed treat from the usually well-secured tin. Isn’t it amazing how cats work out how to get into the places they know yummy things are stashed? They may not have opposable thumbs, but they absolutely use every tool they do have to get what they want.

In the 1790s in France, Jerome Laland, a renowned astronomer, tried to reveal the planetary origin of cats by suggesting the name Felis for a planet in what is now the constellation of Hydra. His proposal was poorly received and did not gain notice and attention, much to the relief of catkind, according to Razi. A little earlier, the very well-loved cats of Marie Antoinette had failed to impart to her the extent of the danger she was in. They had apparently revealed to her that her family should flee, and steps were taken to arrange passage to northern America. While her cats were loaded aboard the ship, sadly, the rest of the family did not make it, and we know what happened next. Those posh French kitties are apparently the ancestors of those super fluffy huge ones we now call Maine Coons. That was news to me. A factoid tinged with sadness though.

As part of their intelligence gathering networks, cats have, over time, found homes with the powerful and mighty and also with the common man, especially in war zones. Catherine the Great, as Empress of Russia, had a host of cats in her palace, all well placed to hear and distribute information across a vast nation with many troubles, although not always as successfully as they would like. The huge distances and dreadful weather were a big problem a lot of the time. Something an ailurophobic dictator of the 20th century would have been wise to take note of.

There is a suspicion that Napoleon may have suspected that cats were sharing information during his attempts to create a mega United States of Europe. He was once found in his room at night, waving a sword at a cat in his bedroom, trying to skewer it. I wonder what secrets it had gathered to spread far and wide using the kitty networking systems? Cats got some revenge on him later at Elba. In an attempt to reduce the rat population of the island, many cats were introduced there as part of a trick organised by someone who heard old Boney hated them. Oops! Not long after, another cat called Tibbles, yes, I know, really got himself a bad name by causing the extinction of the Stephens Island wren when his owner took him there as part of his rotation of duty as the lighthouse keeper. Another oops moment, I think.

Tales of cats helping troops during wartime get more common as we get towards more recent history. Not that surprising, as Louis Wain painted them in such cute pictures that they became ever popular pets in Victorian England and were seen less as an irritation of mere workaday animals keeping pests down on farms and smallholdings. Apparently, he also had hints of the cat's true nature that he tried to tell the world about, which did him no good at all. He spent a very large chunk of his adult life as a guest in mental institutions. Razi thought that was a real shame, as he was a very kind man and truly loved the pet he and his wife had called Peter. There was the tale of Tom, a cat taken to heart by some troops during the Crimean War in an awful winter, the Russian weather having its way again. Tom found a store of supplies that the starving men truly needed. Potentially also ensuring his own survival because needs must. Razi then went off at a tangent, suddenly remembering another cat she had been told of, finding food to help someone. During the reign of King Richard 3rd, Sir Henry Wyatt was detained at the Tower of London as a prisoner. He was slowly starving as he had no one to provide him with decent supplies, when a cat wandered into his cell. This cat became known as Sir Henry’s caterer. The cat would bring him plump pigeons it had caught, which the tower guards would cook for Sir Henry’s meal. The caterer was paid a share of the birds. There have been resident cats at The Tower for a very long time; they must have gathered a lot of information over the centuries. Who knows what secret information about things that happened there could become known if catkind felt the need to share it.

More recently, in the Second World War and later, two cats became very well known. Oscar began his career on the German ship Bismarck. When that was sunk, he had to change sides and become an intelligence agent for the British instead, first on HMS Cossack, then on HMS Legion and finally on HMS Ark Royal, a real step up the ladder. Not sure his presence was great for the sailors on Cossack or Legion, though, since both those ships were sunk as well. Maybe German cats knew he was there and wanted him out of the game in case he was a Double Agent. Then shortly after the war, during the Yangtse incident, a ship’s cat called Simon was on board HMS Amethyst. He became a huge friend to the crew when they were stuck behind enemy lines with limited supplies. He killed rats that threatened the food supplies and would lie with the wounded purring furiously at them to encourage them to recover. He is the only cat to have been awarded the Dickin Medal for his efforts. Sadly, though, he was returned to a home in the UK, which meant being quarantined for 6 months away from everyone he knew because of the rabies laws. He pined away and died as he could not cope with the level of restriction on his freedom. Not being able to fulfil what he saw as his role to spread information and help humanity was more than he could bear. So sad. Cats know of him because of his medal, effectively the only feline Victoria Cross awarded.

At the top of the knowledge tree, though, would be the cats beloved of monarchs, Presidents And Prime Ministers. President Lincoln had Dixie and Tabby, and he shared many secrets with them during his tenure. It is believed that one of them tried to warn him not to go to Ford’s theatre, but was not listened to, maybe he thought he was hallucinating. After all, who would believe a talking cat? Downing Street has known many cats; there was an official Chief Mouser there for many years; however, that resident was chased away by the cat brought there by Winston Churchill. He had two very special cats to help him during his role as Prime Minister, Jock and Nelson. Razi says they were party to many secrets and attentively listened to rehearsals of speeches all the time. He was heard to say he preferred the company of Nelson to that of many humans, which Razi found very gratifying.

A final sad note she shared was of the cat heroine Felicette. She was, though, unable to share with the world any information she gained from her 15 minutes as a Catronaut in October 1963. She was kept at the space centre for further study, which eventually included euthanising her to study her brain. How sad. Cats have not left the planet since, who knows, maybe one day they will get back to Felis or whatever we know it as by then?

Chapter 4; Impending Category 1 emergencies.

So that all took quite a few hours to relate and involved multiple changes of position, cuppas, loo trips and snacks along the way. All very interesting, I am sure you are thinking, which is kind of where I was too, so eventually had to ask Razi what exactly she needed in the way of my help if cats were actually secretly running the world and had been for all recorded history.

It turns out the cats think we are all well on the way to hell in a handcart now. Their intelligence networks have been messed up a lot by the rise of catios and indoor cats so that information cannot be effectively shared any more. The feral networks are weak and diseased, with many becoming increasingly food-focused to the point of major notoriety, like Chonkus Maximus in Crete, who used to be a valuable and well-respected part of a network and can now barely move from under his tree. Even worse, a number of major high-end information sites are now out of access as the residents are ailurophobes. Current incumbents are more focused on personal image and power as they have not been calmed by the presence of chirruping fluffiness in the form of a resident cat with needs. It is really messing up the information sharing and general calming that is needed in some parts of the world that feature regularly on the news bulletins.

On top of that, humanity has messed up the atmosphere over time, which is exaggerating cyclical shifts that have happened many times over millennia. Our development of information technology as a means of rapidly sharing information is making us less thoughtful and more in need of instant gratification.

Each individual now seems more focused on their own needs and less aware of the needs of entire communities, which is how civilisations were fostered by catkind so long ago. There is an expectation of “somebody” doing “something” rather than everybody doing anything to help find solutions to problems. The cats feel like they have lost control because they are imprisoned and denied access to information that they can spread and have those in the right places used to influence the humans in their network area. They now need humanity to take full control of their destiny, to work together to create settled communities that really care for everyone within them.

Just be aware if you own a cat, If you see it intensely focussing on another cat when it thinks you are not watching it may be sharing vital intelligence, if it disappears for a while it is possibly off on a mission to spread vital news to other areas of their influence.

And if your cat starts to ask for your help to save the world, you are probably not hallucinating.

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About Jackie O’Sullivan:

I am and always have been an avid reader. I could already read before I started at school, and was given no credit for that, but had to follow exactly the same route as everyone else. At home, I was reading Heidi by Joanna Spyri, but at school, I had to enjoy the trials of the Little Red Hen and Janet and John with the rest of the class. After school, I joined the Army and trained as a nurse, getting in a bit of globe-trotting while being paid to do it. There were 2 wars while I was in the Army, and I did not get to play a role in either of them. I left after 11 years when a major downsizing process meant I would essentially be left with only about 3 hospitals to rotate between. I am still a nurse, but now I work only 2 days a week and have fun being creative in many ways with the rest of my time. I remain a voracious reader, and while I have written a chapter in a textbook of pharmacology for nurses and an article published in a major medical journal when I answered a question asked by a colleague with some data that we found had not been published on since 1959, this is my first effort at a work of fiction to share with others .

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Faith & Begorrah by Elaine Leet

Year: 2175

In a communications room on an outpost on Earth’s moon, a young sergeant reported, “Lieutenant Tring, something weird is going on with one of the habitat satellites orbiting Mars.”

Tring responded with a grunt, “Which one?”

“Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

“That space camp for the mad scientists? They’re always tilting, twirling and adjusting. Tell me something new, Sergeant.”

“Sir, all shuttles have docked and they’re firing up, and it looks like the whole damn thing is leaving orbit.”

“Leaving orbit? Have we heard from Mars Base?” Tring came to stand behind the sergeant to study the holographic representation of the satellites orbiting Mars.

“Sir, Mars Base says they don’t know what’s going on.”

“They never do. Get me a com link to the hotel.”

A pleasant, slightly mechanical voice answered Tring’s call. “Thank you for calling Hotel Faith and Begorrah. Your call is important to us. Stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.” The automated answering service then played soothing strains of the popular song Luna Lullaby. A minute later, the message repeated.

Tring blustered, watching the hologram, “Sergeant, get a Mars Guardian Patrol to do a flyby.”

At last, a human voice responded to Tring’s call, “Concierge Desk. Mandi speaking. How may I help you?”

“The captain. I need to speak to your captain!” Tring growled.

“Sir, this is a hotel.”

“I know that. Your orbit is unstable. I need to speak to the captain, the person in charge.”

“Sir, this is a hotel.” Mandi paused, then added, “One moment, please.”

Tring adjusted his earpiece. Still speaking to the sergeant, he asked, “Who’ve we got from the Guardian squadron out there?”

The sergeant adjusted his display, “That would be,” he paused, “that would be Lieutenant Jack Fox.”

“Anybody else?”

“No, sir. He’s the only one in the quadrant. He’s confirming orders to fly by. Reports negative contact so far. And, sir, the hotel is increasing speed.” He pointed to the hologram showing the speck moving away from Mars.

Tring poked his earpiece to be sure he hadn’t lost contact with the hotel. He asked the sergeant, “Fox? Cowboy, right?”

“The reports use the word ‘unconventional,’ but yes, scuttlebutt is he does things differently, independently. And he’s nearing his point of no return, running low on fuel. Shall I call him back, Lieutenant?”

“No, send a refuel drone.”

“Mars reports no drones available,” the sergeant noted.

At last, Mandi came back on the line, “Sir, the concierge advises that you read the incoming message titled 'Hotel Faith and Begorrah Declaration of Independence.” The connection dropped.

The sergeant brought up the incoming message, “Aw, shit,” he sputtered, enlarging the document so Tring could see it.

Hotel Faith and Begorrah

Mars High Orbit, Milky Way Galaxy

July 4, 2175

The Unanimous Declaration of Independence of Earth-Born Humans Residing on Hotel Faith and Begorrah

When in the Course of Human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands…

Tring reached over the sergeant’s shoulder and scrolled down.

All political connections between ourselves and the Governments of Earth are and ought to be totally dissolved. As Free and Independent People, we have full Power to seek a planet and build a government for the protection of the planet and to provide for the people.

For the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on divine Providence, Human Ingenuity, and Science, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, our Future, and our sacred Honour.

DNA Endorsed by all 654 persons on behalf of themselves and their dependents on this our Independence Day.

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

“This is US Mars Space Force Patrol Ship 1775 transmitting S.O.S. on all channels. Mayday. Mayday. All vessels in the Galileo Section of Mars Space, please respond.” There followed the time-honoured universal signal for a ship in distress: three short tones, three long tones, and three more short tones. “I am Lieutenant Jack Fox commanding Patrol Ship 1775. I am unable to return to US Space Force Mars Base. Requesting assistance from all vessels. Requesting permission to board Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

I released the transmit button on my mic and spoke to my ship, “Sorry, ‘75, we’re almost out of fuel, a long way from home, oxygen supply is down to ten minutes, and it looks like the cavalry isn’t coming. There’s no other ship anywhere near us. If that ‘hotel’ doesn’t open a landing bay, we’re gonna float out here forever.”

I transmitted my emergency message five more times without receiving a response before a bay opened in the outer wall of the hotel. Too late. I was out of fuel and unable to adjust the little fighter’s trajectory.

Outside the cockpit canopy, I was sure I saw a giant cat’s paw take a swipe at my ship. Must be oxygen deprivation. Suddenly, the little fighter jolted sideways, then rolled end over end. “What the --. 1775, stabilisers.”

A silky female voice purred through my headset, “Hmmmm. What happens if--”

This was followed by a blast of clicks and then an ear-splitting screech. One last skid sideways and then stillness. I was nowhere near getting my equilibrium back when another voice spoke through my earpiece. A touch of disdain tinged these words. “Relax, human. She’s got you.”

I was aware of the hotel growing bigger in my viewer. That’s when my oxygen gave out and I sank into darkness.

----------

“Just take it slow,” a voice advised. A firm hand grasped my shoulder. “You’re safe.”

I shook my head, mumbling, “Lieutenant Jack Fox, Mars Guardians.”

“Yes, we got that. What are you doing here in the cargo bay?”

I looked up into concerned brown eyes.

I repeated my name, rank and affiliation. “That’s all I’m required to give on capture.”

“All right,” said the steady voice, and the hand released my shoulder. “Just sit tight for a few minutes. The ship reports your vital signs are stabilising, and you should be back to normal pretty quickly. I’m Vincent. Our concierge will be with you in a couple of minutes.

Once the walls stopped spinning and my memory returned, I unfolded my 6’4” frame and, with Vincent’s help, climbed out of my ship. A holoman in a tuxedo stepped into the bay. He addressed Vincent, “You are needed in the council chambers.” Vincent hurried away.

The newcomer turned his attention to me, “Mr Jack Fox, welcome to Hotel Faith and Begorrah. Leave all weapons in your vehicle.”

I rolled my neck to release the tension that had built up in my muscles and extended a hand to Tux Man. “If you just lend me some fuel, I’ll get out of your hair,” I paused, noting the bald head before me, “and return to base.”

Fancy Pants ignored my request and my hand. “I am Rodney Maple, head of the Concierge Department,” he announced with the suggestion of a bow. “My apologies for keeping you waiting. Your accommodations are prepared. I assume you have no luggage?”

I lowered my hand. “No luggage,” I agreed.

Maple continued to speak as he led the way out of the bay, “No military uniforms are permitted. You will need to change your apparel post haste.” He barely paused as I tripped, then continued, “Our lower gravity will require care in your movements.”

I untangled my feet.

“Donations of clothing are being collected. A light meal will be provided in your room. Do you have any dietary restrictions or preferences?”

“No, no special food requirements, but I could use a drink.”

We left the dimly lit landing bay and walked up a utilitarian grey corridor to a lift. Maple said, “Lift, level three.” He turned to me, “Your vehicle will be safe. No one will touch it without notifying you.”

I nodded, “My ship is quite capable of defending herself. I need to report to your commanding officer.”

Maple merely nodded. We turned left out of the lift and proceeded down a corridor painted in an ongoing mural of rugged landscape and snow-capped mountains. I updated the mental map I was making of my surroundings.

Maple keyed a sequence of characters into a panel adjacent to the door. “This will serve as your living area. We ask that you remain here. Shower, enjoy some entertainment--we have an extensive library--dine and rest.”

I took a visual inventory of the small suite. An impressive entertainment centre lined one wall with a wet bar to one side and a small table and hardwood chairs at the other side. A stuffed chair and a couch faced the entertainment centre. An open doorway gave a view of a bunk with the standard pressure equalising mattress and a warming blanket with variable weight. The bathroom looked like something my interior designer mom would approve.

I nodded to Maple, “This is way better than the barracks, but I need fuel for my ride, and protocol requires that I report to the ranking officer on capture. Who’s your captain? Who runs this place?”

“Yes, yes, excellent questions, though I must insist that you refrain from referring to your arrival as ‘capture.’ No one here is at war. We are war refugees.” Rodney sniffed before continuing, “And, please, make use of the shower.” He backed into the hallway, and the door slid closed. Finding no mechanism to open the door, I tried pushing, pulling and kicking to no avail. A comfortable room, but a prison nonetheless. I headed for the bar.

“Well-funded and accustomed to living in style refugees,” I observed to myself, finding a selection of high-end bottles of vermouth and brandy, along with Smirnoff Vodka and bottles of beer. In minutes, I was removing my boots and sipping a cold one.

Remembering Maple’s sniff and noting my sweat-laden shirt, I decided on a shower. When I returned to the bedroom, my uniform was gone. It had been replaced with jeans, a blue work shirt and running shoes. With a tug of a tag, the clothes self-altered to fit my body, nearly. My broad shoulders required the shirt to remain open halfway down my chest.

On the table was a covered plate and tableware. The food looked and smelled several ranks above space MREs. Still, I paused. The hair on the back of my neck rose, and I scanned the room. I was being watched. I felt it.

“Well, it’s about time you noticed,” a disembodied voice laughed. A holowoman appeared in front of me. Dressed in a low-cut peasant blouse and a long skirt, she smiled--like a cat sizing up a mouse. “I was beginning to feel quite ignored. You should never ignore a lady.” Despite the light tone, there was a ring of danger in the final words.

“A lady would not enter a man’s quarters uninvited,” I returned fire, but gently.

Another voice cut in, “Calista, scat!” and hololady dissolved.

A smoky chuckle emanated from a new, one-eyed holowoman dressed in tight-fitting black leather. “I am Octavia. You are a blue-eyed rebel descended from Vikings, and your former commanding officers just breathed a sigh of relief as they discovered your absence.”

“You’re the ship’s computer? Who is Calista?”

“Calista is our feline component. We are She. You may address us as She. The previous occupant of this suite once referred to us as She-zilla and told us we suffered from mood swings. He’s no longer with us.”

“Is that a warning?”

“All information can be useful in making friends.”

“Is this food safe to eat?”

“Safe for human consumption, yes.” Octavia responded. Again the tone of disdain.

The holowoman dissolved, and I breathed out.

I tasted the food, decided that the risk of poisoning was worth the quality of the feast, and cleaned the plate.

“Mr Fox,” Concierge Maple said, entering the suite.

“Lieutenant Fox,” I corrected, rising from the chair.

“Military rank is not recognised here,” Maple informed me. “I have decided that Ardashir--” he stepped aside, and an adolescent boy entered the room. “--will act as your guide and see to your personal needs. On the communication pad here,” he held out a wrist strap with a small electronic keyboard, “tap the star and Ardashir will respond. I am confident Ardashir will be able to assist you in many ways.”

I could hear muffled greetings being exchanged in the hallway.

Maple smiled. “Ah, here is the governing council. Ardashir will stay for this meeting to better understand your needs.” Maple withdrew. Ardashir walked across the room to stand by the table, as three men in business attire entered. One man looked familiar. He had greying sandy hair, lots of it, and sparkling blue eyes.

The tallest wore a fedora, and the short, stocky fellow reminded me of a bullfrog. I could take any of these men with one arm tied behind my back.

“I’m Paul Jameson,” the sandy-haired man spoke in a rich Irish brogue. “This,” he motioned to the stocky grey-haired man, “is Malcolm Smirnoff. And this…” he nodded toward the black man sporting the fedora, “...is Shadique Bolivar. We are the human governing council of Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

“Nice to meet’cha. So you’re the guys in charge,” I smiled and offered my hand, which they ignored. “I need to contact my superior at Space Force Mars Base, and I need fuel for my ship.”

Jameson’s voice was matter-of-fact, “Unfortunately, you will not be able to return to Mars. We have no fuel for your vehicle, and we have already travelled beyond the range of any ships berthed in Mars orbit. Mr Fox, maybe you should sit down.”

I shifted into a fighting stance and stared at Jameson. “Explain,” I demanded.

Jameson took a seat on the couch. “We have no fuel that will work with the engine in your patrol ship. Even if we did, your ship could not get back far enough for a refuelling drone to reach you. There is no possibility of you returning to Mars.” He brought up a space map simulation on the entertainment studio. “The large dot to the right is Neptune. We will pass that planet in about five hours. See the little yellow dot moving in that direction? That’s us.”

I watched the tiny yellow speck streak toward the edge of the solar system. I sank into the couch.

With a practised hand, Smiroff filled a glass at the bar and handed it to me.

After I had taken a swallow, Smirnoff added in a thick Slavic accent in a tone that was almost kind, “Let us explain the situation.”

Shadique Bolivar, already “fedora man” in my mind, was next to speak, “We’re headed into deep space. We intend to find a habitable planet and set up a civilisation that will respond to the needs of the people through scientific support for the environment. We anticipate that our voyage will take many years and possibly several generations.”

I stared at my glass without speaking.

Jameson offered, “As my father would say, ‘Boy-oh, your life just took a turn.’” He took my glass and refilled it. “We do have a counsellor who will be arriving soon to assist you. In fact, you’ve already met him. His name is Vincent. It was he who found you in the cargo bay. He’s Ardashir’s father, Vincent. Anything you say to him will be held in confidence unless it threatens the safety of Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

“Lawyer or a priest?” I asked.

“Neither,” Ardashir spoke up, “He is a moral man of learning.”

Jameson laughed, rising, “He is that, Ardashir. Mr Fox, we will leave you to your thoughts for now. If you need to speak with us further, Ardashir will know how to contact us.”

The councilmen left with sympathetic smiles.

I muttered into my glass, “No fuel. No rescue. ” I swallowed hard and told myself. “I’ve been in tougher spots.”

“Really?” Ardashir asked, standing in front of me.

I forced a grin, “Well, maybe. That bar in Anchorage, but that’s not a story for a kid. You can go. I’m sure you’ve got things to do.”

“Not for a while. I’ll stay until my dad gets here.” He tapped his wristcom. “What kind of music do you like?”

I shrugged. Music was the last thing on my mind.

“This is my favourite. If you hate it, just tell me and I’ll turn it off.” He tapped the device a second time and scrolled through a holographic listing to Jurassic Park Theme. “It’s by John Williams. He wrote lots of classic tunes, but this is my favourite.”

Ardashir asked, “May I sit down?”

“Why do you even ask?”

“They said to give you control. It would make the day a little easier for you.”

“It would make my day easier if you could find some fuel for my fighter.”

“Yeah, there’s really none. We use cold fusion. Deuterium, tritium, and something they call ‘chilli powder.’ Not compatible with standard Guardian patrol ships.”

I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my face in my hands.

“I can show you the design plans for FAB,” Ardashir offered.

“FAB?”

“That’s what everybody under thirty calls Faith and Begorrah.” Ardashir brought up the holographic plans. “We’re here on the third deck of the fifth wheel. The big reactors and the brains are in the core over here.” He adjusted the display.

“The brains?” I asked.

Ardashir’s voice sank to a whisper. “Our central computer is an integrated system of bio-printed animal brains.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “Octavia is based on the nine brains of the octopus. Octavia is the central processor and shot caller.” He looked away. “We do not speak of Octavia.”

------

“Mr Fox, I am Vincent Van Der Beek. We met in the cargo bay. I’ll act as your guide and mentor. Do you have any general questions I might be able to answer?”

“How far are we from Mars now?”

“Too far.”

I nodded, but acceptance was a long way off. “I need to speak to your captain.”

“We don’t have a single authority in a comparable role. The nearest we are aware of your situation. You do not contact her. She will speak to you if she wishes to.

“How about a stroll? Your medical records have been reviewed. You’ve been cleared for a tour of this deck to give you a feel for your new home.”

“New home? I’m a prisoner.”

“Your movements and interactions are restricted for now, that’s true, but Hotel Faith and Begorrah is where you’ll be staying for the foreseeable future.”

“Unbelievable. You think I’m just going to accept this?”

“No, Lieutenant, I think every part of you is screaming to escape. I think you are a danger to every soul aboard.”

I probed my surroundings unconsciously looking for a way out. Recon, I decided. “What can you show me?”

“Let’s start walking.”

Vincent turned to Ardashir, “Mr Fox won’t be needing you for an hour or two. Your judo coach is waiting.”

Ardashir rolled his eyes, then nodded, “Mr Fox, just tap the star when you need me.”

My feet tangled as I attempted to stride into the corridor.

“The artificial gravity is eighty percent of Earth’s. Get used to it before you attempt anything like running off,” Vincent coached.

I swivelled my head around and tangled my feet again. Vincent placed a steadying hand on my arm, and I pulled away, landing in a heap.

“It takes some getting used to,” Vincent repeated.

“I see,” I growled, pushing myself up from the floor. “Lead on.”

Several doors, each with a number designation and each painted as part of one whole landscape, led off the hallway. I paused. “These scenes look familiar.”

“They’re scenes of Alaska. On our right is the landscape of Denali National Park. On the left are scenes from the Kenai Peninsula. I believe you are from that neck of the woods.”

I nodded. “Yes, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a prisoner. This is not, and never will be, my home.”

We reached an intersection, and Vincent paused. “To the left are physical activity facilities. We’ll come back to those. For now, we’ll go right into the retail areas and socialisation spaces. Then we can loop back to this Commons. That will give you a look at our people and let them get a look at you.”

“Fine.”

As walking became second nature, I gave my attention to the sights. People chatted in small groups in front of an art gallery, several live entertainment venues, workshops, hobby shops, and displays of goods ranging from sportswear to cooking utensils. People of all ages and ethnicities stood around small tables. They paused their discussions to check me out.

“No chairs?” I asked.

“Chairs discourage walking. People need to stay fit. It’s a long voyage. Everybody needs to stay sharp physically and mentally.”

“So you have a destination?”

“Several. The primary objective is Proxima b, the closest habitable planet. It’s been well researched since the mid-twentieth century as a possible destination for Earth/Mars colonisation. We’re studying alternatives, too. None of those are in the neighbourhood.”

As we approached another hallway, men in hard hats ambled toward us. As the workmen got closer, the younger of the passing men commented to his fellows, “There is no such thing as a closed system. You’re putting us all in danger by thinking that way.”

“Don’t be daft. We’re totally self-contained,” an older man responded. The group split to walk around Vincent and me.

The younger man paused next to me, shaking his head, “So you’re the X factor, are you?” Hardhat looked me up and down. “I knew there would be one. Now we have to recalculate everything.”

The younger man caught up to the group, saying, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. We’ve got to be ready to adapt.”

Vincent and I followed the corridor as it curved back toward the Commons. Here, several young children were on their knees adding flowers to the greens surrounding a fountain that bubbled in the glow of sun lamps. When we reached the point where we had originally entered the common area, Vincent asked, “How about a real run?”

“Nothing else on my calendar,” I shrugged.

Halfway down the athletic facilities corrido,r we entered a cavernous room and mounted a track on a raised platform.

“That’s Sandy Bridgerton,” Vincent waved to the slim young woman giving directions to the small group of runners. She gave him a quick wave, flipped her ponytail over her shoulder, and returned her attention to her job.

“You newbies will feel strong in the reduced gravity, but we’ll start out easy until you’ve got your FAB legs. I set the pace. Nobody passes me. You’ve got one minute to stretch.”

I looked over the nerds around me. Skinny, fat, light-skinned and dark-skinned, faces firm with youth and a few lined with age. I’d have no trouble leaving them behind. With calves and thighs stretched, I watched Sandy’s ponytail bob as I jogged in place to get warmed up. I could only see the first quarter mile of cushioned track. The holographic walls displayed quiet woodland and meadow scenes. The track appeared to be carpeted in soft pine needles. A cool breeze washed over me, and a soundtrack of birdsong and flowing water, with the faint scent of the pines, completed the sensory experience. A rush of anger rose in me as I realised anew that I would never return to my home planet, the real thing. I focused on the ponytail.

“Remember, take it easy,” Sandy called, starting out at a slow jog. I was already at the front of the pack, pushing Sandy to pick up the pace.

“Ahead, the terrain will change,” Sandy called over her shoulder. “The incline will build. Gravity will increase along with temperature. Oxygen levels will drop. Don’t push yourself. If you need to slow down, do it.”

I snorted. Slow down? They were barely crawling as it was. Sandy led us around a curve, and the scenery changed to low mountains. The sun in the mural hologram seemed to brighten. I could feel heat on my shoulders and back. The track firmed.

At the three-quarter mile, Sandy picked up the pace to an easy lope. Turns left and right, combined with up-and-down grades that changed every 50 feet.

“Keep your concentration on your footing,” Sandy called to the group. No sooner had she spoken than two people went down. The track gave way to ease their landing.

We rounded another curve, and the artificial sun hit me in the eyes. My legs tangled, and I landed in a heap with the nerds passing me by.

“It takes some getting used to,” Vincent offered me a hand up.

I brushed aside the offered assistance and resumed my position right behind Sandy. Vincent ran alongside until his wristcom flashed. “Gotta go,” he told me. “See you at the finish line.” Vincent jogged to the side of the track and stepped through the holographic mountains out of sight.

Sandy stopped the group to give instructions for the remainder of the run. “We’ve got another three-quarters of a mile of strenuous terrain ahead—steep inclines and sharp descents. Keep your footing as your top priority at all times. If you need to stop, step to the side and sit down. Someone will come to assist you. Otherwise, just keep pace with me. For you jocks, she eyed me, after you crest the mountain top, you can run the last quarter at your own speed. There’s a drink at the QuarterMaster on the Commons for anybody who can beat me. Have fun!” Sandy pivoted on her heel and easily picked her way up the rocky mountainside.

I had to strain to keep pace. At the top of the mountain, the view of the lush river valley under a bright blue sky temporarily distracted me. Halfway down the mountain, my ankle turned on a high spot. I cursed under my breath, got up, and pursued that ponytail. By the final quarter, I was running full out trying to catch Sandy, and I nearly made it. I finished half a stride behind her. We slowed to a jog to finish the course.

As the rest of the runners caught up to us, Sandy invited the group to the fruit juice bar near the fountain. “You get your first litre of water for free.”

Vincent appeared at my elbow. I asked, my eyes following Sandy, “So the QuarterMaster? That’s a good place to meet people?”

“Sandy runs it so there’s always a friendly face there.”

“Do you have to go with me?”

“No, I’ll be at Ardashir’s basketball game. Sandy has already volunteered to host you.”

I grinned.

“Don’t even think about doing anything stupid, Jack. Sandy was the Guardian’s top close combat instructor before we lured her away.”

For days, I studied FAB schematics, continuously reviewing my mental map of the space-faring hotel. I had several games of chess with Vincent and members of the council. Each day I ran with Sandy and made myself sociable in the QuarterMaster. Sandy put me to work at the bar and doing clean up on closing. That paid for my drinks. For a few hours every night, I thrashed around in my bed, dreaming of getting back into my fighter and going home.

--------

A week later

“This Grand Council meeting is convened to decide the immediate future of one human designated Jack Fox, native planet Earth,” Octavia’s one-eyed holowoman spoke with a forbidding frown. She was surrounded by holoforms of a cat that looked suspiciously like Calista of the peasant blouse, an elephant, a sad-eyed hound dog, a dolphin, and a raven. The humans stood beside me.

Octavia’s steely voice continued, “Jack Fox, against She’s will, the humans decided to share their limited stores of food, water, and air with you. The alternative was to let you die. That’s still an option. Other than entertainment She sees no value to your presence. Our monitors indicate that you still seek escape. Do you prefer to die alone in the cold of space? Can you offer any reason for She to permit you to stay? She requires your commitment to support the purpose and people of Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

I reflected, exploring beyond the galaxy in a posh hotel run by animal brains or getting in my fighter and floating away to die.

Sandy placed a soft hand on my arm. She whispered, “Life offers options.”

“Death doesn’t,” I conceded, meeting her eyes. A smile hovered around my lips. “I commit to Hotel Faith and Begorrah.”

