So now it’s the Future.
You remember the Future, it’s all we talked about when we were kids: flying cars and jet packs, robot butlers and time travel. Right. Look around—do you see any flying cars or jet packs? Is Robbie the Robot fetching your newspaper or doing the dishes? Not bloody likely.
But time travel? That’s another story—I have time travel…
I’m actually rather proud of myself. I spent half my life figuring out time travel because I’ve always believed we should have flying cars and robot butlers. And if someday we will, why should I be cheated out of them just because I was born too early?
Now, for some people, it would be easier to invent a flying car than time travel, but I’ve never been what you call mechanically inclined, not to mention I barely passed high school algebra. I have more of a philosophical bent, which, as it turns out, is perfect for mastering time travel.
As it happens, time travel doesn’t require any fancy machines, just the right attitude. My attitude is that if time and space are related, then if you can travel through one you must be able to travel through the other. We move through space all the time (if you’ll pardon the expression). And we’re already traveling through time at a rate of one second per second anyway; it’s just that we can’t reverse direction or walk any faster.
Until now. My method is based on this simple idea: the past is never gone so long as we can remember it. All you have to do for time travel is project your consciousness to a certain point in your memory. Of course this means that you can only go back as far as you can remember—and you can’t go forward—but that’s all I need. I can recall when my buddy Randy and I used to daydream about those flying cars, so I can go back there. I may not be an engineer like Randy is (I’m between jobs), but I do know enough about modern science that if I can go back and whisper a few words in the right ears, when I return to the present Robbie the Robot will be waiting for me with my slippers and the evening paper.
And the best part of it is, the trip will be a completely mental exercise. My body will never leave this room. My wife won’t even know I’ve been gone.
§
“Honestly, dear, I can’t understand why you can’t deal with the simplest modern conveniences,” my wife says, adjusting Robbie’s programming to bring me orange juice in the morning instead of beer.
“Well, it’s not like I grew up with this stuff,” I respond. “I’m old and I’m cranky and I’m—”
“—not mechanically inclined. Yes, I know. But I didn’t grow up with them, either, and I don’t have a problem.” She patted Robbie on the head and he puttered off. “I thought all boys spent their time dreaming about flying cars when they were kids. You should be thrilled.”
Oh yeah, I’m thrilled. When I went back in time, I forgot that my adult mind would be stuck in my child’s body. I couldn’t give hints to scientists and NASA engineers; my parents wouldn’t even let me make a long-distance phone call. The only person I could talk to was Randy. You may have heard of him: Randall Blumenthal? Yeah, that Randall Blumenthal. The billionaire…who invented flying cars, jet packs, personal robot servants…
I hate that guy.
And is the world any better off? I was already living in a science fiction world, I just didn’t realize it, with personal computers built into eyeglasses and cell phones. Combine that with flying cars and what do you get? People piloting flying cars while watching their phones! And don’t get me started on the jet packs. Every day some moron gets out of his lane and gets hit by a car and falls to the ground, usually right on top of some other poor slob.
And I still don’t understand any of it! I can hardly add apps to my phone, let alone program the robot. I don’t even have a driver’s license. Plus I’m still between jobs. But there is one thing I can do…
§
“Hey, Randy, remember all that stuff I was saying the other day about how we could build flying cars and robots and stuff?”
Randy’s screwed up his face. “No.”
“Great. Then I’m in time.”
“Sure. Whatever. Sounds like a bunch of freaky sci-fi stuff anyway. I don’t read that junk.”
Sci-fi stuff? Hmm…
§
“Honestly, dear, I can’t understand why the world’s greatest science fiction writer can’t deal with the simplest modern appliances,” my wife says, adjusting Robbie’s programming to bring me orange juice in the morning instead of beer. “It’s ironic that you have a mantel full of trophies for coming up with the ideas for all these flying cars and jet packs, and you don’t even know how to use them.”
Oh, I know how to use them, all right. I simply don’t want to get attached to them. I may have inspired them, but I still hate them. Really. And now I write the stuff that people read on their phones while they’re supposed to be driving. I’m going back again soon and set everything to rights, make it all like it used to be.
Although I have to admit that I never tire of watching Robbie dust all those trophies on my mantel…
Brian K. Lowe has been writing since he was fourteen, when he took it up in a sudden burst of sibling rivalry and wrote a novella which earned him no money, but a fistful of extra credit points in his English class. Since then he has graduated from UCLA as an English/Creative Writing major and currently works for an attorney. His short stories have appeared in many venues, including Escape Pod, Galaxy’s Edge, and Daily Science Fiction, and his Stolen Future trilogy will appear from Water Dragon Publishing in 2024. All his latest news can be found at brianklowe.wordpress.com.
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