Crystal Ball

Kicking his feet up on what was once Teddy Roosevelt's desk, Socorro Marquez read the traditional letter from his immediate predecessor with something between amusement and concern for the woman's sanity. Straining to decipher her handwriting, the newest occupant of the Oval Office had just about decided that this was all a pathetic attempt at humor when his intercom buzzed.

"Mr. President?"

"Yes?"

"There's a General Wynn here to see you sir."

Wynn--the name had been about the only thing he could make out from the old woman's scribbling, that and the words 'Crystal Ball'.

"Send him in, Reggie."

Out of habit Marquez almost snapped to attention when the general glided in, followed by a secret service agent carrying a box of files.

"President Marquez, an honor, sir."

They saluted one another and with a nod, the general dismissed the agent. Somehow that left Marquez feeling slighted.

General Wynn said, "I believe by now you've read the letter from..."

"My... ah, predecessor, yes. I must say general, if this is some sort of joke..."

Wynn seemed impatient, "It's not a joke sir. Thirty-six years ago..."

"That would've been President ..."

"The Crystal Ball Project was actually initiated under Truman, the dawn of the atomic age and all that, but that's not important now, sir." Wynn was growing impatient, and uneasy with the creeping realization that all he had heard about Marquez was true--arrogant and obtuse.

But now it was Marquez's turn to express impatience. "Yes general, thirty-six years ago a bunch of scientists tried to take a peek into the future, only to find out that we don't have much future left."

He waved his predecessor's letter in the Wynn's face, "Isn't that what the old woman was trying to tell me? That the human race has less than a year left?"

Wynn was resigned, "That about sums it up, Mr. President."

"Tell me general, do you think we have any business sticking our noses into the future?"

Wynn knew he had to be careful; he was all too aware of the President's religious inclinations. "What is important sir is that the damage done to the machine when we did the initial probe has finally been repaired, and we believe that the problems which lead to the malfunction have been corrected. We're prepared to probe..."

"You're telling me we have a time machine? That we can travel in time?"

"What we have is simply a viewer, sir, and that's all. All of the theories, all the research--it's all here in these files. I don't understand any of it, and I've been with the project for over forty years. If you'll just sit down with Dr. Montgomery, she can explain it--make it sound so simple even I almost get it. Almost, but again, what's important Mr. President, is that we can[I] view[/I] the past, and more importantly, the future, and if we can control the view, fine tune it, so to speak, we can find out what happens, and maybe we can prevent it."

Marquez said, "When do you intend to... well, what the hell do you call it? View time again? I want to be there."

"Of course, sir. Everything is entirely at your discretion, but you may want to familiarize yourself with the basics. Everything's in the files, Mr. President. I would suggest..."

"Yes of course, general. That will be all."

There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch.

Marquez quoted the verse from Deuteronomy from memory, speaking the words aloud, perhaps hoping to remind God that this humble servant knew the meaning behind the words--but they simply evaporated in the emptiness of his office. He had spent the last three days reviewing the files from the box General Wynn had left behind.

General relativity. Quantum mechanics, particle physics and wave functions, tachyons and quarks, string theory and mesons, space and time. He didn't really understand the science behind the Crystal Ball project, but he felt certain that he understood the consequences.

Divination, attempting to see into the future, was... is a sin, and Marquez knew from personal experience that God's punishment for the sinner is both swift and sure.

But the destruction of... everything?

That seemed too high a price. Still, who was he to question what the Almighty considered a fair price for humanity's transgressions? These were the sorts of questions he had wrestled with while trying to comprehend the scope of the Crystal Ball project over the past seventy-two hours.

Still, he knew there were, or there had been, exceptions--cases of special dispensation, so to speak--for seers who had for one reason or another found favor with the Lord. He wondered if he dared to believe that it was possible that providence had delivered him to this moment in time when the project had regained its ability to probe the future?

