Mālum et Mălum

‘Keep me as the apple of the eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings’ (Psalm 17:8)

I: Seven-Nil

‘Splinching is what JK Rowling calls it, in her Harry Potter novels, you know.’

Seth looked up, and peered owlishly at his colleague through his horn-rimmed spectacles. With his shock of white hair, and pronounced beak, he even looks like Hedwig, thought Dawn.

‘Splinching?’

She laughed. ‘Come on, Seth, surely even you’ve read Harry Potter. That’s what it’s called when a wizard disapparates then apparates unsuccessfully, leaving a part of their clothing or, even worse, a part of their body behind at the original location. It happens to Ron Wesley in The Deathly Hallows, remember?’

She knew, of course, that he didn’t remember, and that he didn’t like to be reminded that as a young woman she had been a literature postgraduate. Her (first) doctoral thesis had been entitled ‘Children’s Literature from 1902 to 2047: from Barrie to the Burn’. She’d completed it in 2055, seventeen years ago. That was just before the abolition of the few remaining arts courses, of course, and her reallocation to the Science and Engineering Faculty of CUCOL (the Consolidated University of Cambridge, Oxford and London). Her little reminiscences were her way of recalling to herself, and him, that the world had been different: once upon a time.

Seth shook his head, and turned his attention back to the complex equations scrawled across his notepad. ‘No, Dr Founder, I’ve never indulged in the juvenile fantasies of Miss Rowling. Is it Miss? Whatever. I may have spawned seven daughters’–a pained expression formed on his face–‘but the task of reading bedtime stories to them was something that was delegated to my ex-wife from the outset.’ It was common knowledge that he was still bitter about his inability to father a son, despite his repeated attempts to do so. Seven children, all daughters, no sons, he would often mutter. Seven-Nil. 1.6% chance of it happening, you know. At least I didn’t have to provide dowries for them, thank God.

Dawn forced a smile, but said nothing. Bedtime time stories: these were almost much of a luxury these days as degrees in literature. You’d think the curmudgeonly bastard would have been grateful to have any children at all. What’s the global fertility rate now, twenty-five years on from the Great Burn? She laid a hand across her own abdomen. She was 43 years old: in the world before the Burn, not too old for most to rule out the possibility of a childbearing. But that was then. There was no chance, she knew, that she would ever produce a child. Given the way the world was, that was probably a good thing.

‘Anyway,’ continued Seth, after an uncomfortable pause, ‘I fail to see the significance of your puckish remarks. They certainly don’t provide any credible explanation for how the apple we successfully teleported this morning came to return to us with a bite taken out of it. The apple has not “apparated”: neither has it been “splinched”. This isn’t the whimsical work of magic forces. Any explanation must be firmly rooted in science.’

Dawn sighed. ‘As you say, Professor Adamson. Let’s try looking for it!’

II: The Mathematician

A week had gone by. The apple had been kept in cryostasis, and had been subjected to a barrage of tests: but the big question remained unanswered.

‘It’s very simple,’ said Sam Gupta, one of the youngest and most brilliant members of the research team. ‘Someone at the receiving end decided our Cox’s Orange Pippin was far too delectable to leave it untouched. What more is there to be said?’

Seth grimaced, and removed his glasses from the bridge of his nose. Slowly and carefully he polished them. ‘That’s not good enough, Dr Gupta, and you know it. Before we proceed further with the next stage of the project, we need to identify where, and more precisely, when the apple was transported to.’

‘Seth, I’m really not sure that your theory about temporal displacement is sound,’ argued Dawn.

‘If one applies eleven-dimension mathematics to the problem,’ countered Seth peevishly, ‘then it becomes incontrovertible that our generally accepted notions of space and time will collapse inward upon themselves. The vanishing point, Dr Founder: transcendental engineering at the quantum level. And you, Dr Gupta’–he pointed his finger accusingly at the insouciant Indian–‘are more than capable of making those calculations. Or did the University of Sydney-Mumbai exaggerate your capabilities when you joined this project?’

Sam shrugged his shoulders indifferently. ‘I can make the necessary computations. But that won’t tell us who ate the apple.’ He grinned mischievously, and not for the first time Dawn felt an instinctive attraction towards the handsome mathematician. ‘Maybe it was Sir Isaac–perhaps it fell not from the bough of a tree, but simply out of the sky. He picked it up from the ground, after it had bruised his bonce, took one bite, and then realised he’d discovered gravity.’

