I: ALL YOU ZOMBIES
--One Hour, Two Minutes, Seventeen Seconds, Forty-three Milliseconds before Shift Event--
The sun peered over the horizon at precisely seven-sixteen in the morning. Approximately twenty seconds later, a bird chirped, followed by the rustling of leaves in an early breeze no more than three seconds after. Precision timing—the Traveler’s logs had described the hour with a point-eight-one-percent margin of error. Everything happened just as expected—no discrepancies.
Tucking them away in his saddlebag, the Traveler proceeded to the door of the library with the usual haste. The locals identified the building as the “Golden Oaks Library”, and it clearly deserved the name. It was a tall oak tree—in his records, it was at least three hundred years old, carbon-dated. There were windows carved into its massive trunk, and the front door was of a simple craftsmanship, possibly made from the tree itself. Despite its hollow state, it seemed to be as alive as ever, clusters of green leaves on thick branches providing cool shade for a small area around it.
He did as he always had in those small moments before initiating his next action: formulate the proper conversation algorithms and smile. Ponies always took to him more easily when he smiled. However, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to do so. What reason could there be? He kept up the usual formalities as per protocol, just as he always had.
When in doubt, picture happy things.
The axiom rang in his ears as more of a haunting memory than a reassuring one. Still, he did as it commanded, focusing himself in the precious few seconds he had before he was to open the door. The Traveler couldn’t afford to be late. He closed his eyes, letting his mind sink back into an easier place. A meadow, a soft breeze, a calm before the storm. Slowly but surely, his smile returned, as empty as it always was.
He knocked on the door three times—any more would have seemed dubious—and took a step back. The latch emitted a slight clack after a moment, and the door slowly opened inwards. Standing in the doorway was an unforeseen consequence of delayed reaction: a short purple dragon, looking to be no more than a baby. For the longest time—what to the dragon must have been mere milliseconds, hours for the Traveler—he could only stare at it. This wasn’t part of the schedule. His timing was impeccable, everything had been so perfect. But where was his target?
“Morning,” said the dragon, yawning. “Library’s still closed. There something you need?”
The Traveler’s smile wavered. Something was wrong. Something was terribly, horribly, disgustingly wrong. He could reverse the situation—go back and try again—but it was far too early for that. The Constant’s guards would be here in forty-seven minutes. Any disturbance in the temporal-magnetic field right now would only serve to paint a bigger target on his back. He would be followed easily.
Never stop smiling. The world must not end.
Noticing the fluctuations in his own demeanor, the Traveler forced his smile to return. “Sorry to d-disturb you folks, but I-I’m looking for the local librarian, a Miss T-Twilight Sparkle. Is she here?”
The dragon shook his head. “She went into town earlier. Had to run an errand.”
“O-Oh, I see.” He withdrew into his thoughts for a moment, scrambling to reassemble the conversation algorithms. A headache began to emerge the longer he parsed through the internal metadata, making pure thought nearly unbearable. “Would it b-be alright if I could wait inside until she c-comes? I really need to speak to h-her.”
The dragon stared at him for a few moments, wasting whatever was left of the allotted time for this endeavor. The Traveler’s internal clock continued to tick past the intended continuation marker, a knowing that Phase Two should already have been underway. A sickening feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. For the first moment of his miserable life, he was late. His thoughts screamed.
The dragon put a claw to his mouth to cover another yawn. “Sure. Come on in, Mister—“
Never let them know who you are.
Another cold statute rang in his ear, dispelling his thoughts and leaving him stupefied. He had almost forgotten procedure. “V-Vagrant,” he muttered. “W-Wayward Vagrant.”
The dragon smiled politely. “Cool name. Mine’s Spike.” He motioned for Vagrant to follow. “Come on in. If you need anything, just ask.”
He conceded. Walking past the entryway and into the library’s foyer, he tried to keep his head up, to maintain the façade that everything was alright. Where had things gone so wrong? He checked the logs countless times, nullified any and all temporal discrepancies, and even recalculated alternate routes through the Flow—was all that effort worth nothing now?
There were thirty-four minutes left until the guards seized him and brought him back Home. That’s thirteen minutes wasted. Thirteen minutes that couldn’t be regained this time around. If these were normal circumstances, he’d have all the time in the world.
As if by instinct, he made his way towards one of the couches situated beneath the large statue in the middle of the room. With each step, his surroundings began to seem all the more wrong to him. From the way the sun beamed in through the window above the door, to the few books lying here and there that weren’t supposed to be moved from their places on the shelves.
Did he arrive early? The mere thought brought a wave of relief, followed by another wave of shock. Being early was just as bad as being late, if not worse. Early meant complacency. Early meant gaps in the schedule. Worst of all, early meant free time.
Remember: all time is precious. There is no such thing as ‘free time’.
Vagrant no longer felt the need to keep up appearances. He was late, after all. Or early. He didn’t bother checking, it all meant the same. A colossal failure—one for the history books. His smile disappeared, and he sunk back down in his seat, wishing over and over again to restart this whole escapade, to find where he had miscalculated.
“You look like somepony just ate the last topaz,” said Spike. Vagrant looked up and saw the smile on the dragon’s face. His words were strangely insightful, for one obviously so young.
He didn’t reply, simply turning further into himself in an attempt to find the source of error, leaving a blank expression on his face. This was the first time he couldn’t control his emotions. The first time in nearly seventy years. And yet he looked no older than twenty.