Was it possible that God was giving him an opportunity--that God was using him--to set things straight? Could he prevent the catastrophe that would bring history to a screeching halt in less than a year?

Wynn would arrive within the hour to take him to some top-secret location; he hadn't even been 'allowed' to inform his vice President of the project--Crystal Ball was 'need to know' only. He was being rudely awakened to the limits of his own powers and since he had met Wynn he had steadily grown more uncertain and insecure regarding the extent of his influence over certain departments within the government.

The reality was proving incongruent with his confident personality, what his enemies had called cockiness.

Of one thing Marquez felt truly certain: that he was about to pass through the fire.

It was in Kansas, for God's sake.

The most heavily-fortified, super-secret project ever undertaken by the United States government (or any government, for that matter) was located right smack-dab in the middle of a large wheat field. Marquez felt the VTOL chopper break and suddenly the bottom of the aircraft seemed to be falling out from under him. They were going to crash right in the middle of the field of wheat. He saw the stalks from outside the window and thought hitting the ground would be next.

But they kept descending. Slower, but still descending.

When the pilot noticed the President's unease, she quickly sought to repair the damage.

"It's all holographic, sir. The wheat, I mean. The whole field, in fact. The complex is almost two kilometers down; I'm sorry, I figured someone briefed you already."

Struggling to regain his composure the President said, "It seems I'm the last to know a lot of things."

She started to laugh, then thought better of it. Instead she said, "We'll be at Level One in about five minute's sir..."

Marquez cut her off with a nod. The idea of meeting Dr. Sarah Montgomery had left him uneasy. She led the many Nobel Laureates who had endorsed his opponent in the election. He remembered Montgomery as particularly vitriolic towards his own fundamentalist views.

The wrongest man at the worsest time, she had joked.

He realized now that it must have been the Crystal Ball project that she was trying to protect--to protect it from what she had called his 'rigid religiosity'.

Hmmph.

He felt himself smiling for the first time since his inauguration. The press had termed his election a miracle; perhaps they had been right after all.

He reminded himself that he was the President of the United States; if his authority over the project was in question, why would they even be showing him this facility? He felt confidence surging within himself, and he felt certain that he knew its source.

Providence had indeed delivered him to this point in time, less than a year before the world was set to end in a fiery cataclysm.

There had to be a purpose behind it all.

God has forgiven me, he thought, and he may even be rewarding me...

This was the moment Dr. Montgomery had dreaded for almost three months--introducing President Marquez to Crystal Ball. She gave him the complete tour of the facility and allowed him time to poke his nose into every nook and cranny. She tried to distill the theory behind the time-viewer to its most basic components, all without as much help as she had hoped from her colleague Dr. Rajiv Singh who had maintained a polite distance throughout the whole ordeal.

Montgomery knew Marquez was only listening to be polite; she had no doubt that he remembered all-to-well her vigorous attacks against him on behalf of his opponent, and she knew that Marquez was as famous for holding a grudge as he was for his arrogant disposition. She harbored little hope that she would remain attached to the project--she felt certain that Singh would be the next head of the project.

She envied Singh's genius, and she cursed his apolitical nature.

Still, she felt determined to make sure that Marquez understood the incredible energy involved in manipulating the chronoscope, the powerful forces of nature that came into play while viewing the timescape.

"Well, Mr. President," she felt herself nearly choke, "what do you think?"

"Quite honestly, Ms. Montgomery, I think you've opened up a proverbial can of worms, and I still haven't actually seen the, what's it called again, the viewer?"

"We actually call it a chronoscope, and we had intended to attempt a probe tomorrow morning..."

He cut her off, "Are you going to be able to zero in on the exact moment that our history comes to an end?"

There it is, she thought. What is this fool going to do?

"No sir. What we hope to do is find a point before... the event, and to monitor media feeds, that's how we were hoping to discern if the event is caused by human action or some natural event..."