‘The odontological report confirms it was human, but almost certainly a female, which rather rules out Newton,’ observed Seth sardonically. ‘Meanwhile, Dr Ransom has almost completed the isotope analysis on the apple around the area of incision. There would appear to be a trace residue of molecules originating from the teleport destination point.’

Dawn snorted. ‘How is that possible? That all seems rather speculative. You’ll be believing in fairy dust next.’

‘Elwin Ransom is one of the University’s finest biochemists,’ said Seth. ‘And no one doubts his dedication to this project. It’s about time others proved their value. So no more musings inspired by literary trifles, please, Dr Founder. That one was Peter Pan, wasn’t it? As for you, Dr Gupta, I expect a full mathematical analysis by the end of the week. Otherwise, I may make a recommendation at the next meeting of the Faculty’s Appropriations Committee that your contract be terminated, and then you could find yourself on a one-way transport out of the BHZ.’ There was a distinct undercurrent of malice in the way Seth enunciated the commonly used acronym for the British Habitation Zone. ‘Things aren’t looking so good in India right now, are they?’

III: Bhagavad Gita

‘He’s quite mad, you know. It’s become an obsession,’ opined Dawn.

‘Lust, anger, and greed are the three doors to hell,’ replied Sam. ‘Our dear colleague possesses an abundance of all three.’

A little unfair, thought Dawn. ‘Another quote from the Bhagavad Gita?’

‘Naturally. Where else would I seek wisdom as old as the ages? Or–as your scriptures say–there’s nothing new under the sun.’

Dawn shook her head. ‘They’re not my scriptures: I’m an atheist. And I certainly don’t believe in hell. Unless of course you count working with Professor Seth Adamson.’ She bit her lip. Now who was being unfair?

‘Robert Oppenheimer was rather fond of the Bhagavad Gita, you know,’ mused Sam. ‘There was a particular verse that came to his mind when he witnessed the first successful atom bomb test, in the New Mexico desert.’

Dawn smiled. ‘Yes. The only verse of your scriptures most physicists can quote. I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. Rather apt, considering what was to come.’

‘Burn, baby, burn. It sure as hell did–no Satan required.’ Sam’s eyes twinkled, and the subtle ghost of a smile crept across his face. ‘Just man in all his malignant magnificence. Of course, if we’d listened to Robert…’ he shrugged, leaving thoughts of what if hanging in the air. ‘But prophets are rarely regarded in their own time, and so it was with Oppenheimer. He was nominated three times for the Nobel physics prize, but never successfully. I think our esteemed colleague is more hopeful.’ Sam Gupta rubbed his eyes, and yawned. ‘But only if I can balance these damn equations. He wants them ready by tomorrow morning so he can run another test of the teleportation cage.’

‘With the apple?’

‘Yes. He’s convinced that only organic material can be teleported. After the apple again, he’ll maybe try one of the test animals: a rat, or perhaps a snake. Pass that flask, will you? I need some more coffee.’

Dawn picked up the indicated container, but held back from passing it to him. ‘On the subject of snakes, Sam–what did you make of last night’s news announcement? About the expedition to Lambda Serpentis?’

‘A fool’s errand. The evidence for an Earth-like exoplanet in that star system is tenuous, at best. Calling it “New Eden” doesn't necessarily make it so. Paradise Regained, hidden in the constellation of the Snake? Hardly sounds likely, does it? As for naming the space ark Elon II–well, that may flatter our beloved Sec-Gen, but I can’t see the Security Council allocating the necessary resources to it. As it is, the Council’s already struggling to keep the Western CyberNet fully operational.’

‘And what about “Operation Golden Age”?’

‘More nonsense: Seth needs far more funding than CUCOL can provide, even with the support of the Gates Foundation.’

‘I suppose so, Sam.’ An unexpected thought struck her. ‘Is that your actual name? It’s funny–I’ve never thought to ask before–but really? Sam, short for Samuel? Doesn’t sound very Indian. Or is it just an anglicisation, something you adopted to fit in more easily with irascible individuals like our professor?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly, looking serious for a moment. ‘It’s short for Sampa, not Samuel. Samuel means “borrowed from the Lord”, you know. As for Gupta–that’s a common enough Indian name. It means “guardian” or “ruler”.’ A broad grin spread across his face. ‘So I’m the king of the castle! Come on, Dr Founder, stop teasing me. I really need my caffeine fix...’

