A day late, but here's my Flash Fiction Friday story. Stepping a bit out of my miniverse (I think) with this story.
The Possibility Engine
"Are you sure, Herr Doctor-Professor?" asked the Apprentice as he strapped the older man into an improbable contraption of tubes and widgets.
"Young man, for the last time, I am sure. I am sure of my counter intuitive calculations; I am sure of the Possibility Engine and most importantly, I am sure that I will come back with all the answers to all of the legends and mysteries of man!" said the Herr Doctor-Professor.
"Yes, but Herr Doctor-Professor, time travel is..." began the Apprentice.
"Not time travel, my boy, mind travel! I'm not interested in what the Sumerians ate for dinner or what the Romans thought of Caesar. That’s boring posh, written and retreaded. No, my boy, I want to know where dragons and elves and orcs and wizards come from. The magic in our minds, you see," responded the Herr Doctor-Professor.
"And you think the answer lies past history?"
"Of course. It is the only explanation. We must peal back the mist of legend and travel to the past ages of this world. Modern history, oh the last five thousand years or so, is but a dust cover on a greater book. My Possibility Engine will allow us, once and for all, to finally understand the whisperings of our hind brains."
"I dunno, Herr Doctor-Professor. This god awful contraption looks like it is just going to go 'whoop-puff' and then you disappear." said the Apprentice.
"My boy, do not worry. As soon as I disappear, I shall be back. The settings are all locked in; the Possibility Engine is flawless."
“Herr Doctor-Professor…”
“Trust me, my boy.” The Herr Doctor-Professor turned the bright red knob to ‘go’, and…
…in a ‘whoop-puff’, he disappeared.
“Bye,” said the Apprentice. Of course, the Herr Doctor-Professor would not be coming back. The Apprentice dug into his smock in pulled out a battered but still functional iPhone. He rubbed his finger across the dialing surface, making sure to press #800#1.
“Slideways Operator, how may I direct your call,” asked the cheerful orcette on the other end.
“New York 66758, please,” asked the Apprentice.
“Please hold as I connect you to your party,” said the orcette. The phone began to ring.
“Gamgee Grizzlebottom here, what can I do for you?” asked a rather sour looking hobbit.
“Gamgee, hi. It’s me, Agent 770.”
“Ah, Double 7-Oh. Mission accomplished, I assume?” asked Grizzlebottom.
“Bells and whistles. Bells and whistles. The Herr Doctor-Professor is on his way back.”
“May I ask where?”
Agent 770 squinted up his eyes and thought back to the coordinates he punched into the Possibility Engine. “I believe the Black Gate, Mordor. Just before Mt. Doom explodes, give or take an hour or so.”
“Again?” Grizzlebottom sighed. “You know there were only 6,000 in that whole army?”
“Well, six thousand and one, now.”
“Very well, I imagine we can police him up and insert him somewhere into the narrative…”
“Maybe even give him his own little side adventure?” suggested Agent 770.
“Goodness, no. The ‘War of the Ring’ books are long enough as it is. We can’t keep adding chapters just because some kook slips back in time. Someone will notice; and Editor or some such.”
“I guess.” said Agent 770, glumly.
“So, I assume you have control of his estate, in line with protocol?”
“Of course I do. I plan on waiting a decent interval, have him declared dead, and donate the money to the…”
“Not the Cryptozoological Foundation, like last time,” warned Grizzlebottom. “You caused us all sorts of grief with that little ‘gift’.”
“No, no. I’ve learned my lesson. I’m going to donate the money to the Reason Foundation.”
“Ah, splendid; our best, if unintended, allies. Good, good.”
“So,” said Agent 770.
“So,” responded Grizzlebottom.
“Well.” said Agent 770.
“Well.” agreed Grizzlebottom.
“How goes the scuttle but at home?” asked Agent 770.
“Pretty much normal, I would say. The Sauronians are still under blockade, with some complaints from the usual suspects in the orc-rights quarters about the hobbit-ness of the Sulfur-For-Food program. Looks like the Elves are really going to make a go of the whole Mars Program; their colony looks well established from here. Oh, and the general election has been narrowed down to between Thag the Slayer and Eleon of the Middle Forest. Pretty much normal, I should say.”
“Good,” said Agent 770.
“Good,” agreed Grizzlebottom. “So, for your next assignment; Hogwarts has been complaining about…”
“You now, I think I have vacation time coming,” said Agent 770. “And for once, I should like to go somewhere truly bizarre.”
“Bizarre,” asked Grizzlebottom.
“Yes. Like Idaho. I hear Idaho is pretty this time of year.”
“Idaho?”
“Idaho. Goodbye Grizzlebottom.” Agent 770 said as he severed the connection.
Agent 770 looked back the spot where the Herr Doctor-Professor would never return too. He shook his head and thought of how, no matter how screwed up it seemed sometimes, he actually liked ‘reality’.
Yes, Idaho.
Agent 770 turned off the lights and closed the door behind him.
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