Marquez seemed indignant, "And how do we know that your viewer, your chronoscope, is working correctly--how do we really know the world ends?"

Finally, Singh came to her rescue, "We can replay you the imagery we captured from our first probe, Mr. President, and you will see for yourself--the people, all peoples, everywhere, Thailand, Morocco, Wyoming--you can sense it, they could sense it--they all sensed something was happening, something beyond their control. Perhaps its best if postpone tomorrow's probe. Once you have reviewed the discs, Mr. President, you can decide when, and what date, to probe next."

The President seemed to relax and Montgomery decided that that last bit, about 'you can decide when', was played very nicely. Singh now seemed to have the President in the palm of his hand.

And perhaps my job as well, she thought

Marquez took two weeks to decide when to reinitiate a temporal probe. He aimed for five days before the big date. During that time he had communicated only with Singh, who in turn had now become the unofficial head of the project--everyone took their direction from him. Montgomery chose to fade into the background, determined to remain attached to the project. When the big day came, she glued herself to an obscure monitor, pretending to be occupied.

Singh made a show out of allowing Marquez to 'press the button', so to speak, initializing the chronoscope for the first time in almost four decades, and Montgomery realized that her colleague had been more politically astute than he had let on.

But things went wrong from that moment on.

The chronoscope was off target, way off.

Singh had tried to conceal his growing anxiety. The team had been reaching for media centers, major city centers, something that could give them a hint as to what lay ahead for the human race, some harbinger of the doom that they knew awaited, but the viewer had been inexplicably drawn to a tragic hover-car accident, an event in past.

Montgomery forced herself to remain while Singh agitatedly directed the technicians; she had recognized the woman driving the hovercraft. It wasn't hard to figure out who the two children were in the back seats.

The woman was raging out of control, and so was the hovercraft. It didn't take a time machine to figure out what was going to happen next.

Montgomery fought the urge to turn around. She dare not look at the President.

But surely he recognizes... she thought.

She waited to hear him say something, anything.

But the hovercraft crashed and fate took its awful toll, and still she heard nothing from the President, husband of the woman just killed in front of their eyes, and the father of the two children--killed almost ten years ago in a tragic accident--the wife and children of Senator Socorro Marquez.

The imager faded. Singh couldn't bring it back.

Montgomery somehow felt safe enough now to turn and face the President. Drenched in sweat, breathing shallowly, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings.

After what seemed like an eternity Marquez spoke, "Call me when you have it fixed."

He left without another word.

Then something else occurred to Montgomery. The accident that they all had just witnessed didn't quite jibe with the official story. The woman lost control of the hovercraft because she had been in a rage; there was no mechanical failure.

None at all.

What's he hiding? she wondered, and how did the 'scope pick up on such a personal event? What are the odds?

What she knew for certain was that the world would end in less than six months. What she didn't know was what Marquez's personal life had to do with any of it.

But she knew that she had to find out.

It was two A.M. before Marquez arrived back at the White House, his head and heart racing, his stomach in knots over the scene that he had earlier witnessed.

What would draw the chronoscope to such an event? So off target, such a personal happenstance. Was God trying to tell him something?

These thoughts dominated him until he walked in to the Oval Office, only to find the vice President sitting quietly.

In his chair, feet up on his desk.

Marquez flopped down opposite the VP, loosening his tie.

"What's on your mind, Archie?"

Archibald Wilson stood indignantly and said, "I felt like trying out the chair, what with you being MIA since the inaugural. I've got leaders from both houses crawling up my ass--your NSA advisor says she hasn't talked to you yet..."

"Something's come up, Archie, an... executive matter."

"Shouldn't I be briefed?"

Marquez paused, "If it should become necessary, you will be."

"Have I mentioned the media? Do you even read any of the news pages?"

