Hooman Saga Book One - Mind Timing Chapter 1

NEW BEGINNING: How did the Humans give up control as the apex predator and end up leaving Earth? Everything begins somewhere...

Introduction

It came to me one day that I and my co-authors had been writing the Hooman Saga Book One all along. In our short stories. And remarkably, they didn't overlap or contradict – too much.

So instead of working for months to piece together and write a new history, I would be better invested in editing these into shape so you could see what happened before Sue came back to Earth and met Tig and his pack in Book Two.

Here, all the relevant stories have been assembled and placed in rough timeline order – or at least so they explain following stories.

It's really all here in many writing styles and story structures.

You get the biting satire of R. L. Saunders and the common-sense insight of J. R. Kruze, the fascinating supernatural characters of S. H. Marpel - along with the fantasy and science fiction world I created. Between the four of us, we tell a not-too-unlikely possible future based on our current news and trends.

That's if you sincerely believe in what passes for “news” these days.

If not, then this is just another anthology of what used to be called “speculative fiction.”

Regardless, it was all a lot of fun to write and collaborate on.

I've included some notes at the start of these stories to help tie the history of these together, to bridge any gaps.

And none of us are prohibited from coming up with additional stories to fill in those gaps. There are a lot of people and characters in these pages that I, for one, would not mind hearing from again. Perhaps.

I hope we've written these well enough so you do, too.

Please enjoy.

C. C. Brower

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Mind Timing - Chapter 1

by R. L. Saunders

From another time and space, we've often been visited by unknown people and creatures. Not often do we hear of someone being brought back from an alternate future to our current one. This one actually sets the stage for what happens to our cities, starting with what is happening now...

I

WHEN THE LAST OF THE long-languishing news media died, it was with barely a whimper. No bang. Not even a sullen pop. And eyes were dry all around. No one mourned, few even noticed.

Two glasses clinked at the Club in celebration. And that was all the wake they deserved.

I and my visitor-turned-conspirator were the only witnesses.

To the end of a global catastrophe that now never happened.

- - - -

HE HAD ENTERED UNINVITED and unwelcome that first day, long ago. It’s not that women couldn’t have male visitors at the Club. As long as they were properly chaperoned or in the very public areas. But in those days, and by that time, no one expected that a white male presented any challenge or hazard.

Women ran politics, they ran business, they ran the world. Women scientists explored the known universe and profited from their discoveries.

"Mari, a man is here to see you." The female maître d' at my elbow quietly announced.

This interrupted my news scanning, but was cautiously done. Alarmed Club members could get a bit defensive. And in these days, that could be dangerous to other Club patrons.

I sensed this as something unique, something out of the usual, the humdrum. It was actually a change I had been praying for.

So when that lone white male called at the all-female Club and asked for me by name, I accepted. He was shown to the middle of the main lounge, where two overstuffed chairs sat separated by a small side table. A distance surrounding them for room to move in case anything untoward developed.

While such a visit took time away from my scheduled daily poker game. I was tired of the usual bitching banter that accompanied each hand as we all knew the other’s tells and bluffs.

It was time for new blood. Or a new game.

He entered wearing a very impeccable three-piece wool-blend suit, the shade of a fast quarter-horse out of the gate. Close behind him was our maitre d', who was a black belt in more martial disciplines than I could name on the fingers of both hands. She was our security. Not that we needed it. Because we were all qualified in many such disciplines. Hours in our basement gym was both socially demanded, and required. Because men had run the society into the ground, and after they lost their hold, most often became the last of the criminal class.

Women ran things, but because they had to fight their way to the top.

This male "suit" was accepted into our midst, in front of me, because it was more he was entering the lionesses den. One that was hidden behind the curtains, lace, and ruffles. Like the barred and electrified windows the Club maintained between themselves and the street. Like the concealed pistols, stiletto blades, and reinforced plexi-carbon fingernails most of us sported. For self-defense, of course.

No, I had no physical fear of any man who showed up in front of me.

But his attitude, like the quaint brown felt bowler he passed off to our maitre d', was precise and a statement of its own. Old-fashioned. Of a time before the sexes were at war. Before women had won.

“...and this civilization became just that, ma’am, an unending civil war.” the stranger finished my thought.

“Intriguing, sir. I don’t know your name and already you are inside my head, the ultimate hack to privacy,” I replied, showing a hint of outrage.