IV: The Sec-Gen

Seth smiled deferentially at the severely dressed figure whose holographic presence was flickering on the dais that dominated the communications chamber. ‘Secretary General Musk, it’s very kind of you to spare the time to meet with me this afternoon.’

‘It’s morning here in New New York,’ observed the Sec-Gen dryly. ‘But let’s not quibble about time. That, I believe, is the ultimate point of your experiment, is it not?’

‘Indeed it is. And I cannot stress enough how close we are now to success. After almost fifteen years dedicated to this project, and after so many failures and disappointments, I truly believe we’re almost there!’

‘I’ve heard similar claims from Professor Mortmaine for his New Eden expedition. He seems to think that naming the space ark after my father will curry favour with me. Of course, there are many voices on the Security Council.’

‘But since the Russians and Chinese were expelled,’ reasoned Seth smoothly, ‘it’s the votes of the three remaining permanent members that make all the difference. The others will make their speeches, they will bluff and bluster; but in the end, they will accede to the bidding of whichever voice will emerge as preeminent among the three. My sources tell me that the French Cabinet-in-Exile favours Mortmaine, whereas the British Council’s preference for “Operation Golden Age” is without question. But everyone knows that the American delegate will do as you direct, Mr Secretary General. Not that fool in the Capitol-under-Hill. The casting vote, in effect, is yours, Sir. Professor Mortmaine understands politics better than he does astrophysics. He knows that your opinion is critical to the Security Council’s decision. It may yet be critical to our very survival as a species.’

Secretary General Musk nodded gravely. ‘You speak urgently, and passionately, Professor Adamson. You’ve read the ELE Report, I take it?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t paint an encouraging picture.’

The holographic image flickered for a few moments, then stabilised. ‘No, it does not. Ninety percent of the planet’s surface remains an irradiated wasteland. Our oceans are poisoned beyond any hope of recovery. The continuing demographic decline, the rapidly falling fertility levels, the increased rates of radiation-induced health conditions, the power plant burnouts, the reports from our few remaining productive farms and fisheries: whichever indices one is considering, the outlook is bleak. Just in the past six months, we’ve lost contact with the Sao Paulo-Rio Redoubt, the Joburg-Pretoria CIC, and Neo-Tokyo. The cyber-trenches are being breached by the Eastern Alliance with far too great a regularity. Time is fast running out. Space to manoeuvre, too.’

‘Both time and space, Mr Secretary-General,’ replied Seth. ‘Which to choose, then, for this last roll of the die? Seeking sanctuary on a sleeper ship across the vastness of space? Travelling on a journey that will take us five centuries to cross 39 light years: an uncertain voyage into the future to a virtually uncharted star system?’

‘Or an equally uncertain voyage into the past, professor, substituting millions of miles for millions of years,’ countered the Sec-Gen. ‘That’s if your teleportation experiment works, and if you really have cracked the secret of time-travel! I understand the apple didn’t return from its second journey, hmm?’

And we’ve no idea why, thought Seth. ‘The calculations will be difficult, the risks grave,’ he admitted. ‘But I truly think we can do it! From one ELE to another: avoiding both frying pan and fire, one fervently hopes, and thereby inaugurating a new Golden Age for humanity: a fresh start for our species. Nevertheless, you’re the one who is going to have to cast that die, Sir. I will await your decision.’

‘No need. My decision is made. The Security Council meets tonight. Naturally, both you and Mortmaine will need to present your arguments. But you’re right: the decision is mine, and mine alone. My late lamented father might turn in his forlorn grave on the Red Planet: but for the sake of the human race’–Secretary-General Gideon Randolph Musk stroked his chin, then said–‘Alea jacta est!’

V: The Awfully Big Adventure

Three months had passed. Sam Gupta’s final calculations had looked sound, and computer analysis had confirmed that they fell within the expected parameters. Bolstered by the formal approval received from the UN Security Council, engineers were working day and night on the new teleportation cage. It was far larger than the original, designed to transport not an apple: nor even, as speculated by Dr Gupta, a rat or a snake. No, time was of the essence: and the latest confidential report that Seth had received from the Sec-Gen on the ongoing cyber-warfare between the United Nations and the Eastern Alliance was not encouraging. There was a projected 22% chance that the entire CyberNet would collapse within the next three months: 65% by the end of year. Gideon Musk had calculated correctly: there was no way Elon II could have been made ready for launch in time. What remained to be seen was whether there was still sufficient time to fully initiate “Operation Golden Age.”