"Look, Archie, if you can't handle it... well, Senator Cortez is still interested in your job. She's offered to let me stay in her villa in Havana anytime, although I think that's a kind of tacky bribe. In fact, those cigars there, I don't smoke of course, but why don't you take some on your way out? I see no reason you shouldn't enjoy some of the perks of the vice presidency."

The vice President sat silently for a few moments, pondering how over the last decade, ever since Senator Marquez had lost his family in a tragic accident, his rivals and enemies had fallen by the wayside, one way or another as that cocky SOB had climbed the political ladder. Then, filling his jacket pocket with cigars and nodding curtly, he said, "Good evening, Mr. President."

Alone at last, Marquez finally unleashed a deluge of tears. Although he had played the accident over and over in his mind almost daily for the last ten years, seeing it replayed like that, in such graphic detail, had left him more deeply shaken and grief-stricken than he had felt at the time of the accident itself.

Again he asked himself what had drawn the viewer to that particular point in time; was God truly trying to tell him something? Could God be offering him a chance at redemption for all that he had accomplished in His name over the last decade--a chance to bring his wife and children back even after he had failed her and the children and God Almighty Himself in that one moment of weakness--a momentary lapse of reason that had led to his enraged wife spinning out of control in a hover-craft?

The same event that had driven him to re-dedicate his life to the Lord to begin with?

And what about Mariah? The woman for whom he had sacrificed everything, and hadn't seen since the accident...

A dead wife and children, a missing aide--a virtual cornucopia for the media.

And yet, somehow, he had still been able to recover politically.

And then it occurred to him. He understood why God had delivered him to this point in time.

God had forgiven his transgressions.

From that assumption it didn't take long to convince himself that his ascension to the presidency, and his subsequent promise to use his office to restore America's moral fiber and standing had pleased the Almighty. The campaign and the long and costly road before that, long ago he had decided that it had all been a test., and he had passed

Divine reward was at hand.

There had to be a way to communicate through the chronoscope.

He pulled Wynn's box of files from a closet. There had to be something in there he missed.

Outside in the Rose Garden the first snow of the season started falling.

Winter had come. Time was running out.

It occurred to her in the middle of the night, like inspiration, but instead of a flash of light and the sense of relief that comes with a problem solved, she felt pinned down beneath a blanket of darkness, helpless.

Dr. Montgomery could not figure out why the chronoscope had focused on a moment of personal tragedy for the President, but she was afraid that she knew what would happen if Marquez tried to somehow manipulate the past.

But aren't we trying to manipulate the future?

She was teetering on the edge of panic.

In all of the intellectual discussions over the course of her time with the project, the idea of alternating the timeline had been introduced more than once, at times of sobriety and otherwise. Of course any tampering with the timeline was forbidden, officially, but why were they trying to view time, past or future, if not (at some point) to tamper?

What if Marquez tries to change the past? What man wouldn't want to do that, especially after being forced to relive the event--to actually witness the carnage first hand--the senseless death of his wife? His children?

Bolting upright she remembered something Singh had postulated long ago--that the timeline is indeed fixed, and while we may be able to cheat physics and peek into the past or future, any attempt to change the past or future would 'unravel' the timeline.

Everything would come undone. Singh had a theory about how the 'scope could be used to communicate with the past or future, but he had told his colleagues that his concern for the 'tapestry' of our existence prevented him from expounding.

In fifteen years, Singh had never once backed down from his assertion of a fixed time-line, and after that drunken night he had never again mentioned his theory on inter-temporal communication, or what he called the 'unraveling'.

But what would Singh do now? She had not liked the distinct personality change that had come over Singh since he had begun currying so much favor with the President. His almost arrogant assumption of leadership of the project had not set well with any of the staff--most had preferred her own more benign tutelage.

But now Singh's in charge--and he's definitely the President's man... he seems almost intoxicated by the attention that Marquez foists upon him...

What would Singh do if asked by 'his' President?

It was 3 AM. There could be no calling him at this hour.

She forced herself out of bed; she would be on his doorstep first thing in the morning.