The beginning…

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About Elaine Leet:

Elaine is an avid Jodi Taylor fan! Oh, to create such interesting stories. As a kid, Elaine Leet often thought she might have been adopted--from a distant planet. Her earliest memories are of fascination with life in all of its forms and love for Earth. She finds the actions of humans strange, but equally interesting. Themes common in Elaine’s work include love, loss, alienation, and challenging boundaries. Reality is too strange, so she writes fiction. Elaine’s published work includes Child of a Troubled Land and Chance’s Diary, along with “Ambushed” a short story about grief published by Grief Digest at centering.org in 2020, and “Beware the Gray Squirrel” a poem published in Pennsylvania Bard’s Northeast Poetry Review 2020. She won the Science Fiction Writing award from Wayne County Library, Honesdale, PA in 2019. Leet holds a Master of Education degree from North Carolina Central University and professional certificates from several colleges.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Time Sands Still by Melissa Valentine

“You forgot sunscreen. You have died of sunburn” the sterile Earth Path computer voice calmly told Ren.

“Gah! This game is impossible to win” they groaned.

“Are you still trying to survive life on Earth in that vid game?” Seth asked.

Ren had been trying to work their way through the reading list of historic texts from 2025 to prepare for camp, but had needed a break. They thought the game Earth Path would be an easy distraction, but how could anyone who lives underground on Mars remember to pack sunscreen, or bring the portable satellite dish - shaped rain protection called an umbrella when they went out?!

“Leave them alone Seth” Inaya signed. “You have no circuits to stand on since you never beat the game anyway.”

“Wow, making bionic foot jokes now are you Inaya?” Seth laughed. “You sure do put your best foot forward.”

“That was one of your worst foot jokes so far.” Zoe said, as she walked in the room.

Ren watched the rest of the group get comfortable in their favorite spots around the room. Seth was tall and thin with unruly brown hair. He was in possession of one bionic foot, the product of an accident that he never talked about, and an unlimited supply of terrible puns. Well, to be fair he thought they were fantastic and everyone else just thought they were fantastically terrible. Inaya sat in a chair next to the window and fiddled with her hijab. Her hands never stopped moving, even when she wasn’t signing. Ren had a sudden thought, which happened more times than they could keep track of, but how was Mars sign language different from Earth’s? Were there different signs in the various old languages? The books about Earth explained that the language they all spoke now was mainly English, but it said nothing about sign language. Ren tried to make a mental note to look it up. Meanwhile, Zoe had settled into a bean bag chair on the floor. Her blonde curls were swept back from her face with a rainbow clip and she was reading a book like always. This one was about intertidal habitats of North America.

“I’m here! I’m not late, am I?” Rui panted as he ran into the room.

“No, the counselor isn’t here yet.” Zoe answered without even looking up from her book.

Rui was the last of the group and he sat down in a chair to catch his breath. His black hair was cut close to his head and his brown skin glistened a bit. He was always running everywhere, but really that was because he got caught up watching history holos and was always leaving too late to get to his destination on time.

They were waiting for the counselor from Camp Suna. This group of teenagers was one of a few groups that were going to spend two weeks on Earth exploring the ruins of Washington DC and visiting different Terran habitats.

Ren and their friends are residents of Mars Colony Ammos. The colony is entirely underground, but well, all Mars Colonies are. The first Mars Colony, Alpha, was finished in 2102. By the time humans had used up Earth’s resources and Climate Change had ravaged the world, there were enough colonies on Mars to house the surviving populations. In 2205 the last humans moved to Mars. That was 120 years ago. This will be the first time that anyone other than scientists will get to go back to Earth. This summer camp is the first venture in Terran tourism. The group honestly didn’t care about being first, they were just psyched to go. Ok, well maybe Rui was more excited about the historical significance, seeing as he dreams of being an Historian. But, you have to know that Historians are a crazy bunch. Can’t take them anywhere.

Finally the counselor walked in and took a seat.

“Hi everyone, I’m David and I will be your camp counselor.”

“Let’s go through the list. When I call your name please tell us one thing you are looking forward to the most about camp and one thing you are worried about or one question you have.”

“Inaya?” He said.

Everyone started talking at once trying to explain who Inaya was and that she couldn’t hear him. To his credit he immediately started signing and apologized for not asking his question in both languages.

“It’s ok. Thank you.” Inaya started.

“I am most excited to take pictures of Earth. I was wondering how the temperatures will be different from here? Well, I guess from inside our colony, not Mars conditions, since we never go outside.”

“Good question.” David signed. His signing wasn’t bad, but it could use some work.

“Temperatures will be warmer than here, however any storms can bring drastically different conditions. We’ve chosen this time of year to go mostly based on the weather. Terrans used to call it the season of Spring. Temperatures would warm up gradually, but it wouldn’t be too hot. We’re hoping not to see any storms and it’s too late in the year for snow. Not that Earth really gets snow any more.”

“Whoa, snow would be so cool! I watched a holo about that” Ren said excitedly.

“Well, snow is rarely seen. Sorry to disappoint.” David replied. “And you are?” he asked.

“Harena, but everyone calls me Ren.” they answered.

The rest of the group answered David’s ice breaker questions and then went over the packing list in detail.

“Make sure you’re ready to go at 07:30 tomorrow. I will see you on the shuttle transport then. You’ll have a chance to get settled on board and meet the other campers. Try to get some sleep tonight and I’ll see you in the morning.” David instructed.

The shuttle launch the following day was delayed by a particularly strong Martian sand storm. It did give Ren enough time to run back to their room to grab the sunglasses that they had forgotten. Another item none of the campers had ever used. The trip to Earth was supposed to take 20 hours. After boarding, Ren’s group dropped their stuff off in their sleeping quarters and then headed to the common room for the meeting and group mixer.

As Rui closed the door, Zoe stopped in place almost causing a pile up worthy of a try-not-to-laugh holo.

“No, it can’t be.” Zoe said, staring at the group coming out of another sleeping unit.

“Well if it isn’t the losers from Ammos.” sneered a tall girl, smirking at her group mates.

“Wow, they really must have been desperate for campers to let you all sign up.” a boy added.

“Ada, Xander, can’t say it’s good to see you.” Seth replied.

“Come on, let's just go to the meeting.” Inaya signed.

Zoe turned and headed away while their group muttered to each other. Ada and Xander were from Colony Areia. The Ammos group had gone head to head with them at this year’s trivia competition. Unfortunately their trash talk was backed up by a strong team and Areia had come out on top. Their trash talk had been particularly hateful, but was never said in front of an adult or official, so the Ammos team hadn’t said anything.

“Let’s just ignore them and hopefully we don’t have to spend any time with them.” Zoe said.

The meeting room was at the center of the ship with seats facing a large screen. David was sitting with other adults facing the groups as they entered. Once everyone had filled in the seats a tall black woman addressed the group.

“Welcome. You are the inaugural group of civilians traveling to Earth, since humans abandoned the planet 120 years ago.” she said.

The campers all started clapping and cheering.

“I am Dr. Pamela Baker, the director of the Terran Tourism Department. You have already met your counselors, David, Molly, Sean, Rebecca, and Sarah. They are here to keep you safe and to make sure you have a great time.”

“Now, let’s go over the itinerary.” Dr. Banks continued. “We will be landing in the heart of Washington DC, the former capital of the United States. The area of our landing used to be called The National Mall. On one end was the Capital Building and it was surrounded by museums and monuments. On our first day we will explore the Capital ruins and you will be able to step inside the Natural History Museum because it is still standing. We will then visit the ruins of the White House, the former home and office of the President. On our subsequent days we will travel to other locations that have been scoped out by professionals. Our destinations will depend on the weather, but we will spend time on the beach, visit a coniferous forest, walk down Broadway in New York City, and visit Yellowstone National Park.”

“Wait, isn’t that the one that has a huge underground volcano that is going to explode any minute? Ren whispers to Zoe.

“It exploded in 2067 and they think it will be millions of years before it happens again.” Zoe whispered back.

Meanwhile Dr. Baker had moved on to talk safety.

“And finally, you will all be issued a com device. If you get separated from your group you can speak through the com to your group members and your counselor. There is a button to connect you to the ship as well, but that is only to be used in emergencies. Does anyone have any questions?”

No one moved.

“Ok then, grab some food and introduce yourselves to each other. You will then have a time to rest in your bunk rooms and we will see you back here at 09:30 local time tomorrow.”

“Wow, I’m really glad I grabbed these sunglasses.” Ren said after everyone had exited the ship. They had endured a slightly bumpy landing, but no one minded because they were too excited to have arrived on Earth. The groups gathered together as the ship took off to wait above them until their tours were finished. To their right were the crumpled remains of the Capital Building. White stones jutted at odd angles and they could see what used to be a column lying in pieces across the ground. To their left was a forest with small trees with more building ruins running along each side.

“Wow, that piece over there must be part of the dome.” Rui exclaimed.

“You are correct,” said David. “That is actually the second dome the building had. The first was much lower and wooden. It was removed in 1856 and this one was made of cast iron and finished in 1866.”

“Are those the steps where presidents were inaugurated?” Rui asked.

“That is the general area, though they would build a temporary stage for the event.” David answered.

“Pretty great view for the President then.” Seth observed.

“Actually, this used to be a flat grassy park, with trees only lining the sides. You would have been able to see all the way to the Washington Monument, though there isn’t anything left of it now.” David explained.

The group spent the next hour exploring the ruins as close as David would let them go.

“Let’s take a group picture.” Inaya suggested.

“They can put it in the brochure and title it ‘Visiting Washington is a Capital idea’.” Seth said.

The whole group groaned.

Finally it was time to head to the Natural History Museum.

“Once we get inside, please stick together with the group. The entrance is called the rotunda and the exhibits branch out from there in separate rooms. We can visit the exhibits that are in secured areas of the building, but please do not wander off alone. ” David reminded them.

Just as they stepped inside Dr. Baker called all of the counselors over to her. She had a worried look on her face. After a few minutes of just standing around while the adults had a whispered conversation, she told the groups they could explore the first and second floor of the museum in their groups without the adults, as long as they took the map device from the counselors. Seth jumped at the chance to get his hands on a new piece of tech and quickly took one from David.

“I wonder what that is about.” Inaya signed.

“I don’t know what they’re saying, but at least we don’t have to wait around anymore.” Seth responded.

“Better be careful, losers. If you stand here too long they’ll realize you can’t follow a map and make you wait here for the grownups.” Ada sneered as her group walked by.

“Oh you’re going to need better insults. Next time I’m..” Seth ground out, as he started getting heated.

“Just ignore them. It’s not worth it.” Zoe said, pulling him back to their group

“Where to first?” Ren asked.

“Let’s look at the Ancient Egypt room!” Rui exclaimed.

“I really want to see the Oceans exhibit.” Zoe countered.

“There’s the gem room.” Inaya suggested.

“I don’t care what we see first, just so long as it’s far away from the Areia group.” Seth muttered.

“Well they went to the right, so let’s go left to the insect collection.” Ren suggested.

The group agreed that it was as good a place to start as any.

After fifteen minutes of exploring the insect exhibit, the Ammos group spilled back into the main rotunda area.

“Can you imagine those things just flying at your head?” Ren exclaimed.

“The iridescent wings were so beautiful. I hope I was able to capture them in the pictures.” Inaya signed.

Seth was pulling up the map when they noticed the Areia group slinking out of an unmarked hallway to their right.

“Hmm, that’s not the room they went in before.” Zoe noted.

“That door doesn’t appear on our map.” Seth told the group.

The five of them walked over to inspect the door and then they all crowded around Seth to try to get a look at the map.

“Can’t find your way already? See we knew your group couldn’t handle being alone.” Xander sneered as they walked past.

“Hey, my map reading skills are off the charts.” Seth responded.

Ada just rolled her eyes as her group walked past.

“Hey, what is down that hallway?” Ren asked Ada.

“Just a stupid glass jar. But if you want to waste your time, by all means, wander down that hallway. At least in there you can’t get lost” Ada laughed over her shoulder as her group continued on.

“Do you think she is telling the truth?” Inaya signed. “I don’t trust them.”

“Yeah, I feel like they are up to no good.” Ren agreed. “Should we go check it out?”

“Can’t hurt.” Rui said.

Little did they know how important it would be that they went through that door.

Ren opened the unmarked door and the group filed into a narrow hallway. The hall was lined with doors that were all closed. At the far end sat a small object on a pedestal.

“Guys, it’s an hourglass!” Rui exclaimed as he rushed towards it.

“It looks really old. Look at all the intricate scroll work.” Ren observed as Inaya took pictures of it.

The glass container was topped with a metal disk decorated with small scrolls. There were three twisted columns that ran the length of the glass and it was sitting on a metal base that flared out at the bottom.

“The sign says it is believed to be the oldest surviving hourglass, estimated to have been made some time between 1450-1500. It was on loan from the British Museum. I wonder how it ended up in this hidden hallway?” Rui said.

“Ok, we came down the hallway, can we go see the Oceans exhibit now?” Zoe said, not wanting to lose any more time.

The group headed back out the door as Rui kept talking about the hourglass.

“Did you know that it was probably the Egyptians that had the first time keeping device? It was called a water clock and it used water instead of sand. I wonder if the Egyptian exhibit has one.” Rui chattered excitedly.

Once they stepped into the rotunda again and closed the door, the group gathered around Seth and the map.

“Hmm, that door still doesn’t show up here. I thought it might change after we went in, but I guess it’s not autoupdating.” Seth said.

“Can’t find your way already? See we knew your group couldn’t handle being alone.” Xander sneered as the Areia group walked past.

The Ammos group froze and looked around. The Areia group was walking away again and the adults were nowhere to be seen.

“Didn’t we already have this conversation?” Ren whispered to Zoe.

“Tell a map joke, but a different one than last time.” Zoe said to Seth.

“Now you want me to tell a joke?!” Seth exclaimed, flabbergasted. No one ever appreciated his humor.

“Yes!” hissed Zoe.

“My map skills took up yoga. They know how to be flexible.” Seth responded.

Ada just rolled her eyes as her group walked past.

“Just a stupid glass jar. But if you want to waste your time, by all means, wander down that hallway. At least in there you can’t get lost” Ada laughed.

The Ammos group stood shocked, stuck in place as they watched the Areia group walk away.

“I didn’t ask her the question again, but she still answered it.” Ren finally said.

“And it didn’t matter what joke Seth told, it still got the same reaction.” Inaya added.

“Are they playing a joke on us?” Rui asked.

“I think the only way to test it is to go back in and see what happens when we come out again.” Zoe said.

The group went back through the door and then argued about how long they had to wait before exiting. Finally Zoe threw open the door and almost walked into the back of Xaden as the Areia group was leaving.

As Inaya closed the door, Xaden turned around and looked at them.

Xanden repeated the same insult.

“My map gives me a lot of latitude on what direction I go.” Seth said.

Ada rolled her eyes again and then said the same things about the glass jar.

The Ammos group waited until they were out of hearing range and they looked at each other, still a little shocked.

“So, that time we actually ran into them a few seconds earlier than last time.” Zoe observed.

“We keep reliving the same conversation, and it doesn’t matter what we say or do. We weren’t even looking at the map that time!” Ren added.

“Guys, do you think it’s time to tell David and Dr. Baker?” Inaya asked.

“But wait, where did they go?” Rui asked.

The adults had been speaking in the rotunda near the front door, but now they were nowhere to be seen.

“Um, David, can we talk to you for a minute?” Seth said into his com unit.

There was no response.

“Yo David!” Ren said. The whole group stared at them with incredulous looks on their faces.

“What? I didn’t think they’d answer anyway.” Ren said, shrugging.

“Ok, so the adults have disappeared, and we can’t use our coms. What next?” Inaya signed.

“Oh, I’ll try calling the ship. Maybe they know what happened or that David is out of range or something.” Seth suggested.

That call resulted in only silence as well and the group tried not to panic.

“Did anyone notice that the doors inside that hallway were labeled with the exhibit names? There was an Egypt one, an Oceans one, and a Gem one even though that exhibit is upstairs.” Rui said.

“We are in a bit of a situation here and you want to go to more exhibits?!” Zoe said incredulously.

“I’m just wondering if we need to search for the chaperones we might be able to take a short cut through those doors. Even split up and each go look for them in a different exhibit.” Rui explained.

“We’re supposed to stick together, but I like the idea of the short cut.” Ren answered.

The group agreed to try the Egypt exhibit door first and to stick together. When Zoe opened the door, it was pitch black beyond the threshold.

“Maybe we need to close the door before lights come on?” Seth suggested.

Ren closed the door and the whole building seemed to tilt for a second. Then they were all blinded by bright sunlight.

“Um guys, I don’t think we’re in the museum any more.” Rui said stunned.

The whole group just nodded as they took in the view of a pyramid in the middle of the desert being constructed by actual humans.

No one said anything for a few minutes, as if their brains were catching up with what they were seeing.

“Map, can you show us our current location? Seth asked. “This shows us in Egypt. Like the actual country.” Seth looked up, shocked.

“Oh my gosh, I think this is the Great Pyramid of Giza. Or well it will be when it’s done!” Rui exclaimed.

“I sphinx you’re onto something!” Seth joked, but Rui was too excited to even roll his eyes.

As Rui continued to list facts about the construction, Zoe suddenly whipped around, and then let out a relieved sigh.

“What was that about?” Ren asked.

“I think that door brought us here. I was afraid it was gone and we’d be stuck here, but look, the door is still there.” Zoe answered. “I think it’s some kind of portal.”

“I think we must have traveled through time too, because there are people here, and the pyramid isn’t finished. I thought we’d be seeing a ruin. This is not a ruin.” Inaya signed rapidly.

“Look! I think they are using drills and tools to shape the rock!” Rui exclaimed. He started to walk towards the workers but Seth grabbed him.

“We have to stay together, and I really don’t think you should talk to anyone. We’ll probably freak them out and I really don’t want to have to run for our lives.” Seth said.

“I think we should go back through the door now.” Inaya suggested.

They took one last look at the pyramid before closing the door. That was when Ren almost backed into Xander in the museum hallway.

“This is boring, let’s get out of here.” Ada complained to her group.

The Areia group didn’t notice Ren or the rest of the Ammos group though. Seth followed Xanden out to the rotunda and that was when Xaden started the conversation again.

“I think your map is the problem. It’s in de-Nile that you have the brains to use it.” Seth responded.

“See, I used an Egypt joke since we just got back from there.” Seth whispered to Zoe.

“Yeah we get it Seth, I don’t think that they care.” she responded.

They waited again and then debriefed.

“So we continue to arrive back earlier and earlier every time we use that door and we still have the same conversation.” Ren summarized.

“It didn’t seem like they could see us when we were in the hallway though.” Inaya observed.

“Do you think they did something to change time?” Ren asked.

“I think we need to see everything they did in that hallway to know for sure.” said Zoe.

“That means we need to go through more doors.” Seth said.

They turned and headed back into the hallway and Zoe started to open the Oceans door.

“Are you sure we won’t end up actually in the ocean?” Rui asked nervously. “I can’t swim.” he added.

“The exhibit isn’t only depicting underwater habitats. I read all about it before we left home. You got to see ancient Egypt. I want to see the ocean.” Zoe replied.

This time as soon as they closed the door Ren noticed a gentle breeze and a wooshing noise.

“The water is moving!” Ren exclaimed.

“This must be a beach! Oh look at the birds running away from the water. I think they are trying to eat crabs that are in the sand.” Zoe was just as excited as Rui had been.

“There had to be sand.” Rui grumbled. “We have enough of that at home.”

“How do beaches greet each other? With a Sand-shake” Seth said. This time Zoe actually laughed.

“Seth, where are we on the map?” Inaya asked.

“It says North Carolina. It looks like one of those barrier islands called the Outer Banks.” Seth replied.

“We definitely went back in time because this beach doesn’t exist any more. Erosion tore it all away before humans even abandoned Earth entirely.” Zoe explained.

“Guys I think we need to stay here a little longer if we’re going to see the Areia group the whole time they are in the hallway.” Ren suggested.

“Do you think it is safe to walk away from the door? There are no people around.” Inaya asked

“I’ll stay by the door. I really hate sand.” Rui offered.

Zoe and Ren immediately took off their shoes and started walking toward the water. Inaya tried to take pictures of the birds without scaring them away, and Seth started building a sand castle. After about 30 minutes the group decided it was enough time and Zoe reluctantly led the group back through the door. At first, the hallway was deserted, but then the door from the rotunda opened and Ada led her group into the hallway.

“This isn’t even on this worthless map.” complained a short boy with a blonde buzz cut.

“The doors are locked.” Ada said as she tried to open the one the Ammos group had taken to Egypt.

That was interesting, Ren thought. It seemed that these doors hadn’t become portals yet.

“There is something down here.” Xaden said. He picked up the hourglass and Ren could see the scrollwork on the other end as he flipped it around.

“Don’t touch anything, moron.” the short boy admonished as he grabbed the hourglass and dropped it back in the base, not very gently.

“This is boring, let’s get out of here.” Ada complained to her group just like last time.

Seth led his group out of the door to have the same conversation again.

“I think this map is charting unknown waters” was his beach themed joke this time.

As soon as the other group walked away Ren turned to their friends.

“I think they did something to the hourglass. Did you notice that they couldn’t open the doors before then?” Ren said.

“I can’t believe they touched it!” Rui groaned.

“Let’s go look.” Zoe suggested.

When they reached the hourglass Rui finished reading the informational sign while Ren studied the hourglass.

“It says ‘The present is a point in time between the past and the future’.” Rui mentioned.

“Not sure that is any help, but look, it’s a little crooked and off center. I didn’t notice the first time because we were so focused on the decorations.” Ren said.

“Yes, the sand isn’t moving from the top to the bottom.” Inaya observed.

“I think we need to fix it. Then maybe time will be fixed.” Ren suggested.

“But fix it how? What if we make it worse?” Seth said.

“Xaden picked it up and flipped it over. That made the sand start running through it. I think we should flip it back, so that sand goes to where it started.” Ren suggested.

“You really noticed a lot of details.” Inaya complimented.

“Might as well try that.” Zoe agreed.

Ren carefully picked up the hourglass and turned it back the way that it had been. They held it in their hands until the last sand grain had fallen into the bottom chamber. Then, Ren carefully pleased it back on the base so it was standing straight up and down.

“All we can do now is go back out the door.” Seth said.

The group walked to the end of the hall, took a collective breath and opened the door.

The first thing they noticed was the low hum of the adults in conversation by the door.

“They’re back!” Rui exclaimed.

“I’m actually glad to see adults for the first time like, ever.” Zoe said.

“Seth, bring the map back over here.” David called out. “Did it work ok?” he asked.

“Maps are like friends, they always point you in the right direction.” Seth managed to get in one more map joke.

“Okay.” David said slowly. He obviously wasn’t used to Seth’s puns.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, but we have to return to the ship.” David said. “There is a dangerous storm approaching and if we don’t leave now we may not be able to fly again for a long time.” David said. “I’m very sorry you weren’t able to visit other places, but safety comes first I’m afraid.”

The group looked at each other and tried not to smile.

“I guess we’ll just have to come back another time.” Ren said.

“Thanks for being so understanding. Please head outside and Dr. Baker will take you to the ship. I’m going to help find the other groups. Make sure you don’t get distracted and go to another exhibit.” David told them.

“We won’t. Time doesn’t sand still for anyone after all.” Seth said as David rushed away.

This time the group couldn’t hold it in and burst out laughing.

“I guess we can’t tell anyone what happened, can we?” Rui asked.

“Who would believe us anyway.” Zoe said.

“Hopefully we can share my pictures at least.” Inaya said.

Ren took one last look at the museum as they walked out the front door. It didn’t go as planned, but at least no one died because they forgot sunscreen.

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About Melissa Valentine:

Melissa is a high school science teacher who loves to share science puns with her students. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, their 12 year old, their sweet but not too bright dog, and a cat that is going to live forever. Melissa loves to read and has laughed out loud in public way too many times while reading the Chronicles of St. Mary's series. She enjoyed inserting as many "sand" references as possible in this short story. Hope you enjoy it!

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Banking on Hope by Sasha Grojean

Wake up, lay in bed, and stare at the ceiling in existential dread for a good half hour before summoning up the energy to face the morning. This had been my life for the past few months. Two years ago, my daily routine had started with energy and joie de vivre, bounding out of bed and straight into the kitchen for that first cup of delicious, sweet nectar of the gods - I think you might call it tea. I had been the textbook definition of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, all excitement and motivation.

It had been my dream job, working for a university. Culture had always been my passion - understanding how people worked, what brought them together, what tore them apart. I truly believe culture is the basis for how we operate within the world - religion, language, government, fashion and more all build upon it and interact with it, but they all tie into this wonderful holistic, often intangible concept of culture - of who we are, the sum of our parts, bigger than just one being. Stronger together, and all that.

Well, I should say I believed that. Two years of political decisions, of not being allowed to say this in that way to that person, of not being allowed to follow this line of thought. Of hushing up actual findings just because, well, they were only theories anyway, and we don’t want to upset the current status quo for something so flimsy. Now, I am fully convinced that posturing, politics, and power form the basis for our existence.

I had already known that studying contemporary communities in anthropology would be stressful, to say the least - you try studying people doing things right now without becoming enslaved to the court of public opinion, or worse - funding. Everybody, particularly my university heads and those government officials they definitely didn’t report to, could ‘see what was going on and come to their own conclusions about it’ - generally, those in support of their current endeavors or campaigns. Hearing some of them flaunt buzzwords like “bias” and “diversity” and “equity” publicly, while shutting down studies to understand communities and actively support them behind closed doors, was not something I could have tolerated for long. The irony would have killed me.

And so, I had stayed away from cultural anthropology, focusing more on archaeology. I’d reasoned that there couldn’t be too much uproar over any findings of the cultural developments of civilizations past, that there would be minimal interference. I’d been catastrophically wrong.

I was still staring up at the ceiling, not actually seeing it. My mind spun in desperate circles, weaving through what had been and what was likely to come today, and screaming at me to just fall back asleep. There were no corrupt approval processes or censoring meetings in sleep. Ah, actually, lately there had been, but those were just nightmares. Guess it didn’t really matter, at this point, whether I was awake or asleep. It was all just one big bundle of suck either way.

In that case, might as well get up. At least reality offered tea, no longer an indulgent treat to be savored, but a necessary lifeline.

Having barely logicked my way out of a total mental shutdown, I ungraciously rolled out of bed and made my way into the kitchen. All those little steps that you needed to get ready and be presentable for the world, which normally didn’t phase me, were now a long list of to-dos. My brain helpfully supplied the world’s most detailed instructional guide to try to support me, but the mental list made even the most complicated Ikea manual seem like a picture book for toddlers in comparison.

Step one, pull on left sock. Step two, right sock. Step three, rifle through drawers to search for clean underwear. Step four, give up on the drawers and hunt through the pile of clean but unfolded clothes on the chair in the corner for underwear. And so on, and so forth. I won’t bore you with all the steps - trust me, nobody wants to hear them. Least of all me. Let’s skip forward a bit and just assume I’ve managed to put articles of clothing on at least roughly the right body parts, attempted some semblance of hygiene and respectability, and made it out the door.

Work that day was, well, work. On today’s agenda - a Very Important Meeting in which I was to present a new method of extrapolating dimensions of hierarchy in ancient civilizations based on intricacy of tools, particularly comparing cooking tools to weapons and those used for infrastructure. In plain English - I’d developed a new way to measure how societies value ‘women’s work’ compared to ‘men’s work’ based on how cool their gear was, relative to another. The publishing meeting went, predictably, terribly awry. Apparently, according to the sounding board, my new method would be irrelevant because “women’s tools are strictly utilitarian and men’s tools are status symbols, so they can’t be compared” (their words, definitely not mine). You’d think they’d never even seen ancient cookware before, from like any civilization, ever.

“I told you there was no point to this. What a massive waste of time,” I whined to Julia in the small office we shared afterwards. Yes, whined - I felt I had earned that, at least, after all my hard work. She had been my mentor since joining the university staff, and seemed much more resilient to such disappointments and setbacks. I blame it on her long tenure, and curious ability to push the most controversial theories in the entire department. The lady sure had luck on her side.

“Honestly, I thought it would go much better. I really don’t know why they shot you down - they’re usually much more open-minded.”

She was a tiny older woman, but exuded such confidence and self-assuredness that I usually forgot how small she really was, until I tried to stare into her eyes. As usual, my eyes first skimmed the top of her head before dropping down to make eye contact.

“Yeah, maybe for you,” I retorted, narrowing my eyes, as I sat down moodily in my chair.

She laughed, shrugged her shoulders and handed me a bowl of sweets across the desk.

“Well, it was worth a try! Personally, I think it’s fascinating, and would really shake up some of our assumptions on women in the workforce, all the way back then. Just imagine the strength that would give to Professor Key’s bid to join the Council. All those mutterings about women being unfit to lead…”

I answered her with a long, blank stare before saying, “It ever occur to you that might be exactly the reason why Marcus refused to publish it?”

“Ah.” She gazed into the air, thoughtful, as she moved to her own desk.

It seemed the conversation had come to a close, so I pulled an external hard-drive from my bag and plugged it into my desktop. Maybe it was paranoia, or pride, who knows? But I would do anything to avoid my research and my effort going to waste, even stealing my own files. Maybe a tiny part of me still had some hope for the future? That one day the university leadership might see the light, renounce all political association, and do the right thing? No, in all honesty, it was probably just my bruised ego.

“Are you happy here?”

The question surprised me, and pulled me out of my (just slightly) criminal endeavor suddenly. I glanced up sharply.

“Happy as a clam. I always wanted to be part of a circus, as a kid. Just something magical about leaping through hoops of fire, running around in circles, just because someone’s standing there with a whip.”

Oops, not the right moment for sarcasm. She sighed, looked at me without a hint of the playfulness and optimism I had come to expect from her, and asked again.

“Katherine, are you happy here?”

This time, I gave myself a moment to think before responding. I immediately knew, in my bones, that I was deeply unhappy, but I owed it to Julia to think my response through. We’re all taught to portray a specific persona at work, not to let emotions get in the way - but maybe it was time to say out loud what I could barely face myself. Maybe talking about it with someone would make it easier to bear.

“Honestly, absolutely not. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life, and it feels like part of me is dying. You know, when you’re a kid, and you have all these dreams and hopes? I think that dims down a bit for nearly everyone, once you hit reality and responsibility and things like that. But for me, it doesn’t feel dimmer. It feels like the things I believed in and loved have become a black hole, and are pulling the rest of me down with it. It feels like there’s something in you, that doesn’t fit, and the universe is actively trying to destroy it. It feels like drowning, or being caught in a rip-tide, or being buried under the snow in an avalanche, with only a few precious moments of air left before it runs out and you know nobody is coming to save you because the world doesn’t care, and you don’t fit into its plans. It feels like running against a wall until your head starts to bleed, so you sit down and try to recover but then it turns out the wall is running towards you and you can’t escape it and it just… never… ends.”

Everything had blurred as I stared into the dark abyss inside of me, so I hadn’t noticed Julia move until she stood next to me, tissues in hand for the tears I hadn’t felt falling. She patted my cheeks reasonably dry and held my hands in hers. Numbly, I realized the tissues were streaked with black. I must have looked a proper mess, but couldn’t summon the capacity to care.

“That’s what I thought. Not everyone is made for this life, and that’s okay. There’re other paths,” she said softly.

That shook me out of my dazed state.

“But I don’t want other paths! I have to do something meaningful with my life. I can’t just give up - there has to be some small way I can make a difference. I just need to try a little harder.”

There it was - that little spark that still got me out of bed in the morning, albeit late. The tiny, flickering glow that kept the overwhelming hopelessness just barely at bay.

Julia shook her head. “No, love, you misunderstood me. Not everyone is made for this institution. I think it’s time I introduced you to somebody.”

That day, and that conversation, changed my life. Who knew, all you needed to do was to have a massive breakdown on the job for someone to come along and open up doors you couldn’t even dream of? If they’d told me that earlier, I would have lit something on fire ages ago. Who knows what opportunities that would have brought?

