Self-centered in the 4th Dimension

A dream first told me I would travel back in time. I was a newborn, in my mother’s arms, staring out into a cold, open, scary world of soft blue and white. I glanced over my father’s shoulder, caught the gaze of an orderly, a man with my hazel eyes like dirt scattered across the surface of an algae lake. He had muscular arms and a creased forehead, just like adult me. The only difference between that man and my mirror image were his wide eyes and slack jack, an expression of bewilderment I never wear. But of course he was bewildered, he’d just that day traveled back in time. He’d just witnessed his own birth.

But a dream is just a dream. It could be a symbol, or a manifested fear, or neurons fired at random. My work involves quantum theories of time, after all, and potential methods of travel through the fourth dimension. Likely I let my work leak into my subconscious. 

But then came the 2nd sign that I would travel back in time. It was a simple, brown, cardboard box, left on my porch, on my birthday, awaiting my return from work at the research institute. 

I called the police of course. I’ve seen enough true crime to suspect a pipe bomb or similar. Thoughts of anti-time-travel vigilantes flashed through my head as I watched the bomb disposal robot slowly carve off the tape holding the box closed.

The whole process took three hours, allowing me time to appreciate the desolate cold and brown of January. Soon enough, however, it became clear that no bomb lay inside that box. I apologized to the crew, who admitted how rarely they got to use their fancy robot. They left me to examine my new present in peace.

Four items lay inside the box, plus a note that read “Happy Birthday to Us” in a boxy, scrawled hand that appeared familiar. I examined the items one at a time: a ring, a pocketknife, a coffee mug and a compact disk. This was more gifts than I’d received all year from family or coworkers.

The ring featured a cold, metallic, lustrous stone. I recognized it immediately: lead. The metal to which most radioactive elements decay. The element ancient alchemists believed could produce gold. The element I theorized could unlock time travel.

The pocketknife consisted of a brass handle and a small, sharp blade that flicked out fast and smooth. It bore a design like a snake folding in on itself, its coils wrapping around in one continuous mass to form the hilt. A serpent with no end. A symbol of infinity. I’d always wanted to live forever, it’s what drew me to time research in the first place.

The coffee mug consisted of white ceramic with black lettering. The message, a formula describing movement in the 4th dimension. A formula only I should know!

And the compact disk? Now That’s What I Call Music, Volume 4, featuring Larger Than Life from The Backstreet Boys and Crazy from Brittaney Spears. The album released the year of my birth.

Whoever sent this knows me, and my work. That should narrow the field of suspects to one.

I grasped at the card with that strange, boxy writing style. Did I recognize it? It had been so long since I’d actually written anything out except for scribbled formulas or the occasional signature. But back in school I wrote all the time for assignments…

I rushed to find a pen. Then hesitated above the card. My hand started shaking. I didn’t know if I wanted my handwriting to match.

I closed my eyes and put pen to paper. I tried to zone out, let muscle memory guide my hand, though the memory was far away. When I opened my eyes again, the results were similar, but not conclusive. The style matched, but their lines were straighter. Just enough difference for doubt.

Those first two signs were simply heralds to prepare me for the third, incontrovertible sign that I would travel back in time. That sign appeared just as I wrote out the final formula: four-dimensional space, mapped out in equations. The theory stands as firm as mathematics. With the proper tools, you can go back in time to a parallel dimension. But you can’t return. 

Yet the mechanics of it elude me. It would take specialists in different fields to test my theories properly: metallurgists, physical scientists, physicists. Perhaps next week at the science conference I can seek allies…

A hand rests on my shoulder. I don’t turn around right away. But I glance over at the hand. I expect a mirror image of my own. It almost is, possessing my long fingers and mottled skin. But the hair is thicker and darker, and the fingernails more neatly trimmed, not uneven from nervous biting, a bad habit left-over from childhood.

“At least I’ve learned to take care of my nails.”

“You’ve learned more than that.” A voice like my own, but a tone or two deeper.

“I just worked out the last theoretical calculations. But the practical matters…”

“We’ve already prepared the materials.”

“Of course you did. And you came in through the sitting room window.”

“That you’ve been leaving unlocked. What burglar would even think to try?”

“Only one that knows me.”

“Come along then. And bring your papers.”

“Don’t you know the calculations?”

“Yes, but it’s been a long time since I’ve needed them. They’re fresh in your mind.”

I rise and face my older self for the first time. His hair is thinning, but still dark brown. He’s slimmed down a bit, but kept my muscular arms. His dirty hazel eyes appear less dirty for not being bloodshot. 

“I’ve been living well it seems.”

“The pressure’s been off.”

He leads me out the front door of my lonely apartment where a car waits, a classic, an Aston Martin, trimmed in striking silver.

“I’m not even a car guy.”

“You become one.”

I shrug. My older doppelganger opens the passenger door, and slides into the back. He beckons for me to ride shotgun. I only now notice another man sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Does my style really change this much?” I note the red leather interior as I sit down.

“You pick up a few things, yeah.” The man beside me wears aviator sunglasses. His hair is thicker than the other me, but his face is full of wrinkles. His hands, again mottled like mine, but clean and well-groomed. He’d even trimmed his arm hair.

“And I wear a rug? Or is it rogaine?”

“You learn to give a shit about appearance, yeah.”

“Why so angry at me? I’m you.”

“Because you would have worked yourself to death. You would have let those bastards at The Institute work you to death if we hadn’t come to get you.”

“So it worked out. We build the time machine… we go back in time twenty-five years. We watch our birth. And then… I spend all day thinking about this kind of thing, but it’s making my head hurt.”

Me from the back seat: “In theory, the first time it was just him, then the second time the two of us, now this is, theoretically, the third time. Each time traveling to a parallel dimension twenty-five years ago. But that’s not exactly how it works.”

“Yeah. There were two guys who came back with me too. Fifty years ago.”

“There’s no end and no beginning. Soon enough you’ll be me. And I’ll be him. And we’ll all get to watch another one of us grow up.”

“And I’ll be dead. There is no 100 year old waiting for us.”

We’re driving toward the docks, pulling up in front of a warehouse.

“Is this immortality?”

“That or a prison, kid.”

“Have you tried escaping?”

“Nah, feels like fate.”

“You could try.”

I step out of the car, take several steps back the way we came. The others follow behind.

“Did I do this before? Did you do this before?” I call back.

“You think I remember? That was fifty years ago.” 

“I have free will. I could walk away and end this cycle.”

“You’d just delay things.”

“But if I change one thing, I could change everything.”

“Is that what you want? To live a normal life and die and be done with it?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Be honest kid, you’ll never live a normal life. You never lived for anyone but yourself, and you barely did that. You never formed any bonds with anyone, not even our parents. It’s always been about you. Might as well join your other selves. We are you!”

“But I’m not you!” I cry as I turn to face them. “I’ll tell you how I know. How I know my fate isn’t sealed.”

My older doppelgangers stare at me.

“Neither of you has a scar on his left hand.” And with that, I pulled out the pocketknife they’d given me, and painted in red that boxy scrawl we all knew so well.