“Here—” The dragon held out a glass of iced tea, a single lemon hanging on its rim. “—drink this. It’ll help you clear your head.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Vagrant took the glass and sipped its contents carefully, then set it down beside him. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach slowly vanished, and his mind felt a tad more at ease. Though barely, as the thought of eventual repercussions still lingered on the fringes of his consciousness. An error of this magnitude held dire consequences.
“We don’t usually get many strangers here, especially not this early in the morning. Most ponies tend to just roll through town on their way to the bigger cities,” Spike said, as if to beg the obvious question of Vagrant’s origins.
This dragon, this ‘Spike’, hasn’t a care in the world, he thought. A complete stranger comes out of the blue and asks entry into his home, and he doesn’t question why. He doesn’t know me beyond a fake name. Vagrant stared at his glass, half debating on talking. Without his conversation algorithms, he was a blubbering mess. The chance of Word Faith dropped considerably. His credibility was easily called into question. “You s-seem to know a l-lot about dealing with anxiety,” he found himself saying, disregarding the dragon’s last implied query. “H-have you ever d-dealt with an anxiety a-attack before?”
Spike smiled knowingly, or so it seemed. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
Vagrant took another sip of his tea. Time was beginning to wear thin. Twenty-three minutes had passed, bringing the allotted time down to just under eleven. Phase Three should have begun not more than three minutes ago. Yet, for some reason, he couldn’t care less. He had already failed before he even had a chance to begin. No time to restart, no hope of trying again, no way to End Game. All the time in the world couldn’t help him now.
He’s seen worse? Huh. He dug into his mental storage for any indication as to what Spike meant. In his head, he could see thousands of images, millions upon millions of memorized subject records, passing by in a matter of milliseconds. He absorbed them all in the same instant.
Vagrant replied, “Y-you mean your c-companion, right? Twilight S-Sparkle?"
Spike cocked his head to one side. “How did you—“
A loud whistle screamed from behind the door that sat beside the staircase, drawing both of their attention. “Be right back,” said Spike as he took off in its direction, disappearing into what appeared to be this building’s eatery.
Left to his own, Vagrant stewed in his misery, as devoid of thought as possible. Thoughts were bad during free time. Thoughts led to worry. Worry led to doubt. Doubt leads to distractions. Distractions puts him one step closer to Cremation. Not like it mattered anymore—only eight minutes remained until the Constant had him in her vengeful clutches. Eight minutes until the end.
There it was again—the thought of defeat, like a poison. He couldn’t stop thinking. He tried again and again to force his thoughts out of his head, to give him a moment of peace before his sure demise, and they hadn’t stopped. They just kept coming. All this wasted time gave them fuel. He could remember the headaches—every night, they would assault his mind and force a cry of pain from his lips. The Flow directed them. The Flow wouldn’t let them stop. It just kept feeding and feeding until they were fat and ugly and unable to budge.
Vagrant chugged the last of his tea, letting the cool feeling settle into him. He sighed. There were approximately three minutes left now—two minutes, forty-seven seconds, eight-six milliseconds, to be precise—and he couldn’t even spend them in modest solidarity. He contemplated leaving—it was probably for the best at that point. Involving parties in the affairs of his work when they were never part of the schedule to begin with was bad form. It wasn’t as though the dragon would remember him anyway.
He stood from his place underneath the statue, shifted his saddlebag into a more comfortable position, and headed for the door. He made sure not to cause any disturbance, moving as quietly as he could. It soon occurred to him that there was one last thing he could try. Not a do-over, not a surrender, but something else. Quickly and without so much as a peep, he reached into his belongings and retrieved the solution: a small, oval-shaped rock, whose crystal veins pulsated a deep blue. The last Whirlpool he had.
Clutching it in his jaw, he continued towards the exit. This plan would have to be timed precisely. Any missteps could end up with explosive results. If done right, he could escape to find another one of the Constant’s paradoxes. It would be the last thing he could do to buy him some more time, even if he was already reaching his limit. After all, time was never free.
Forty-seven seconds remained. He could feel something stirring in the Flow, a ripple on the verge of breaking the surface. They were coming. And they were numerous. He reached for the knob and pulled, and he sat there staring. A purple mare stared back, her eyes revealing subtleties of sudden shock upon seeing him. Thirty-three seconds remained.
All plans eventually fail. There is no plan that doesn’t.
Author's Note
"I dictated my report; forty recruitments all okayed by the Psych Bureau--counting my own, which I knew would be okayed. I was here, wasn't I? Then I taped a request for assignment to operations; I was sick of recruiting. I dropped both in the slot and headed for bed.
My eye fell on 'The By-Laws of Time,' over my bed:
Never Do Yesterday What Should Be Done Tomorrow.
If at Last You Do Succeed, Never Try Again.
A Stitch in Time Saves Nine Billion.
A Paradox May be Paradoctored.
It Is Earlier When You Think.
Ancestors Are Just People.
Even Jove Nods.
They didn't inspire me the way they had when I was a recruit; thirty subjective-years of time-jumping wears you down. I undressed and when I got down to the hide I looked at my belly. A Caesarean leaves a big scar but I'm so hairy now that I don't notice it unless I look for it.
Then I glanced at the ring on my finger.
The Snake That Eats Its Own Tail, Forever and Ever ... I know where I came from--but where did all you zombies come from?"
--"All You Zombies" by Robert A. Heinlein, 1960