It was a kindness, that Julia had sent me home for the rest of the day.

“You look a mess. I promise you, we can figure this out - tomorrow. First you go home, take a bath, eat some ice-cream or a whole cake or drink a bottle of wine, pick your poison - but rest today, dear. Meet me at this address tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, and bring that little hard-drive you think I don’t know about. I know someone who might be interested in it,” she had said.

After looking me up and down, she had added, “Actually, let’s make that eleven. Take yourself out to breakfast beforehand.”

I’d followed her prescription, settled on a few scoops of ice-cream, small slice of cake and and small glass of wine (so long as you looked at them from far away), so just a mild poison across the board, and was now standing well-rested and slightly-better-adjusted in front of what seemed to be a very old bank. The building was massive, and really could use a good pressure-washing, if the walls could have withstood it without crumbling. Still, this was the address she had given me.

Knowing my tendency to be (un)fashionably late, I had told myself to get there by ten o’clock, which meant I arrived at about 10:45. Thankfully, too, since Julia was already standing in front of the building waiting with two teas in hand.

“Here, chamomile,” she handed me the hot cup.

As I made a face, she smiled and said conspiratorially, “Trust me, you won’t need any caffeine today.”

We entered the building together, and I trailed her to a teller’s counter to the far right where a young man sat reading a book. He had longer hair than was fashionable, to his shoulders and cut off at one length. A rotating fan at his desk pushed his hair into his eyes every so often, and he would yank it back behind his ear, clearly frustrated.

He glanced up as we approached, and graced Julia with a dazzling smile.

“Heard you were coming today. Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”, Julia answered with an equally exuberant smile.

“Woo.”

“Woo who?”

“Someone’s excited to see me!”

He grinned, stood up, winked at me and extended a hand.

“I’m David, nice to meet you.”

“Katherine. Nice to meet you, too. Have you ever tried a hair tie?” Both he and Julia were so bubbly it was infectious, and I found myself grinning in return.

“Nah, not suave and mysterious enough. Come on then, Miles is waiting for us.” David came out from behind the counter through a small door, and motioned towards the elevator. We stepped in, and to my surprise, headed towards the basement.

Miles was a very, very large man. If there had been sunlight down here, he would have blocked it out. Tall and broad didn’t do him justice - giants would have been intimidated by him. I was caught off guard, then, by his soft voice and exquisite manners, as he bowed to greet us.

I don’t think anyone had ever bowed to me before.

“Ms. Julia, always a pleasure” he said, leaning so far down to kiss both her cheeks that I feared he would fall over, like a mighty oak felled.

He then reached out and took my hand gently, brushing his lips against the back of it.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Katherine. My name is Miles.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” I answered after a moment of fumbling around for the right words. I really wasn’t used to formality, or even respect, for that matter.

“If you’ll join me, ladies,” he said, offering both of us a massive arm.

As we walked down the brightly lit hallway, I heard David mutter from behind, “Nobody ever offers me a kiss.”

We passed many doors, all with small plaques that read “Archives”, “Patents”, “Supplies”, and so on until we reached a door towards the end of the hallway. This one read “Market Research”, and was sealed with an electronic keypad.

Miles keyed in an awfully long code, and then held his thumb to a larger button, I supposed scanning it. I shared a quick glance with David, who arched one eyebrow comically and gave me a goofy thumbs-up. Truly, I had no idea why someone at a bank would be interested in my work, or in me - and I fervently hoped that I wasn’t here to become a research assistant for financial markets. The small glow in me that had been steadily growing since yesterday afternoon shrunk back at the thought.

A click, and the door opened. Miles pulled it back, and ushered me in with an expectant look. I don’t know what I had expected. Maybe some filing cabinets, some desks with computers, and a bunch of tired looking, drab people in grey suits, plugging away on their keyboards or banging their heads against something, anything hard enough?

It certainly hadn’t been this. Closest to the door was a small lounge, complete with gaming systems, picnic tables, bean bags, and those exciting snack machines from Japan that could make you a delicious hot meal at the push of a button. A long kitchen island framed the space, complete with a coffee machine and tea bar glamorous enough to make a notorious coffee chain’s mermaid quit in a rage, make a deal with a sea witch and apply for a job here.

A few people - normal looking people, mind you, no grey-suited, soulless zombies in sight - lounging about the area smiled or waved a hello. Beyond the kitchen island, a large open area boasted a huge tree (I asked later, and apparently there is a gardener whose sole job it is to ensure the tree has enough nutrients and artificial light to survive), and stepped plateaus to create an arena. Here, only a couple of people were sitting dispersed, most with files and papers and large electronic tablets scattered about them haphazardly.

As I stared in awe, Miles, David and Julia had filed in behind me.

“What kind of bank is this?”, I asked Miles incredulously, who laughed.

“I think I’d better let Ms. Littlefield explain everything in one of the interview rooms,” the giant man replied, gently steering me towards a set of doors in the far-left corner.

After ensuring both Julia and I were comfortably seated in the most inviting armchairs I had ever seen in a conference room, Miles relieved both of us of our empty cups and bid us wait while he went to get the mysterious Ms. Littlefield. Oh, and would we like anything to drink, or a snack? No? Well, he would just get us a small selection, just in case.

David hadn’t followed us in, and I waited as patiently as I could until the door shut behind a retreating Miles.

“What the hell, Julia?! What is this place?” I spun on her, just as soon as the door fell closed.

“Calm down, calm down, Katherine,” she raised her arms in mock-defense. “I’ll explain a little bit before Victoria gets here.”

I settled back down and raised my eyebrows, bracing myself.

“This is actually a bank, but you are right to assume they do not do market research in… well... the typical sense here. You might have noticed that I sometimes get a bit more leniency from the university board-”

“Ha. Just a bit?” I interjected.

“Oh hush,” she continued. “Well, the reason for that is this department here. Victoria is family, and she set up this department about twenty years ago. I’ll leave her to explain what exactly they do here, and why they might be interested in you, but firstly you must know that you will be required to sign an NDA. Breaking it would be tantamount to suicide. No, they won’t kill you,” she added at the look of horror on my face. “But they will isolate you, and have the connections to make sure you never see anyone you care for ever again. And your loved ones won’t even ask questions about you - there would be a natural disaster, or an accident, and you would be dead, for all intents and purposes, to the world. Not actually dead, though.”

She must have found some confirmation as she searched my face, as she nodded and continued on.

“What they do here isn’t entirely legal, in a way. Oh, I personally find it absolutely moral, but they do have their ways of influencing people in high positions to … let’s say… see things clearly. They, like I, have found that the truth isn’t always appreciated without the right… ah. Motivations.”

I nodded. Two years ago, I would have been appalled, but my time within the academic system had changed that. I knew exactly what she meant.

Before she could continue, the door opened to reveal Miles, carrying a tray of hot water and assorted tea as well as a variety of baked goods. Behind him, a tall woman came in - Ms. Littlefield. She was a good deal younger than I had expected, both because of the long-standing existence of the department and her relation to Julia. I judged her to be in her mid-forties, about fifteen years younger than I knew Julia to be. She was dressed professionally in a well-tailored suit, a stark contrast from the informal attire I had seen the others out in the open arena wear, but it was bright turquoise, and she wore dangling pink earrings - so not entirely normal, either.

“I’m Victoria, dear. Julia has told me a lot about you,” she leaned down to kiss both my cheeks, as I awkwardly tried to greet her, half-rising from a chair quite reluctant to release me.

“Don’t worry about calling me Ms. Littlefield - I prefer Victoria, but I can’t seem to get Miles to stop,” she said, flashing a comfortable smile in his direction.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mi…. Victoria. I’m Katherine.” I hadn’t made it quite out of the chair, but the bubbly woman had already gone to throw her arms around Julia, so I let myself fall back into it.

“I’ll get right to it. My aunt has shown me some of your research, topics of interest, and credentials. I think you would be a fantastic fit for our organization, and I suspect you would be much, much more fulfilled working here.”

Accepting a file that had somehow materialized in Miles’s hand, she slid it in front of me.

“I’m not sure how much you know, yet, but I am afraid I can’t tell you exactly what it is we do here until you’ve signed a nondisclosure agreement. Don’t worry, it isn’t a contract - you’ll still be able to turn down my offer after you’ve heard me out, but I do need you to - Oh. Alright then.”

I had opened and signed the document without so much as a second glance before she had finished speaking.

“I really, really would like to hear more,” I said, sitting up straight and doing my best to look like a well-rounded adult, and not like a small child waiting impatiently for the candy shop to open.

With a nod towards Julia, Victoria said, “You really have always had a feeling with people.”

“Now that that’s out of the way, here’s my pitch,” she sat down across from me, hands clasped elegantly in her lap.

“There is a lack of truth in the world. So many mysteries we want to understand and solve, and history has held on to her conspiracies and secrets dearly. You know the saying, history is written by the winners? Well, Katherine, I really despise that saying. We know now, more than ever, that the winners usually aren’t noble, or good, or whatever they say they are - most people in power rise there on the backs of others, through conquest or subjugation. And we are still so very far from real truth, and community, and understanding how we’ve come to be how we are.

We have a way of communicating with the past - it’s very complex, but in the simplest terms we can send messages back and forth across time. It was extremely rudimentary, at first, and we realized how ungodly hard it is to communicate across time and space. Common language is just a start - you need to get someone willing to communicate, then figure out even when and where they are, then you need to understand what is direct and what isn’t, what is disrespectful or taboo for a given society - ah. I can see I don’t need to paint you a picture.

In any case, once we established the first contact, we realized that we can build portals. It requires a signpost on each end, a kind of dock, you might say. We can initiate a jump through time from here, but we need a specific physical component to connect to. And explaining that takes time, and having our contemporary contact on the other side find the necessary materials and build it takes time, not to mention building trust.

After we did it the first time, we found out ways to simplify it. Our contemporary contacts could come here, and help us build connections to other times as well. It takes a real specific type of odd-ball to be open to messages from the void yet functional enough to work with, you know, so even with our full funding and support, we have about six portal connections to show for two decades of work. Are you following me so far?”

I nodded mutely, too enthralled to speak.

“Good. On to the tricky bit - we can’t let anyone know about the technology we have. I’m sure you can imagine what some more… ambitious people with more ambiguous morals might do with it. What we are interested in is learning - about technological states, about communities, about the actual truth of the past. Oftentimes, we learn enough to plug some of the gaps in our own knowledge, leading to more and more technological advancements.

We need scientists, researchers, techies and all that they do, which I assure you I don’t fully understand myself, and very importantly - we need people who understand people. Who know or are quick to learn their beliefs, their ways, their languages - we need people who inspire trust. There’re thousands of people who are experts in their fields, but what we need most - that which is so much harder to find - are people who believe. Who believe in the truth, and believe in people, and refuse to play games. People with ambition for knowledge’s sake, not for power or money or fame. Nobody will ever know what you do here. Even the upstairs folks will think you just tinker around with financial records. You won’t become rich, here, either. We don’t need to worry about funding, but we reinvest most of our profits into further research. We do make sure our people are comfortable, though,” she gestured out towards the arena.

“Why?” I squeaked out. “I mean, why don’t you worry about funding and politics?” I asked, more confidently this time.

“Well, that’s where we bend the law, just a bit. Too many people ask questions when you bring research and advancements and knowledge they don’t like, or they want to exploit our sources, and so we’ve gotten quite good at obtaining leverage on some key figures. Stacked the cards a bit in our favor, if you like.”

“Blackmail. You blackmail them?” I was leaning as far forward as I could in the clutches of the armchair, not quite literally on the edge of my seat.

Victoria laughed. “I guess you could call it that. I call it a grey zone - We strive for objective truth, or as close as we can get to it, and we even employ multiple bias auditors to hold ourselves accountable to that. If we need to squeeze in some places to force certain people to share that truth, then yes - we blackmail them. We’re not exactly orthodox here, as you may have already noticed. Is that a problem for you?”

I shook my head vigorously.

“Not at all. Always had a problem with unjust authority, me. I don’t care what exactly I’ll do - all I need to know is, when can I start?”

After some impressive advocacy from Julia, Victoria had Miles drew up a contract starting from the very next week, officially. My first two weeks on the job were contractually defined as “recharge and recovery”, which basically just meant I got to sleep in, do whatever the hell I pleased, and enjoy myself, all while collecting my new salary. Victoria had been honest - it wasn’t exorbitant, but it beat my meager university earnings. For the first time in years, I didn’t struggle to get out of bed, and I actually felt at peace. A steady buzz of background exhilaration had been building up since I signed my name on the dotted line (actually, on about fifty dotted lines), but I had used my time off as prescribed.

Tomorrow would be my first real day, and that slight buzz has now escalated to full on, giddy, bouncing off the walls energy. It still felt like a dream, and I couldn’t wait to get up and get dressed. I honestly wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep very well or even at all, and was going through my outfit and breakfast choices as the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s David! Excited for tomorrow?”

“How did you get my number? And excited doesn’t even begin to cut it!”

“A magician never tells. Anyways, in honor of you joining us - Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Knock knock.”

I faked a sigh, “Seriously, who is it?”

David faked an even bigger sigh, “Seriously, knock knock. Do people not understand how doors work anymore?”

He hung up, and I dashed to open my front door.

I looked out expectantly, but was disappointed at the resounding lack of anything until my gaze fell to the floor.

There, covered in bows and ribbons, sat a huge bag of industrial baking flour. Confused, I picked up the card attached to it.

“Welcome to the circus. Enjoy the flowers ;)”

You know, I really think I am going to like it here.

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About Sasha Grojean:

Our author is many things - unsure what she wants to be when she's grown up (Reader, she is most definitely already grown up), obsessed with her dog (who, let's face it, is very much not obsessed with her), a voracious hobbyist who enjoys spending lots of money and insane amounts of time on an endeavor before managing to forget it ever existed (for bonus points, move on before completion), and works in the corporate environment in organizational culture (and thus must write this bio in third person to alleviate the discomfort of realizing how close her story hits to home. Oops). She is also, obviously, a fan of run-on sentences, as they perfectly reflect the way her mind works, and approaches punctuation as a 'vibe'. ...What's that? Oh. Right. She's reminded me to thank you for taking the time to read her story, and hopes you chuckled along the way.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Sunny Days in the Orchard by Helen L Brady

Sunny days weren’t the time for ghost stories. They were for firesides, and flickering candles in the dark, for shadows in the hallways and dark nights at All Hallow’s Eve. So why under bright, midday sunshine in their orchard full of leafy trees and beginning-to-ripen apples… did she have that chill down her spine, that creepy feeling she was being watched?

She paused and looked around her – she couldn’t see anybody. Perhaps it was her imagination? She’d snuck out from the house with her set work only half done because it was so hot and stuffy inside; she wanted to feel the soft breeze on her face and look up into the sky. She loved looking up at green leaves against the blue, and it was almost cloudless at the moment, just a few trailing puffs of white, so tenuous you’d have trouble imagining dream shapes into the slowly drifting wisps.

Maybe it was one of the farmer’s lads from next door spying on her. She knew they would come at dusk when the apples were getting riper, to pilfer a few to gnaw on as they swaggered down to the inn in the village; full of bravado and eager to try and cajole the barmaid back to the barn. She’s heard them before as they passed. She was too well hidden for them to see her, but she heard them:

‘’Ere John-Jo – try tellin’ ‘er she’s in fer a treat iffen she comes back to the hen-house fer a look at that mighty cock of yourn!’

‘Aye, John-Jo – tell ‘er she can stroke its feathers!’

‘I’d let ‘er do more than stroke it,’ called John-Jo, making a performance of holding his groin and waggling his hips. The other two laughed and all three pretended to crow as they strode down the track towards the village.

At the time, she had turned away in disgust, wrinkling her nose and pursing her lips. ‘Boys…!’ she’d muttered. Then, careful to make sure they’d gone, she’d climbed out from her hiding place behind the kink in the stone wall. There was a buttress there, designed to strengthen that part of the wall where the junction didn’t run true. She’d pulled out all the nettles and torn up the brambles some time ago. Now there was a grassy, dusty earthed patch, snug for a girl to hide in when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

That had been a few weeks ago. The bedroom she shared wasn’t close enough to the hen-house and barns to hear if the bar-maid really had been stupid enough to believe tales of a prize-winning cockerel. But now… it was well into harvest-time; the weather was fine – those lads would be hard at work in the fields getting in the wheat. Then why did she feel she was being watched? And by who?

She began to feel a bit cross as the thought of being caught, or chased away, soured her mood. She’d planned this since early in the morning – she would get ahead of her tasks, and then grab some bread and cheese and come down here to her special place. No one would miss her for at least an hour. She could settle down in the sun, her back against the rough stones and watch the changing patterns of the leaves against the sky. This was her time to just sit and be idle… no, not idleness… she was finding her inner peace.

She’d heard a friend of her father’s say that, when he’d visited some while ago. He was bringing news from the town, the problems: the government useless, taxes going up, foreigners working for low wages, taking bread from the mouths of locals, thieves right and left. He’d said to her father, ‘you must enjoy your inner peace down here,’. Here father had agreed and told the man to let him know when there was more news from parliament. She didn’t really know or care about news from the city, but she’d liked that phrase, “inner peace”.

Now she was on her way, carefully and quietly, to her special place at the far-end of the orchard, and unaccountably… she felt she was being watched. She’d paused at the gate to the orchard and made a performance of holding her stomach and leaning forward and moaning softly – if one of the dairy workers, or somebody from the household was watching, maybe they’d think she was having her monthlies and leave her alone. She’d had a good look around as she pretended to be in pain. No one was in sight. She’d slipped through the gate and skuttled beyond the berry bushes to the first rows of apple trees.

But she still felt strangely uneasy, though at least she knew she couldn’t be seen from the house. And of course… there couldn’t be anything …uncanny out here – not on a bright sunny day like this. Then she saw it. Somebody had assembled a ramshackle, flat-roofed, stone shack at the far side of the orchard against the wall – nearly on top of her special place! The nerve of them!

She stood stock still, then quickly darted behind a tree-trunk. How could they have got here and done that without anybody seeing? And the stones – had they pilfered slabs from the wall to build it? Her father would be furious about that! She peered carefully out from behind the trunk – no, the rest of the wall looked intact. She also realised, the slender apple tree wasn’t much of a hiding place – what if there was somebody in the shack? They could see her if they came to the door, but at least there weren’t any windows… So why had they built it here? It was their land, so the farmer can’t have built it for his animals. Her father didn’t like the smell of goats so he wouldn’t have had a pen built for them… not here. The pigs were only let into the orchard to forage after the apples had ripened and fallen – too soon for it to be for them. And too dark if there were no windows. Old William always said pigs need what humans need: light, air, plenty of good food and a place to shit. He was a bit coarse, was Old William… and a bit smelly. Cook wouldn’t have him in the kitchen parlour – he had to eat his supper in the porch or the outside pantry. Not that he minded much, he’d just cackle and say dining under the stars was fit for a king.

She looked around and spotted some gooseberry bushes that had been left to get tall and overgrown. She scurried over and crouched behind them so she could watch the shack. Maybe it was Old William watching her? No, she was pretty sure she’d have caught a whiff of him by now. Just then she spotted two figures edging along the inside of the orchard wall, trying to look inconspicuous; they didn’t quite skuttle or slink, but they clearly were up to no good. The one carried a covered basket and one had a bundle under one arm.

She crouched lower so she could peer through the gooseberries rather than over the top of the bushes. There was a spiky haired man, not all that tall, carrying the bundle, and a short woman with a long plait of red hair hanging down her back, carried the basket. Her linen cap was on crooked and obviously her hair had come unpinned. She was scolding the man who had clearly fallen into something wet, all his clothes and the bundle were heavily splattered with thick shiny mud. Then she did catch a whiff… perhaps it wasn’t mud that he’d fallen into. The woman was clearly pretty cross about it. They got to the door, the woman said a word and it opened. She went inside, but put her hand on the man’s chest and made him pause. Whatever she said to him, he sat down meekly on the floor, bundle at his side, and began to unlace his boots. He took them off, then he unlaced his trousers and pealed them off. They were soaking wet and thick with… something definitely pig related; she could smell it quite strongly now.

She could also see the man’s well-shaped, quite muscular bare legs. His shirt was white where it had been tucked in, but above the waist at the front it was dark with mud. He stripped off his jacket, and she gasped – it looked like he was about to strip off his under-shirt – and he’d be naked! She swallowed and briefly debated whether she should close her eyes… but then, she had seen her baby brothers naked – a grown man couldn’t be that much different…

Her rapt anticipation was disappointed; the woman appeared back at the door with a bucket of water and threw it over him. The man yelped and let go of the hem of his shirt, which fell back into place. She immediately picked up a second bucket from inside the doorway and threw that over him too. He yelped again and protested, though she couldn’t quite catch all he said. There must be someone else inside the shack filling buckets for her… and where was the water coming from?

She was open-mouthed now, avidly watching the rather nice-looking man hopping from one bare leg to the other. The red-head pointed to his boots, bundle and trousers – evidently, they needed washing off as well. The woman went inside leaving the door open. There was another man with them! He came to the door, handed over a re-filled bucket, and started laughing at the sight of the bedraggled man, who was trying to wipe himself down with his hands. The soaking wet shirt clung tightly to the man’s body, outlining the muscles of his chest. He turned his back to her when he bent over to pick up his trousers and suddenly, she had a brief view of some very well-shaped pale buttocks and…

She gasped loudly and clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound. Both men evidently heard something, their heads snapped up and they both looked directly towards her. She crouched lower. When she ventured a glance seconds later; they had evidently poured water over the trousers and boots and were hurrying back inside grasping the wet clothes and bundle in their arms. It was only a few moments after that it was… gone! She blinked. She rubbed her eyes – the shack wasn’t there anymore. Not a sound, not even a whisper it had just vanished. She crossed herself and muttered a quick prayer against fiends from hell, then stopped, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to do that in public… but there had been men there - the one was certainly a grown man. She blushed at the memory of the brief flash that proved his manhood. Or were they demons? Or ghosts, were they ghosts?

Strangely, that curious feeling of being watched had also gone. She stood up slowly and made her way forward one hesitant step at a time. She didn’t know why she was surprised to see the large wet patch on the ground, and the flattened grass and nettles. Something had been there – it wasn’t a dream or her imagination. She opened her mouth with the half-formed thought of shouting for help… then closed it again. What could she tell the servants when they came running to her shouts? What could she tell her father and brothers when they wanted to know what she was doing out here on her own – when she knew there were militia men around from the pesky Parliamentarian Army. The King was a captive and was going to be put on trial; they said Parliament wanted him dead. They were still looking for his eldest son, Prince Charles. Once they’d captured him, the word was, they’d take revenge on all the landowners who supported the Crown, like her father… They might even be on their way here to drag him and her brothers away, even as she stood there.

No - better to say nothing about strangers in the orchard. Especially ones that vanished in the blink of an eye. They were just summer ghosts, sent to tease her with lewd thoughts, she told herself primly… But …she smiled at the thought, he had had a very nice arse!

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About Helen L Brady:

Helen L Brady lives in a small, ancient town in Warwickshire. She has had two fantasy, portal-adventure novels published: 'Rag and Boyd The Fabulous Zoo' and 'Rag and Boyd The Elfstone' - the first two of a series about Rag and her brother, Boyd, discovering the secrets that lead to magical encounters, new friends, and enemies, in the fantastical Otherworld that lies beyond the Veil. An Otherworld where the creatures and peoples of myth, folk-tales and legends are real... and all have an original twist to their stories. The third in the series, 'Rag and Boyd The Unicornkeeper' will be available this autumn. She has two grown-up children, and when she's not writing, she's a volunteer, sorting costumes as Head of Wardrobe at her local independent theatre.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Last Man Standing by Robert Piepenbrink

Time travel was dangerous not just to the time traveler, but to Time itself. It was discouraged by custom and forbidden by law. Anyone who engaged in it was bound to be visited, sooner or later, by the Time Police, who were Utter Bastards, prone to shooting everyone and arresting any survivors. They came for Charlie Connor at 8:45 AM, GMT—a squad of four young fit officers, dressed in the traditional black but in the modern tunic instead of the older shirt and jacket. Captain Charles Connor (Time Police, Ret.) approved. He was dressed in uniform and waiting. Fifteen minutes early was on time for Charlie. It always had been.

Remembrance Day, AKA Stop the Clock Day itself was only just in time, he suspected. He was still reasonably mobile, and (so nearly as he could tell) compos mentis, but his doctor had stopped fussing with his medications, and had started to take an alarming lack of interest in his personal habits—the sort of attitude which suggested that diet and exercise weren’t going to make much difference at this stage.

Well, it had been a long run. No one, including Captain Connor himself, really knew how old he was. There had been long missions all over time, and time itself had changed during a few of them. Heaven knew he looked and felt old enough. He’d been offered retirement long before he accepted. He’d only taken it when he had because of Ann. Serving Time Police officers couldn’t marry, and Ann deserved nothing less. But Ann was gone—five years now? About that. Everyone was, really. Last year on Remembrance Day, He and Joe Callahan had been the last officers to actually have served in the Time Wars. Three months later, Joe had killed himself in a fall, walking down a flight of steps. Charlie remembered him once jumping from a second-story window with nothing worse than a broken ankle, and running on that to shelter before the building blew up, swearing in about five languages. But half of living to whatever ages they’d reached was knowing what you couldn’t do any more.

It looked as though the team sent to fetch Charlie knew that too. They didn’t exactly carry him out of his flat, down the steps and into the waiting black van, but the way they were positioned he couldn’t have fallen if he’d wanted to.

Not that he did. You reached a point at which travelling in a van with an armed escort was the best way to see London. On your own, you lost track. The old slums became the best walks, and the solid neighborhoods you visited for fine dining turned into places where the police went armed in pairs. They’d told him his time-traveling days were over when he turned in his badge, but it wasn’t so. He was still travelling in time, but slower, and the briefings were less reliable. Done like this, the trip across London was relaxing these days, passing the great London landmarks, the Tower, the Gherkin and the Startled Gerbil which were now reassuringly solid. In the worst days of the Time Wars, they’d tended to blur or flicker. In the very worst days, one morning they’d have been there for generations, and the next morning have never been there at all. Some of his team had stayed in TPHQ—Battersea Power Station, once upon a time--never looking out, and refusing to look at news, let alone read history. The stability of the modern world had come at the cost of many of their lives.

Thinking of which...

“Driver, isn’t that flowerpot new?”

“Yes, Sir. Someone tried to get in by the land side last summer.”

“Can you stop for a moment and let me get a look at the plaque?”

“Of course, Sir. Plenty of time.”

There was a period in which the grounds around TPHQ looked like a park, with walkways, grottoes and trees. The idea had been to make the Time Police seem more approachable. Charlie remembered the day they’d been approached, with men in armor with power guns pouring off barges on the river side. Charlie remembered it especially in damp weather. The left wrist had only healed so-so. There had followed a brief era of barbed wire and land mines.

Today, the river approaches to TPHQ were marvels of landscaping and military engineering. Grass and flower gardens filled the shallow slope from the Thames to the entrance of TPHQ, and broad shallow concrete steps led straight to the door and the welcome center. People picnicked on the lawn—not Time Policemen, who preferred to be further away from supervisors when off duty, but regular Londoners and tourists. It was a beautiful environment. But it was an environment without a speck of cover or concealment. If invaders came up the Thames again, the two heavy power guns concealed in the welcome center could sweep everything.

On the landward approach, they’d tried something different. Big concrete planters eight feet tall—the “flowerpots”—both added to London’s greenery, and ensured that no large vehicle filled with explosives or men could reach the building, and smaller ones could do so only at slow speeds. Of course, the flowerpots did provide cover and concealment for attackers on foot. Hence the memorial plaques.

PEDRO GONZALEZ

LIEUTENANT, TIME POLICE

KILLED IN LINE OF DUTY

Simple and to the point. Five feet above ground. About twelve inches up and down, eighteen right to left, slightly curved to conform to the curve of the pot. You had to be a Time Policeman to know the plaque was a “claymore” mine, about an inch and a half thick, made of a mix of plastic explosive and steel pellets, and intended to be detonated from inside the building at need. The memorial inscription gave it a more personal feel than the traditional “FACE TOWARD ENEMY.” And leaving enemies so they were more mopped up than buried was very much the Time Police way.

“Thank you, Driver. I knew Speedy. He would have appreciated the honor. Never knew a better man with booby traps. He bought the farm putting down the New Inquisition.”

“I never heard of them, Sir.”

“No one has, now. That was the objective.”

At the door, they had a wheelchair waiting “purely to save time, Sir” It was a polite fiction. He could have made it on his own to the Atrium, and (probably) in time. But this gave him a chance to pause at the Time Map—the four-dimensional projection of every time trip ever made, currently under way or to be made, if those distinctions were quite valid. Sadly, too many to investigate them all. But once you had a starting point to understand the who and why—well the Time Map had saved his life more than once. Had probably saved Time. And now they said the Map Master was a product of those moronic time jumpers of St Mary’s. Probably he wasn’t hearing it properly.

Shortly they whisked him to the Atrium, and formed him with the other retired officers—some of whom he’d trained—on the right as they faced The Clock, with serving officers on the left, everyone in dress blacks. As the last Time Wars veteran, he had the post of honor—first rank and leftwardmost seat of the retirees, closest to the aisle. Commander Lockland shook his hand and took her place behind the podium. Every year, as The Clock struck eleven, it was stopped, and the commander read out the names of those who had died on duty, or as a consequence of duty—falling victim years later to radiation, poison or disease. And, doctor or no, everyone understanding, or no, when those names were read, Charlie Connor was on his feet, as close to “attention” as he could get with the current state of his hands and spine.

“DeZago, R., Llewellyn, K., Kim, J., Peyton, J., Harris, E.…

The list grew longer year by year, but the vast majority were still casualties of the Time Wars—his friends and in many ways his family--and by this time next year, there would be no one left who knew any of them except as old men, and no one at all left who remembered them as young people, with futures before them, quirks and preferences....

“Campbell, C, Martin, M., Goodenough, W….”

Certainly no one left who’d remember that Bill Goodenough always pronounced his name “Good-enuff” and not Good-enow.” But there was a whispered voice behind him.

“Still not getting it right.”

“Bill??”

“Still at the position of attention, officer.”

Old discipline held, mostly, long enough to have the last of the names read and The Clock resuming striking before he looked around. Bill Goodenough in the flesh—and looking a lot better than the last time Charlie had seen him. But that didn’t say much. That Bill Goodenough had been missing a few pieces, and bleeding to death in Charlie’s arms.

“Bill, you’re dead!”

“I should hope so. Do you know what year this is? And how old I’d be if I were still alive? even forgetting the whole ‘two bodies at the same time’ business.”

“No, I mean—“

“Don’t want to hear. Probably shouldn’t hear. Louis? You want to hear?”

And now Charlie looked around in earnest. He was in fact surrounded by dead men—Louis de Camp, Dieter Henlein, Sam Moore, Joe Reynolds—16 Time Policemen in all; four teams all wearing the old shirt and jacket dress blacks of a bygone era, and not a man of them much over 40. “Someone want to spell this out for me?”

“It was the old Map Master, Charlie. She picked up on four trips from TPHQ to TPHQ, none of them moving an inch, and all arriving on the same day. Then when The Time Wars were over and this “Stop the Clock” business began—nice ceremony, by the way—the date made sense. Sooner or later, there was going to be just one of us left, and we couldn’t have that.”

“OK, but how did anyone know who the last man was going to be? You all know better than to take any chance of appearing in your own lifetimes.”