Microscopic black holes.

Marquez shuddered at the idea.

Time viewing involved the manipulation of gravitational fields strong enough to bend space-time itself. Of course space and time already curve, a natural response to the presence of matter; by creating miniature black holes within a donut-shaped vacuum chamber--the chamber itself suspended within a framework of some of nature's more rare and nefarious metals, it had proven possible to complete the natural curvature of space-time into a complete loop. The introduction of tachyon particles into this loop gave those in the here and now a chance to view any particular point in time along the loop.

The viewer did have its limits, though. To date, nothing organic had survived attempts to travel in time, one way or the other, but that didn't concern Marquez. He just wanted to send a signal. A warning... to himself? To his wife, Jolene?

To Mariah?

What would, what could he do with the ability to communicate with the past and how could he use it to change the present?

He who tries to foresee calamities shall suffer them twice over...

But there must be something that he was supposed to do, something that he could do. There were seers who had found favor with the Lord...

All that he had done to serve his God since the accident that took his family, he thought surely that this opportunity must be his reward.

As the press reminded the world everyday, his election had been a miracle.

He inhaled as deep as he could and held his breath, finding himself filled with a new confidence. He would find whatever it was that he was supposed to do, and he would do it.

He had been chosen.

He knew it now.

Rajiv Singh didn't appreciate hearing the door buzzing at six o'clock in the morning. He had gotten used to sleeping late since he no longer felt concerned about what time he showed up for work. Still, given the hour, it must be important. He forced himself to the door and expected to find security from the lab on the other side; instead, he was greeted by the smiling face of Sarah Montgomery.

He had been expecting this confrontation; he hadn't expected to be wearing his bathrobe, but so be it.

"Sarah, I was just getting ready to have breakfast. Care to join me?"

Montgomery glided into Singh's dormitory, confident that despite his ego, despite the siren limelight of being the 'President's man', Singh was still a scientist.

He invited her to sit with a wave of his hand, offered coffee or juice, and made her wait for what he thought was the proper amount of time while fixing his own. Finally, he seated himself across from her and with a nod seemingly gave her permission to speak.

"Rajiv, I want to talk to you..."

"Please, Doctor Singh."

Montgomery started to protest, the two had always been on first name basis when she was in charge.

"Despite being in my bathrobe, Sarah, I wish to keep this surprise visit of yours on a professional level."

"Of course, Dr. Singh. I was curious, did you realize what we were seeing, what particular event the 'scope zeroed in on?"

"A hover-craft accident. So?"

"It was Marquez's wife and children, sir. That accident happened when Marquez was a senator."

Singh shifted uneasily, "Again, so?"

She hesitated--this wasn't the same man that she knew just a few months ago.

"I was thinking last night about our conversation regarding your theory of a fixed timeline, Dr. Singh, and the night that you claimed you had a way to communicate..."

Singh let loose an exaggerated sigh for effect and stated, "Get to your point, Sarah, if you have one."

"Would you attempt to alter the timeline if the President asked you to?"

"Hmmph, you know we can't travel in time, how many times have we discussed the impossibility of transmitting organic matter along the path we use to view different time-frames? Hmm? How many times..."

"I didn't mean time travel. You once said it may be possible to communicate with people in other timeframes, didn't you?"

Her last words hung quietly between them, more like an accusation than a question between colleagues and friends.

The silence was broken by an announcement from Singh's home computer: Incoming message from the President of the United States.

Singh shrugged his shoulders, "I suppose I should take this, Sarah, the sooner the better."

Montgomery stood and left without a word.

She had her answer.

Singh had paced the floor for hours before he had realized that the morning had slipped by him.

Damn her!

And the President! What was he thinking?

Singh decided that he really couldn't blame the man; who wouldn't want to take a chance on bringing their family back, especially after losing them to such a senseless tragedy.

Damn the both of them!

