Rockets and Ray Guns - An Anthology of Sci-fi short stories

Catch 22 - Part 1

"Time is an Illusion," - Albert Einstein

The steel bar door swung open with a clang and four heavily armed men stepped through, dragging a fifth. While the four were armored in ceramic and carbon fiber body armor, their dark grey uniforms marked with the bright red of the Hammer and Sickle and wore grim purpose like cloaks of swirling shadow, the fifth was bloodied and battered, his clothing torn and tattered. Manacled at the wrists and ankles, he couldn't resist as they slung him bodily into a steel chair before roughly chaining him in place.

"Any last words, tovarisch?" a hard voice asked. When the chained man didn't answer, a gauntleted hand was knotted into his unkempt hair and his head was jerked up to put his eyes on the speaker, another man in a dark gray uniform.

"Fuck you, bootlicker," the man managed through a mangled mouth. Then his head was snapping to the side from a hard punch to his cheek.

His hard expression not changing with either the insult or the violence, the speaker went on as the man sagged in his manacles, dripping blood from his mouth.

"Morgan Tempest, you have been found guilty of the crime of treason against the Soviet State and marked a dissident. The penalty for treason is death."

"Fuck you," the man repeated in a hoarse whisper without looking back up. "And fuck your Soviet State."

Ignoring that, the man pulled out a side arm and aimed it at the top of Morgan's head. Hearing the hammer draw back, Morgan looked up, eyes defiant. If he was going to die in this stinking place, he would look it in the eye and spit.

The hammer came down and the carriage snapped back to eject the empty cartridge as his senses were filled with the loud bark of the gun firing. Then nothing.

"What?" he stammered in confusion as he stared at the gun's muzzle. No bullet, no vapor from the expended propellent; just nothing.

"Well, isn't this a little awkward!" another voice said and, dressed in a white jumpsuit, a non-descript, slightly pudgy fellow with thinning hair stepped out from behind the man with the gun.

"It comes down to it and the poor man shoots blanks," the newcomer continued, a look of mock disappointment on his face.

"Who, ... what?" Morgan stammered, the pain in his face and body pushed aside for the moment by his confusion.

That immediately brought the newcomer's attention to him.

"Oh, there you are, Mister Tempest!" the man said brightly with a smile. Then he was looking over his shoulder to make a gesture.

It was a summons; without further ado, several more people in white jumpsuits appeared, two carrying what looked to be a body. They bustled around Morgan for a moment, using mysterious tools to free his manacles and heal his wounds before he was pulled from the chair and the body was put in his place.

As they worked, the first newcomer continued talking.

"My name is Calvin Hobbes, chief coordinator of our temporal facility, and I have just a couple of questions for you. First, what do you know of time?"

When Morgan didn't answer, Hobbes went on, undeterred.

"How about alternate history, then? Probability? No? Nothing?" Hobbes frowned. "Well, considering how compressed this time stream is, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." He looked over at Morgan as a number of white jumpsuits worked to strip him of his tattered clothing and replace it with a white jumpsuit of his own.

"Let me relate something to you, Mister Tempest. You see, in this time stream, the Soviet Empire has conquered most of your world. Only parts of Europe, Australia and North America hold out against the communists. Until 22:37 pm, July 25, 2021, you were part of the North American resistance. That was three days ago. Since your capture, you've been repeatedly tortured and interrogated on the whereabouts, strengths and numbers of your resistance, to no avail. And, on July 29, at 1:42 am, you were executed for treason and dissidence by Comrade Colonel Vlad Ivanov."

The space around them shifted uneasily. Then Morgan was watching in astonishment as a bullet suddenly leapt from the handgun's muzzle to slam into the top of the unknown body's head. It was quickly followed by two more.

Then the body, the guards and Ivanov were gone in a swirl of white motion. In their place Morgan found himself standing in a plain white chamber that looked more like a dome tent than anything else, surrounded by the people in their white jumpsuits.

"What, ... what happened?" Morgan managed to ask as Hobbes stepped closer to him.

"What happened, Mister Tempest, was that you were in an alternate timeline, one that wasn't particularly pleasant," the pudgy coordinator replied, his smile as bright as ever. "We've extracted you from it."

"Why?" Morgan immediately demanded to know.

"Oh, you liked being there?" Hobbes quickly retorted, his smile fading as his eyebrow raised at Morgan's tone.

"Not particularly," Morgan admitted after a moment of staring into Hobbes' watery blue eyes.

"Good. I would intensely dislike putting you back into that situation after expending so many resources getting you out of it," Hobbes said somewhat primly, the smile now completely gone. "But, all things considered, you do deserve to know why. As I said, you lived in an alternate time stream, a time stream that wasn't supposed to happen!"

As Morgan stared at him in astonishment, Hobbes went on.

"You see, throughout Human existence, there have been individuals that exist no matter the time stream, or version of history they're in. We call these individuals 'prime designates'. Alternate histories and time streams are created each time a decision is made. Prime designates have the power to create not just an alternate time stream with their decisions, but one that is so close to Reality, that it runs parallel to it."

Seeing Morgan's astonishment morph into confusion, Hobbes frowned.

"But I see I'm talking over your head with all that. Let's just say prime designates are essential to the healthy existence of the multiverse. Take one out, and the entire 'verse suffers."

Without warning a loud alarm began to sound from nearby. Looking up at the ceiling with a grimace, Hobbes shook his head.

"What's that?" Morgan asked.

"That, my friend, is the sound of a prime designate being removed from the time line," Hobbes grimly replied, bringing his gaze back to Morgan. "And that's the reason we brought you out of your time stream. That time stream, and thousands like it, now exist because a prime was removed from the equation. Do you want to defeat the Soviet Empire once and for all, Mister Tempest?"

"Yes," Morgan replied without hesitation.

"Then I need you to go back to when and where a certain prime was removed and prevent it from happening!"