“Easy. We didn’t know who the last man would be: we just knew who wouldn’t be him. You know how teams overlap at the hot spots—Berlin, Paris, Rome, Jerusalem, Mecca? And how you don’t always go in chronological order? Map Master passed these coordinates to a few guys she was pretty sure would never make old bones, and told them if they ever knew for sure a team was dead, then saw a younger version of them, to give that younger version these coordinates and tell them to show up here in best dress blacks before we did any further missions. We weren’t supposed to tell them why, but I think everyone’s figured it out by now. You know the funny bit? I was one of the guys the Map Master picked to find a team. I was standing there with the coordinates in my jacket when Joe Callahan gave them to me. “

Louis chimed in. “It’s OK, Bill. When you get back, you’ll give the coordinates to last week’s version of my team. That’s why we’re here. What I can’t figure out, Charlie, is why you’re here looking ancient. If I were picking a man to live to a ripe old age, Chargin’ Charlie Connor wouldn’t have been on the short list. Or the long list, come to that.”

Charlie laughed. It was good to be—home? He’d been feeling like a museum exhibit for much too long. “OK. So now what do we do?”

“Well, first and most important, we go get drunk at the Pig Bar. Major Parrish of Big Business and Organized Crime is buying. Then we take you home.”

It sounded great, but only for a moment. “You can’t take me home, guys. Can’t be twice in the same time, remember?”

“Nah, The Commander and the Map Master got it all worked out. You remember that time you got back to back assignments and spent six straight months in 8^th Century Medina?

“I remember, all right! I don’t think I ever did get all the sand out of my gear. The worst administrative foul-up in the history of the Time---oh.”

“So you hang out in your own room, because we know you won’t be needing it, and when you need something more, we move you down to our MedCen. We’re the Time Police, Charlie. We’re Utter Bastards who shoot everyone in sight and arrest the survivors. But we don’t leave one of our own to die alone.”

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About Robert Piepenbrink:

Old History major, retired intelligence analyst and long-time SF fan. Not the first time I've wanted to write a piece of SF, but the first time I completed one. This just sort of came to me. Hope you like it.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Journey of Disaster by GB Williams

Captain Arnold stood in his ready room, stomach churning as stars floated by. The universe was wrong. There should be rainbow streaks, not distant spots. Their faster than light engines had stopped ten minutes ago. He had received no reports from Chief Engineer Skinner nor Lieutenant-Commander Winton, who currently had command.

Arnold returned to his desk and activated internal communications.

“Chief Skinner?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“We seem to be travelling under inertia.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Care to explain why?”

“Because—” Electrical crackles and explosions came clearly across the comms. “Sorry, Sir, busy,” the usually unflappable Skinner snapped.

The distant hiss of an extinguisher and a few choice swear words followed before the channel closed.

Two months. Arnold’s last assignment. Possibly ever. Get this crew working or they were all out on their ears, including him. If they couldn’t manage a simple supply run of medical aid to a plague-ridden colony, the colony would die, and they’d be unemployed. And unemployable. Arnold hadn’t envisioned his career ending this way. As unpalatable as that was, it was not as indigestible as the prospect of letting two million people on Derayus Prime die and taking thirty years to get home without FTL drive.

Taking a steadying breath he headed to the bridge.

The bridge had the standard 5X sloped floor configuration: science and communications stations at the top, captain’s chair in the centre with tactical and piloting stations at the front. Secondary stations were positioned around the edges of the rooms but rarely needed manning.

God, they look so young.

They were young. Most only out of training a year, they had been pushed out of other assignments. Being part of this crew was considered a punishment. Arnold had tried not to believe their reputation. Then he’d met them. Six more weeks to make them cohesive or they would be thrown out of the fleet. Challenge accepted.

The captain’s chair sat empty.

The door swish should have alerted the bridge crew to his presence. Their failure to notice was concerning.

“Lieutenant-Commander Winton,” said Arnold.

Winton jumped and turned from her position beside Parker at the science station. She was nearly thirty, and if the momentary panic and disarrayed hairdo were any indication, promoted beyond her ability.

“Why wasn’t I notified our engines had stopped?”

“A momentary blip, Sir. I didn’t want to disturb you over a minor incident.”

“Minor incident?” The forced calm of his tone contrasted to the fists hidden behind his back. “Losing propulsion in space is never a minor incident. And having the conn infers a duty to keep your captain informed.”

“I wanted to bring you a solution, not just the problem, Sir.”

Arnold clenched his teeth. “Admirable but foolish and against regulations. Full sitrep, please.”

Winton swallowed. “The fission generator containment field failed, we’ve lost the FTL drive and all other propulsion systems. Failures are confined to propulsion. No injuries reported. We are drifting, but in an uninhabited system with little traffic, so should be fine.”

Arnold clamped his lips then crossed his arms. “Lieutenant-Commander, do you not comprehend our situation? An ‘uninhabited system with little traffic’ means no help nearby. Drifting from FTL is still incredibly fast, worryingly so when there is a planetary system to crash into.”

Tension in the room ramped up.

“Navigation, what is our course?”

The young man at the piloting station sat straighter and turned to face the captain. “Er, not sure, Sir.”

Captain Arnold glowered at him. Is he even old enough to have completed training? “And what is the first responsibility of navigation?”

“I’m a pilot, Sir.”

“On this ship, you’re both. First responsibility of navigation?”

“To always know the ship’s location and heading … Sir.”

“Correct. And?”

The pilot refocused on his console, fingers flying over the touch screen controls. “Ah.”

“Pilot Mukherjee?” Arnold asked, his voice stretched thin.

“Double checking, Sir.” His fingers flew over the controls again, and unless he had done something extremely stupid—always an option—he had now calculated what Arnold had suspected. “Well, Mr Mukherjee?”

The boy gave the loudest swallow ever. “Erm, Sir, on our current trajectory, we are going to collide with the largest moon of the second planet of this system in two hours twenty-nine minutes. And if by some miracle we miss that, we will dive into the sun in four hours and thirty-three minutes, Sir.”

“Comms. Channel to engineering. Main viewer.”

The smoky engine room filled the viewscreen. A worn face appeared. The once chiselled jawline sagged with age, the strong brow was lined with furrows, but the blue eyes remained keenly intelligent.

“Chief Skinner,” Captain Arnold said in a neutral tone, “how long until we have FTL?”

“Minimum five hours, Sir.”

“How long before the solid fuel drive could be operational?”

The chief frowned. Using the solid fuel drive was always the last desperate option. “Probably three and a half, four hours. It would require bypassing the fission drive, meaning getting FTL back would take even longer.”

“Understood. I need some form of propulsion within the next two and a quarter hours or we crash into a moon, killing not only this crew, but two million colonists who won’t get their medical supplies.”

The chief froze. The blanched face of Crewman Hamm popped up in the background. Arnold suspected that that walking disaster was the root cause of their current predicament.

Skinner’s eyes narrowed. “Atmospheric displacement.”

Arnold frowned. “What are you suggesting, Chief?”

“I can’t currently access navigation, but our cargo bays line the hull. Open a bay door, take down the air shield, and the resulting air expulsion will change our trajectory.” Another electrical explosion made Skinner wince. “Gotta go.”

The viewscreen blinked off.

“Put forward vision on screen,” Captain Arnold told Garland at the communication station. Cresting behind the nearest plant was the moon in their flightpath.

The only sounds were fingers frantically tapping screens.

“Sir?” Lieutenant Parker called. “I think, if we eject bays A and J simultaneously, that should give us enough of a push to take us out of the range of the moon.”

Mukherjee’s fingers danced over the touch screen. “There’s a problem, Sir.”

“Losing cargo is less problematic than losing lives.” Those words of wisdom came from Lieutenant Prost at Tactical.

“Not with this cargo,” Arnold grated.

“The push from A and J wouldn’t be enough,” Mukherjee said. “We’d still skim the moon’s atmosphere.”

“Not if we blow it up first,” Prost said.

Arnold frowned. “Lieutenant Prost, I appreciate your enthusiasm for a good explosion, but what do you expect to achieve?”

“One less large object in our way, Sir.”

“Replacing it with many smaller objects. Any of which could permanently disable the ship.” Arnold shook his head. “Besides, we don’t carry planet destroyers.” Arnold ran a hand over his mouth.

“Sir?” Winton was unusually hesitant. “What if we blew the cargo bays, not concurrently, but in sequence?”

An interesting thought. Arnold turned to her. “Explain.”

“The atmospheric expulsion Chief Skinner suggested used in sequence should change our trajectory and put the ship into a spin, which in turn means we should skim off the moon’s atmosphere.”

Captain Arnold regarded her without blinking. “Have you run calculations?”

“Not yet, Sir.”

Arnold nodded. “Advise me when you have.”

Arnold left via the main door. Once the door swished closed he moved to the edge of the corridor and rested his forehead on the cool metal bulkhead. He banged his skull twice. Once for each million people they were letting down. How had he ended up on a medical supply run at the edge of the known universe with a crew who could barely tell an exhaust port from an expansion joint?

Because he called the Admiral an idiot. He shouldn’t have, however true. But a good captain never gives up on a crew. That was his only hope. Teach this crew to work well together, and they wouldn’t be forced out. Nor would he, despite the Admiral.

Pulling himself together, he moved to the door separating the bridge from the ships working guts. Here he saw the cargo bays, each reached via an open staircase. The engine room was across the central gantry over the wide inflight storage area. Because this was a relatively short flight the area was virtually empty.

Across the gantry, Arnold entered engineering. Despite the engines taking up the entire rear quarter of the ship, this room was the same size as the bridge, but with fewer workstations and an incredible view of the FTL fission chamber.

The room felt wrong without the white-blue shimmer from a working containment field. All fission material had been evacuated to stasis chambers where the reaction was suspended, leaving the drive an empty bottle in a ship.

Vents had cleared the smoke. Opposite the door, a knot of four people crowded the open wall and floor panels of the containment field generator. Crewman Hamm stood close by. As always, the man’s uniform looked slept in, rumpled and stained, with a rip by the ankle. Whether his hair had ever seen a comb was debatable. There was something so innately unkempt about Crewman Hamm that neat and tidy could not exist in his proximity.

“I want to help,” Hamm said.

“You’ve done enough,” Skinner growled, turned to glare, then spotted the captain. Skinner issued instructions before he stood, wiped his hands on his uniform, and strode across to the captain.

“How bad?” Arnold kept his voice down.

“Bad,” Skinner whispered. “Unbelievable.” He shook his head in despair.

“What happened?”

“Crewman Hamm.”

No surprise. “What did he do?”

“I asked him to check the running stats of the containment field generator.”

Arnold noted Skinner’s fist clenched at his side.

“Something easily done at a monitoring station.” All telemetry was fed to those stations. “Only station three has been on the fritz for the last four days.”

“How long has Crewman Hamm been on multi-skilling rotation here?”

“Four days, Sir.”

Of course. The problem with multi-skilling was the assumption that a crewman had skills to start with.

Oddly, Crewman Hamm’s speciality was security. Arnold and Skinner agreed that Hamm was undoubtedly the best sharpshooter either of them had known in careers spanning three decades. A depressing reminder that he and Skinner had served for longer than most of this crew had been alive.

“He moved to station five.”

“Let me guess, that also went on the fritz?”

“Yeah, but not necessarily Hamm’s fault. So I told him to eyeball the stats.”

Arnold nodded. That meant opening the wall panel and reading directly from the instrumentation.

“Why is the floor panel open?”

Skinner rolled his eyes. “When removing the wall panel, Crewman Hamm bent the lower corner. So after taking the readings he couldn’t replace the panel. Meaning he had to open the adjacent floor panel. That’s when things went wrong.”

“How?”

“Crewman Hamm arrived late, bearing breakfast.”

Arnold’s stomach sank. “Breakfast?”

“A runny egg sandwich with saturnyne sauce,” Skinner said through clenched teeth. “The egg dripped into the containment field generator while the panel was open.”

“I see.” A vice tightened around Arnold’s skull. “So what took out the remaining propulsion systems?”

“The sauce,” Skinner said.

Arnold blinked.

Skinner led his captain to the nearest engineering station and called up a schematic of the ship, focused on the containment drive. “Command connections to all drives run through this conduit, right next to the containment field generator. That’s no problem because the generator never heats up. However, when Hamm pulled up the floor panel, he also pulled up the generator shielding. Meaning his drippy egg fell directly into the reverse polarity ionisers and cooked, blocking the ionisers.”

“That caused an explosion?”

Skinner nodded. “And broke into the command connection conduit.”

“But each cable in that conduit is heat shielded. It should take more than that to burn through them.”

“That’s where the saturnyne sauce comes in. When the explosion happened, that lighter density sauce was propelled into the conduit were it mixed with the carrier fluid, which reacted with the vinegar in saturnyne sauce amplifying its acidity levels and eating through every cable within the conduit, including key nodes in the redundancy network.”

“So to get any propulsion at all, what do we have to do?”

“Completely reroute all control cables, bypassing the field generator conduit, which I can do, but after that, rebuilding the containment field generator will be a ten-hour job.”

“Bridge to Captain Arnold.”

Lieutenant-Commander Winton’s tentative voice came through. Skinner pressed pads on the closest screen to draw the feed to their position.

“Go ahead, Winton,” Arnold said into the viewer.

“We’ve worked it out.” Winton appeared pleased. “We can run a series of atmospheric expulsions from the cargo bays. It will ensure we miss the moon.”

“I want to see those calculations before you act,” Skinner demanded.

Winton swallowed, nodded, and tapped her console. “Data transferred to you, Sir.”

“Winton,” Arnold said, “organise the entire crew to relocate the medical supplies into the central holding area. We can’t save everything, but let’s reduce our losses to bandages and tape, Derayus needs the medications more.”

“Already on it, Sir.”

With that relief, the screen went blank, and Arnold watched Skinner check the computations. “Your thoughts?”

“There’s a certain insanity to it that just might work.” Skinner stood straight and turned around. “Crewmen Hamm and Johannes, get to the storage area, help move the cargo.”

Both men offered salutes. Arnold tried not to notice how much Hamm needed to improve his.

“It’ll work?” Arnold asked, seeing Skinner frown over the calculations again.

“It’ll work, but the timing has to be perfect.” Skinner looked up. “You want solid fuel or FTL back first?”

“FTL.” If the expulsion idea worked, they’d need that most. If it didn’t work, they’d be dead. “Keep me informed.”

Arnold worried as he walked back to the bridge. Below the gantry, everybody not on duty was scrambling to unload the cargo bays. Some still in sleep suits.

Quiet calm descended over the bridge as Captain Arnold retook his chair.

When the door swished open and Crewman Hamm stepped in, Arnold braced.

“The bays are as empty as possible, Captain.”

Even Arnold relaxed as Hamm took position at the security workstation. The viewscreen showed the moon they were approaching.

“Physical cargo bay doors are open. Air shields holding,” Winton advised from the secondary science station on the edge of the bridge. There she would use the mathematical model to mark the moment for each opening. Prost would control the air shields. Parker would monitor reality against the model to confirm progress or alert of deviations.

“This is your show, Lieutenant-Commander Winton,” Arnold said. “On your mark.”

“Yes, Sir.” Timing was critical. Too late and they’d hit the moon, too soon and they’d hit the planet. Just right, they’d twist away from the collision. Arnold’s impulse to grip the armrests was repressed to demonstrate faith in his crew.

“Lieutenant Prost,” Winton said, “on my mark, blow seals on cargo bay C.”

“Yes, Sir.”

One heartbeat.

“Mark.”

One press and the air seal over cargo bay C blinked out. On the screen, the image shifted.

“Cargo bay B on my mark. Mark.”

One more press, and the image reorientated, distance made pallets of bandages from bay C seem tiny as they drifted away.

Winton and Prost moved through the sequence from C to A, then J back to D. Each air seal fell precisely to Winton’s mark. As they moved through the sequence, the spinning of the ship showed as the moon started to whirl around the viewscreen’s edges. The manoeuvre was working. No moon crash today. Arnold felt his heart calm as the moon made another circuit. Any moment now the screen would show the moon only on the left-hand side. Any moment now.

The moon got closer. Any moment now. The moon got far too close.

“Projected trajectory not achieved. Atmospheric graze in ten seconds,” Parker announced.

“Prost,” Arnold commanded. “Raise shields. Hamm, close all bay doors. Garland, red alert.”

The triple ‘Yes, Sir’ was heartening as the lights changed colour and sirens clamoured.

“Shields are up,” Prost announced.

“All bay doors secured,” Hamm confirmed a second later.

Arnold called for shipwide comms. “All hands brace for impact.”

His own safety belt clicked into place. The edge of the moon filled the left-hand side of the screen, and the inertial dampeners could not eradicate the impact of atmospheric drag.

“Shields are holding,” Prost reported.

“Getting heat warnings in cargo bays F and G,” Hamm added.

“Two more seconds and we’ll be free,” Parker announced.

Arnold’s heart thumped painfully, then the moon and its planet disappeared, along with the drag factor. They were flying free, still under inertia but safe from crashing.

“We did it!”

Winton’s triumphant cry initiated cheers on the bridge.

Arnold allowed himself one moment of closed-eyed appreciation. “Mr Mukherjee, confirm changes in trajectory.”

Breaking off his own celebration, Mukherjee did. Arnold waited.

“They’ll call it the Winton Wheel,” Hamm declared.

As Mukherjee turned in his seat, lacking a smile, Arnold doubted anybody would ever hear about the manoeuvre, let alone name it. Winton was quickest to pick up on the silence from the captain’s chair. She called for quiet.

“Sir?”

Arnold could not fault the tentative tone. He requested Mukherjee’s report.

“We won’t hit the sun. We’ll hit the first planet.”

Incredible. They had made things worse.

The central viewscreen changed to show an unhappy Chief Skinner. “Captain.”

Arnold knew that look. Skinner’s report that they couldn’t get any engines running in time helped no one. No. There had to be a way to make this right. He had never lost a crew and wouldn’t start now. Two million colonists were depending on them.

“Okay,” Arnold said. “This crew is without a doubt the most disaster-prone the fleet has ever had the misfortune to have. But we are a crew. And unless we do something effective, we will be a dead crew. Suggestions anyone?”

“Abandoned ship?” Crewman Hamm said.

“No point,” Winton said. “The escape pods only support life for fourteen Earth standard days. The nearest M-class planet would take an escape pod sixteen days to reach.”

“So the choice is die quick or die slow?” Prost demanded.

“No,” Arnold said. “Two million lives, people. We will find a way.”

“We’ve survived worse,” Hamm tried.

Arnold glared at him. “Only after getting yourselves into worse.” He sighed. “We’ve avoided one collision, we’ll avoid the next. Prost, you know weapons. If we fire on the planet with inertial dampeners off, will that push us away from the plant?”

Prost ran the calculations. “Yes Sir, but not far enough.”

“Sir,” Parker said tentatively. All eyes turned to him. “According to my readings, the first planet has no atmosphere. It’s basically a floating rock. If we reconfigure the deflector array above cargo bays E and F, then redirect the bay loading beams through the deflector, we can basically turn those shields into a tractor beam.”

“You want us to tractor beam ourselves towards a planet?” Prost asked.

“No, no. Yes!” Mukherjee said fingers dancing over his console. “Parker’s got it. Time it right and we can use that makeshift tractor beam to slingshot us around the planet and put us at a tangent to the sun. We’ll go past, but we won’t go in.”

“Without shields, we’ll burn to a crisp,” Garland pointed out.

“Not necessarily,” Skinner said, surprising Arnold. “Parker’s suggestion leaves the remainder of the shield emitters functional. If we only use the deflectors over E and F for the tractor beam, then as long as we’re not trying to use that and shields simultaneously, we can reconfigure the remaining shields to cover the entire ship, though they’ll be closer to the actual hull than usual.”

“If they fail,” Garland worried, “we burn instantly.”

“If we don’t try we burn anyway,” Arnold said.

“We should reduce power draw too,” Skinner said. “Move everybody to either the bridge or engineering to reduce life support requirements. We can do this.”

“Chief Skinner?” Parker put in. “With the shields in that configuration, would they have the power to survive a coronal mass ejection?”

Arnold wanted to scream. “Are we expecting a CME?”

“Yes Sir, and we want it too. If it hits us side on it will throw us beyond the terminal heat perimeter of the sun.”

“You want to play pinball with my ship, in hope that the hottest air blower in the galaxy can save us from solar incineration?”

Parker’s expression of uncertainty increased. “Er, yes, Sir.”

Arnold nodded. “Okay, crew we have a plan, Lieutenant Parker assist Chief Skinner to get those arrays working.” He looked at Mukherjee. “How long do they have?”

“Fifty-eight minutes.”

The viewscreen returned to the star, a massive ball of swirling, burning gas and potential death.

“Crewman Hamm, lock all physical shields in place. Lieutenant-Commander Winton, get every crewmember to the bridge or engineering. Everyone, this is going to be a rough ride, you will project confidence and capability to the rest of this crew even if you don’t feel it. There will be no mistakes. Do it.”

There was no frantic activity. Emergencies weren’t the same when it was all pressing touch screens. Still, Arnold knew the crew was doing everything possible. He turned to the comms desk. “Garland, mute the alert, that siren doesn’t help.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The crew started to filter in. There were twenty-four and the captain. Eight for each working shift. Though it was a skeleton crew, Arnold felt his responsibility to every member. He was glad that of the sixteen off duty, twelve were here, leaving Skinner more room to work. Even those rudely awoken from rest periods had never looked more alert. Except Baldwin, who curled up in a corner and instantly fell asleep.

“Captain?” Prost called. “Would you mind reviewing something with me?”

Needing a diversion, Arnold moved to the tactical station. “Yes, Prost?”

He appreciated the man’s discretion as Prost kept his voice low. “The CME, it’s going to be a big one.”

“We need it to be, to move us far enough out. But with shields up we should be protected.”

“Yes, sir. But look where that takes us.” Prost pointed to his workstation. “We’re already on the outer rim. Once that CME hits, we’ll be flung aside, still travelling under inertia. We’ll drift to the edge, right into that.”

Prost’s screen clearly denoted The Scatter Field.

Arnold swallowed.

The Scatter Field, the last remnant of an unknown war. It was a system of self-replicating mines, technology so advanced no one knew who had built it or how it remained working at least four thousand years after installation. Entering that field was a death sentence.

“How long till we reach the activation point?”

“Five hours.”

“Then let’s celebrate the fact that Skinner said it would only take him four and a half to fix the FTL. Well spotted, but keep it to yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arnold returned to his chair to see a secure message on personal comms. From Skinner. He opened it eyes only, so the message was projected directly into his eyes, unseeable by others. This tractor beam idea, genius, but kill or cure. Fifty-fifty survival probability.

At that point, fifty-fifty was good.

An eternity passed far too quickly before Skinner announced the array was reconfigured. Parker confirmed rerouting the loading beams through the dish between the deflectors over bays E and F. He was flushed when he looked up at Arnold.

“We’re good to go, Sir.”

Arnold nodded. “Mukherjee, are you ready?”

“We’ll be in range in six.”

“Prost, on Mukherjee’s mark, activate that tractor beam.”

“Five.”

“Target is locked.”

“Four.”

The countdown stretched everyone’s nerves. Mukherjee looked up as he said “One” and locked eyes with Prost. Hearts thumped.

“Mark.”

Prost pressed his screen. Nothing happened.

The ship juddered. Arnold looked down at his readouts. Everything confirmed that they were now being pulled towards the planet. The tractor beam had pulled them out of their spin and into a stable trajectory.

“Release,” Mukherjee called.

“Released,” Prost confirmed.

Another jolt as the connection severed. “Confirm course.”

“Course confirmed,” Mukherjee said.

“CME has commenced,” Parker reported. “We’ll hit the concussion wave in … five…”

“Sheilds are up,” Prost said.

“All hands brace for impact,” said Garland, a ship-wide announcement. All seated personnel had belt restraints, but most would have to cling on.

“Four…”

Arnold filtered out the countdown. They would not die today. He sent a private message to Skinner.

The ship shuddered and rocked. The CME hit like a demolition charge. The room jumped sideways. The security straps across Arnold’s chest tightened painfully. People were forced off their feet, two screams announced injuries, Baldwin slid from his chosen front corner to the opposite corner. He sat up, shook his head, took one glance around the bridge, curled up again, and fell back to sleep.

“How does he do that?” Winton demanded.

Telemetry confirmed they were moving away from the sun. The increasing temperature told Arnold he still had two reasons to sweat.

“And we’re clear!” Mukherjee announced.

The cheers were euphoric, and Arnold wouldn’t stop them, didn’t want to, however premature they were. Skinner reported life support returned to the whole ship.

Crewman Hamm sat straighter. “I’ll raise the shutters.”

“Belay that,” Arnold told him. “Let them cool in position. Dr McGuire—” Their only medically trained officer was here. “—we have injured. Triage here, treat any serious wounds in the med bay.” The med bay had only one bed. “Make a ship-wide announcement when you’re ready for the minor injuries to line up at your door. Lieutenant-Commander Winton, you have the conn.” He stood and headed out. “I’ll be in engineering. And for pity’s sake, someone wake up Baldwin.”

The crew cleared the way as the captain rushed towards engineering. Inside, Skinner and team continued working on the containment field.

“Anything I can do to assist?” Arnold asked.

“Nope.” Skinner was on his knees.

A punk-haired scrap of a girl moved towards Skinner wearing a sleep suit and carrying a bundle of cables and spares. “I’ll fix this, you reassure the captain.”

Skinner made way for the girl, then approached Arnold, moving him to the far side of the room.

“You’re trusting a trainee with this repair?” Arnold asked.

“No, I’m trusting Myka.”

“She’s wearing a non-regulation cat sleepsuit and bunny slippers.”

“And knows more about engines now than I ever have or will. You want this done in three hours, she’s our only hope. What’s with the three hours, anyway? We’ve ridden the CME out of danger, haven’t we?”

“Out of one danger. Now we’re heading towards death by self-replicating mine.”

Skinner swore. “Does God hate us?”

“We’re alive, so no. But three hours, yeah?”

Skinner rolled his eyes. “Three hours.”

This crew had been pushed and still would be. Surviving would be good, surviving with good morale would be better. Arnold stopped at medical and general quarters, checking on the crew, bolstering spirits. For a few minutes he joined those replacing cargo in the bays. But he was sweating without the exertion. The urge to check time elapse was too great. The Scatter Field was coming, like or know it or not. Not wanting to infect others with his tension, he returned to the bridge. In a ship-wide announcement he thanked the crew, as one and individually, stating that they had given an exemplary performance.

“What was Baldwin’s performance exemplary of?” Prost asked under his breath.

“Remaining calm under pressure,” Arnold stated as he checked his watch again and headed to his ready room. Under an hour to go. It might be the last thing he ever did, but he had to complete his log and dictate letters of commendation for his bridge and engineering crew.

He was about to transmit them when the artificial gravity failed.

Dragging himself back to the desk, he hit the comms. “Chief Skinner?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“I’ve lost gravity in my ready room.”

“Oops, sorry!”

Arnold assumed that high-pitched response was Myka’s. He landed with a bump. After scrambling into his chair, he opened a viewscreen to Skinner. “What happened?”

Myka’s spiky hair appeared. “Sorry Sir, my fault. I wanted to stop our drift into the Scatter Field. So I reversed the tractor beam and sent out a repulsion wave of equal and opposite magnitude to our drift. Didn’t expect it to knock out sections of artificial gravity.” She drifted away, muttering to herself.

“Sir.” Winton appeared at the door. “We are at a complete halt. No more drifting. Except geospatially, of course.”

The whole universe was in constant movement, so nothing was ever truly stationary. “Thank you, Winton. Prost!” he shouted through. “Who did you tell about the Scatter Field?”

“The Scatter Field?” Winton’s tone hit the appropriate squeak of fear.

“No one, Sir.”

“Then how did Crewman Myka know?”

“She’s weird, knows everything. Current drift ETA puts us fifty-seven hours and forty-two minutes until entry to the Scatter Field. Do you think we’ll have propulsion by then?”

Sarcasm, just want he needed. “No doubt, Lieutenant.”

“It’s fixed,” Mukherjee proclaimed in surprise.

“What?” Winton asked.

“FTL is back online.”

Arnold didn’t know what Myka had done, but he was damned glad she’d done it. “Mukherjee, plot a course for Derayus Prime. We have two million people to save.” Arnold looked back to Winton. “You have the conn, Lieutenant-Commander. Just meet the schedule.”

Her grin a mile wide, Winton turned and gained the captain’s chair. As the door closed, Arnold turned to face the stars.

Would losing some cargo count against them? Knowing the Admiralty, yes. But he wouldn’t let them denigrate this crew. They were children who’d been berated for imperfection too many times. He could build the confidence they needed. If he held on to them and the captain’s chair.

He smiled as the faster than light drive kicked in, and stars rainbow streaked across the void.

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About GB Williams:

GB Williams lives in her own private dungeon populated with all the weird and the wonderful she can imagine. Some of it’s very weird, and the odd bits and pieces are a bit wonderful. GB is English by birth, but lives in Swansea, Wales, married a Welshman and they have two fantastic children. They live with the worlds most imperious and demanding cat. GB usually writes contemporary crime recently moving into psychic detective series and is developing a urban fantasy series. GB also writes Steampunk as Abi Barden. In total she has twelve full length novels out and six short stories published.

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This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Wasted Trips by John Currier

I'm not entirely sure how I did it. I haven't been able to re-create it. Maybe it had something to do with the location, or with the radio transmitter station that sat outside my back fence. Whatever it was, I can't recapture it. I brought all my equipment with me and even tried to reposition it all, just as I remembered it, but no luck.

Even if I never get it to work again, at least I can say I've actually traveled in time. Not many people can say that. I can even prove it. Or I have some pretty good evidence, anyway.

Time travel was never the goal, you understand. I was just killing time. I was right out of college, looking for something to take my mind off a dead-end job. Being a delivery boy is okay, but it's not very fulfilling. Not much room for advancement either.

I was playing with some electrical equipment I'd scrounged up--some wire, an old oscilloscope, radio tubes, a transformer and such. I didn't even know what I was going to do with it all. Well, I had something of a plan.

I should add that this was back in the 1980’s. I was trying to create a stereo speaker that didn't need actual woofers and tweeters. I wanted to come up with a way to produce an electronic field around the listener, around me, which would allow me to shut out external noise; hear perfect sound, unhindered by the limitations of speaker materials; and do it in such a way that it couldn't be heard outside of a specific, and very limited, radius. You could say I wanted to create headphones without the need for headphones. Pretty ambitious for its day I suppose, and I had no clue how I might go about it. I had just enough electronics savvy to be dangerous. In fact, I probably could have killed myself. But I didn't. I traveled in time!

Actually, I was pretty stupid about the whole thing. I'm more and more convinced about my lack of brains now that I find there's no way to make the journey anymore. I could have seen great events in history, met famous people, changed the outcome of battles. God! Who knows what I could have done? But I, in my adolescent short-sightedness, decided to play games.

By accident, I found I could make controlled leaps in time and get back to the present (thank God for that). It was just plain strange. I got set up for my first attempt at EFS--that was my name for it--Electronic Field Sound, and flipped the switch and boom, I was in the past. God, it was weird. It took me a while to figure out what had happened. I'm just glad I had the volume set low. That's what determines how long your journey lasts. It was the wave-length of the signal that determined how far back you go. I guess how far forward too, though I'm not sure that would work. I used a pretty short wavelength--I was working with pure tones, not a jumble of musical signals--and I learned that the shorter the wavelength, the closer to the present you'd wind up. I can't see how you could get sent into the future. That may not be possible.

When I figured out how the timing worked, I decided to settle a question I'd had ever since I first read "The Time Machine". Could an item really exist alongside itself? I though the redundancy was impossible. I was wrong.

I had a dollar bill sitting on my dresser. It had been there for a day or so. I picked it up and sent myself back in time. Just a few hours. When I arrived there, sure enough, the dollar bill was still in my hand and there on the dresser was a dollar bill with the same serial number. I left the bill on the dresser and returned to the present, fully expecting to see two one-dollar bills on the bureau. There was only one.