Singh stopped pacing, forcing himself to calmness. He knew that Marquez would attempt to alter the past, with or without him. He realized then that the best course of action would be to take the President up on his offer; if he didn't, someone else would.

Someone else would replace him as head of the project--of course Marquez would dismiss him in order to clear the path for another project director. Someone more malleable--someone without his knowledge of the chronoscope and how it worked, someone who lacked his appreciation and respect for the subtle nuances of space and time.

He decided to shower and go to work, and by the time he was walking out the door he had convinced himself that he had no choice, that to let someone else attempt to execute the President's scheme would be both foolhardy and irresponsible.

He owed it to the project.

The President arrived at the complex forgoing the usual fanfare and pressing of the flesh with the troops and lower-level techs. He wanted to get this... executive action over with as soon as possible.

The project team members all seemed preoccupied and for that he was grateful.

He wondered if any of them knew what a terrible weight he carried--he alone would change the past, playing God and unleashing an unknown string of consequences.

String.

According to modern physics, the universe is made up of countless 'strings' of space-time and it is the vibrations, caused by the movement inherent in sub-atomic particles, all along this 'string' that create or make-up what we call reality, and according to Singh, tachyons, because of their faster-than-light speed, logically should exist everywhere at once along their particular 'string' or 'thread' in the relativistic fabric of the universe. As for how Singh thought that he cold transmit a message along these strings he would not say, even faced with the most extreme threats. In the end the President had realized that he had needed Singh; but the day was at hand--the old man would have to put up or shut up.

Marquez bristled when he saw Dr. Montgomery waiting at the elevator that would take down to the lowest level of the complex, down to the chronoscope. He tried not to act startled when his Marine escorts peeled off, nodded curtly to Montgomery and strode onto the platform.

About two hundred feet down Montgomery halted the lift, "Mr. President, I think we should talk."

"Why Dr. Montgomery, I don't think you really want to talk me. After all, I'm the wrongest man, and this is the worsest time."

"I know what you're planning, I know what it was that the chronoscope zeroed in on last time, and I think I know why the version of events portrayed by the 'scope don't exactly jibe with the official news reports."

He stared silently past her, and she knew that her career had just ended.

Still, with what she knew that the man was planning, she had no choice.

It wouldn't just mean the end of Crystal Ball--it could mean the end of everything, even if Singh was wrong about a fixed timeline the project, under Singh's tutelage, had gotten off track. Perhaps it had even gone too far... but the threat remained--something, some event or circumstance had the world teetering on the edge of destruction.

Somewhere in the back of her mind Montgomery thought that perhaps somehow the project itself had contributed to the looming disaster...

Marquez said, "I wish to be taken down to the viewing chamber. I further wish... command that you do not step off of the platform. Instead, I will see to it that you are escorted out--you're off the project, forever."

The platform continued its descent in silence.

Strolling into the viewing chamber alone Marquez thought it odd that no one questioned Montgomery's absence; everyone simply went about doing what they were doing--preparing to peek into the future, unless, once again, the 'scope' had a different destination in mind.

Of course, Marquez had his own destination in mind; the only question on his mind at this point was had Singh complied with his order? Would his past self 'get the message' and avoid the tragedy? He could still have it all...

Worse, he believed that to 'have it all' was God's plan for him.

Marquez and Singh merely nodded to one another as the President took his seat.

From what Singh had told him once his past self received his warning, everything would change, and he, and everyone else, wouldn't even remember that there had ever been another timeline. Hoping that no one could sense how nervous he felt he tried to clam his nerves by reminding himself that it was all in God's hands now, and that he was just executing his role in God's plan.

Singh had argued with the choice of message that Marquez wanted delivered--to the doctor it made more sense for Marquez to avoid or cease to activity which had lead to wife's rage and its consequences, not simply to advise his counterpart on the importance of not getting caught.

But the President is a man who wants it all...

