The Decameron 2.0

Day 7.8 Humor - RESET LinaHanson

"Heavens, what is wrong with you?"

Professor Caleb Anon Faifai Bronsky, "Calf" to his friends, orbited the time machine with increasing despair in an ever-decreasing radius. But no matter how hard he tried, his tired grey matter could find neither flaws in the design nor faults in the manufacturing.

His drum-like creation waiting in the middle of the clean-room sported cutting-edge technology. The last chunk of silicon had gone into the chips running the controls, and the last precious drop of petrol had got processed to form the appliance's smooth coating. Bronsky's invention represented the last hope of a populace clinging to an overcrowded, polluted planet. Well, only for a select few of them, of course.

And that was assuming she would eventually concede to function.

Bronsky took a sip from his vintage Coca-Cola. Drinks were forbidden in here, but who cared. He craved the subtle flavours, the sugary acidness of his beloved ambrosia. Plus, it helped him think better.

So, what if he recalculated? No point, he had tried so many times before.

What if he ran more system tests from the snow-white console, checking the performance against the design blueprint? No chance, he had done that more often than he could remember.

Hell, no, he would have to admit defeat.

Tonight.

In front of the board of Global Industries, who had sponsored this desperate attempt at finding a backdoor into the past, a way of escaping the inevitable end. The Earth's population was gasping for air, murdering each other for a drop of water or a morsel of synth-bread. Apart from a chosen few, an elite to which he soon would belong no longer.

Time was up.

Panic rose at the back his throat, scorching the soft tissue of his throat like the acid rain drumming on the roof of the clean-room. Bronsky shoved his emotions back down and squared his shoulders. He was a scientist. A physicist. An engineering wizard. He could do it. And he really should stop drinking Coke; it only gave him heartburn.

Bronsky hiccuped once, manoeuvred his thin body through the narrow entrance and lowered himself onto the translucent gel-O-chair in front of the console, still clutching the bottle to his chest.

The lights shone, the engine sent warm vibrations through the seat, the computer was fully functional.

So, why the devil did they not achieve shift off?

"Close!" Bronsky snapped at the voice-control and, obediently, the sliding doors hissed shut.

He sipped his Cola, the metallic-sweet tang of his precious drink soothing his anger. A hint of fizz remained in the fluid, worth every credit he had spent.

Bronsky stared at the console. At the screen, taunting him with a question mark instead of the "Enter" command. At the control panel with its array of LEDs, all winking green at him. At the levers, that set the year.

As if there was any choice. The latter part of the Victorian era it would be. Far enough away but not too far to harbour dangerous diseases or horrid military conflicts that could not be avoided by being on another continent. It had all been settled and agreed. They only needed a few test drives.

"Aye, there's the rub," Bronsky addressed the console and belched once.

Movement caught his eye, and he scanned the rows and rows of coded countdown sequence scrolling over the control screen, softly glowing amber.

As he had done many times before—his heart skipped a beat and adrenaline spiked in his veins.

"Freeze screen," he shouted.