I was confused for a minute, then I sorted it out. There was only one bill on the dresser because I had taken the one from the present to the past and left it there. So, I thought, there are two bills on that dresser in the past, but now, after I removed one from the present there was still only one here. I concluded that this dollar must be the duplicate. Just to be sure, I tried it again. It was a simple procedure, except when I went back this time, I ran into myself putting a dollar bill on my dresser. I was watching my first experiment!

I'm not sure why it is, but though I was aware of him, that is, me, he wasn't aware of me. What I mean is, for some reason, maybe just for sanity's sake, you can't relate to yourself if you go back in time to meet yourself. Well, sort of, you can. It only works one way. The first trip I made, I appeared to be alone, and maybe I was. But the second trip was different. On that trip, even though I couldn't talk to the other me, I could see me. I wonder if, even now, as I scribble these notes, if I'm not watching me as the result of some future trip to the past, my present.

I don't understand it all, but I know I didn't care for being in a room with myself. It was just too much. I decided to avoid that confusion from then on.

I put my dollar bill down after the first time-traveling "me" had faded back to his present and hoped I'd be done with this trip before another me followed. I looked at the three dollar bills on the dresser, the original, the one from my first trip and my latest addition. When I returned to the present, I imagined, there should be two bills on the dresser. My trip ended with that thought and suddenly I was back to my time. I went to the dresser and, sure enough, there were now two identical bills.

"This is great!" I shouted. I realized a guy could get rich doing this, but then a case of rational thinking hit me. How long could I do this back and forth stuff--bumping into myself--before it would get unmanagable? Honestly, I thought I might lose my mind or something. Besides, who would believe I got rich legitimately when they saw my money was all in one-dollar bills, all carrying identical serial numbers? I'd be in the clink before I could get change.

I had to think this out. Then it hit me! I COULD pull this off! I really could!

You see, I remembered that I had this ring, a gold ring. My uncle told me it was gold, and he's a jeweler, so he should know. It had been sitting in my general junk drawer for over a year. I even remembered the date, June 26, 1986. I knew the date because it was the same day that Marsha Mulletson broke up with me--plus, it was my birthday. It was my birthday and she broke up with me! What a jerky thing to do! Anyway, I was at her house to visit when she dropped this bomb on me and I just couldn't believe it. So I left to walk home, taking the long way.

On the way, I swore and stomped and kicked, and in the course of all that, I determined that an old beer bottle was Marsha's butt. I gave it a good swift boot. After the dust cleared, there it was, this dirty old ring. It looked like a man's wedding band, and, as I said, it was gold.

Well, I don't have to tell you that I saw some great possibilities here. I didn't want to screw it up, though. I sat down and started to calculate how I was going to go about this venture.

I decided to play the same game, but with more precision. I didn't want to meet myself again, so I plotted some travel times that would put me at the dresser only when I, in my past, had been at work or asleep.

I gave myself five minute intervals. All I was going to do was put my ring from the present next to the ring in the past. I just hoped my past self wouldn't discover what was going on. I couldn't remember going into that drawer over the last year, but you can never be sure.

It was incredibly easy. I was lucky. I never had looked in that drawer in the past year--well there was once, but at the time, the rings hadn't multiplied much, so I didn't notice anything odd. If I had only known!

It went on for months--going and returning and opening the drawer and closing it and taking a ring from the present and leaving a ring in the past--all the time watching the rings add up in my general junk drawer of today. I got smart, too, finally. The drawer actually got full at one point, and I wasn't sure where to go with it all, so I decided the past was a good place. I emptied the present-day drawer and then started going back to the night before to add buckets of rings. Going back to a time when I was aware of my experiment, I thought it wise to leave myself a note explaining what was going on. That was pretty neat, getting a note from my future self. Anyway, the rings really started to add up now.

Yes, it all added up and now I'm a very rich man. I wonder if Marsha Mulletson knows what she did for me. I'll never have to worry about money again. When I decided I could easily afford it, I moved into a new place. It was then that the journeys stopped. The old place changed hands and was torn down. After numerous attempts at re-establishing my time traveling capability, I re-bought the land in hopes of being able to regain the elements necessary to time travel. So far, though, nothing has worked.

Now, don't take this next thing wrong, because I appreciate the money, I really do. But I feel like those trips in time were wasted. I'd sure like to see Lindbergh landing in Paris, or watch the attack on Pearl Harbor, but I missed out. Who knows, maybe it was impossible to travel beyond the room my equipment was in. I never so much as tried. How stupid!

I'm going to keep plugging away at it, but until I get it all figured out again, I'm stuck here, in the present, with my comfortable life, my hodgepodge of electrical equipment and my two identical one-dollar bills.

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About John Currier:

John Currier published his first novel, CLOVIS, KING OF THE FRANKS in 1997. A biographical novel of the first King of France, it was the first fiction published by Marquette University Press. He has published in The Sun Magazine and has authored two other novels, Sire of Kings, a prequel to Clovis, King of the Franks, and A Simple Adjustment. He lives and writes in Central Wisconsin. He has also produced two albums of original music: The Best Kind of Ache and It’s Hard Work to Play. Additionally, he has written scripts and screenplays that currently hold down his writing table.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

The Joy of Sigz by Julia Hawkes-Moore

After the Catastrophe, it had taken only one generation of Humankind for Sigz to become universal. How long had Sigz been present on planet Earth? The general Scientific opinion was forever, but humans had only glimpsed them as as haloes, auras, orbs, will-of the wisps, dust-devils. They were now considered as Angels. I hated them.
The great Storms which hurled themselves across post-disaster Earth were no issue for the Sigz. Fraught with ancient passions, riders could bob, soar, dive and dip with glee - or fury at the profound global losses. The injured and disabled, like Lazarus, stepped up from their wheelchairs into airy freedom. Many just shuddered and shivered with panicked misery for hours and days, before some stability was restored by the Sigz caresses. I tried to help, but was too angry to be tolerant of whingers. There was too much to do, and no-one else was doing anything!
Sigz initially gathered like shuddering bunches of grapes around any working communications towers, but as devices ran out of charge, that stopped. There was no news, no more explanations. Flashing a light was enough for a Sig to be approached by others, to converse and soothe.
Sigz had no agenda, they just wanted to serve with joy. They first became popular in the North, as refuge from snow and ice. However polluted, cold or hot the air around, the Sigz temperature was fresh and perfect for it’s rider. The awkwardness of clothes was banished. As pet-keeping necessarily fell out of fashion, Sigz met all needs for tactile delights at their owners’ whims.
As clothes decayed, everyone became naked as they had arrived on the planet. The translucence of each Sig provided privacy as the owner wished. Each dimmed to black as the owner slept within. I could not stab or pierce or even prod a single Sig.
Lovers could merge their Sigz into luminous revolving balls of marbled passion. Making more babies became the sole purpose of many humans. There was no consideration of what hell those babes were being born into. Waiting beside a mother giving birth was a glowing ball of light ready to envelop and protect the new-born child. I beheld a triplet mother have three Sigz waiting happily, gently bobbing in anticipation. As each babe was held up into the air for the first time, their Sig melded around the fragile new body, cleansing and purifying, caressing and warming. Staying fused with the Sigz of their parents, until teenagers stepped away entirely into their own Sig. Scientists studied the length of tendrils of connection between families, stretching out until micro-cellular. Impossible to snap or cut, yet never tangling. Believe me, I tried to slice that umbilical cord in every way I could, and failed.
There was no racism to Sigz, they gained the skin-colour of their precious occupant. Flawless smooth skin-textures wrapped around the body. They could contract to strengthen a toddler’s first steps, or expand into a globe supporting a comfortable sleeping human. The fact that Sigz could fly was avidly welcomed by earth-bound humanity. Whatever the weather, the temperature of the Sigz was perfect for each occupant. Everywhere you looked, orbs of soft light floated, with more purposeful people zipping across the sky in arcs of intent. Some flashed with need to communicate with another human. Most Sigz just dawdled idly, which made me angry.
With the air fouled by the chemical smoke and fumes of the the Great Disaster, riding in Sigz had become an obvious solution. They purified the air, and finger-like nipples proffered ambrosia and nectar directly into hungry, dry and thirsty mouths. Everyone reported the liquids as being their own favourite flavours. Mine were fresh peach-juice and tiramisu, which was annoyingly pleasant.
As a soul who had striven to learn and study as a Midwife, I watched for years as neighbours drifted comfortably, or fell ill and died. Lacking protein and fats, youth grew pale and spectre-thin and died. As they died, their Sig contracted, greying into a shrivelled husk, shrinking, consuming the body, then blinking out into non-existence. There was nothing left to commemorate, just an absence of decay and rot.
I stumbled across the blasted heath which used to be my home-town. My own Sig bobbed behind me, proffering rest and sustenance - to which I occasionally succumbed. I would kick the Sig like an unwanted balloon, trying to run from it, jump and leap, slash it with my precious scalpel. But it waited patiently, just beyond my compass.
Humans were all in deep shock at the devastation of their planet. A few birds and animals were reported to have survived, but predators did not last long after Armageddon. The harrowed earth crawled with cockroaches, weevils, and Sigz.
As I struggled to scour the earth for useful articles surviving the catastrophe, at first others joined and helped me search. We rescued a few people trapped in cellars and caverns, alerted by their small bobbing Sig tentacles flashing in desperation. But the others gradually gave up, and shrugged away in their Sigz, leaving me alone and cursing.
As the years crept by, I observed fewer people outside their Sigz. After the first decade, a few plants began to poke tendrils out from the ash, and the greening began to replenish the atmosphere with the oxygen of Life. I tried eating a few plants but I did not recognise enough to be certain. All the ten thousand years humans had strained to improve agriculture were worthless.
Humans became soft and thin, former obesity hanging in crumpled folds and flaps of skin. The Sigz I recognised were growing fewer. I tried to teach clusters of small bony children how to speak and count, singing, telling stories about how the World used to be. But for them it was all unimaginable and dull. Bored, they drifted away to sip and drowse. What use was singing ‘The wheels on the bus’ when there were no wheels, no buses? Why count beyond fingers and toes and how many Sigz can you see? Why sing carols, hymns, or recite prayers to a God which cleearly does not care?
Seeing me approaching, Sigz began to bounce away, avoiding engaging with the tattered madwoman. I used to be valued and loved – but now I was an irritation. I wept and screamed and swore at the ending of all hope. The Past had gone, and there was no Future.
Eventually I too gave up, reclining in idle comfort and just watching. Often I saw adult Sigz shrinking and withering and dissolving into death. Everyone I knew was ceasing to be.
The children in Sigz became teenagers, and roamed about mating with any willing Sigz of their own size. Marauding gangs of sleek youth patrolled and argued in a dodgem-car manner with other gangs.
It was a kindling of peace, as the first shoots of brambles, nettles and trees began to arise. I could foresee great forests reclaiming our little planet. I glimpsed a few tiny animals scuttling through the undergrowth, dining on leaves and cockroaches. I watched a flower bud and unfurl, bloom, spread seeds, wither and die.
Our Earth began to reclaim herself - and this time would be peopled only with Hell’s own Angels.

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About Julia Hawkes-Moore:

Architectural Historian, Published Author, Librarian, Teacher and Cook. Julia lives in lovely Herefordshire, caring for her old Mum and dabbling in history.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

The Great Alien Adventure by Jacqui Collier

The Great Alien Adventure started out with Rosie taking Monday off work, to take me to the hospital. My foot had started itching - not normally a problem, but when you have a bionic foot… well, that’s not normal. My doctor wanted to see me as soon as I called him, taking phantom limb pain seriously. Rosie and I don’t often get to do things together during the week, so after the appointment we had lunch at a country pub. Rosie spent a full hour telling me everything she was sick of this month, from annoying effing academics to effing annoying filing, but eventually she ground to a halt and asked me how the appointment went. The doctor had said there was no obvious reason for the itching, suggested it was maybe a spot of unusual electrical activity in the bionic circuitry, and gave me antihistamines just in case. I made a mental note to call in for a foot service, even though it hadn’t been long since the last one.

Rosie didn’t take this lack of resolution very well. She is a very - shall we say, passionate? kind of a person. Her boss often says that I am extremely lucky that she loves me, as it’s very clear that I wouldn’t survive five minutes if she didn’t. Bit of a force of nature, our Rosie Lee.

We - the three of us: me, Rosie, and her teenaged son - live in Rushford, where Benjamin goes to school. Rather agreeably, he had just gone on a week-long school residential trip, leaving the previous evening. It was just me and her together today, with the whole lazy afternoon stretching ahead of us. If only I could get her to stop ranting and come home with me, we might have a nice leisurely nap. Everyone likes a lovely afternoon nap, don’t they? But no. Rosie was in full flood. It was ‘terrible’ how my poor missing foot made me a guinea pig for the latest crackpot contraptions, it was ‘horrible’ how I had lost my foot in the first place, it was even ‘awful’ that she hadn’t been allowed in the hospital room with me and my consultant that morning. That was no accident. She had previously terrified the poor man so much that he could barely speak, which isn’t what you want or need from a medical professional. It was during this part of the conversation that my foot stopped itching and started beeping.

We both fell silent, her open-mouthed, mid-sentence, and me with a chip halfway into my gob. It fell out onto the table when my foot beeped a second time. Rosie gave me a Hard Stare. I quickly picked up the chip, but the Stare continued.

“Has it always done that?” she interrogated me in the manner of an Iberian Inquisitor.

“No, never before.”

“What do you think it means? Is it low on battery or something?”

I shrugged. “Not a clue. It’s fully charged - see this green light? Do you think perhaps they did some kind of software upgrade again?”

The foot was occasionally emailed some electronic updates by its inventors - don’t ask me, I have no idea how it works - but usually they did the big upgrades when I was physically in the building, and I hadn’t been there for weeks.

“Perhaps something got switched on remotely? Would that make it itch?” she said, with a suspicious tone to her voice. OK, an unusually suspicious tone, even for Rosie.

“I’ll ring them in a bit.” I said. “Perhaps they can tell me what it is.”

“Er,” said Rosie. “Maybe ring them tomorrow when I’m back at work. I didn’t tell anyone I wasn’t going in today and they don’t appear to have noticed.”

My foot beeped twice in quick succession, and then was silent for the next few minutes, as was I.

I finished my chips and my pint, and Rosie drove us home. There were more beeps during the journey, so I took the foot off and put it in the pantry before going upstairs for our nice long nap.

When I retrieved it later, the battery light was still full, but occasionally blinking, which was new. The beep seemed to be quieter, I discovered, if I kept my foot flexed, so I spent the rest of the evening, and the next morning, holding it at a slightly odd angle. Rosie reluctantly went back to the office, and I attempted to work on my latest novel. It was a sprawling space opera with ships and planets and all kinds of galactic warfare, and I was soon lost in the narrative - but when I took a break at lunchtime I discovered I’d somehow inserted the word ‘beep’ into the text at irregular intervals.

Some instances made a little sense - I’d put it in the mouths of several characters, who now appeared to be swearing a lot more than usual. Most instances, however, did not - “the ship beep orbited the planet’s surface, all the while monitoring beep beep the radio signals emanating from it”. That’s no good, even in my admittedly daft brand of SF. I sighed and made a note to run Find and Replace at regular intervals. After eating, I rang and left a message about my foot. No one was available to speak to me, and it seemed unlikely they’d have a quick answer, so I went back to writing. Before I knew it, it was dinner time and Rosie was back. She’d brought a bunch of curious research scientists with her, lured by my message. They all wanted to hear the beeping for themselves.

My foot did not cooperate. I walked up and down the garden for them, with my trouser legs hoicked up so they could see it. The battery light had stopped blinking again. The beep did not make an appearance until they were all leaving in sad resignation. They turned back, as one, and rushed towards me to hear it.

“It’s only a beep,” said Rosie, who obviously wanted them all to leave now.

“It’s been quiet most of the day,” I added, in an attempt to be helpful. “It is only doing it now because I’ve relaxed my foot, I think.”

There was some whispering among the researchers, and eventually one was pushed forward to ask, shyly, if they could take the foot away for the night.

“If I can get it back when Rosie comes home tomorrow?” I asked. I could manage without for a day - I’ve got a non-bionic spare, and crutches if necessary.

They nodded, as one, and scurried away with it. Rosie slammed the door behind them.

“Well, that’s enough of that.” She said, and marched off to cook dinner angrily. The food even tasted a bit angry, when she served it. I wasn’t quite sure why she was so irate - a malfunctioning prosthetic shouldn’t really cause rage, but then, nothing was ever really obvious where Rosie was concerned.

On Wednesday, Rosie went to work as usual, and I hopped around the house on crutches, putting off going back to my novel. It didn’t feel quite right, writing without my foot, strange as that sounds. I watched some daft Cutter vids and made some scribbled notes on what I thought might be a good basis for the next novel. When I reviewed them, my handwriting was even worse than I remembered. I appeared to have written ‘beep beep beep’ in several places where I could swear it should say ‘bioterrorism’ and ‘terraforming’. Thanks, subconscious. But nothing had actually beeped in the house apart from the oven timer.

Wednesday evening, Rosie and my foot returned. The battery light had been covered with a piece of tape - a very hi-tech solution to the blinking, she assured me with a straight face - and nothing else looked different. She handed me a note, which possibly said “we have forced an update to the software, and it didn’t beep for the whole time we had it”, or alternatively “we have undermined the scripture and it isn’t asleep for too long, lucky rabbit”. You can never be entirely sure with research scientists, whose handwriting is all much worse than mine. I put my foot back on - and immediately, it beeped.

Rosie screeched in irritation, and stormed off upstairs with a packet of biscuits and a novel. I got the hint that I should not follow. At least, not with both feet. I busied myself in the kitchen for a while, but the beeping grew louder and more frequent. I took it into the garden, where I startled an owl and two grateful mice. It was starting to annoy me now as well. I sat on the garden wall and took my foot off to have a closer look. I peeled off the tape and confirmed that, as I expected, it was still blinking. There seemed to be a pattern to it now - blink blink, pause, blink, pause, blink blink, beep. Repeat. Every couple of times through the sequence there’d be two beeps, sometimes three. I couldn’t keep count well enough to tell if this was also a repeated sequence, but there definitely was Something happening here. I set the foot on the wall next to me and pondered.

Could I live without it? Sure. I have a spare, as mentioned. Did I want to? Well, it wasn’t like it was super whizzy, despite the bionics. I couldn’t leap tall buildings with a single bound, or anything fancy. Benjamin had at some point scribbled on the sole with a marker pen, and it was pretty scuffed up and tatty even before the application of tape, so it wasn’t even a beautiful example of a prosthetic foot. But dammit, it was mine and I liked having it.

The foot beeped twice at me.

“What?” I asked it, jokingly.

It beeped rapidly, six or seven times. I grabbed it with both hands and peered closely.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

It beeped multiple times, and the light blinked quickly.

“Um. I have no idea what you are saying. Let me have a think for a moment.”

It beeped once and stopped blinking. It was waiting for me.

No amount of jumping through time to see unimaginable things, or writing stories full of - ok, not unimaginable, because I imagined them, but strange things, anyway - had prepared me for the possibility of needing to have a conversation with a prosthetic foot.

I needed to stop thinking of it as a foot, I thought. Too weird. It is a bionic device, with software like any computer. Perhaps I should speak to it like a pod. But saying ‘door’ to a foot seemed a bit strange, and it couldn’t initiate anything. C’mon David, think.

I hopped back to the house - I felt strangely queasy at the thought of putting it back on to walk there - and grabbed my spare from the cupboard. I ventured halfway up the stairs and called softly to Rosie.

“I think I’ve had a breakthrough. Can you help me?”

I could hear her huffing and puffing, but the bedroom door eventually opened, and she peered out.

“Go on then, what do you need?”

“I think it’s trying to talk to me, but I need help figuring out what it’s saying.”

“Oh, give it here!” Rosie reached through the banisters and took it from me. I scrambled quickly up the rest of the stairs and followed her into the office. She put the foot on the desk, and disappeared out for a moment, going into Benji’s room. She reappeared holding an alphabet chart which he’d had on the wall for a year or two before he started school.

“You ask it questions,” she said, “and I’ll point at the letters and write down what it says. If it can see the letters, of course, and if it makes sense.”

She had a tone of voice that said ‘if you have just wasted my time you are going to hear about it tomorrow’. I pressed on, however, as I was fairly sure this was going to work.

“Hey, foot!” I started. Rosie rolled her eyes. “I’m going to ask you a question and Rosie is going to point at a row on the chart. If you want a letter from that row, you beep once. If she should go up, beep twice; down, three times. When we know which row, she’ll move her finger along until you beep again. She’ll write it down and we’ll know what you are trying to say.”

The foot beeped once. Rosie’s finger was on the row that contained XYZ.

“Are you beeping once for yes?” I asked. Rosie moved her finger to the Y and the foot beeped.

“Weirdest ouija session ever,” said Rosie, but I could see a sly glimmer of interest under her usual resting-Medusa-face expression. She was hooked.

I started by asking the foot if it was trying to communicate with me alone. N-O. With everyone? N-O. With someone specific, perhaps a specific group? Rosie rolled her eyes and said “just name them, you fool”. Y-E-S-S-P-A-C-P-O-L-E-E-S-P-L-E-E-Z.

“Spacpo-leesp-leez?” I asked in confusion.

Rosie sighed. “Space Police, dumdum.” She handed me the alphabet chart and put my finger on the ABC row. “You do that. I’ll do this bit.”

I did not dare argue.

“Not calling any police,” she said, “not until you tell us who you are and what you want.”

I braced my finger. But the foot went silent. Stayed silent. Stopped making deliberate noises. You know what I mean.

“You scared it off.” I ventured.

Rosie shrugged. “Perhaps it needs time to figure out what lie to tell us.”

“You’re so cynical, Rosie.”

“And?”

I couldn’t really come up with an answer to that. She was usually right to be.

At 3am the following morning, the beeping restarted. Bleary-eyed, I scrambled to the alphabet chart. Rosie, less than happy about being woken, gave the foot a selection of choice insults and stopped just short of telling it to bugger off and never speak to us again. I fetched her a cup of black tea - I keep all the fixings in the office for emergency cuppa needs, but no milk - and handed her a scratchpad.

“Right, you bastards,” she said. “Make this worthwhile or I’m chucking you out of the window for the night.”

S-O-R-R-I-S-O-R-R-I-P-L-E-E-Z-L-I-S-S-E-N.

“Don’t think much of their spelling.” Rosie whispered to me.

“I don’t know if they can hear us whispering,” I whispered back, “But maybe pretend they can - we don’t want to upset them?”

“Go on,” said Rosie loudly, through gritted teeth.

S-T-U-C-K-I-N-S-P-A-C-E-S-O-M-W-H-E-R-E-N-O-I-D-E-A-N-O-M-A-P-N-O-I-N-N-F-O.

“I was not expecting that,” said Rosie, eerily calm.

I was dumbstruck. My hand continued moving but my brain was racing at a million miles an hour.

“Why are you using this to communicate? Why us?” she asked.

D-A-V-D-I-S-K-N-O-N-E-T-O-U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-D-N-D-A-V-D-R-I-T-E-S-T-H-E-T-R-O-U-T-H-H-E-L-P

“I’m sorry,” I said, “you’ve, er, read my books?”

Y

“But you want the police to help?”

D-A-V-D-C-A-N-N-O-T-H-E-L-P-D-A-V-D-N-O-T-I-N-S-P-A-C-E

Undeniably correct. I had not the faintest idea how to help.

“I only write fiction about space, I can’t offer any practical solutions, that’s true.”

Rosie shushed me. “Do you think you belong here?”

Y

“Are you from here?”

There was no reply for a while. Then:

N-O-S-O-R-R-R-I-N-O-T-O-T-L-S-T-R-A-N-J-E-R

Rosie put the scratchpad down and gestured to me to follow her out of the room. On the landing, with the door shut, we conferred. Which is to say, Rosie talked, and I nodded a lot.

“We don’t know what it is. We don’t know where it is, or if anything it is saying is true. We don’t know how it is communicating with you, or why it picked you and not, say, some kind of space agency that could actually help.”

“Well, to be fair, perhaps it tried, and I was the only person paying attention?”

“It beeped a lot, David. Are you saying that in a space - um - place, lab, thing, full of things monitoring y’know, space, no one would pay attention to something beeping to indicate it had found something communicating from flippin’ SPACE?”

I shook my head. She had a point.

“Maybe something they did to my foot made it receive the signal better?”

She harrumphed. “Now that’s plausible.”

“So we think it’s really in space?”

She glared at me and I shut up again.

“We don’t know, but it wants us to think it is, doesn’t it?”

She paced across the landing.

“So if it is in space, what can we usefully do to help? Nothing. But on the other hand, if it is in space, how the hell is it communicating with us? How can it see us?”

I blinked. That was a very good point and I was annoyed with myself for not thinking about that. Did my foot have a camera now?

Rosie tutted and sat down on the top stair. “Let’s think about this logically. It can see us when we move our hands on the chart, so it has some kind of camera. It can hear us speaking, so there’s a microphone too. It can’t seem to broadcast to us, except by blinking and beeping, which presumably is using some function in that blasted prosthetic. Why did they have to keep adding features? Wasn’t a basic foot good enough?”

I pointed out that the alien - because obviously it was one, this was far too exciting for it not to be aliens - maybe didn’t have a microphone at their end, and maybe the foot was still capable of broadcasting sound if they sent any. Rosie glared menacingly at my knees, which were level with her head. I backed away slightly.

“I think we should go and prod the actual foot a bit,” I said. “Then maybe ask some more questions.”

Rosie nodded and disappeared off into the bedroom, emerging a moment later with a very large hammer. I made a mental note not to ask why it was in there.

We went back into the office. The foot was dark and quiet, the battery light no longer blinking. Rosie picked it up and started to examine it closely.

“Here,” she whispered, and pointed. There was a panel that was new-looking - shinier than the rest - just under the battery light and above the charging point. Rosie held the foot still under the central light fitting, while I lifted the edge of the panel with the tip of my letter opener. We could see a tiny microphone and speaker underneath. I let the panel fall back into place. The battery light, on closer examination, now held a small camera, like a webcam, just visible under the coloured panel.

“Well, that is new,” I said. “Must have been put in last time they upgraded it. They’re always trying out new things on me. At least they fixed whatever made it pull sideways whenever it got near a security door.”

Rosie scowled, an expression I had come to love and fear in equal measure. “Stupid beggars,” she said. “Spying on us. Good job you wear socks in bed.”

She set the foot back down on my desk and addressed it.

“Here, space person or whoever you are. I’ve got this hammer -” she gestured to it. “And I’m not afraid to use it to smash this thing to pieces if I see fit. He’s got another foot he can use.”

The blinking resumed, wildly at first, then back to a pattern. Rosie pointed at the chart again.

D-O-N-T-S-M-A-S-H-N-O-T-T-H-R-E-T-T-E-N-I-N-G-J-U-S-T-W-A-N-T-H-E-L-P-T-R-A-P-P-D

Rosie put the hammer down on the edge of the desk, but kept her hand near it.

“Where are you? Can you tell us exactly?”

S-P-A-C-E-S-H-I-P-I-N-S-P-A-C-E-I-U-S-E-D-A-G-I-S-M-O

I groaned. “A gadget of some kind? A gizmo?” I asked.

Y

“What does it look like, where you are?” asked Rosie.

D-A-R-K-N-O-L-I-G-H-T-S-O-N-L-Y-S-T-A-R-S-A-T-W-I-N-D-O-W

“Are you floating?” She had a thoughtful look on her face. “Is it zero gravity there?”

N-O-T-H-A-T-S-A-B-I-T-W-E-E-R-D-I-A-M-S-I-T-T-I-N-G-O-N-C-H-A-I-R

“I don’t think it’s space,” she whispered to me with her thumb over the battery light camera.

S-H-D-I-B-E-F-L-O-T-I-N-G

“Yes,” snapped Rosie. “So I don’t think you are in space at all. But we don’t know where you actually are, so let’s concentrate on figuring that out.”

I gestured to Rosie to let me ask questions for a while. She made a face but let me speak.

“The gizmo you mentioned. What does it do?”

T-R-A-V-E-L-I-N-S-P-A-C-E-A-N-D-T-I-M-E-I-T-H-I-N-K

I groaned. I had a fairly good idea about what had happened, and a decent theory about why we were able to communicate with the unfortunate victim of yet another science experiment.

H-E-L-P-H-O-W-C-A-N-I-G-E-T-H-O-M-E-W-H-E-R-E-D-O-Y-O-U-T-H-I-N-K-I-A-M

“I think you have jumped somewhere. If you have a tracker, you can be found.”

N-O-T-R-A-C-K-E-R-N-O-W-W-H-A-T

Rosie sighed. “How does anyone at work jump without a tracker? They’re getting sloppier every day.”

I pondered. “Perhaps they were not meant to jump. You didn’t have a tracker for a long time, because you don’t jump. I had mine removed when I left. Maybe they don’t even work there.”

We stared at the foot, hoping inspiration would strike. It beeped twice, apparently randomly, and the light went out. Whoever was at the other end was also having a bit of a think, it seemed.

After half an hour it had not resumed communication, and neither Rosie nor I had come up with any bright ideas, so we went back to sleep. It was already starting to get light but I didn’t need to wake up early and Rosie - well, Rosie left for work whenever it suited her at the best of times, so no one would remark on her being late.

The foot did not beep again until lunchtime, when I was on my own in the office, trying to figure out how to get a galactic fleet through a wormhole without spaghettifying the crew. Science fiction is really much easier when you don’t care too much about the science. I grabbed a scribblepad and attempted to point with one hand and write with the other.

C-H-E-C-K-D-N-O-T-R-A-C-K-E-R-G-E-T-T-I-N-G-H-U-N-G-R-I-N-O-W

I put down my sandwich in a fit of misplaced guilt. “Did you have provisions, then?”

Y

“Did you plan for this?” I felt a growing suspicion.

K-I-N-D-O-F-H-A-D-S-U-P-P-L-I-E-S-F-R-S-H-O-R-T-T-R-I-P

“And now you’ve eaten them all and you’re getting worried?”

Y

I sighed. “We’re going to have to tell them you have been stranded by their gizmo. They might be able to trace it, if not you.”

S-T-O-L-L-I-T

“I thought that might be the case. Sorry, but if you want help we’re going to have to snitch on you.”

P-L-E-E-Z-N-O

“No, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what else to do to find you. And I don’t want you to run out of food before we find you.”

O-K-W-H-O-W-I-L-L-Y-O-U-T-E-L-L-P-O-L-E-E-S-O-R-S-O-M-E-O-N-E-E-L-S

“I’m going to ring Rosie and ask her to make some discreet enquiries at work, see if we can’t keep it mostly quiet. You don’t need everyone charging in to find you, just one or two. You’re - you’re not going to hurt anyone, are you?”

I realised we knew nothing about who was on the other end of this conversation, other than that they had no tracker and were not very good at spelling. That ruled out many people we knew, though probably wasn’t enough to completely narrow it down.

C-O-U-R-S-E-N-O-T-T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U

Rosie was not particularly keen to do this, although she relented, grumpily, when I pointed out that she would have a death by starvation on her conscience if she didn’t. She tried to argue that they could just pop back to the start of the week when the not-alien had full supplies, but I pointed out that that might cause a little bit of a paradox as all the conversations we’d had since Monday would cease to exist, as might the person who went to fetch them. There’s a reason no one jumps within their own lifetime. Rosie shrugged - I could hear that in the tone of her voice.
“Some of them might deserve that,” she muttered, and went into a short rant about people who asked her to file things they hadn’t correctly labelled. I brought her back to the matter in hand by repeatedly shouting “Rosie!” down the phone until she paid attention - usually the only effective way.

“OK,” she said eventually. “You see if you can find out any more clues - what those stars look like, for instance, and I’ll call you back if I ever find someone trustworthy enough to help.” She laughed cynically.

I sighed and went back to the foot to resume interrogation.