Of course, the global disaster would still await them, but Marquez would still be in power, most likely. So nothing would really be changed, the world wouldn't be any worse off.

Ah, the power of rationalization...

Singh announced, "All right, ladies and gentlemen, this is it--let's stay focused on what we're doing--no matter what happens, in fact--ignore whatever you may see transpiring on the viewer--stay at your station, follow protocols, and keep feeding the chronoscope power, no matter how much it demands."

Singh's theory to communicate with the past (or future) relied upon well known but seemingly unexploited facts. Every speck of matter in the universe has its own quantum signature, as well as human beings. He had long believed that human thought patterns could be synchronized between the same two people existing in different timelines.

It was a dangerous process, naturally. Just as viewing time required harnessing tachyons, synchronizing dual-quantum signatures required one signature to be highly radioactive.

And there was no way to irradiate a subject in the past.

Earlier this morning Singh had exposed himself to lethal amounts of tachyon radiation, hopefully enough to attract the viewer to his own 'local' quantum signature, and then he injected himself with stimulants to counter the effect of the radiation long enough for him to execute the President's plan. He believed that once the alternate timeline unfolded, he would not be at this point in time, forced to carry the plans of a mad... of an arrogant and corrupt politician like Socorro Marquez.

But, once the new reality established itself, Marquez would be deeply indebted to the good doctor. Like the President, Singh was a man who wanted it all, and like the President he felt that he would always land on his feet, due to his superior capabilities.

Alerting Marquez's younger counterpart to the impending perils was the simple part of the plan. He would approach the young senator on his way up the Capitol steps, pull him aside and warn him of his wife's impending discovery. If probed by the younger Marquez, Singh would tell him that he knows of his affair the same way he knows of the tattoo in the small of his lover's back.

A pitchfork! Of all things!

Singh had always found Western sensibilities loathsome, and particularly so among the self-professed religious and righteous, the one's who claimed to be doing God's work, but he hadn't expected to find Marquez's young lady friend accompanying him into the senate building. The young woman was stunning, to say the least and his thoughts were held captive by her image.

Singh found himself contemplating a most unscientific thought: what would he sacrifice to possess her?

He forced himself to focus on his mission, leaned in and whispered to the senator. Marquez pulled away, a look of disgust on his face and clearly agitated.

Oddly enough, it was the young woman who stepped forward and calmed the senator, and asked him to listen to the strange man one more time.

Suddenly all of the meters at Singh's station went red; there was a power overload--cascade failure of all systems was inevitable, and then he saw something on his screen--something that had eluded scientists since the dawn of atomic theory. He knew immediately what it was, what it could only be--the Boson's particle, the so-called 'God' particle.

And it was growing, exponentially, and as it was growing, it was becoming more and more unstable. Soon the entire sub-atomic structure of the universe would become unstable--the very fabric of space and time would unravel.

So he had been right after all--the time-line was indeed fixed, and any tampering with a fixed timeline would inevitably lead to... disaster.

The rest of the staff, and especially the President, were becoming alarmed by his excited mutterings and exclamations--obviously he was seeing something on his screen that the rest of them couldn't.

Turning to face his colleagues one last time Singh whispered, "I have become Shiva, destroyer of worlds..."

Socorro Marquez sat alone in the Oval Office, his head down on what used to be Teddy Roosevelt's desk, exhausted from sobbing. As soon as the leader of his security detail had informed of the death of his wife and two teen-age children, he remembered the 'other' timeline, the one in which his family was still taken from him, just at an earlier age.

He who tries to foresee calamities shall suffer them twice over...

The dualistic histories unfolded before him, revealing the damage he had done, and the rewards that he was reaping, and he remembered his roll in the Crystal Ball project. Both roles. Both projects.

He had done so much, and still he had been destined to lose it all. Twice.

Too late he realized that perhaps the Presidency had not been a reward, but a trap.

He thought for a moment that he heard thunder, but he knew better.