Further analysis of the apple had yielded ‘fruitful’ results. Although Dawn remained sceptical, Seth insisted that there could now be little doubt that it had travelled not just in time, but in space. The spatial displacement had been calculated to around 2,300 miles–give or take a hundred or so–though it was not possible to give latitude or longitude. West or East, North or South: it was impossible to say. The temporal displacement, oddly, was somewhat easier to calculate with precision: 6,075 years into the past, with a margin of error of two years either side. The information yielded was sufficient to enable the research team to re-calibrate the dimensional settings of the teleportation cage.

‘We need to avoid overshooting the Cretaceous-Paleogene boundary, else we’ll end up surrounded by vicious dinosaurs,’ observed Seth. ‘Or, even worse, we could end up arriving on the day of the Chicxulub asteroid impact itself. That wouldn’t be much fun. But I think’–he paused, calculating furiously in his head–‘I think we should be able to calculate an arrival about half a million years after the extinction event. The fauna and flora will be much less threatening then. Even allowing for a reasonable margin of error, that should deliver us to a reasonably favourable environment. You can make the necessary calculations, Dr Gupta?’

Sam smiled. ‘That’s straightforward enough, professor: both there and back again. That’s The Hobbit, isn’t it, Dr Founder? But there’s still the philosophical question to consider. Curving back within myself I create again and again, says the Bhagavad Gita. What if that’s true? Or will travelling back in time to 65 million years ago risk altering the course of human history? The grandfather paradox, and all that?’

‘Bah,’ snorted Seth. ‘We’re standing on the precipice of human extinction, and you’re worrying about theoretical paradoxes?’

‘Is it really that bad?’ said Dawn, quietly. ‘This really is the end?’ She started to sob.

There was really no point sugaring the pill, thought Seth. And yet, for the first time in a very long time, he felt compelled to look for gentle words, to avoid his customary brusque manner. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. We’re building replica teleportation cages, as fast as we can, in a dozen places across the globe. With luck, we should have time–if the first human test run with the large cage goes well–to evacuate a few thousand, perhaps even a few tens of thousands, before we lose the CyberNet. The moment that happens, the entire project will automatically shut down, lest the Eastern Alliance gets access to it. It’s coming down to the final months now. Soon it will be the final days, then hours. But, Dawn–there’s one thing I want to ask…’

She looked up at him, through tearful eyes; startled to hear him use her first name. ‘What is it, Seth?’

‘I’m going on the test run myself. I can’t expect anyone else to do that in my stead. But there’ll be room in the cage for one other to accompany me. Would you be willing to come with me? The risks cannot be calculated, even if Dr Gupta here were to think otherwise’–he smiled, despite himself–‘You can say No, of course, but…’

‘Of course I’ll come.’ A simple statement, but spoken firmly. Then she added wistfully: ‘It would be an awfully big adventure.’

He looked into her eyes, and forgetting for a moment that they were not alone, he took her chin gently in his hand, and tilted her head towards his own.

A loud whistle pieced the air, startling both of them, and making them jump apart.

‘Well, well,’ said Sam Gupta, grinning. ‘It’s amazing the effect the end of the world can have.’

VI: Birthday Suits

He’d half expected that she would baulk at the idea of being one of the first two ‘chrononauts’ once she realised that they would have to travel naked into the past. I’m sorry, but my initial hypothesis that only living organic tissue can be teleported seems to be correct, he had said.

But no: she remained resolute in her determination to follow him. She replied: You can’t stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you. You have to go to them sometimes.

He laughed, and kissed her again. ‘Is that a quote from another children’s book, Dr Founder?’

‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘You clearly haven’t read Winnie the Pooh.’

’Or much literature at all, really. Though I am a fast reader. Mostly academic journals, engineering schematics, research papers, budget reports.’

‘Well, that won’t do, will it? We’ll have to start a regime of bedtime stories. There’s no time to lose.’