We eventually established that the stars visible from the window didn’t move at all, and there weren’t any recognisable constellations. Back to the drawing board. The room they were in appeared to have a chair and table, and a couch where they had been sleeping, but no lights, floor coverings, or obvious exit. There did seem to be a door handle but it didn’t move when rattled. It was tiring work and when I said I had to go and get a cup of tea, the blinking and beeping became frantic again.

G-E-T-I-N-G-T-H-I-R-S-T-I-N-O-W-B-C-O-S-I-D-R-A-N-K-A-L-L-M-Y-W-A-T-E-R

Oh crap.

I called Rosie back but she scathingly asked me if I had in fact waited for her to call me back. I had not. I quickly told her what I’d learned and rang off again.

I attempted to reassure the not-alien and asked more questions.

“Can you think of anything else that might help us find you? Can you hear any noises? Smell anything?”

S-M-E-L-L-S-L-I-K-E-S-C-H-O-O-L-D-I-N-N-E-R-S

Ohhhh. A metaphorical lightbulb went on for me. A couple of them, in fact.

“Can you shout ‘LIGHTS’ for me? Really loudly? Like, the loudest you can manage and a bit more?”

Y

I waited.

L-I-G-H-T-S-O-U-T-S-I-D-E-W-I-N-D-O-W-N-O-M-O-R-S-T-A-R-S

Bingo. I rang Rosie again. “I think I know where we need to look. But - maybe I should go on my own.”

I held the phone away from my ear while Rosie let me know exactly how she felt about this suggestion. In due course I told the handset that I was going now, and hoped Rosie would hear me.

I don’t like driving with my spare foot, as a rule, as it’s a lot less responsive than the fancy bionic one, but I didn’t have to go far - down to the edge of the grounds, park the car, and head for the junk sheds on foot. I knew that stored here were all kinds of bits of abandoned tech, things that simply couldn’t be fixed or recycled for other purposes. And things people were trying to hide from prying eyes in the main buildings. Many of us had sneaked out here to kill time when we were meant to be training, were avoiding boring lectures, or when we were in big trouble and needed time to let things blow over. I had a growing hunch that my alien was in that third category, whether or not they knew it yet.

Inside the second shed I tried, the lights were on. A poster on the wall provided the stars I thought I’d see there. And yes, in the far corner of the room was a small high window in the wall, through which a viewer on the other side might see those stars. Everything smelled of cabbage, so there was obviously some leftover pod tech here. The door in the wall was blocked by a large amount of broken wood and furniture. I carefully pulled it away and found that the key was jammed in the door. I unlocked it, with the aid of Rosie’s enormous hammer.

“Hello Benji,” I said. “Are we going to tell your mum what happened here, or are we going to discreetly sneak away and never speak of this again?”

“That please, David.”

The gizmo turned out to be a rather rough-looking handheld transporter marked ‘NO!-DO NOT USE-THIS MEANS YOU!’, with most of its buttons disabled, including half the comms ones. Luckily for our foolhardy alien explorer, this also meant that travel in time was not an option, and travel in space had been strictly limited to 500 yards. Another 10 yards and he’d have landed, unscathed, at the bottom of the lane. 10 yards less, the shallow stream that ran into the lake. Pure luck, of the very worst kind, had dropped him and his camping gear in the blocked-off walk-in cupboard at the back of a rarely used shed. I shuddered to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t worked out how to attract my attention. I’d be having Harsh Words right now with whoever had linked the gizmo to my bionic foot, if I thought that wouldn’t result in Benji’s immediate pulverisation into millions of atoms under his mother’s fiercest Hard Stare.

“So where did you get it?” I asked, as I marched him back to the car.

“Found it in the shed last week. It only worked properly once - I couldn’t jump back.”

I tutted to myself. “And the school trip?”

“Forged a note from you to say I wasn’t going.”

“Me? Not your mum?”

“Nah, they know her writing.”

“And that she can spell.”

He had the grace to blush. “That chart was hard to read in the dark! Glad Mum thought of it, though.”

I stopped the car, and threw the gizmo in the lake, before we drove home. We told Rosie that Benji had worked out how to hack my foot, and had been playing a sily prank while away on his trip. She frowned at us both in her best ‘if I ever find out that you’re lying’ manner. I offered to set fire to my bionic foot to avoid anything like this happening again. She countered with offering to set fire to Benjamin if he ever did anything like this again. I laughed. He laughed. Rosie glared. Normal family life had resumed.

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About Jacqui Collins:

Jacqui lives in Oxford with her daughter, a lot of books, yarn & hair dye, and - now - a Dodo D'Or. She gets far too involved with things and is always absolutely exhausted as a result.

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This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Hinchcliffe and Bill by Elaine Perkins

It was a Wednesday and things were quiet in the small room that was the office/workspace of Hinchcliffe and Bill Ltd.

Anderton Thordan Beta Hinchcliffe was short, stocky and basically humanoid. A bit scruffy but a people person. He liked people and people liked him. He got most of the work. Bill, on the other hand, was tall, genderless with striking green eyes, purple fur and a prehensile tail that worked as a third hand. Bill didn't really get on with people but was a better engineer and could fix just about anything. Hinchcliffe didn't know if Bill had any other names, they were always just, Bill.

They went from space dock to space port, where ever the work was. The sign outside said it all. "Repairs, odd jobs and workers for hire. From a Toaster to a Star Liner, we fix anything."

Work had been slow for a while now and they were thinking of moving on.

Bill was curled up asleep in a corner when the door opened. A greasy looking man walked in, "Obviously, an engineer," thought Hinchcliffe. "Maybe, a medium size freighter. Anything would be good right now."

"What can we do for you on this lovely evening"said Hinchcliffe, with a smile.

"I'm Third Engineer on a .....well known Cruiser and I'm going to be in deep sh.... trouble with the Chief, if I don't get the auxiliary manifold working by tonight." was the reply from the shifty looking man. "Cranford's the name. I shoulda had this job finished two weeks ago, but it just slipped my mind. Now, the usual company that does all our work ain't got anyone spare and I'm desperate. You know how it is" He was pleading and that was music to Hincecliffe's ear. Desperate and quick meant big money. "No problem, we can get that done in no time. Let us in at a side airlock and your Chief will be none the wiser."

Later that evening, Hinchcliffe and Bill arrived at Dock Seventeen. They had been expecting big, but this was something else. A Galaxy Class Star Cruiser. Only the super rich could afford to travel in this much style. Sleek, elegant and expensive, very expensive.

"Wow, will you look at this" said Hinchcliffe, his eyes lighting up, "We should have charged more".

Bill was less impressed. Wealthy people were just too demanding, too much trouble, as far as they were concerned. "Let us get this job finished and be gone before we are seen. Look, I presume that is our entrance"

Cranford was waving at them, looking like he was trying to get their attention and not be seen at the same time. Bill pulled a face and said " I do not like him and I do not trust him. Shifty, if you ask me." Cranford pulled them in and hurried them down a long dark corridor. "Through that door on the end. Get the job finished double quick and you'll get a free meal, each. As a bonus, like" His attempt at a friendly smile did nothing to reassure Bill.

The job was surprisingly simple. Realign a couple of the manifold coils and replace one that was split. Bill was worried. "Why could he not have done this job himself?" "I don't care." Hinchcliffe laughed "Simple, quick and well paid . I only wish more of our jobs were like this. You worry too much, Bill. Relax, we'll get fed soon. Good grub on these posh ships. Even for the crew." He leaned back and stretched. Yes, life was getting better. They could afford to go to a bigger Space Port after this job. More work, richer clients, better money. Things were looking up.

They had to eat where they were, sitting on the floor by the manifold. Cranford said it was better if they stayed there, out of sight, but the food was good and piled high on the plate.

Cranford brought in a couple of coffees for them and told them to stay low for a few hours. "Wait 'til the shift change for the night and day crew. You can slip off then an' no one will be any the wiser, like. Don't worry, I'll come an' get you when it's time." He left, with that overly friendly smile which made Bill wince. With nothing else to do, they both settled down and were asleep within minutes.

After what seemed like no time at all, they were roughly woken by Cranford. He was furious "What are you still doing here. you shouldha got off hours ago. We've left the dock now" Hinchcliffe rubbed his eyes, not sure what was going on. "What, wait, you said you'd come and wake us before the ship left" Cranford looked shocked" Nah, you're not goin' to put this on me. I told ya to get off when the shift changed. I ain't got time to be runnin' around after you, I had work to do." Bill stood, leaning over the oily little man. "I am sure we can sort this out. Take us to the Captain. We will explain what happened and they can let us off at the first suitable place we stop at" Cranford looked scared. "Oh, no, that'll get me in trouble for not getting the job done proper, like. And the Captain hates stowaways. She nearly spaced the last one she caught. Shut up and let me think" Hinchcliffe moved over to Bill and whispered. "Leave this to me." He smiled and said "Cranford, I think I have a solution that will work for all of us" Cranford's eyes narrowed "Waddaya mean?" His voice thick with suspicion. Hinchcliffe placed a friendly arm round the little man's shoulders and eased him to one side. "Now, this might not be completely above board, so to speak. It just needs a little bit of slight of hand, on your part." Cranford looked darkly "What do I have to do. how illegal are we talkin'? I can't get ya a cabin or nuffin." Hincecliffe raised his hands, "No, no, nothing like that. Just get us on the crew listing. Any job, we're not fussy and can do most things" Cranford's brow furrowed, this was obviously quantum thinking on his part. "So, what ya want? Just room and some grub 'til we come to the next space dock?" "Next suitable space dock, not just any old junk yard." said Bill, ever the wary one.

"Yah, alright, a decent place, but ya can't complain about what ya do, and ya'll have to share a room, it ain't goin' to be big." Cranford seemed to have decided that this was the only solution to their joint problem.

Later that day Cranford returned with some crew overalls and hats. He led them down some dingy corridors to a very small room with bunk beds. "It's lucky I curl up to sleep" said Bill with a grimace. Hinchcliffe pushed past him saying " That's one advantage to being a short arse" Bill turned to Cranford "Is this the best you can do? I have seen broom closets that are bigger than this" Cranford just shrugged, handed them a work rota and left.

The next two weeks dragged by. The work wasn't hard, but it was mainly early in the morning or late at night. Times when they wouldn't get noticed by other crew members and it always seemed to involve some sort of mess. It felt like they both had cleaned up every stain, spill or overflow in the entire ship.

One evening, they were sitting in a quiet corner of the crew mess hall eating breakfast. (Your day always started with breakfast, didn't matter what time it actually was.) Bill leaned forward and said "I feel like a ships rat. I have had to force myself through the tiniest of holes, squeeze behind walls and even crawl under a floor to deal with all of these leaks." Hinchcliffe looked up from his plate and said " Yeah, but at least, those leaks have been clean water. You don't want to think about some of the stuff I've had to clean up. The smell is unbearable and the yesterday this gunk stained my hands blue. Yes, I was wearing those rubber gloves we got issued with and no, it won't wash off." Bill looked and was intrigued by the colour of his friends hands. Bright blue, quite pretty really, but they keep that observation to themself. Bill finished their breakfast and went off to work.

Bills work rota indicated that there was a problem in corridor 12 B. The wiring in the wall seems to be shorting out. "Oh, what a surprise," thought Bill, "back behind a wall again. This entire ship seems to have a crawl space behind every wall" They removed a small section and squeezed inside. They could have removed the entire wall panel, but this was the quickest way. In and out in no time. They were nearly finished when they heard voices in one of the rooms off 12B. "That is strange, these rooms are not supposed to be occupied." Bill froze, silent and alert. Listening, their keen ears picking up the whispered voices. It was Cranford. Bill could recognise that oily whining voice anywhere. The other voice had an air of command about it, Cranford had just called him Sir. "Not the Captain" thought Bill, "that was a man's voice." Cranford was laughing "Those two new ones are so easy, They even suggested taking on crew work themselves! So stupid. I make them do all the filthy job and they're happy. I gave them the old stowaways being spaced line and they just fell for it. Idiots" The second voice rose, "Don't get cocky. You push them too far and they'll push back. Look, we've got twenty free workers. You just keep thinking about the 25% of their wages going into your pocket and shut it."

Cranford replied, his voice servile, but snivelling "Do you know how hard it is keeping them all hidden?" The second voice barked in reply "Keep your mouth shut and them out of sight. Do that and there'll be a nice little bonus waiting for you at the end of this trip. Now, get back to work." The door slid open and the sound of footsteps echoed down the empty corridor. "Get back to work." Cranford sneered as his boss disappeared."What does he know about real work, swanning about in his posh uniform. Never gets his hands dirty, does he?" He punched the wall near to where Bill was hiding and stormed off.

Bill waited a few more minutes until the corridor was quiet, then, carefully emerged form behind the panel. "What to do? Who can we trust? Who are the other eighteen workers who had been tricked and where were they?" So many questions swirled around Bill's brain. It was too much and Bill staggered against the wall, leaning hard to stop from falling. "I must find Hinchcliffe, he will know what to do." Nodding to themselves, they hurried on to their next job and waited for the mid shift break.

After what seemed like an eternity, it was time for the meal break. Bill walked quietly, carefully, to the mess hall. head down and cap pulled over their face, same as every day. Do not be seen, do not be noticed. "Where was Hinchcliffe?" Bill, normally so calm, was starting to panic. "Stop it" they scolded themselves, "This is not helping. Breathe. Look for our usual table, over there. See, he is already waiting." Bill collected their meal and sat down next to Hinchcliffe, who could tell immediately that something was wrong. Bill, normally so relaxed, no matter what how bad the situation, was looking tense, nervous, even frightened. Hinchcliffe had never seen them like this. He instantly became worried. "Had they been caught? Were they going to be dragged to the Captains' office and spaced?" Leaning closer to Bill, he whispered "What's happened? It's bad, isn't it? Will we have to fight our way out?" The thought of fighting their way out of a Galaxy Class Cruiser actually made Bill smile. "No, it has not come to that yet." Bill then proceeded to tell Hinchcliffe everything they had overheard. Hinchcliffe listened, head down, eating his meal as if nothing was wrong. "Don't let anyone see there was a problem, we don't know who to trust" he whispered. Finally, he lifted his head and said "Interesting. See you later, after shift, we can talk some more" With a smile and a nod, he left the Mess Hall leaving Bill feeling slightly more hopeful.

The next shift dragged, but at least Bill only had to clean the lower deck corridors, no more crawl spaces for the rest of the day. Finally, they could finish and go back to their room. Hinchcliffe was already there, waiting with a coffee. He let Bill wind down before he started questioning them about everything they had heard earlier. "So, you heard Cranford and someone else talking, saying there is twenty other stowaways on board" "Not stowaways" Bill whispered furiously "Victims! Kidnapped slaves! Exploited workers!" Hinchcliffe looked at Bill "Yes, we'll deal with workers rights after we find them and sort this out. Now, we need to know who the other person was. Not the Captain, obviously, because you said it was a man's voice. Someone high up in command but there's too many to choose from. We need to narrow it down. I'm sorry to say this but you are going to have to go back into the crawl spaces again, my old friend." Bill pulled a face, but agreed "At least, this time I will be doing something worth while. Anything to stop this exploitation racket."

The next day Bill looked for any job that involved going into crawl spaces. Hinchcliffe wandered the Lower Deck and Crew corridors, looking like he was cleaning, but they were both listening, trying to overhear any conversation, hoping it might bring them answers. Hinchcliffe was scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain near his own cabin when he heard raised voices. No one was in view. It was coming from another crew room. Hinchcliffe edged nearer, while trying to look engrossed in the mark on the floor. Two voices, one male, one female. The man was trying to calm the woman, who was not happy. She didn't seem to care if anyone heard them. " No," she shouted, "you said only he would be involved. You never said he had his family with him. He's got a kid!" The man continued to try and soothe her. "It'll be fine, we'll put the wife and kid in the bedroom. They'll be safe outta the way. Just Mr. 'I'm a Trillionaire and can do what I want' Ramsay. Keep thinking about him."

She calmed down "Fine, just him. You've got the vids to convince him?" "And something else, if that doesn't work" was the grim reply. "Don't worry, two more days and it'll be all over, just trust me."

Hinchcliffe didn't wait around to hear more of the conversation, he'd heard enough. This was huge, not what he had been hoping for, but a hostage, a trillionaire hostage. Those two must want money and seemed happy to do anything if Ramsay resisted.

Going back to their room at the end of shift, he found Bill waiting, trying to stretch out some of their aches. "Have you found out anything" they said "I have got nothing apart from what Chef puts into the stew. I told you not to eat it. Stew should not be that colour." Bill looked up at his friend, they saw immediately that something was wrong. "What have you heard? It is more slaves, I knew it. The entire lower deck, I would not be surprised." Hinchcliffe fell heavily onto his bed. "Yes, I heard something, no, not more kidnap victims. Something worse, well, just as bad " Bill sighed "Nothing would surprise me, these Super Cruise Ships are just full of criminals. Proper ones as well, real criminals doing dreadful things, not just the respectable ones exploiting people." Hinchcliffe agreed with his friend, which seemed to shock him rather than assure him. "I was cleaning the floor just two doors down and I heard a couple arguing about taking some squillionaire hostage. Threatening him, if he doesn't do what they wanted. They sounded dead serious." Bill was stunned, they sat next to Hinchcliffe, "Are you sure? Really taking someone hostage, not just joking? Which trillionaire, by the way? There are quite a few on a ship this size." Hinchcliffe closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to remember the name. " R- R- Ru- Ran- Ram.." He frowned, what was it? "Ramsay! That was it. He's here with his wife and kid." Bill reached over picking up their data pad. "Give me two ticks of a lambs tail and I will find out which apartment Ramsay has and who it is that has the room two doors down. Then we can start to make a plan to deal with this."

Bill had worked through what was left of the night finding out all they could. The next shift, Hinchcliffe told Cranford that Bill was unwell and wouldn't be working. Cranford complained, but there wasn't really much he could do about it. "You get their work done as well, or I'll be seeing the Captain about you two." He put his hand round his throat and looked like he was choking to make the point. "Odious little tit," thought Hinchcliffe, but said nothing.

At the end of his shift, Hinchcliffe brought a meal for both of them to their cabin. Bill had been busy. They had worked out when the best time for the attack to take place. "21.00 hours is when the day and night shift of ships security swaps over. There is a 5 minute window when no one is guarding the Ramsay's corridor. That is when I would do it, if I was criminally minded." They continued, between mouthfuls of rice. "It is very strange, I cannot find out anything about our nefarious neighbours, other than their names and home planet. They do not actually seem to be real criminals at all." Hinchcliffe pulled a face, "Well, they sounded like real criminals, so don't let your guard down."

They went through the plan one more time. Bill was to follow the woman, Phillidor Twelve, while Hinchcliffe tailed Treen Breen. Keeping them in sight all evening, if necessary. When they got near to the Ramsays suite, Bill would slid into the crawl space and enter the apartment without being seen. Hinchcliffe would stay with Philidor and follow her in, somehow. That part needed some work, but they didn't have time to come up with anything better.

At 20.00 hours, they both cautiously left their room, Hinchcliffe dressed in civis rather than his overall. Bill wore theirs in-case anyone saw them opening a wall panel. No one noticed lower deck workers in that uniform. "I am just completely invisible as soon as I put that hideous item of clothing on." Bill complained, but was at least thankful on this occasion.

Philidor and Treen left their room shortly after 20.30 hours. Treen in civis and Philidor in a Steward's uniform. "Clever" thought Hinchcliffe. "Everyone trusts a Steward, they can get into any room without question."

At 21.00 hours, everyone was in place. Philidor approached the Ramsay's apartment on corridor A1. The flooring was soft and thick. Everything screamed obscene wealth and privilege. She knocked and called out "Room service, Sir." The bulky private security officer leered down at her and then toppled over, with a look of surprise on his face. He hadn't expected a Ships Steward to have a taser. She pushed her way in, leaving the door open for Treen to follow. Amazingly, Hinchcliffe had the stroke of luck that he needed. Treen hadn't closed the door completely. In his haste to get in, he hadn't noticed the guards foot stopping the door from sliding shut. Hinchcliffe moved in silently, closing the door behind him and waited, out of sight. It didn't take long for the shouting to start, angry voices barking instructions. Ramsay shouting back. He wasn't used to being ordered around and it took a blow to the side of his head before he finally sat down and allowed himself to be tied to a chair. His wife and child, tearful and frightened were forced into the bedroom. Philidor was as gentle as she could be but made sure they did what they were told.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Ramsay, still angry, if slightly dazed. "I know what you want. It's always money, You're not the first to try this and it always ends badly. For you. Give up now before you get hurt." Treen sneered at Ramsay. "You think you're so clever, you've got no clue. We don't want money. It's so much bigger than that. Now, shut up or....erm.... else!" It wasn't a great threat, but Treen couldn't think of anything better to say.

Philidor started a vid, which filled the whole wall. Images of a beautiful planet, forests, lakes, blue skies. An absolute paradise. Ramsay laughed. "At least you think big, I like that. O.K where is it, what's it got, beside trees?" Treen recounted the tale of a small planet, peaceful, uninhabited. Just insects and some small mammals. Little fluffy animals with floppy ears, large dark eyes and long back legs. They hopped around sniffing the air and eating grass. It looked as if someone had designed the word Cute. Then, someone discovered there were minerals on that planet. Minerals that scum like Ramsay wanted. So, he bought the planet and sent in the heavy equipment.

Ramsay didn't seem overly concerned. "You'll have to jog my memory. I've bought so many planets." Treens face contorted with rage. "You don't even remember. This was Ariel Four in the Alurian system. Look what you did to it!" Suddenly the screen showed trees being ripped up, whole forests burned. Death and destruction everywhere. Diggers cut huge swathes of land. Open cast mining at it's worst. Treen continued "Do you know what they were digging for? Something important, useful, you'd think, but no! It was for Rubillium, a crystal that is only used for jewellery. Trinkets for the super rich. You destroyed a planet just so you could boast that you had something rare." Ramsay didn't even look ashamed. Philidor had to hold Treen back to stop him from hitting Ramsay again. "Boo hoo. I tore down some trees, I killed a few bunnies. So what!" Ramsay didn't care as long as he got what he wanted.

Suddenly, the bedroom door shot open and a small girl cannonballed out, howling. Tears streaming down her face. "Nooo, not the hoppy bunnies! Not the bunniessss! Dadddiiee!!" She ran up to her father and held onto his legs, still screaming at the top of her voice. Which was surprisingly loud for such a small child.

Everyone froze, unsure what to do. Bill took the opportunity to slid the wall panel in the hall open and join Hinchcliffe. Bill looked shocked and a bit pleased. " Not terrorists then, but actual eco-warriors. Who would have believed it." Hinchcliffe looked conflicted. "What do we do? Let the eco lot escape or do we call security and risk the Captain finding us? We've got to admit Ramsay is complete scum who really does deserve everything he gets." Bill grimaced, "I do not really like either of those options. We need to think of a way out for everyone. One where no one gets hurt and if possible, where everyone is happy." Hinchcliffe leaned against the wall for a moment, his head down, eyes unfocused. Bill had seen this look before, usually just before he had a brilliant but dangerous idea. Head up, Hinchcliffe smiled, "Yes, I think this'll work. Just follow me and back me up. O.K?"

Hinchcliffe walked forward into the room, smiling with his hands held out. "Hello, let me introduce myself and my partner please- don't-shoot-us. We're Hinchcliffe and Bill, Odd jobbers and problem solvers, please-don't-shoot-us." Everyone turned to look, trying to work out what was going on. Bill stood slightly to the side with both hands and their tail above their head and added more reassurances. "I can see we have a bit of a situation here. Now, we are not going to take sides, we just want to help sort this all out with as little pain and bloodshed as possible." Treen turned, shouting "The Captain sent you, didn't she. Well, we're not giving up. You go tell her that" Ramsay joined in "You tell the Captain I never give in to pathetic money grubbing terrorists, even if they do pretend to be Eco ones. He threatened me!" Hinchcliffe raised his hands "Please, can we all just bring it down a notch. Thank you. Oh and I heard the threat. Or Else isn't really that bad, is it. Right, let me see. You, Treen want Ramsay to stop strip mining this planet. Correct?" A slight nod was the only reply. "And you, Ramsay want to keep strip mining the planet for gemstones, correct? "

"It's my bloody planet, I can do what I want with it" shouted Ramsay. Hinchcliffe sighed. "Right, let me make a suggestion that while it may not please both of you entirely, might at least be a compromise and move things forward. It's an imperfect universe after all."

"Get on with it." snarled Ramsay, my legs going to sleep here." "Mr. Ramsay, these gems, they are valuable because they are so rare. Only found on this one planet? " Ramsay smiled "Why do you think I bought the place, for the bunnies?" His daughter, Jasmine Apple, started to wail again, clinging onto her mother. Ramsay did at least look ashamed at this. Hinchcliffe continued. "If you announced that the planet had been entirely stripped of all of the gems, wouldn't that make the ones you have even more valuable?" Light dawned in Ramsay's eyes. "I like your thinking. Do you want to come and work for me?" Hinchcliffe shook his head " No, thanks. Now, if you also announced that you were going to restore the planet to it's original beauty, re-landscape the place and let nature take over again. That would make you look good to the eco warrior types and your daughter. Makes you a good guy, instead of a money grubbing nasty piece of...." His voice trailed off, don't spoil the deal at the last minute. Hinchcliffe thought to himself. "Ring fence the planet for say two hundred years. Let these two keep an eye on it to make sure you keep your word. Hell, you could even let them live there as caretakers. What do you think?" Bill moved forward. "It does sound like the best for both of you, please think about it."

The two parties looked at each other and then back to Hinchcliffe. To his immense relief, they both nodded.. He leaned back sighing. He really didn't think he was going to get away with that.

Ramsay was untied. He hugged his wife and child, who was so pleased that the hoppy bunnies would be safe. Then he made a call to organise the necessary documents to finish the deal. Jasmine Apple skipped around the room in the background singing "Bunny, bunny, bunnieeeesssses!"

Bill pulled Hinchcliffe to one side. "I think Mr. Ramsay might be in enough of a good mood to help us out. Scratching each others backs, as you say." Hinchcliffe went over the Ramsay. "Can I have a word? There is something I think you can help us with."

Hinchcliffe explained about their problem, the exploited stowaways, the Captains' threats, overhearing Cranford, everything." Ramsay agreed to help and called the Captain, asking her to come to his apartment. Bill sighed "Why did we not think of that?"

A few minutes later the Captain arrived with the Second in Command, a tall man, arrogant and unpleasant looking, rejoicing in the name of Bugges, He stepped forward, ingratiating himself to the Trillionaire. "How can we help you, Sir, I am sure we can sort out any little problem you have."

Bill froze to the spot. "Hinchcliffe" they hissed "That is him, that is the other voice I heard plotting with Cranford. I am sure of it." Ramsay took the Captain to one side and Hinchcliffe recounted the whole sorry tale. Bill kept an eye on Bugges to make sure he couldn't overhear what was being said. The Captain did not look at all shocked. "I knew something was going on with the lower decks crew. I just couldn't find any proof. Thank you. I will deal with them immediately."

Later that day, Hinchcliffe and Bill settled into their new bigger cabin. They had received a full apology and luxury accommodation until they arrived at the Space Port, as well as a very large payment from Mr. Ramsay for services rendered. "Well, I think that worked out rather well" said Hinchcliffe with a look of satisfaction on his face. "We can take a few weeks off and then set up a very nice office when we arrive. This next Port is so much fancier than the last. Better jobs, richer clients." He sighed happily. Bill just shook their head, Hinchcliffe was always thinking of the next deal. While they on the other hand, were just pleased to have got through this adventure with everything still attached. Smiling, they lay back on the bed, curled up and was asleep in moments. "Life was good, a nice meal, a soft bed and no one shouting at them. Hhhmmm. Bliss."

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About Elaine Perkins:

I'm an Historic speaker and Medieval Cunning Woman, giving talks to anyone who will listen. Commander Hay and Granny Weatherwax cosplayer and writer of radio plays. This is my first venture into short stories. What could possibly go wrong?

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

The Times of Sand by Claire Milano

“If only we had a time-travel machine.”

It was early in the meeting for this to be expressed. Usually it was in the after-presentation roundtable, or even in the pub at the end of the day.

Looking at the slide, Isabel squinted at the image of a 17^th century page of scribbles. There were inkblots, tears in the page and what looked like a water – or maybe wine? – stain running down the middle of the page.

“What is it measuring? Temperature? What are the units?”

“Celsius?” someone suggested.

“Wasn’t born yet”, came a reply.

Less than a dozen paleoclimatologists ¾ “historical data scientists”, or “weather data recovery agents”, or “climate reconstruction specialists”, depending on who they were trying to persuade to give them funding ¾ were sitting in a small room in the community library. This was the latest in a series of meetings that had been going on for decades, the participants for the most part well known to each other, though there were sometimes one or two bemused people who wandered in. Today there were two people sitting towards the back. Although they were actually dressed in smart casual, even chic, clothes, they somehow gave the impression of wearing trench coats and trilbys.

“If we could go back in time, we could tell them how important it will be to the future to take these observations properly,” Piotr said in a grumbling tone.

“We could take them proper instruments”, chimed in Isabel.

“And the metric system” added Elspeth.

There was a collective sigh around the room. The two strangers at the back of the room glanced at each other.

“We’d better wrap up soon,” Isabel eventually broke the glum silence. “We have this room reserved on a waiver basis, so we need to clear out before those who can afford to rent this space come in. The Society for the Enhancement of Colour in Reed-Based Textiles will be here in ten.”

“How do they have the funding to book the room with actual money?” demanded Matteo. The two strangers glanced at each other again, this time with a tinge of disappointment.

“Not worth it”, muttered the man under his breath. “This bunch is hopeless. They can’t even scrape together enough to rent a room.”

“Patience”, said his companion. “Anyway, we have orders.”

The group started to shut down their laptops, gather their papers, turn off the equipment, and bicker gently about where to go for supper and/or drinks, and in which order of importance. As they slowly straggled out the door and into the blustery evening, they returned wistfully to the theme of time travel. The woman raised her eyebrows with a “See, I told you so” smirk.

Once the group were ensconced in a dim, mid-level, caters-to-everything restaurant and bar down the street, they continued with their ever-expanding wish list of time travel demands as the average blood-alcohol level increased.

“Why were people dying of heat strokes in Essex in the middle of the Little Ice Age”?

“We could see whether it was really was a super El Niño which caused the Late Bronze Age collapse.”

“What about the North American megadroughts?”

“Hey, listen, we don’t even need to go ourselves. Forget about training ¾ we could just send automatic recording instruments back!”

This struck everyone to silence for a minute as they collectively pondered the idea. Then, as if they weren’t already discussing the impossible, Isabel asked that question so vexing to all scientists:

“But how would we get the data?”

The not-trench-coat couple had discretely followed them in and sat down at the neighbouring table. With an inward sigh at having to engage with these lunatics, the man leaned forward, summoned up a smile and saying, “Please forgive me for intruding, but I was at your conference earlier today.”

The group stared at him, blinking slowly. They could collectively decipher the worst 18^th century handwriting from ink and wine smeared parchment, identify at a glance the most obscure weather instrument, reciting the specifications, inventor and even, sometimes, what it was meant to measure, and read thousands of years of climate from an ice core, but (while fiercely dedicated to them) occasionally had trouble recognizing their own offspring. Isabel, one of the more socially adept of the group, smiled unsuspiciously and exclaimed ,

“How lovely!”

“My colleague and I” ¾ he gestured towards the woman sitting next to him ¾ “were quite fascinated by your work.”

He winced as the group collectively brightened and showed all the signs of being willing to explain, for several hours if need be, the difficulties in establishing the exact demarcation point between the Medieval Warm Period and the Little Ice Age. His colleague smoothly broke in with,

“I think your drinks are arriving. Do you mind if we join you?”

