It's All Relative

Relative Anderson was the only living thing for about 300 miles. Oh there were brutalist shrubs and the occasional reluctant bacterium, but the proper animals - cows, rats, humans - were starkly missing. The reason? No fresh water for about 500 kilometres. 

(Unhelpfully switching units was one of Ms Anderson's favourite little jokes. Were she ever invited to parties, which she naturally wasn't, she would not have been a hoot.) 

This was the desert, as arid and deadly as a holiday to the sun. The midday rocks could serve eggs over-easy and every now and then a grain of sand melted into a globule of glass. Dramatic narrators couldn't even say 'this was a place where people went to die', because most people would run out of food, water or sanity before getting here. 

But Relative Anderson had something up her sleeve that even nature's hostility couldn't overcome: eccentricity. 

A raw and utterly unhinged sociopath, she rarely noticed life's obstacles, never mind heeded them. 

In the scientific community, an eccentric is someone that thinks too perceptively for their peers. Someone to be shunned and dismissed unless eventually proven right. At this point, said peers will generally swoop in to curry favour, leveraging tried-and-tested phrases like, 'just testing your resolve, eh?' and 'if you don't give me credit I'll shoot your cat.'

The more scrupulous peers simply claim the breakthrough as their own, without the threat of violence. 

But to the average Joanne, being eccentric simply meant she was bonkers. And so she was — spectacularly so. A tumble dryer of loose screws and marbles that baffled and overwhelmed those around her without discrimination. 

So much so that when she asked a room full of the world's preeminent scientists their plans for establishing a base in the murderous depths of the Lut Desert in Iran, no one batted an eye. Nor, much to their later chagrin, did they acknowledge the question by any means at all.  

While it must be said that these scientists were terribly clever, they were mere sprinkles on the ice cream cone of brilliance that was Relative Anderson. 

It is said that only future generations can decide whether an eccentric was an Avant Garde genius or a thoroughly cracked tagine. It will undoubtedly be concluded that Ms Anderson could've represented her country in either discipline. 

Her ideas were so lateral they could only be seen with peripheral vision. So left-field that herd animals would migrate rightward if she so much as passed the farm. 

Once, shortly after she stumbled through a fundraiser in the foyer of the university, a canvasser for the National Conservative Party led an impromptu worker's strike and formed a band called the Communist Utopia Freemen. He died on hunger strike. 

So the stories go, at any rate. 

-----

At a laboratory in San Diego, scientists were merrily violating the will of God. 

It turns out that for just a few billion dollars upfront (and a promise of trillions more on completion) you can invent time travel. And, more importantly, own the patent. 

Perhaps more surprising is the roster of workers needed to pull his off. Of course you have your neurotic geniuses - particle physicists, relativistic mathematicians, molecular chemists and the like. There's a reasonable argument to be made for actual engineers (to turn lofty ideas into practical designs) and skilled tradespeople to turn those squiggly lines into functioning machinery.

There weren't many objections to bringing in a project manager, though eyebrows were raised after 17 were hired. Muttered obscenities did follow the appointment of Synergistic Coordinator and full-blown mutiny erupted when America's Leading Astrologer was brought onboard as a consultant, 'just in case'. 

It was around this point that the proverbial dam upped sticks went looking for a new reservoir. 

Gangs of logicians strolled in to remonstrate with astrodynamicists. Frantic priests drenched sensitive equipment in holy water. Impassioned philosophers cried out, 'But why?!' and were struck dumb by a lofty, 'Why not?' in return. This often happened 4 or 5 times per hour.  

Couriers, whose unique perception of time advanced the project by at least a generation, sat like royalty and delighted in yelling, 'Sorry, I must have missed you!' when anyone was foolish enough to ask them a question. 

And in a world full of crooks that can smell an open wallet through a mile of industrial pollutant, it was only a matter of time before the hobbyist charlatans caught wind. An unstemmed deluge of quantum theologians, string quartet theorists and basically anyone bold enough to wave a phrase like 'subatomic eruption vectors!' in the faces of baffled security guards piled into the R&D lab. 

Overlooked by the scowling financiers in their glass-fronted boardroom, it was quite the group¹.

And against all odds and after an eye-watering examination of the expenses policy, they finally did it. A machine which, according to every theoretical calculation and simulation, could send complex lifeforms back in time. It was a sure thing. An inescapable certainty. 

Whether or not they'd arrive as complex lifeforms was, in the words of the chief ornithologist², 'a total bloody mystery'. 

And just like that, it was time to test. 

When the call came round for a volunteer, everybody's hands did not shoot into the air. A rush of volunteers failed to form and no ruckus was caused whatsoever. The room filled with the almost totally inaudible hum of colleagues mentally throwing their allies under the nearest bus. 

There was a stillness that made stick insects look like circus tumblers. 

Against all practical likelihood, it was the summer intern, studying marketing at an obscure local college, that found the solution. Or rather, stubbed his toe off it. 

"First person to travel in time, hey? That's sweet. Like Neil Armstrong and, um...' Here he paused in thought,  before relaunching in faint embarrassment, "Well no one ever remembers who went second, do they?" 

There was a tinkling noise from a pin dropping 10 miles away...and the stillness was rent to pieces by a cataclysm of self-importance. 

Pandemonium followed as would-be Armstrongs vied for the dubious honour of becoming the first human being to sent backward through time. 

As is the way with such things, the most wealthy and influential cream rose swiftly and indomitably to the top, while the working majority were absent-mindedly dismissed. The cut and thrust of social status warfare was bloody business. Tech yuppies battled trust fund kids; ancient dignified families were wedgied by sports superstars; oligarchs idly pulled the nails from eccentric monarchs' thumbs.  

Amidst the bickering over portfolio values and whose ancestors had subjugated the most indigenous populations, several deep thunks rang out. Like hounds trained to the whistle, the noise of a signet ring rapping polished hardwood brought the crowd to heel in an instant. The owner of the ring - and indeed the hand wearing it - was Baron Cedric Montfort Wetherby, the generous³ soul whose personal donations and fundraising were making time travel possible. 

It may interest the reader to know that at the point of announcing his presence, he had no plan at all for what to do next. One made plans to mitigate risk; raised as he was in astonishing privilege, concepts like risk and self-preservation was chronically underdeveloped in Baron Wetherby. His ability to sail through life with blithe indifference was quite remarkable. Of course, it does help when you accrue interest at a rate far exceeding your regular losses. 

From his perspective, things just went rather splendidly, all the time. 

With immortality waiting in the wings and a universe of conviction on his side, Baron Wetherby stepped forward and into the multi-billion dollar contraption. He didn't wave, salute or make any pithy remarks. He simply nodded to an appropriately hesitant engineer and, once they pressed the button, promptly disappeared from existence. 

After a few seconds, nothing happened. Then nothing continued to happen for a very long time. 

---

Ten minutes earlier, in the merciless heat of the Iranian desert, a bewildered billionaire was dumped into into existence. 

Watching dispassionately, Ms Anderson sighed that deep, resigned sigh that everyone on Earth understood as, I told you so. 

She started packing up her gear. 

[To be continued...]

Footnotes

¹ Biologists were firmly denied entry. There had to be some standards. 

² The argument for inclusion on the project went something like this: "Well, we're trying to fly through time, right? Well birds have been flying for hundreds of millions of years. They've literally flown through time! They've seen a thing or two, I'll betcha." It was one of the more rational justifications provided. 

³ Whether the reckless spending of shareholder dollars in pursuit of enormous personal wealth is, technically speaking, generosity, is a question that has never been successfully posed to Baron Wetherby's legal representatives.