“And you have every reason to be upset, Marigold. My name is Peter. And I am at your service.” At that he extended a well-manicured hand, in the quaint, nearly extinct custom of hand-shaking.

I rose and took his hand more out of curiosity, knowing that my thin layer of dermal plasticine protected me from any direct poison, nano-biotic, or bacterial infection. Beside pheronomic door sensors had already passed him while x-ray scanning him against any weapons.

“Welcome, Peter. Call me Mari. You are just the mystery I’ve been seeking to relieve the tedium around here.” I replied. He had a firm grip, one calculated to show respect, as that of an equal, not dominant or afraid. The skin was not calloused, but not soft. Unscarred. No missing digits.

“Thank you for seeing me without notice.” Peter said.

I indicated the other matching overstuffed chair, the two separated by the ornate marble-topped side table between us. And we each sat, crossed our legs and studied the other for a few moments

“How you understand my thoughts is some parlor trick?” I asked.

“More like being able to recall conversations in retrospect. But you’ll realize that soon enough. We’ve met before,” Peter replied.

“Not like Merlin, you are living your life backwards?” I asked.

“More like the vast majority of us are. Like the old phrase, ‘those who refuse to study their own history..."

“...are condemned to repeat it.’” I finished.

“And life in these days and times is nothing more than a series of mental calculations to determine what could happen and what did. So most conversations have already occurred, most actions are taken by result of causes that have long ago ceased to be more than a continuing habit.”

Peter accepted an iced tea from our waitress, as did I. She left with a studied grace, her high-grade stainless steel tray balanced in her hand, and at the ready to become shield or weapon as needed.

We both sipped, while I studied this puzzle before me.

“An interesting challenge to our culture. I’ve heard of no paper that has been submitted to the Academy for review...” I started.

“...because any review would not uphold it or even understand the principles it posits,” He answered. “Our modern culture is no better than the one it replaced, which was no better than the one which brought us out of the caves or led us up from flea-scratching apes...”

“And as it is running circular to itself, then it is no better than any before it,” I finished. “Meaning that all thought and action then continues in infinite loops until entropy finally collapses the universe on our very heads.”

“Not exactly, but that is the accepted apparency,” Peter said.

“You are then implying that there is an existence outside this time and space which doesn’t follow the paths we and our forebears have traveled before,” I said.

“Actually, your existence is more the fiction than fact. The universe I come from has ‘asked’ me to come and interview you with the idea that this endless cycle might be interrupted long before the quaint concept of ‘entropy’ might have its way,” Peter said.

Shocked to my core, and the very challenge I was looking for. I sipped again, delighted with the hint of lemon in our green tea.

“The next question you would then ask yourself is whether you are up to that challenge,” Peter said.

“And again, that nasty habit of mind-reading you’ve been displaying,” I replied.

“I’ll give you a few seconds to study what you just said.” Peter now spoke in terse terms. “Your reply will determine if I leave or stay. I have other appointments with several similarly qualified women of power and station.”

I mused on this. He had uncrossed his legs, and his straightened back showed him prepared to stand and depart, all depending on my answer.

“Nasty. The key term was ‘nasty.’ That showed my habitual thoughts, which then led you to suspect that my mental habits might not be open to change. I apologize. And ask your patience."

At that Peter relaxed, again sitting back against the tufted cushion of his chair, his eyes reading my face as an open book. I had met with the challenge I had asked for. The game was afoot, as I liked to paraphrase. Obvious to him, my apology was sincere. But even in these seconds of thought, he was well ahead of me. And I needed to act.

"Where and when are you from?" I asked.

He smiled. "As if that would make a difference. And perhaps it may. But we are 'wasting time' as you would say, working through these loops again. The question is: do you accept?" Peter asked.

"When do we leave?" I replied.

"Now." Peter set his drink on the side-table, stood and again extended his hand. All in one very smooth, singular motion.

I rose as well, calling the attention of our maître d' with a subtle half-raised hand that she was expecting. She started to return in our direction with his bowler.

"And may I ask where we are going?"

Peter replied, "Not so much where as when..."

At that, the room shimmered around us, placing us temporarily in physical limbo.

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A new serial begins this series

Book One of the Hooman Saga is an anthology compiled from earlier short stories which tell how their dystopiac world started before, well, everything in Hooman Saga Book Two.

An alternate future-history.

Delivered here as a new series of serials. From this point forward. For about 350 print pages.

For now, set your calendar to keep track of these new adventures. Every Saturday.

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