The end had begun.

As if on cue General Mariah Wu glided into his office, smiling broadly as if she had just single-handedly won the war, taking a chair without invitation.

Puzzled and frightened, Marquez tried but found that he could not stand.

In this timeline, General Wu was project leader for Crystal Ball. She had come into his life shortly after his inauguration, debriefing him, seducing him. He didn't realize it at the time of course, like all men he had fancied himself the pursuer, the conqueror. For her he had sacrificed everything, his love of her had sent his family spiraling to their deaths in an out of control hover-car.

In both time-lines. Last time she had come to work for him as his chief-of-staff, and this time...

She smiled, and somehow it seemed lewd, "You've been remembering some things, haven't you dear?"

He could only nod in the affirmative.

"Cat got your tongue, Mr. President?"

He struggled to find his voice, the word 'why' barely escaping his quivering lips.

Laughing, she shot back, "Why not? The universe needs re-arranging my dear, and what better way that to start over? We're remodeling, string by quantum string, sweetheart, and we couldn't have done it without you. Do hear the thunder coming closer? You should witness when a... what do you people call them--oh yes, 'string', snaps. We're shredding the very fabric of space and time, and when..."

"Who..." he wheezed.

"Who do you want me to be, darling? Certainly by now you realize that I can be whoever you want, whatever I need to be. The question senator--sorry--Mr. President, is who are you?"

He sat paralyzed, motionless, helpless, unable to answer.

Wu laughed, "Why Socorro, you were the vainest man I could find, and vanity has always been my favorite sin. You had it all, sweetheart, a beautiful wife and family, a newly elected senator already being mentioned for the vice-presidency. You were on a fast track to the top--but it wasn't enough was it? Do you know what they called you in the cloakrooms? The 'Soufflé'--they all thought you were so puffed up and full of hot air..."

"But I have served the Lord," he sobbed.

"Self-righteousness doesn't serve Him, it only serves the self-righteous, and I should know, better than anyone. You and your kind only drive people from Him, and finally you drove enough from His ranks to allow us the chance to strike."

Without explanation they had switched chairs, Wu now behind the desk, in what he had foolishly thought was the seat of power. She used her sensuous giggle, the one that had so aroused him to begin with during that very first interview... in the other timeline, when he met he her as a freshman senator.

"Don't worry darling, I've sat in the big chair before--more than once. I used a different desk, though."

And just like that Teddy Roosevelt's historic desk was gone, the space between them empty. He stared as she spread her legs seductively, revealing much more than a lady, or even a general, should. He couldn't help but stare; so many times he had sought refuge between those legs. Too late he learned that it was the very maw of Hell in which he had taken comfort--and where he had earned his destruction, as well as the destruction of his world. All worlds, everywhere.

Slowly stroking the inside of her thigh with her fingertips she said, "Certainly you know what the Good Book says about vanity dear--'He who comes in with vanity shall be carried out in darkness, and his name will be covered in darkness, and he shall never see the sun'."

He looked at General Wu... Mariah one last time before she disappeared, before everything started disappearing, forever. He thought that she had never looked so beautiful, almost worth all the pain and loss. He had never noticed the horns and tail, though, and the sudden stench of brimstone choked him to his knees as the approaching thunder finally boomed directly overhead. The 'string' that had encompassed Marquez's very existence had finally snapped...recoiling and retracting across the eons and infinite light-years with all of the other countless strings that wove the fabric of reality... the universe resonated in a coda of harmonic discord... until all fell silent...

... and there was Darkness, and She saw the Darkness, and She felt that it was good, so She decided to leave it that way, for a while.

There would be plenty of time to re-decorate.

THE END

Bio: Mr. Smith is a mystery, concealing himself so that you won't discover his superhero identity--or just maybe neglected to send a bio, forcing the editor to make something up. You must decide for yourself.

E-mail: Daniel C. Smith

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