Unknowable Things

Knowledge isn't always power

Photo by Andy Beales on Unsplash

Desmond Morales wrote his story on paper woven with uncertainty and penned in ink the color of doubt. He had failed his mission. All that was left was to send a report that would never be read because there would be no one to read it. 

Desmond hurriedly finished his letter, slipped the paper into the hollow he'd dug to the left of the prison cell’s sink, and covered it with paint chips. 

A week earlier

“I have to admit that I am impressed by your parlor tricks, Mr. Morales.” The President twirled a fountain pen. Faint, silver sparks flashed in the space between the pen and the president’s fingers. 

The president was seated behind the Resolute desk. Desmond sat in a hard-wood Gunlocke chair facing him, resting his hands on his legs. 

“They’re not tricks. If you thought that, you wouldn’t be talking with me.” The Oval Office was smaller and more sparsely decorated than Desmond expected. The room’s furniture radiated out from the Great Seal on the carpet’s center, which Desmond thought was the Oval Office’s most striking feature, giving this space a sense of both solemnity and power. “Was it the Mount Kilimanjaro eruption or Quebec seceding from Canada that convinced you?”

“Both. Along with the dozen other predictions that came true. Some of my advisors suggest the only way you could accurately predict such diverse events is if you can see the future or are from the future.” The president slipped his hand through his thick, blonde hair. At thirty-six, President Darius Lynn Snyder was the youngest president in American history. 

“Either way, you have no choice but to build an asteroid defense. But, to answer your question, it’s the latter. I am from 2039,” Morales said. 

“Other advisors say that just because you were correct about these events doesn’t mean that your next prediction will come true. Your predictions could be coincidence or sleight of hand, the product of a clever mind. They make a formidable argument that you haven’t actually foreseen that an asteroid will strike the Earth in eleven years.”

Desmond fidgeted in his chair, counted to three, and said, “On April 2, 2039, an asteroid wipes out civilization. It's already happened in my time, a global cataclysm. Half the world’s population is killed almost instantly, and the other half—their fate is as grim. I escaped in a prototype time machine before the fires reached Livermore, and just barely.  The asteroid can be stopped, and history changed. I will teach your scientists what they need to know. I will teach them how to build an asteroid killer before it kills humanity.”

“So you say.” The president’s words stung Desmond like ice pellets striking his face in a winter storm. “I'd be a fool to commit trillions of dollars to something a stranger says won’t even be visible for seven years—”

“Dust obscures the asteroid, which is currently outside Neptune’s orbit. It will be too late to build an anti-asteroid weapon if you wait until your astronomers can see it and plot the asteroid’s trajectory. You must start now while you have time.”

President Snyder laid his pen on the desk and rubbed his hands together. “I’ve informed my Cabinet that your true purpose is to bankrupt America. You’re a time traveler, yes, but you’re a Russian agent from the future.” The president shrugged. “Sounds plausible to me. We won’t be spending any resources on this asteroid of yours.”

Desmond shivered. His hands trembled. “Why am I at the White House, then?”

“I wanted to look you in the eyes.” He blinked hard. “And I wanted you to see mine.” 

President Snyder’s pupils morphed from round to slitted and from black to lava red. He opened his mouth wide, expelled a haughty laugh, and flicked a forked tongue before returning to human shape after a few moments.

“You’re an alien.” Desmond sunk into his chair as if it were made of sand. 

Snyder nodded. “And you’re a time traveler.”

“You set the asteroid on a collision course with Earth.”

The president nodded again. “Yes.”

“Why?”

The president glided his tongue along his lips, leaned so far forward that he was nearly crawling on top of the desk, and took a long, deep sniff of Desmond. His lips almost touched Desmond’s cheek, and a low hissing sound slipped from his mouth. The president slid his finger across Desmond’s neck, licked that finger, and said, “yum.”

“Pre-cooked people, Mr. Morales. The asteroid’s impact will roast you, saving us energy and time. We’re not too different from your species. We like prepared meals, too.”

The president pressed a button under his desk, summoning four Secret Service agents, who dragged Desmond away as he screamed, “No!”

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