VII: The Long Night

‘You’ll have to make up for the deficiencies of my ears, and my ears, Dawn,’ he said to her, as they had snuggled together in bed that last night. ‘I’m having to forgo my hearing aid too, you see: you probably didn’t know that I use one. At least my decrepit body hasn’t yet required a heat pacemaker to be fitted, otherwise we really would be in trouble. What a fine specimen of Man!’

Dreamily, she closed her eyes, and said: ‘What piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable in action, how like an angel in apprehension, how like a god!’

‘Ha! I’m no Prince of Denmark,’ Seth replied, smiling. He was glad she’d introduced him to the giants of Shakespeare these past few months; as well as a few mythological heroes from an earlier age. ‘I’m not even an end-of-time Prometheus. Just poor, foolish, aged Romeo. Sleep well, my darling. The jocund day awaits us, Dawn.’

And we must be gone, and live, or stay and die,’ she murmured drowsily. Silent minutes passed, and Seth watched as the slow rise and fall of her bosom took on a regular rhythm. His wakefulness would carry him through this dark November night, whilst she slept beside him. Winter had almost come: and the words of another author from rather more recent times came into his mind. He’d enjoyed the works of George RR Martin, the sole foray into the realms of high fantasy time had permitted him: a shame he’d never completed that final novel.

‘I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold.’

VIII: Prometheus Unbound

The day of destiny had arrived. Seth Adamson and Dawn Founder stood unclothed before the gleaming titanium cage. A naked owl now, completely shorn of his feathers, thought Dawn. No longer even wearing his glasses. No Hedwig. Perhaps the owl of Athena. Well, if ever we needed the wisdom and the luck of the gods, it’s today!

The staging area in the centre of the Ops Room was a kaleidoscope of activity, filled with technicians and engineers bustling about everywhere, waving clipboards, listening to their earpieces and studying the readouts on their minicomps: excited but nervous too. Only Sam Gupta appeared calm, unflappable as ever.

‘I’m sorry I can’t give you a copy of the Bhagavad Gita for the journey. Perhaps one final quote will suffice. No one who does good work will ever come to a bad end, either here or in the world to come. Perhaps I might add: or in the world that was. Good luck to you both.’

‘That was a hundred times more meaningful than the valedictory speech the Secretary-General gave us,’ said Seth, clasping the mathematician’s outstretched arm warmly. ‘Thank you, Sam. Thank you for everything.’

Dawn kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘This isn’t goodbye, Sam. I’ll bring you an apple back, I promise.’ He smirked, but said nothing.

‘It’s time,’ said one of the technicians, an earnest young man named Joshua. ‘Please enter Prometheus.’

Seth winced. The idea of naming the teleportation cage after the mythological Titan who had stolen fire from the gods for Humanity’s sake had been the Sec-Gen’s. Gideon Musk has a flair for the dramatic that his father would have been proud of, he thought.

As Josh spoke, the lights in the room flickered ominously, and a piercing electronic whine filmed the air. ‘Quickly, please! The energy transfer matrix won’t remain stable for much longer.’

They two chrononauts took their places, shivering slightly as their naked bodies pressed against the cold metallic frame of the cage. They resisted the temptation to reach out and take the other’s hand: they knew that this journey across time and space was one that each had to take, essentially, alone. They could not be certain they would arrive at the same destination. All they had left was faith, trust and a little pixie dust.

The light about them was building, brightening, intensifying. Seth blinked, wanting to shield his eyes, and he heard Dawn gasp next to him. He turned his head towards her, and…

Darkness.

IX: Ouroboros

‘Dr Gupta, the readings are all wrong!’ The agitated young technician thrust his minicomp towards the Indian, his hand visibly shaking.

‘What do you mean, Joshua?’

‘We haven’t sent them back to the correct point in time. Look at the year reading! It should read 64,500,000 BP. But it doesn’t!’

‘But how can you travel back in time before the Dawn of Creation itself?’ said Gupta, calmly. Far too calmly.

‘Sir, I don’t understand. The spatial and temporal readings are almost identical to when the apple was transported. So they’ve only travelled back six thousand years.’

‘As I said, the Dawn of Creation. A little over six thousand, actually. Our chrononauts have journeyed back to Friday October 28th, 4004 BC, to use the chronology of the Christian church. Otherwise known as the sixth day of creation. Archbishop Ussher was quite right in his calculations. An admirable theologian, and a capable mathematician. And now Humanity faces its day of destiny. The circle is complete.’