The next round of drinks were not, in fact, arriving, but in their excitement at having strangers express interest in their work, this went unnoticed. Mustering all their training in friendly interrogation to keep the conversation going even slightly in their preferred direction, the pair managed to extract most of the information needed for their report.

The following morning, while the scientists regrouped in their fee-waived library meeting room, Anna and Oliver were in consultation with their superior officer.

“They’re scientists, ma’am. And historians.”

“How is that possible? Please tell me the scientist part has outweighed the historian.”

“They’re weather scientists, ma’am. Historical weather scientists. Although I gather that if the weather lasts long enough, it eventually turns into climate. They call themselves either paleoclimatologists.”

There was a short, grim silence. Two of weirdest, most obsessive and frankly, nerdiest pursuits known to civilisation, history and weather, had, without anyone realizing, blended together.

“How was this allowed to happen? This travesty should have been stopped! Although we do desperately need them on board. We’ve lost too much already. Can they be trained? Conscripted?”

“Many of them do have ties to their governmental meteorological agencies, and we’ve pulled their records on their respective countries’ Official Secrets Acts. There are one or two who are more independent. It’s such a small group, though. They will notice if three quarters of the colleagues go missing.”

“Conscript them all, then. I’ll get the paperwork and you can go collect them from this library after lunch.”

“Ma’am.” Anna and Oliver saluted and left the office.

Later that afternoon, a gaggle of bewildered scientists were brought into a non-descript room in a non-descript building in a non-descript part of town.

“I demand to know who you are, what we’re doing here and what authority you have”, demanded Elspeth belligerently.

“Madam, you know by what authority, we’ve been over this several times”, said Anna wearily. It had been a long ride, though not necessarily in geographical terms. “As servants of the Crown who have signed the Official Secrets Acts of your respective countries, you are bound to provide all needful service to the Crown.” Oddly yet conveniently, they were all from countries who shared the same head of State, and thus a shared secret service. There had been multiple variants of this conversation in the hour since she and Oliver had shown up at the start of the conference’s “health” break, consisting of tea, coffee, biscuits, muffins, and a few sad, ignored apples. The subsequent lack of sugar and caffeine on the part of the scientists may have been contributing to an aura of hostility emanating from the group. Then again, they were the definition of oddball. Hostility to authority was their default position.

“I don’t know anything”, wailed Matteo. “I’m just a post-doc”.

“We know”, Anna replied soothingly. “We’ll explain everything we can, once we get you settled.” Several variations of this conversation had also been repeated over the past hour.

“And for heaven’s sake, someone get some caffeine and grub”, muttered Oliver. “We should have packed their snacks as well”.

“I’ll remind you that we paid for those with our meeting dues, which included tea break refreshments”, said Piotr with dignity, also not for the first time.

“And I don’t have any money to pay for lunch,” Matteo continued to wail. “I’m just a post-doc. Those snacks were my only hope of eating today.”

Eventually, the experienced professionals managed to herd the scientists into a newer, better lit and more comfortable conference room than the one they just left, where a formidable woman waited. Lured in by the aroma of coffee and the sight of baked goods heaped on the table, the group were sufficiently distracted for a temporary silence to fall.

“No doubt you’re wondering why you’ve been conscript-”, began the formidable woman started, but altered her words at the sight of Anna frantically shaking her head. “What your special talents and knowledge are that require us to avail ourselves of your services”, she smoothly altered her somewhat brusque beginning.

“Well, we don’t know who you are, do we, so we can’t possibly know how you are to avail yourself of our services”, replied Yann somewhat snarkily, though the caffeine and sugar were starting to have a mellowing effect.

“Let me begin by going back to a statement made in your discussion yesterday afternoon. And six months ago during your online meeting. And two years before that. Several, if not most of you, have referred to the desirability of time travel to aid in your research. I am here to tell you we need you to help us with time travel.”

A gawping silence fell.

“Is this some kind of joke? Are we being filmed? More than usual, I mean?”

“No ma’am, it’s not a joke. If I may continue?” Assent for the formidable woman to continue was indicated.

“I do not need to remind you that you have all signed the Official Secrets Acts, and that no, we are not being filmed. In fact, the entirely of this conversation is strictly confidential.” She looked around severely.

“Time travel does exist.”

Pandemonium erupted.

“What?”

“How?”

“But, but, but…that violates the second law of thermodynamics…”

The formidable woman, known on this occasion by the name of Sofia, held up her hand. “Please. We realize this is a great shock. More is to come. For the moment, I can say that it is not fully understood, and what we do understand is highly classified. We do not know how many other people or organizations are aware of it. But this brings me to the reason we need you.

“The details of how we know this are currently classified. Field operatives have put /did put / are putting / themselves at great risk to obtain this information. They have discovered something is interfering with the desertification of the Sahara ten thousand years ago.”

“But… that’s the beginning of the Agricultural Revolution. Without the desertification of Africa…” began Yann.

“There would be no concentration of hunter-gatherers in the Nile Valley or the Fertile Crescent” finished Elspeth.

“No settled farming communities in the Levant or Africa” agreed Piotr.

“No city-states or civilisations developing in Africa or the Middle East,” stammered Isabel.

“And then no world as we currently know it”, added Matteo, horrified.

The scientists sat in stunned silence. Sofia smiled grimly. “I see you all grasp the critical importance of this disturbance.”

At this, discussion broke out again. “But the Hypsithermal was due to orbital dynamics, after the last great Ice Age. How could this change?”

“The desertification of the Saraha is caused by the fundamental circulation cells, driven by the Sun. The energies involved are immense. How could something interfere with processes on the size of the solar system?”

“That’s what we need you to find out,” said Sofia. “We need to know why the Saharan desertification isn’t happening, and how to restart it. We need to bring back the Time of Sands.”

Over the next few days, plans were made, discussed, discarded and then fished out of bin as no better ideas came up. Terms like “speleotherms”, “delta O eighteen”, “tree ring isotopes”, and “geological flood markers” flew through the air. Technical details were discussed, dreamed up, and dreams were then crushed as Anna and Oliver gave them the hard facts of time-travel.

“Anything electronic tends to get fried” cautioned Oliver.

“You mean we need to go analogue?” cried Matteo, aghast.

“I’ll have to have a poke around my attic,” murmured Elspeth. “I think I have some thermographs in a box somewhere…”

“What about batteries or a generator?” asked Piotr. “We’ll need some kind of automatic recording device. We’re talking about years, decades of data accumulation, not just a few days.”

“We can transmit data back through time, though?” asked Isabel.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Anna. “Space, yes. Time no. The signal attenuates too much.”

“You mean”, said Yann, “We’re going to have to go back in time…ourselves? In person?”

A silence fell.

“I’m afraid so,” said Sofia at last.

Their training began. Exercise, runs, strength training, and enforced time without electronics. Museums were scoured for instruments. Teams were formed, schedules devised for the mass collection of data. Families were informed that their distinguished relatives had been honoured to be selected to go on a special research assignment to Mars.

“Mars? Are you insane? No-one’s been to Mars!” said Elspeth. “Why not Pluto?” asked Piotr sarcastically. “Not enough images for the AI,” replied Oliver seriously. Piotr gave it up. Finally, the day of departure dawned.

The process was complex, not to say tortuous. “It’s like a combination of an airport check-in with a budget airline and a NASA countdown,” grumbled Yann. “Oh? I never knew you went on a spaceflight with NASA,” exclaimed Isobel. “I was using my imagination”, replied Yann with dignity. “Although maybe now I won’t have to.”

Team 1, consisting of Isabel, Piotr, and Oliver, were to take observations four times a year, on the equinoxes and solstices. Team 2, Elspeth, Yann, Mateo and Anna, would take observations for two weeks every ten years. They were scheduled to meet up every hundred years.

10,000 years ago

The savannah-like landscape entranced them. Team 1 despite their tight deadlines, looked around in wonder. Even Piotr, grumbling cynic that he was, couldn’t help being struck silent at the lazy rivers winding their way down from the mountains. The mountains themselves were clear and crisp on the southern horizon. Herds were dotted across the landscape, half-hidden among the tall grass.

“Are those giraffes?”

“Next to the hippos near that lake?”

“No, left of the elephants.”

“This is incredible!”

“Be careful not to be seen by anything sentient,” cautioned Anna. “We don’t want to send those rhinos down a different evolutionary path by feeding them peanuts.”

They soon found a routine, setting up, taking measurements, packing up again and moving forward in time. As they slowly moved forward in time, both teams noticed a change. At first it became sunnier and drier, leading to gradual drying up of the rivers, then the lakes. Trees gave way to grass, grass gave way to dust and sand. But then this reversed, with the skies becoming cloudier, and strangely dingey. The dried-up rivers and lakes turned into swamps and marshes. Even on clear days there was a murkiness to the air.

“Volcanoes?” wondered Yann.

“No known eruptions from the ice core records for a hundred years either side of today,” replied Elspeth.

“Forest fires?” suggested Matteo.

“Could be,” agreed Elspeth. “Mind you, they’d have to be big. And far away — it’s too damp for much to burn here.”

The two teams kept on their separate paths for another hundred years, until on their next rendezvous, they all noticed an even odder tinge coming from the southern mountains.

“We should stay together in one group until we figure out what that is,” Anna said decisively. She had learned decisiveness was crucial to head off counterproposals, hypotheticals, and general off-topic wittering. She was happy. This crew didn’t mind her attitude.

Everyone wanted to be on the team checking out the strange column of fire and smoke seen on the distant mountain tops. Actually, everyone wanted to get out of the boring, tedious work of checking through their enormous stacks of data. Tedious work that had to be done, with limited electronics, before it could be analyzed to find out what was going wrong. Although trekking across the now somewhat sad landscape was also appealing after months of jumps and routine and never getting to wander off and explore.

“Enough” said Oliver, tired of their bickering. “I’m taking one person from my team with me. That person will be Isabel. She has both the expertise and the fitness” - here he stared at those who had been skipping their fitness routines. Piotr and Yann looked away.

“Fine” grumbled Elspeth. “Although I’m tough as old boots, you know”.

“Oh, we know”, muttered Piotr.

“You take care of her.” Elspeth fixed Oliver with a gimlet eye. “That’s my job,” he replied. “Yours, on the other hand, is to sort through the data so we can figure out what’s happening, and, possibly, if you can manage, why.”

Oliver and Isabel’s packs were prepared with lightning speed. They donned their high-tech, low-vis camo gear.

“Remember it will be hard for us, as well as any contemporaries, to see each other”, said Oliver. “Don’t go wandering off.”

Isobel gave him a look, then jammed on her camo cap so he couldn’t tell she was rolling her eyes. “Yes, boss”.

“That’s the ticket”, Oliver replied cheerfully.

Isobel found a low-tech, highly visible, soaking wet weed on the side of the swamp and flicked it at him. “Oops.”

They set off across the low plain separating them from the smoking mountain. Although they had each worked in forbidding environments before, and were getting used to the prehistoric time, the contently smoking mountain and grey, drizzling skies were not encouraging. “Looks like something out Mordor,” commented Oliver.

They estimated the mountains to be three days’ walk away. On the second day, glints of what appeared to be metal could be seen from time to time on the mountainsides. “I thought metallurgy didn’t get started for another few thousand years” said Oliver uneasily. “As far as we know”, replied Isobel. “We could be wrong.”

“Or time could be changing.”

“Try not to think about it” Isobel said urgently. “We’re not quite sure yet how quantum entanglement, the observer effect and conscious interaction work, but reality could depend on how we think about it. If you think too much about time changing while we’re in the process of investigating time changes, well, we have no idea what the consequences could be.”

Oliver thought this over. “This is making my head hurt”.

“Good”, said Isabel. “Stop thinking. Try to not think about elephants instead.”

“What?”

“The more you try to not think about elephants, the more you can only think about elephants.”

“I think we should stop talking now.”

On the third day, as they started up the mountain, the smoke became thicker. It smelled like sulphur. They coughed, their eyes ran, and their heads hurt. Isobel thought she was hallucinating when she saw the first smokestack. “You’re right, it is like Mordor,” she pointed it out to Oliver. “Stay here,” he ordered as he went to check it out. “Who on earth would travel back in time to randomly pollute a mountain?”

“It’s not there to pollute the mountain.” Isobel ignored his order as she peered around him. “That sulphur is being shot up into the upper atmosphere, where it blocks out the sunlight and forms sulphuric acid. There seems to be some ash or dust mixed in. That helps cloud formation, making it cloudier and rainier. This is what’s causing the miserable weather. It’s like hundreds of volcanoes going off at once, all the time. We have our answer to what’s changing the climate.”

“But not why.” Oliver reached the small but powerful smokestack and examined the metal pipe with sulphur and ash shooting out like a geyser. “What’s this?”

They both stared at the small, clear logo of a well-known, giant tech company stamped on the side. “I was going to ask who would be stupid enough to stamp their logo on a nefarious project, but I guess that’s a superfluous question.”

“This is a big operation. And these people are excellent at surveillance. I don’t like this. We should report back.”

“Well now, I can’t let you do that,” said a new voice. “You’re right, we do have excellent surveillance. We build a backdoor into all our products, including government issue camo gear.”

They whirled around. “How did you know we were here?” gasped Isobel. “And what is all this, anyway?”

A tall man with thick dark hair stood on a rocky ledge behind them. “This, my friends, will lead to the new future. Only by shaping the past can we shape the future. And do you know what the worst calamity to befall mankind was?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell us,” muttered Oliver beneath his breath.

“Agriculture! Agriculture led to civilisation, and with civilisation we stopped being free! To reach our true human potential, we need to avoid the agriculture and civilisation trap!”

“That is … insane,” said Oliver.

“I don’t like that word. I prefer visionary. Just think of all the problems we have in the present. Our present. Pollution, climate change, overpopulation, diabetes, obesity, too much screen time. By changing the climate of the Sahara we’ll stop the rise of agriculture and prevent civilisation ever arising!”

“So you’re stopping pollution and climate change in the future by polluting and changing the climate of the past?” asked Isobel incredulously.

“Precisely” the man beamed. “Now you’ll appreciate that I can’t let you spoil my plans. I think I’ll have to escort you back to the present and keep you in one of our safe locations.”

He started to move towards them but suddenly stopped as he looked around. “Who are you all?”

At the main site, Anna’s ears were starting to bleed from the terms being hurtled around her. Standard deviations, p-values, and Gumbel distributions battled against autocorrelations, type two error, and occasionally, words she understood as actually related to weather. She spent most of her time surveying the surroundings, and keeping a careful eye on the route Oliver and Isobel had taken.

On the second afternoon, Yann came to stand beside her. “Taking a break from the numbers?” she asked.

“My head is full of them, but we’ve seen some trends and come up with some ideas. The atmosphere seems to be getting significantly more polluted over time.”

“Polluted? How can it be polluted? There’s no industry. There isn’t even any agriculture.”

“The only clue we have so far are those,” Yann pointed to the smoking mountains. “What’s bothering you? You keep staring at the same spot.”

“There’s a strange shimmering not far from the mountain. It looks like – I’m not sure. Almost as if reality is thinning in that spot. Can you see it?”

Yann stared. “I think so? I’m not sure what reality thinning looks like.”

Elspeth and Piotr came up beside them, Matteo following behind.

“Whatever it is, it’s not good” Piotr declared.

“It looks like two things at the same time,” said Matteo.

“It spells trouble,” Anna agreed. “I think we should retrieve Oliver and Isobel and report back. We’ll pack up and take the land carts. They won’t go fast, but they have emergency batteries. Remember to use the camo mode and to wear your camo suits.”

They slowly chugged over the landscape, instruments rattling and people hanging over the edges. The smell of sulphur became more pervasive. “The volcanic effect. We were right,” said Elspeth. “But it’s not natural,” said Piotr. “Someone is doing this deliberately.”

“Are you sure?” asked Anna sharply. “That changes the situation.”

“The Monte Carlo limit test indicates a 99.995 probability that null hypothesis is invalidated”, reported Matteo.

“In English?”

“Yes.”

Anna rapidly made some different type of calculations. “This is not a quick or cheap operation. Someone with enormous resources and patience is behind this. They’re likely to have high-calibre protective units. Weapons? Hmmm…” She stared off into the distance.

“Ok, I think we’ll take this low tech, as we probably can’t hope to counter what they have available. Plus we really don’t want to injure someone in a different time. We have no idea what that would do to the fabric of time, and reality is already thinning. Here’s the plan…”

Reaching the mountain the next day, they slowly crept up the mountain path, keeping surprisingly quiet. Matteo, Yann and Elspeth crept up one side of the path, Anna and Piotr on the other. They heard the words “Well now, I can’t let you do that,” and sped up as stealthily as they could. They saw a strange man talking to the camo-blurred shapes of Isobel and Oliver. Anna passed a thick rope to Piotr, who reached over to pass it to Elspeth, over to Yann and last of all to Mateo. They encircled the man raving about civilisation and agriculture, Isobel and Oliver keeping him distracted. By the time he noticed them, they were close enough to gently wind him in the rope.

“Protocol five?” Anna asked Oliver. “Protocol five”, he confirmed. “Did you bring the equipment?”

“Of course I did,” she replied huffily.

“Then let’s go back and make our guest Sofia’s problem.”

“And shut down these smokestacks!” Elspeth, Piotr, Yann, Isobel and Matteo started to confer on the optimal protocol for returning the Sahara to the Times of Sand.

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About Claire Milano:

I'm slightly dyslexic, so when I saw the title of the competition, I first read it as "The Time of Sands", and the idea for this story came into being. I'm a scientist, although not in the precise area (space or time) covered by this story. I live in Canada with my family and dog.

To enjoy reading all the entries, please CLICK HERE

This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

Tonal Gray by Harry L. James

MSG 109738490Q

TO: Dejam Threl

SUBJECT: Axilon Drac

Axilon Drac and ship reported lost soon after departure from Parker’s Drift.

END MSG

A Dark and Stormy Night in Space

A Dark Matter storm was growing throughout the Terran Ophary Sector. For those who maintain the old Goltaran designations, this would be Shostan’s Willful Spacehold of Truth.

Ships on the edge of the disturbance jumped away, while those closer to the event switched to sub-light engines and made for the nearest space or planetary harbor to wait out the storm.

Down in the cargo hold, I and the rest of the crew of the Foundation’s Fuel found out our destination when the Captain announced our new heading and port. Parker’s Drift. That was where we would wait out the storm and then continue on our way to Laxis and eventually unload our cargo of farming equipment.

Parker’s Drift, at the mention of that name Old Shaik pulled his cap off and hung his face downward. Old Shaik had crewed for years with Captain Thill across the Collusion, through the Namaran Protrusion and claimed to have gone so far as to actually see the Terran Maelstrom that surrounds Terra herself where the Last Emperor sleeps until called to war once more when comes the end of the Universe.

Most took his stories with a grain of salt, but all deferred to his word when shipboard disputes came about. A young tech, Wistas, asked what was so wrong about the Station. Old Shaik settled onto the tread of a farming traction engine and began.

To start with, Parker’s Drift was located near one of the old D’If jump gates. The D’If were the original race that expanded through this part of the galaxy before the arrival of the Terrans. The D’If established a series of matter transmitter gates that could send a ship of any size from one part of the galaxy to another within seconds. The only problem with the D’If gates was that they were installed approximately 500,000 years ago and based on the D’If view of the galaxy.

So by the time the Gates were discovered by other races they tended to send you to what were now considered rather obscure places. The Ophary Gate was a perfect example, when working it sends you to a dead world orbiting an artificial star. If nothing, the D’If and their technology were always interesting, in a scary sort of way.

Regardless, the Terrans eventually occupied the area around the Gate, established a space station to study it and to provide services to ships moving through the Ophary Sector.

During the War the station changed hands multiple times. It was expanded and or updated as each side occupied it. The last tenants were the Terrans. It was here that the AI’s supposedly conspired to implement their revolt that ended the war in the spectacular destruction of both capital planets of the Terran Empire and the Goltaran Reach.

Of course no station in space existed without its Ghost Story. Shaik shook his head and started with an admonishment to foolish star sailors and their superstitious ways, but he had heard a story related to Parker’s Drift concerning a ghostly suit of battle armor that wanders the hallways looking for lost crewmen to consume their souls.

The story is that the battle suit was inhabited by the remnant of a Terran Battle AI who had hidden there to avoid the final battles of the war. Shaik shook his head and opined that he himself put little stock in such rubbish and figured someone had seen an old abandoned suit of armor and let their imagination go wild.

Ghostly suits of armor notwithstanding, the station was abandoned by both sides right after the war ended and lay empty until about 20 years ago when a Terran technology prospector ran across it, decided it was worth more as a functioning space station than salvage and opened it back up as Parker’s Drift.

The rumor was that it tended to be a temperamental place to run, with odd happenings, decks that supposedly disappeared and appeared and that parts of it were still closed due to both old Terran and Goltaran bobby traps. Shaik shook his head again and warned Wistas to avoid the rhetorical traps of old sailors and their stories and gave her the advice that she should do her work, keep her head down and limit her tasting of the more sinful delights of the station. Everyone laughed at the last and moved to their stations as the docking signal sounded. Few heard his final judgement on Parker’s Drift.

“Any port in a storm, but why did it have to be this port.”

We docked the ship and then assembled in formation before the Captain. He called out names, mine among them, and we stood in place as the rest of the crew were released to shore leave on the Station.

I looked around and noticed that my special group shared one common trait. Everyone was either partial or mostly of Terran extraction. The Captain was a Cylosian - Cylosia being an old treaty planet of the Goltaran Reach, and sort of held a grudge, as did many, against us, even if we were only part Terran. At least this part of the Galaxy had dropped the death sentence on Terrans a hundred years ago, but there was still some resentment left over.

Regardless, the Captain gave us all our walking papers and said that he wasn’t planning on taking the entire crew back out to finish up the run to Laxis. So there we were, on the loading dock with a few Credits worth of severance pay in our pockets, no berthing and nothing to do but wait for the storm to end and hope that some other ships would be hiring again. Not an uncommon occurrence when a Captain has to choose between crew and profits, profits always win. So off we stepped on to the main deck of Parker’s Drift.

Parker’s Drift was a standard Imperial Terran station. Essentially fifty main decks in the middle, with twenty upper decks for administration and management and twenty decks below the center fifty for storage and power. The center decks contained all that was necessary for the station to function. Deck zero being a great center equatorial promenade of shops, hotels and homes for those who lived and worked here. Deck one, going up, was the entertainment deck and that’s where I was headed.

The Goltar’s Grip was rated as one of the top ten places on the Station bar listing. The owner was listed as Ru’th Lis D’au, a Goltaran. This could turn out to be an interesting night.

As I arrived at the Grip and walked in I stopped and looked it over. The room was shaped like a great slice of pie, where you walked in from the narrow end with a wide aisle straight down the middle which pinnacled at a bar at the wide end. The right half of the room held a fair number of gaming tables and left was laid out in round tables for drink and food.

An old Lympath over at the far left end of the bar played soft Qu’Nor ballads in the background. Talk was low and kept between those being spoken to. The gambling looked like cards, dice and a few tables set up for Tychoan Wheel for those with extra credits and the ability to guess the odds on five balls falling at once over a spinning wheel with 100 numbers, 10 colors and one hole. No, I never understood it either. The feeling was relaxed, no apparent impending fights and everyone seemed to be focused on ignoring everyone else except those at their table.

I took a seat at the bar and ordered what passed for beer in this part of the Galaxy and prepared to settle in. I had used a fair amount of my credits to rent a room up on Deck 15 through the station AI, but the room wouldn’t be ready for a few hours, so in the meantime it was me, a beer and the gentle murmur of the Grip to keep me company.

I was well into my second beer and had just ordered what the Goltaran owner, claimed was real honest to goodness vat grown meat from an independent agrarian planet in the Toklin Shadow Trust when They came in.

A Myl Pair proceeded before a hulking Kyber, who had to hunch his shoulders to fit under the standard Terran entryway, a diminutive Thylor no more than one standard meter tall followed close behind, shadowed by a muscled Shaijn Initiate who’s pale green skin denoted her youth.

Just behind and the last to enter the room was a slightly built Terran who was almost lost in the company of his pan-galactic crew. Emblazoned on the shoulder of his and every member of his crews’ standard gray crew jumpsuits was the sunburst and crown of the most famous ship ever to salvage the astral oceans - the Dawn of Expectant Glory.

That meant the Myl Pair were the infamous Voldas and Voldes - Adepts of The Mystery and essentially living weapons for hire. The Kyber was none other than Kital. Rumored to be the only sentient being to ever enter a Lenarian Hive and come out with both his body and mind intact. The Thylor was Imlas of Zhen, former advisor to the last ruler of the Thylorian Emergence. Taken prisoner by the Goltarans and held as hostage for one hundred years - finally released and said to have disappeared inside the Forlin Maelstrom as penance for his failure to save his ruler and the Emergence from the Goltarans. He reappeared soon after the mutual collapse of the Goltaran Reach and the Terran Empire. He’s said to be the oldest living being in this part of the galaxy.

The green one was no less than Lasis of Shaijn, faithful First Officer/Navigator and confidant of her Captain. The rumor was she was bound to him by means of a blood oath extracted under duress in the most horrifying of conditions.

Finally, walking slowly down towards the bar while his crew dispersed to game, drink and eat the storm away, was their Captain, Tonal Gray himself.

His story allegedly begins when he was found inside a stasis box over three thousand years old during the demolition of a Trathen Pirate moon by an Iltur mining consortium. The Iltur sold the box to a collector of Terran memorabilia who then kept it on digital display for several years until it was bought by followers of the Atlantean League. The League worshiped the old Terrans and paid dearly to get one of their “gods” for veneration.

The story goes he spent another decade receiving their prayers and offerings before being stolen by a salvage crew who planned to use their very own Terran to take down and salvage a Terran Battleship.

Honestly though, I had heard that same story, with different actors, stranger locations and even more unbelievable happenings in most of the spacebars across this sector of the galaxy. I’m not sure anyone knew who or what Tonal Gray really was - in the long run it didn’t matter. Life moves on, you gotta make a living. Which gets a bit harder when people judge you as Terran first.

I’m sort of a Terran. My mom was 90% and my dad was around 50%. I guess by the time you get to me through both the Illurian and Denarian mixed in from their families - both essentially bipedal, multi-colored and genetically compatible races - the look that remains is mostly Terran.

As usual, my only problem with all of the different genes that went into making me who I was, was the Terran. That is what everyone saw when they looked at me, Terran. In the room that night were probably a good twenty or thirty of us in various forms, colors and styles of hair/fur grooming.

But Tonal Gray, Tonal Gray was “The” Terran.

So what was the Galaxy’s most successful salvage crew doing on Parker’s Drift - pretty much the ass end of nowhere - on a dark and stormy night in space?

“What the hell are they doing here?” A thin reedy voice broke my concentration.

I looked over my shoulder and the empty chair next to me had suddenly become occupied with a pile of multicolored cloths that seemed to pass for clothing and from which a hairless, green head protruded.

“It’s a free station, anyone can dock, anyone can buy or sell, remember, the war’s over.”

I turned back to my drink and hoped for the notice that my room was ready. Instead there was a light tap, tap, tap on my shoulder.

“But him, I mean, him!” My new best “friend” pointed towards Gray as he walked to the far end of the bar and set down.

“What about him?” Pile of Cloths shifted and leaned in, suddenly a three fingered hand stretched out and gently pressured my shoulder again.

“Well, i’d heard They was after him. Wherever he goes, death and destruction follows as They rip things apart looking for him. They want him, as the story goes that i’ve heard, They follow him.”

With a shift back and a knowing flutter of one eye, well, his only eye, Pile of Clothes leaned back and took a long pull on his drink.

“And who are They?” I knew I shouldn’t have, but sometimes these stories just can’t be ignored, and it wasn’t like I was going anywhere soon.

“Them! Them! the “A-Eyes”.” Once again the flutter of the eye.

“You mean the Terran Undead Lords want him? Now i’ve hear many stories about Captain Gray, this being the first time I’ve actually seen him, and I have heard the odd discussion or two about who or “what” he is, and that maybe the old Terran AI’s are looking for him - but that’s just part of the old salvage mystery business, isn’t it. He and his crew get top credits for their contracts because they look for the long lost, or at least tell a good tale about what they find. Either way - a little mystery goes a long way in the Technical Scrap Trade.”

Pile of Clothes leaned in close while organizing a series of eye flutters and getting a grip on my arm.

“Mark my words, Gray and his crew walk with the spirit of the Last Lost Dead Lord Emperor by their side. I plan to hide in my room until he and this storm are gone.”

With that Pile Of Clothes slipped off the stool and mumbled his way to the exit. Down the bar a hulking Goltaran carried two large foaming mugs over to Gray.

Tonal Gray - A Story

We had been waiting for weeks on the edge of the Ituri Expanse when an increasingly challenging game of Emperors and Idiots began to wear on our Myl Pair.

In our business, the Technical Scrap Trade, we spend a lot of time sitting and waiting, and this was one of those times. In fact, most stories in space bars should start with, “…we had been waiting for weeks when…”, rather than the oft quoted, “….and then I pulled my blaster.” Patience is the primary virtue of a good Scrapper.

I could tell the collective crew sense of patience was starting to wear a little thin when Voldas moved his Queen and Hierophant in the rarely used and often maligned move known as The Prime Minister’s Retreat.

A crap move this early in a game that was only about three ship-weeks old. Voldes, his twin, upped the ante of stupid moves with the Chamberlain’s Carousel. A somewhat questionable deception move, though claimed by Lomad of Tharsis as the only move to make when presented with the Retreat.

Voldas stood, grabbed his blaster and went to sweep his had across the board, when the mass detectors went off and the alarms sounded throughout the ship. Something big had just jumped into the system and was plowing its way through the debris of a battle fought over a thousand years ago.

There She was, the Jovian Fury, the object of our scavenging obsession. Acting as imperious and dismissive as her long dead masters. Terrans, they just seemed to be at war with existence itself.

The madness that claimed some of their sentient ships in their old age seemed to draw them over and over again to places of their greatest glory or defeat. For the Jovian Fury it was here on the edge of the Ituri Expanse at the Battle of Cylosia IV (Terran designation) or the Battle of Shamtrak’s Rusty Sword Breaks (Goltaran designation).

The Fury and her assault ships had been victorious and pounded the Goltaran Fleet and the colonies it protected into total submission. Every single living Goltaran, in space or on planets, along with their ships were blasted into so much scrap.

The Terran AI’s were known for executing their Battle Masters’ orders at an exceptionally high level of violence while displaying a pathological willingness to destroy every thing Goltaran, no matter what it took.

I myself, have seen the terrifying multi-dimensional temporal/fusion vortex that used to be the Goltaran twin colonies of Thaxis and Tharxis. Twenty billion souls eliminated from standard space over the matter of a few minutes.

The Torlish, who had come to provide neutral observers and medical assistance to the battle, estimated that the Terrans used ten or more multi-dimensional string cutter bombs to create the Vortex - and in the end what made it worse was that Thaxis and Tharxis was just a diversion to draw space defenses away from here, Cylosia IV. The Goltarans and the Terrans really, really hated each other.

Of course, our ship was no match for a Terran Battle AI encased in miles of ceramsteel armor, gravenergy shields and loaded with weapons we didn’t even know the function of.

Europa Class Battleships like the Fury were sentient killing machines built to destroy entire planetary systems while going toe to toe with the big Goltaran “Ophidian” class battle cruisers in open space combat. But we had two equalizers, a Thallen Restriction Field and our very own Terran.

Nobody can tell you what exactly the Thallen intended the Restriction Field for. Their culture was found dead with their technology splayed around them in some kind of strange religious mass cultural suicide. But, if there was a need to immobilize a large chunk of matter - like a small moon, asteroid or say a psychopathic Terran starship, it could do it. Once the Jovian Fury was immobilized we would do something that no other salvage crew had done, simply tell the ship to stand down. That’s where our second equalizer came in.

