Son of Time - Science Fiction Short Story

The Choice. The Cost. The Outcome.

The road spread over fields, disparate villages left and right, Malinkar ahead.

Multiple realities, transmitted Omiran.

Guide me. Resolute, steady pace.

In the dark of night, two luminous bands appeared over the asphalted road, leading separate ways.

Listen, said Omiran.

Silence. Long moments passed.

I hear nothing.

That's because you're not really listening. Listen.

Still nothing, except his rhythmic stride on the asphalt. Then a faint rustle. Mingled notes. The vibration of the band turning right from him. That's one sound. A different pulsation in the one on the left.

Which one is you?

I'm outside of them.

Are you, really?

He pondered. Both bands spread out as if from him, a steady bifurcation over the road under his feet. His mind went back to the sounds. The one on the left sounded grave, almost like a lament. The one on the right sustained a higher frequency, vibrating steadily. Hard to choose.

If I say I'm both... he began.

Confusion holds one in place. Choose.

He felt burdened, angered, enraged, his soul screaming. That's the left-hand band. They resonate from me.

Choose.

He was also determined, hopeful, finding strength unexpected which he'd yearned for.

I've made my choice.

Affirm it.

Leave behind what no longer serves you, he recalled. I'm the band on the right.

You've made a good choice.

His feet no longer touched the ground as he was running along the white energy band that turned steadily rightwards, ever higher from the ground.

Exert the confidence that disentangles you from your older, burdensome self.

He strode on faster, leaping across the ever-rising band, amid numerous streaks of broad, white energy arcs across the ground: unseen before, now visible; the sky no longer grays and blacks, for a horizontal band, almost nebula-like, in vivid purple shades and indigos, now stretched before him.

I am Time – he leapt faster. A smile in his eyes. I will break free.

Why?

Because I'm freedom.

Behold yourself, boomed Omiran's voice.

A fast-unrolling nexus of energy arcs spread out, memories he'd collected since childhood, each memory an arc, all spreading before him, vivid and complete; perception clear, no heaviness of heart.

When is this?

It's all 'now'. That you are free, it is how you are.

And Tarla?

Silence. He lowered into the band, almost as if there'd been a hole in the arc. Swiftly, clock-brain prevalence had found the cause: a worry pattern.

To worry is to assume only you are a Son of Time.

Must I not save her?

He sensed a broadening inside Omiran and saw many Tarlas overlapped across simultaneous spacetime-bands: distinct instances, the same her, choosing to manifest various self-expressions.