The lights flickered once again, more alarmingly still. ‘It’s collapsing,’ a panicked voice shrieked. ‘Look–the monitors! The CyberNet! The last firewall’s been compromised.’

Only one person in the Ops Room remained as unruffled as ever. ‘Are you a believer in the Christian God, Joshua?’

The trembling technician nodded his head.

‘Of course you are. You bear the name of HIS son, after all. Then I’ll forget the Bhagavad Gita, this time, Joshua. As your Christian scriptures say: The heavens will disappear with a roar; the elements will be destroyed by fire, and the earth and everything done in it will be laid bare. You thought the Great Burn twenty five years ago was bad? Oh no–Dear me–but no.’

‘We have missile locks. I repeat, we have incoming missile locks!’

‘The cages, get to the cages,’ shouted another voice. A stampede of desperate men and women surrounded the three remaining titanium cages, standing against the back wall of the Ops Room, waiting to be lowered down to the teleportation pad, to follow in the wake of Prometheus.

‘Too late, far too late,’ said the being that had lately gone by the name of Gupta, shaking his head. ‘No time, no power, and shortly–no anything.’

‘Who are you?’ sobbed the technician, looking up at the terrifying figure standing before him.

‘My name is Legion. I have so many names. I am Abaddon and Set and Loki and Ahriman and Kali, and many more besides. To the Babylonians, I was Tiamat. The Hebrews called me Leviathan. To the Norse, I was Jörmungandr. For a time, I was the son of a Gujarati man, and a Hindi-speaking woman, and so I was Sampa Gupta: in English, the Serpent-King. My preferred name is Ouroboros, the serpent who swallows his own tale. I am here at Humanity’s end: and I was there at Humanity’s beginning. Curving back within myself I create again and again. The circle is complete.’

X: The Sixth Day

‘Where are we, Seth?’ Her voice sounded familiar: yet, somehow, different.

The vegetation was lush, and exotic, and above all abundant: very different from the few poor scraps of woodland with which they had been familiar for much of their lives. Seth felt heady as he breathed in the air. It was rich, heady, and clean: so totally clean. There was the sweetest birdsong in the air.

‘O brave new world.’ Again, that subtle difference in the timbre of her voice. She sounded younger, perhaps. He turned towards his companion, and gasped.

She looked to be around twenty-five years younger: the kind of age, he imagined, she had been at the time of the Great Burn, on the cusp of womanhood. She was still naked, and she was yet more beautiful than he could ever have imagined.

If her appearance was a shock to him, how much more so was his to her. She raised her hands to her mouth, and covered his lips in her shock.

‘Dawn?’

‘My God, Seth,’ she exclaimed. ‘You look to be forty years younger. You could be eighteen–nineteen!’

He smiled. ‘So could you.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Cellular regeneration at the molecular level. Dr Ransom once posited it as a theoretical effect of teleportation, but I dismissed it. Looks like she was right.’ He gasped. ‘No, no, no!’ Over her shoulder, he could see black smoke billowing from Prometheus. ‘Dawn, get down!’ Without waiting for her response, he grabbed her, and together they dived into the undergrowth. A few moments later, the birdsong fell silent as a tremendous explosion echoed, and re-echoed, all about them.

In silent awe, they clung to one another. And in that moment, it was as if–like St Paul on the Damascus Road in a future four thousand years to come–the scales had fallen from their eyes. They did not need to eat from the Tree of Knowledge after all: the foresight of six millennia of human history was laid bare upon their hearts. Yet for all that, somehow they knew they would be powerless to do anything other than play out their fated roles, and follow their appointed path.

‘You’ll finally have your sons, Seth.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, Dawn: three of them. And the last of them will bear my name.’ He knew already what dread fate would await the first two.

‘You’ll have a new name for yourself. The name of your fathers…’

‘For the father of all,’ he finished. ‘And you will have a new name too.’

She frowned. ‘But what about our daughters?’ She considered, for a moment, the implications of those words of sacred text, what lay spoken within, and what remained unspoken: and she blushed deeply. ‘No, not that!’

He hushed her, and stroked her forehead. ‘It will be okay. We don’t know all the answers. I don’t suppose we ever will. We’re alive. That’s what matters. And the human race will live: because of us.’

‘But no one else will come, from the future, will they? We’re the first chrononauts: but also the last.’

‘We don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘We’ll see. Time will tell.’ But he knew. Of course he did.