A real live ancient Terran. That’s right, a real live ancient Terran. When you seen them, you wonder how the hell did these strange bipedal monstrosities come storming out of the ass end of the galaxy and come to engage the Goltaran Reach in a multi-galactic war that wrecked most of known and unknown space. Crazy.

We found our Terran about five years ago. Stuffed in an advanced stasis container in the lowest vault of a Trathen Pirate Moon. The key to Its usefulness - the dynastic rank glyphs etched on the front of Its box. Its DNA tagged It with authority over any construct, natural or unnatural that came from the cursed forges of the Terran Master Builders.

It took us two years to figure out how to wake It. Using translating technology lifted from a Terran light cruiser we’d salvaged a few years before we were able to establish communications with It.

It didn’t seem to take it too bad that the war was over, that It had been asleep for uncounted years, and that Its mere existence was a death sentence on most worlds of the Great Collusion, though Terrans were not hunted as much as they used to be - pretty much left to themselves in their far flung colonies and remnant worlds. Just like the Goltarans - hated, hidden and rarely cared about anymore.

We convinced It that helping us was to Its advantage and that we’d cut It in for a partial share and send It on Its way after the job - otherwise we’d stuff It back in that box and re-deposit It in the vault. It agreed, as long as we called It “him” for now - no problem, most of us couldn’t have told a “him” Terran from a “her” Terran - they are just too damn strange looking.

Now their technology was another thing. The Terrans and the Goltarans had been just a half a step away from pure magic. They developed sciences that bent and broke most of the fundamental rules of the universe, which made them the most dangerous and powerful cultures ever to rise up out of the primal mud.

In their mutual desire to destroy each other they tore most of the universe up as both sides went down swinging dark matter fusion bombs and multi-dimensional string cutters across their last battle fields. The Great Revolt of AI’s on both sides finally put an end to the violence but that very inconclusive and extremely chaotic end left the known worlds and the space between them littered with their deadly toys.

This is where we come in.

Finders and purveyors of technical oddities left over from the good old days. Our current target contained quad cubed multi-dimensional computing cores worth a fortune - not much else would sell. Even the poorest of planets had their own left over pet Defense AI (Terran or Goltaran - didn’t really matter, pretty much the same level of potential for violence). The local system AI’s had been set to accept commands from loyal allied cultures, so when the Terran Empire and the Goltaran Reach came apart, their client worlds retained much of their defensive and somewhat limited offensive powers.

It was one of the core principals that kept the Great Collusion going in this part of the galaxy - make the wrong move and a planet gets to see how the Terrans and Goltarans earned their reputations.

Though not willing to carry out their ancient masters’ orders of self destruction at the end of the War, their AI’s, when given the opportunity, were still willing to engage in a planetary cleansing or two just to keep their skills up.

So, quad cubed multi-dimensional computing cores it was. We just had to stop the Fury and have our friendly Terran do his trick. We did, he did and then….

….howling alarms bounced off the pulsated strobe slashed walls.

What the hell?

Alarms were sounding all over the ship and the AI was shouting in that horrid, stuttering cacophony the Terrans called speech. I couldn’t understand most of it, but knowing the Terrans it was probably an endless string of threats invoking unbelievable levels of personal violence that would be visited upon every single one of us.

Suddenly the alarms stopped and the AI ceased its intemperate verbal gibberish. Down the corridor I saw the Terran slowly walking towards me.

From behind him came a strange guttural sobbing scream.

That’s when I pulled out my blaster.

The Terran waved his hand and I was suddenly held in a security field. He walked up and held his finger in front of his lips.

“Stay very quiet, don’t struggle, and I’ll try to get us all out of here alive.”

He turned to the command deck doors which opened as he moved forward towards them. For the next hour or so he cajoled, chided, commanded and discussed with the AI all the reasons why She should just let him and his crew go.

He proposed that there wasn’t really any reason to kill us all, and then go on a vengeful rampage on every living thing within a hundred light years. The AI just needed to calm down, accept Her fate and head off into the empty parts of space and think about all the things She wanted to do that didn’t involve the total destruction of planets, systems and or entire races.

The AI slowly came to agree and the Terran negotiated for us to take, what the AI called a small courier assault ship, a ship three times the size of our current vessel and filled with a full suite of weapons, defensive systems and all manners of the aforementioned Terran general magical technology.

The terrible sounds I had heard had been poor Slort, our technical chief, he had been killed while trying to open up a weapons storage locker, fool, I had told him computing technology only, you never really knew what part of the AI was still awake and working when a ship was given a stand down command. Apparently the security systems for the weapons locker was one of those parts.

That left myself - Kital, the Myl Pair, and the Terran.

As we slowly departed the Ilturi Expanse in our very own Terran ship, It remained in normal space waiting for a course command and also to fully clear all of the debris of the Expanse.

Even a ship this size carried a Dark Matter space folder core. From here to wherever in a matter of seconds. Except everything dangerous on this ship was just waiting for our Terran friend to call out our names for whatever torture he wanted to visit upon us. We were all gathered in what had passed for the Terran Crew’s mess hall and waited for our new “Captain” to address our situation.

The Terran stepped into the room and asked us all to sit. We all attempted to set down, truthfully, I never liked Terran chairs so I stood and the Twins crushed two chairs before sitting on the floor, while Kital stood with me.

The Terran stood and spoke.

“My name is Tonal Gray. I am now Captain of this ship which is named the “Dawn of Expectant Glory”. This ship is now under my direct command, the AI is both capable as a Battle AI and as a Support AI. She will only follow my orders. No one is to go into the AI Core area under penalty of sudden death - Ship’s rules - which we all will follow. As you see the AI is providing us the ability to converse in our natural languages - as no-one here seems to be fluent in Terran. You may speak to the ship, request anything from Her for your personal survival, water, food, intoxicating drinks or anything else that in no way interferes with the Ship’s operation. If you request anything of the Ship you may address it as Dawn. I have requested that standard Terran crew discipline rules be suspended - meaning no one should be harmed if you inadvertently cause insult to myself as Captain, or the Ship. Your salvage ship is in the main hold and is being reviewed, repaired and upgraded as needed by the Dawn’s service systems. Your ship will be returned to you if you decide to leave. Do you all understand?”

Everyone made a sign of assent.

Tonal continued.

“ I am not sure who I was in the Empire, as my memory has been wiped from long ago. I am aware of my connection to a remote time in the Empire’s history under the reign of Emperor William the 63rd, but not sure what that means. I have been in and out of stasis for more years than most of your cultures have been in space. I am dedicated to finding my memories, my history and my purpose. In the mean time, given a willing crew, I plan to support my search of known and unknown space much as you yourselves have, finding and trading in the more interesting technologies left behind by my ancestors and their enemies. If you come along, I will provide you with riches and adventures beyond your wildest dreams. If you don’t, then I’ll gladly return you to your ship, with enough supplies to make it to the nearest habitable planet or moon, and I will continue on my own.”

He sat quietly and showed his teeth as he finished his short speech. I wasn’t sure if that last bit was a threat or a show of respect - Terrans are confusing.

Voldas and Voldes quickly gave their assent, being as riches and adventure were pretty much what drew them off their home world and out into the cold of space in the first place.

Kital waited and seemed lost in thought, though I’m not sure he just wasn’t a bit slow, but it gave the appearance that he was actually making a reasoned argument within himself for signing on, which he did.

As for myself, not wanting to end up on a lost world out in the middle of nowhere, I signed on and have never looked back.

And so, that is how myself - Lasis of Shaijn, Kital of Kyber, and Voldas and Voldes of Myl became the first new crew members of the Dawn of Expectant Glory under the command of The Terran, Captain Tonal Gray in over two thousand years.

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Harry L James has been a farmer, soldier, civil servant and now lives as a writer and evolving artist sharing a wonderfully entangled workspace with his wife Michelle who designs and makes jewellery.

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This story was a winning entry in The Sands of Time Writing Competition and has since been published in the Sands of Time Anthology. All profits from the anthology support Scope, the inspiring charity dedicated to enabling and empowering people with disabilities. The book is available now in both paperback and ebook formats, directly from Rushford Editions or Amazon.

STDD CASE FILE RUS1896JM

STATUS: PENDING

Joan steps out of the office for the last time. Blinking in the afternoon sun, she rests the box carrying all her worldly, well, her working worldly goods anyway, on her hip as she tries to juggle her car keys and handbag without dropping anything.

The end of an era. According to the speech her boss gave anyway. She sincerely doubts her eighteen-year tenure as accounts manager, in charge of a department of one (her), particularly merits being described as an era.

With a sigh, she makes her way to her Micra and opens the rear door. About to drop everything on the seat, she suddenly and uncharacteristically, changes her mind. She glances around. It feels…. weird and not quite real to think this is the very last time she will park here.

Retired. She associates that word with age. Old age. At sixty, relatively fit and, she is frequently assured, looking at least ten years younger, she doesn’t consider herself old. A decent personal pension means she doesn’t have to work, even though it will be another seven years before she will qualify for the state pension. If there is still such a thing then. She believes the government, any government, despite their protestations otherwise, will find a way to keep extending the qualifying age until they can phase it out altogether. She sighs again. When did she become so cynical? She opens the boot, places the box inside, locks the car and heads to the High Street.

There’s not a lot to it. Scotmid, baker, butcher, and the ubiquitous general store selling everything you had no idea you needed until you did. There is one hairdresser-come-beauty salon, and rather bizarrely, two Turkish barbers. She can’t imagine there are enough stylish men in her hometown to warrant even one, never mind two, of these fine establishments. The two cafés both specialise in good old British breakfasts and morning rolls with a dizzying array of fillings, most of which are fried. There is one very nice, newly opened bistro hoping to attract the influx of commuter families from the very expensive new-build houses on the edge of town and, of course, four pubs. None of which have any trouble attracting the locals.

On a Tuesday afternoon, it is relatively quiet. A few mums with younger children. The unemployed and the unemployable. Older people. Like her, she smiles wryly.

She wanders aimlessly up one side of the street. Passes the nicest café. Having been plied with bacon rolls, Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and a Costco cake inscribed with ‘Happy Retirment Joan’ a typo only she noticed, she is definitely not hungry. Perhaps she will nip into the very good butcher’s shop and get herself a nice steak for dinner. There is leftover salad in her fridge which is still relatively fresh. She might even crack open a bottle of wine. Toast her future. Whatever it may hold.

She crosses the road, not bothering with the pedestrian crossing, stumbles and is thankfully caught by a very distinguished-looking older gentleman before she can hit the ground.

“Oh my! I’m so sorry.”

“Are you alright, madam?”

Joan brushes off imaginary dust and hastily steps back. “Yes. Yes. I’m absolutely fine, thank you. Sorry. Again.”

“No trouble at all. May I escort you to your destination?”

She blinks as she looks at him. Who on Earth talks like that? He is much taller than her five feet, five inches, slimly built and wearing what, even to her unsophisticated eye, is clearly a very expensive black pin-striped, three-piece suit. Savile Row anyone? Greying hair pokes out from underneath a Trilby and he has a neatly trimmed goatee beard which suits him very well. And ……is that a monocle? He certainly looks out of place in Bowton. Out of time too, truth to tell.

“Oh no, no need. Thank you.” Not sure what else to say or do, she once more dusts down her shirt and straightens her jacket. It occurs to her that if this were a story, she would have finally met her soul mate and they would drift off together into a happy future, travelling the world. First class, of course. But it’s not and they won’t.

“Well, if you’re quite sure I can be of no further assistance for now, I will be on my way. Good day to you, Miss Michaels.” He doffs his hat and turns away.

“Sir Reginald Hargreeves!” she calls out, snapping her fingers, not quite registering that he knows her name.

“I beg your pardon?” He turns back looking utterly bemused.

Joan feels her cheeks flushing. “I…. I’m sorry. It’s just you remind me of him. Sir Reginald Hargreeves. The Umbrella Academy,” she finishes lamely. Presuming that all phrases have some basis in truth, she wills the ground to open up right now. Please, please, please.

“I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with that particular establishment, Miss Michaels. Nor with a member of the peerage named Hargreeves.”

Her colour deepens. “No. No, of course not. It’s a…. TV show.” Oh, dear God! Lightening then.

There is an uncomfortably long pause.

“Ah.” He smiles kindly. Like people do when confronted with someone who is clearly not firing on all cylinders.

In the absence of any kind of intervention, divine or otherwise, Joan smiles weakly back. Like you do when you’re the one whose cylinders aren’t firing at all. “Well, thanks again. Have a nice day.” She spins around and strides smartly back across the street. Have a nice day? For goodness’ sake! Now what does she do? The butcher is on the other side of the street, but there is no way on God’s Earth she is crossing back. Or looking to see if Sir Reginald is watching her. Or if he’s calling the emergency services. Why hadn’t she just gone home as she usually did? She doesn’t need steak. A tin of tuna will do just fine with the salad.

She risks a sideways glance through the curtain of her thick, dark (thank you L’Oreal) hair and breathes a sigh of relief. He’s gone. With a quick traffic check, she recrosses the road, thankfully without incident this time. Okay. Buy a steak then home. Except…… the butcher shop isn’t there. She frowns, glancing around to get her bearings. This is definitely where the butcher is. Was. Should be. She hasn’t seen anything on the local Facebook page announcing the closure of the long-established shop. But there is no meat in this window. No steak pies, no bacon, no sausages. What there is, is posters. Travel posters. Cruises, beach resorts, jungle adventures and luxury train journeys. When had a travel agency opened? Still, she finds herself lingering. Mindful of the fact that part of her surprisingly generous array of leaving gifts includes rather a lot of euros, her own fault, she’d erroneously implied that her retirement plans included travel, she studies the posters more closely. It wouldn’t do any harm to pick up a brochure or two. She wouldn’t be committing to anything. Before she can change her mind, she opens the door. An old-fashioned bell announces her arrival. Somehow, she is not surprised to see Sir Reginald behind the only desk.

“Hello again Miss Michaels. Please, take a seat.”

“Hello. Um….. no thank you. I thought I might just grab a few brochures.” She glances around but can’t see any lying around or displayed on shelves.

“Oh, we don’t do brochures, I’m afraid. Not enough paper in the world,” he laughs.

“Right. Well, I’ll just be on my way. I’m not really looking to go on holiday.”

“Why ever not? Euros are no good here, are they? Although, to be fair, they’re not much use anywhere prior to 2002, and one does rather assume you’ll be going back a little further than that.” He moves to the front of the desk and pulls out the chair for her to sit.

She frowns. He knows her name. He knows she has euros. And what exactly does he mean by going back? Despite all that, or maybe because of all that, she finds herself taking the proffered seat.

“Splendid. May I get you a refreshment? Tea, coffee, champagne perhaps? Retirement is a cause for celebration after all.” He retakes his seat with a broad smile.

“How do you know….. all you know? About me.”

“This is not the first time we have met Miss Michaels. But….. we are getting ahead of ourselves. Or maybe behind?” He shakes his head. “Even I can’t keep up! Anyway, where are you thinking of this time?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. I’m quite sure I would remember meeting you, Mr…..?” She waits for him to fill in the blank. He doesn’t. “And I don’t travel. Anymore.” Time to go. She stands.

“We only have a brief window of opportunity, Miss Michaels. It’s now or not for another very long time.”

“Opportunity for what exactly?”

“The time of your life!” He pops open a bottle of Bollinger that she is certain was not there when she sat down and carefully fills two elegant flutes.

This is ridiculous. Insane even. Yet she finds herself sitting down and sipping the absolutely delicious champagne. Not that she is a connoisseur of such things. She takes another sip. Why not? There’s nothing and no-one waiting for her at home. She has resisted the cliché of being the spinster with the cat. So far. Why shouldn’t she have a glass or two of quality champagne and consider the possibility of going on holiday? Maybe she could even actually go? Alone. Or as part of a group of like-minded singles. She grimaces. Sounds horrific. Still, the champagne really is very, very, good.

“Alright, where do you suggest a sixty-year-old single woman with a shed load of euros should go?” She leans back and takes another long sip.

“Hmmm. Perhaps, for a change, we should first consider the when rather than the where.” He sips far more delicately than she does.

“When? Well, I am retired so anytime is good for me.” She peers at the flute. This champagne really is quite excellent.

He smiles indulgently. “You say a variation of that every time, Joan. You don’t mind if I call you Joan, do you?”

“I’d rather you called me Anastasia, but that’s not my name. So….” she giggles, draining her glass and holding it out for a refill.

He obliges her not so subtle request. “It just so happens we do have a rather interesting case pending at the moment. May I suggest Moscow, 1896? A relatively hopeful time for the dynasty.”

She pauses; glass half raised to her lips. “Dynasty. As in the Romanovs?”

“Yes.”

“You think I should go to Moscow? In today’s climate?” She ignores the numbers for now.

“Well, you did say Anastasia.”

She frowns. “Joan is the most boring name ever and that was the first exotic one that came to mind.”

“I see. If you really don’t want to go to Russia, we have several other cases on file.”

“I don’t want to go to Russia.” She has unsettling images of being tailed by the KGB.

“Are you sure? It’s just that the name you give me is quite often the starting point for your next trip.” He sounds quite put out.

Joan decides she’s had enough champagne. Probably more than enough. She places the half-full glass on the desk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re not making any sense whatsoever. I think I should go. Thank you for the champagne.” She hoists her bag over her shoulder.

“Joan.”

The way he says her name makes her pause. She presses her lips together. Her heart is pounding. She feels herself breaking into a cold sweat. What if he doesn’t let her leave? What if the drink was drugged? Is she going to be trafficked?

“Let’s begin again, shall we? My name is irrelevant, but you call me Marcus. Every so often, we meet. You take a trip. You do us a small favour. You return home. You remember nothing. We meet again. And so on.”

She swallows hard. She has so many questions. For no particular reason she starts with, “And what do I get out of all this….. meeting? And tripping?”

“Adventure, Joan! A respite from the dull drudgery of your daily life.”

She bristles slightly. It’s all very well for her to call her life dull, and she can’t deny that it is, but she rather resents him doing so. “But, if I don’t remember any of it, what’s the point?”

“Your passion is history. You get to live it. As it happens,” he says, enthusiastically waving his arms in the air, remarkably without spilling any champagne.

“You’re not serious. I mean, you can’t possibly be talking about….” She can’t bring herself to say the words.

“I am. Both serious and talking about….”

“No! Nope! Don’t! Just….. don’t. I’m leaving now, and don’t you dare try to stop me! I don’t know who put you up to this, but it’s just… Tell them I am not that gullible. Or desperate. It’s not funny, and frankly, champagne notwithstanding, I am more than a little annoyed. Good day….. Marcus.” She whirls, a mistake considering the alcohol, takes a moment, then stomps out the door.

Marcus smiles and takes another sip. He so enjoys their little chats. He checks his pocket watch. The second hand ticks along. Completes a full minute. Then another. Then another three. Interesting. It doesn’t usually take her this long. Maybe it’s her age? He is idly wondering what will happen if she doesn’t come back when the door opens, bounces off the wall, only missing her on the rebound because she’s already standing in front of his desk.

“Time travel?”

He nods, leaning forward to place his glass down.

“Time travel,” she repeats slowly.

“Yes,” he replies though it was not a question.

“Travelling through time.”

“Mmmm. One can’t travel through time. Time is not a door after all,” he laughs at his analogy. She does not. He clears his throat. “It’s more travelling along time.”

“Travelling along the time line then.” She can’t believe she’s actually having this conversation.

“Mmmm. Time isn’t a line one can travel as such. Try, if you will, to imagine a wonderfully complex system of….”

“No, I’m not imagining anything. Except, maybe, this conversation. That’s it! You didn’t catch me when I stumbled. I fell. Cracked my head. I’m hallucinating while I wait in a dingy corridor to be admitted to a hospital ward.” Thank goodness for that. Not that spending hours in the emergency room would be her preferred activity on the afternoon she retired, but it beats accepting that she is here, slightly tipsy, listening to the crazy wittering of Sir Reginald. Or should that be the wittering of crazy Sir Reginald?

Marcus sighs. This is taking so much longer than it usually does. She’s always been so open to the suggestion before. Excited even.

Joan picks up her glass and downs the contents in one. Hey, her hallucination, she can do what she wants. “Right. Let’s just say that I believe you. Time travel is a thing. A thing that I do. So, where’s the machine?”

He can’t help it; he looks at his watch.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I keeping you from something? Or some time maybe?” she tries, and fails, to keep the sarcasm from her voice as she plonks, rather unbecomingly, down on the chair.

“No, no, forgive me. To answer your question, there is no machine. Mr Wells really did us no favours with that one. Splendid book though.”

“No machine?”

“No.”

“How do I get there then? Portal? TARDIS? Magic beans?” She leans forward and helps herself to another drink.

“Watch.”

“I am watching! Trust me, this stuff is too good to spill.”

He shakes his head. “No. A watch. As in a timepiece you wear on your wrist. The clue is in the name.”

She blinks. “A watch? A watch lets me travel through, I beg your pardon, along time?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Apple’s latest update really is a massive leap forward.”

“I’m not quite sure what a piece of fruit has to do with anything, but you are correct, the technology will indeed be a remarkable leap.”

She rolls her eyes as she takes another long drink then, carefully so as not to spill any, she presses the crown on her watch. “Which app is it then?”

“Joan, that watch doesn’t allow you to time travel.”

“Damn! Is it expensive? It seems like it would be, these things certainly are.” She waves her wrist. “I mean I’m not exactly watching every penny, but I’m not Joan Bezos.”

Marcus looks at her blankly.

“As in Jeff? Amazon? Really? Have you been living under a rock?” She sighs heavily. “Never mind. So, I need a watch.”

“You do.”

“Okay. A watch you are going to give me?”

“Yes.”

“And, as I don’t have one and you say I’ve done this before, I return it when I get back?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Does this mean you are ready to go?” he asks warily.

“Absolutely. Let’s do this. Moscow here I come. I assume I’m not going to be the Anastasia Romanov?”

“No, no. Aside from the fact that particular Grand Duchess won’t be born until 1901, you can’t be someone who exists in their own time period. That is……”

“Impossible? Weird? Dangerous? Because the rest of all this is soooo believable.”

“I was going to say beyond our current capabilities.” He reaches inside his jacket, producing a folded piece of paper which he holds out to her.

Unfolding it, she frowns at the unfamiliar words. “Russian, I’m guessing?”

“Indeed. When you arrive, you will memorise this then repeat it to a certain holy man who is on the verge of……”

“Rasputin!” she blurts out excitedly. “I get to meet Rasputin!” Despite not believing any of this is real, her reaction is purely visceral. And slightly embarrassing.

“Goodness me no!” He looks quite horrified by the very idea. “Father Konstantin Fedorov. A well-educated, if naïve, young man from Pavlovsk, is travelling to Moscow to enjoy the many celebrations planned for the coronation of the Tsar and Tsarina. He shares a carriage with an enchanting lady and her chaperone, who are also to attend the festivities. Indeed, so enchanting is this paragon of womanly virtue that Father Konstantin is on the verge of laicising himself……”

“Whoa! Hold on there, Mr Oxford English Dictionary. Laicising? In public? In front of her chaperone? Is that even legal?”

“A laicised priest is one who has left the priesthood,” he explains patiently.

“Oh. Right. I thought it meant he….. never mind. Carry on.” She studies the crease in her trousers. It needs ironing.

“Quite. The point is, he must not, under any circumstances, give up his vocation.”

“Why? I’ve never heard of him. Who cares if some randy priest from the Dark Ages defrocks himself? Before defrocking an enchantress,” she snorts, amused by her play on words.

“It is barely over a hundred years ago, Joan, hardly the Dark Ages. And, you yourself made the point, you have never heard of him. That will change if he is allowed to follow this new path.”

“Change in a bad way?”

He nods gravely. “A very, very bad way.”

She looks at the letter even though the Cyrillic letters mean absolutely nothing to her. “And this,” she waves it at him, “will make him forget his… love?”

“It will help him…. make the correct decision.”

“Jesus. No pun intended. What does it say?”

“It is probably best that you don’t know.” He steeples his fingers under his chin.

“Ah hah! You said I’ve to memorise it. So, putting aside the fact that I don’t know any Russian, I will know what it says.”

“Yes, but not until you arrive.”

“Arrive. In Moscow in 18…..”

“96. Yes.”

She grimaces, the effects of the champagne beginning to wear off. “Okay, so somehow, I find this conflicted priest, tell him…. oh! Wait a minute. That has to be breaking every single rule of time travel.”

Marcus frowns. “In what way exactly?”

“Uh duh! The butterfly effect? Chaos theory? I take it you have heard of that Professor?”

“Oh, I’m not a Professor, Joan, I’m…..”

“Not the point.”

“I understand. You are referring to Mr Bradbury’s story ‘A Sound of Thunder’ in which he proposes that the untimely death of a single butterfly in the past can change…..”

“Yes! I mean I haven’t actually read it but I assume that’s the one that makes my case.”

He really does wish she would refrain from interrupting him. “Time is not that fragile, Joan.” He used to say that time was not like a fragile, delicate woman. He has learned not to.

“Still, surely I can’t take anything from this time back without changing the future?”

“It is not only possible but absolutely essential that we do just that.”

“You change the future? You…… manipulate the future?” she asks, aghast.

“We… try to ensure the…. correct outcomes.”

“The correct outcomes? Who decides what that is? You?”

“Well, not just me.” He smiles deprecatingly.

“This is…. no. That is wrong. So wrong.” She imagines a group of Bond-like villians sitting around a table dictating world events. Or NATO as it’s sometimes known.

“Actually no, it isn’t. Joan, you have done this many times. No harm has been done….”

“No harm? No harm? Do you watch the news? The world is totally fu…screwed up!”

“Trust me, it would be far, far worse without our interventions.”

She opens her mouth to protest some more, then promptly closes it again. Why is she getting so wound up? This is not real. Butterflies die all the time. Watches, no matter how smart, do not enable time travel.

“Some more champagne, perhaps?”

“Absolutely. You keep saying we or us or our. I take it you don’t just mean you and me?”

“Of course not. We, as in our unit.” He fills her glass.

“Unit. So, there’s a lot of us then? Whizzing along time, fighting the good fight, righting wrongs at the whim of some despotic general? Or worse, politician?”

He frowns. “Joan, you have my word, there are no despots involved, either military or civilian.”

“Well, no despot thinks they are one, do they? Anyway, you’re telling me I’m a part of some secret time army?”

“Army, no. There’s only around a dozen of us in this particular time frame.”

“So more like a secret time gang then.” She shakes her head. This is one long hallucination. “What’s it called?”

“What is what called?”

“Our gang? Unit,” she amends, seeing his eyes almost disappear under his deeply furrowing brows.

“The Spatial Time Distortion Department,” he proclaims grandly.

“The STD…. Department. Really?” she laughs.

“I am not sure why you find that so amusing, but yes.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. Tell me what it says. The letter I mean.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“I don’t care. Tell me, or I’m walking out the door.”

Marcus sighs even more heavily. He removes his monocle and rubs his eyes wearily. “It tells him that, should he follow Satan’s path of temptation, great sorrow will befall his beloved and his um…genitalia will turn black and wither away. Before falling off.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, refusing to meet her eyes.

Joan blinks several times. “I….. see.”

The silence stretches out.

“And….. why would he believe some strange woman on the street?”

“You will appea……. He will be praying for guidance. Your words will guide him.”

“Are you saying….. he’s going to think I’m….. God?” she whispers, suddenly fearful lest she be smited. Smote? Smitten?

“Well…… I would imagine it is more likely, although I am just guessing here, that he’ll think you’re an angel. Or messenger.”

“Oh. Well, that’s alright then.”

“Joan, while I do appreciate that this is a lot for you to take in, it….”

“No, no! Not at all, Marcus. This is just a typical, run-of-the-mill Tuesday for me. But you are right, time is of the essence as they say,” she smirks. “So, can I have that watch now?”

He narrows his eyes, not fooled in the slightest. “You can.”

She waits. He doesn’t produce a watch.

“So….”

“Perhaps you have some more pertinent questions?”

“Sure. Why not? Ummm… I take it I’ll be able to speak Russian as well as read it?”

“Of course.”

“And…. there’ll be some kind of briefing before I go? Costume fitting and….. stuff?”

“That won’t be necessary. I have given you all the information you need and you will be wearing appropriate clothing when you arrive.”

“Convenient.”

“Indeed.” He holds out his hand.

She looks at the watch which, like everything else, seems to be miraculously produced from mid-air. The square face is completely opaque, no numbers, no symbols. It looks exactly like a sleeping smartwatch.

“You may put it on.”

She removes her own watch, places it and the letter in her jacket pocket, and positions the innocuous-looking, all-black watch on her wrist. She flinches as it snaps into place, fitting her small wrist perfectly.

“Press the crown once to initiate temporal displacement. Tap the face twice to leave this time period. Press the crown once, then the face four times to return. Long-press the crown for assistance.”

“Seems simple enough.” She dramatically raises her hand. Surely this will put an end to the hallucination once and for all.

“Stop!” he yells.

“Why? Sooner I go, the sooner I’m back and the good Father will still have all his junk intact.”

“While all of that is true, Joan, I cannot be here when you leave.”

“Why not?”

“This is not my time.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Other than you not being present, are there any other rules I should know?”

“Make sure you are alone and not in a public place. Temporal displacement causes an uncomfortable shift in the atmosphere. Not to mention people are apt to panic when someone disappears before their eyes.”

“I’m sure they are. I’ll be on my way then.”

He nods. “Excellent. Good luck, Joan. I will see you on your return.”

“Do svidaniya. Before you get excited, that’s all the Russian I know.”

“I would never have guessed,” he says drily, rising to his feet.

“Snarky.” She turns to go.

“Next.”

“Who’s next please?”

“Excuse me love; it’s your turn.”

Joan almost jumps out of her skin as she feels a hand on her shoulder. “What?”

“It’s your turn to be served.” The elderly man indicates the counter.

She looks around. She’s in the butcher’s shop. She’s in the butcher’s shop, and the three members of staff behind the counter are looking at her. As are the other customers.

“Oh. Sorry. I was….. dreaming.” She steps forward. “Ummm… I’ll have a small sirloin steak please, and do you have any bacon left?” She can’t see any in the display.

“Just sold the last of it, I’m afraid.” The woman places the steak on the scale.

“I’ll….. just the steak then. Thank you.” She knows she fell, but she doesn’t remember getting up and coming inside the shop. Maybe she should get checked out. She might have a concussion.

“That all, madam?”

Joan nods.

“That’s £7.58, please.”

She rummages in her bag for her purse, pulls out a £10 note, and hands it over. Taking her change, she exits the shop avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

Returning to her car, she deposits her bags. She probably shouldn’t risk driving. It’s a long walk home though, and she really doesn’t want to return to the office to ask someone to drive her. If she takes her time and uses the back roads, surely, it’ll be fine. She feels okay. No headache, no nausea and she’s definitely not sleepy.

Right, she’ll drive carefully, get home, and make a nice cup of tea. She idly wonders why they say that? A nice cup of tea. No-one makes themselves a horrible one surely? Anyway, she’ll have her tea, and, if she loses anymore time, she will call NHS 24.

She glances at her watch……. That isn’t her watch. She tentatively pats her jacket pocket. “Damn!” she says quietly, removing her watch and a folded letter. She doesn’t have to open it to know it’s written in Russian. It was all real. She places both items back in her pocket, grabs her bags and gets out the car. Forget concussion, she definitely can’t risk driving after all the champagne she guzzled.

With a last glance in the direction of the office building, and a rising sense of excitement, she sets off on foot. The walk will clear her head, give her time to think.

She will have that cup of tea. And then…….

She smiles. Press the crown once, tap the face twice.

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About Jo Jones: Like my protagonist, I am a retired accounts manager (they do say write what you know!) who loves science fiction and history. Naturally, St Mary's is my spiritual home. I write short stories for my own enjoyment, and I finally found the courage to write and submit my David Sands story. Fingers crossed it is chosen.

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