She kissed his lips, and smiled weakly. ‘At least I’m not your spare rib. That part of the story went awry somehow.’

He laughed. ‘See! There’s always something to be thankful for.’ They embraced each other again, feeling on their skins the warm glow of the very first human-induced fire. Prometheus had fulfilled his role in prophecy.

Soon an apple would arrive, and take its place upon the bough of a tree.

But, for now, they would wait to see what happened next.

They were unaware of the figure watching them from afar. Their arrival had been noted by the Fallen One.

Two of far nobler shape erect and tall,

God-like erect, with native honour clad

In naked majesty seemed lords of all,

And worthy seemed, for in their looks divine

The image of their glorious Maker shone.

But not for long, the Enemy thought grimly. He looked up to the sky, and noted, with considerable satisfaction, that as evening approached, the silvery orb, just two days old, could be seen glimmering faintly in the heavens. As the rays from her glorious golden consort faded, as day gave way to night, so that the white lustre of her pale pockmarked face would become brighter. In centuries to come its waxing and waning visage would serve as a reminder to the human race of lust, and madness, and change, and chance. All the things I like, he reflected.

The slits of the eyes of the Serpent-King narrowed, and with his forked tongue he licked his lips. The approaching evening would mark the beginning of the seventh day, he thought. A day of rest. And then…

The real work could begin.

***

Commentary:

The central conceit of this story is the Big Bang Theory is false, and that the Biblical accounts of Creation and the Fall are essential true: albeit with a time-travelling twist. Archbishop Ussher was a 17th century Anglican bishop who famously, and very precisely, dated the beginning of Creation to 6pm on October 22nd 4004 BC. Needless to say, I am no Creationist myself!

The Ouroboros legend of the snake swallowing its own tail reoccurs time and again across different world cultures and mythologies. Tying it in with various stories about the Devil, the Great Serpent as the Book of Revelation describes him, made perfect sense.

Lamda Serpentis is a relatively near star (39 light years) in the constellation of Serpens (the Snake). As recently as 2021 an exoplanet was confirmed in the system of this Sun-like star, of similar size to our planet Neptune. There is no reason why Lambda Serpentis might not be home to an Earth-like planet too.

I’m no scientist, so I have nothing to say about the plausibility or mechanics of space arks, teleportation or time-travel. These concepts serve merely as plot-devices for the story.

Very literary works are alluded to in the narrative. They include a number of children’s classics: the Harry Potter stories (JK Rowling), the Hobbit (JRR Tolkien), Peter Pan (JM Barrie) and Winnie the Pooh ( AA Milne). Reference is also made to the Greek legend of Prometheus, the gargantuan and, as yet, unfinished fantasy saga A Song of Ice and Fire (GRR Martin), and various works by William Shakespeare (specifically Hamlet, Romeo & Juliet, and the Tempest). The Bhagavad Gita, the Sanskrit scriptures that are a core spiritual text for Hindus, are quoted several times (not least the famous passage allegedly referenced by Robert Oppenheimer on the day the first atom bomb was explored in the New Mexico desert). The Holy Bible is also referenced (notably 2 Peter 3:10, with its description of the end of the universe, and Genesis chapters 1 to 3, with the various allusions to the Creation and Fall). And no re-imagining of these events would be complete without a quote from the epic poem Paradise Lost (John Milton). The term ‘Great Burn’ is lifted from The Babylon 5 episode ‘The Deconstruction of Fallen Stars’, and ‘Operation Golden Age’ from the Doctor Who serial ‘Invasion of the Dinosaurs’. The off-stage character of Dr Elwin Ransom is a tip of the hat to the character of the same name in CS Lewis’ Space Trilogy (though in the Trilogy by profession he is not a biochemist but a philologist, clearly inspired by Lewis’ great friend JRR Tolkien). As for any connection between the final Secretary-General of the United Nations, his supposed father, buried on Mars, and any real-life personage operating a major tech-company in the present day: well, that is purely a matter of conjecture...

Finally, a word about the title of the story. In Latin, the two words Mālum and Mălum were often confused. The first word (with long ā) is a noun, meaning ‘apple’: the second (with short ă) is an adjective meaning ‘evil’. It has been suggested that the reason why the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil is so often thought of as an apple (in the absence of any statement to that effect in the Book of Genesis) is that these two similar Latin words have been confused with one another.