Spite, Page 2

in. Then we could place that bet.”

  Even a terrier would have gotten sick of the bone by now. “This machine doesn't work like that.”

  “Oh.”

  A popular alternative theory is the parallel universes idea, where every decision results in a splitting of the universe. Terry Pratchett calls this the “trousers of time” in his Discworld novels. One version of you travels down the leg where one choice was made, and another version, having made a different choice, follows the other leg. Apparently some scientists have even come up with the maths to support this idea – you gotta love maths. This is the theory I'm working from.

  “So I don't get it,” Frank admits finally.

  “Pop that up in the middle,” I tell him. “I don't want to be rubbing my head against it at the wrong time.” As I tie down the roof of my small chicken coop, I ask, “What don't you get?”

  “You said we're gonna be rich. How?”

  “I'm going to steal it.”

  “But if you can't get us into the bank with it, then how does this contraption help?”

  “I'm not going to rob a bank, Frank.”

  Now if you think about Pratchett's trousers of time for a bit, you'll see what I saw. You really, really don't want to be headed down the wrong trouser leg of a war veteran – the one that's been folded up out of the way. Some trouser legs are better than others. The immediate question that arises is: how do I make sure I'm in a good one?

  Frank is still puzzled. “So who we going to steal from?”

  “Me.”

  Back to time travel. Why would I want to travel in time just to split off a new reality that doesn't do me any good? I could be back to where I started, or worse. No, the point of all this is to make sure me, the one I care about, is in the best possible leg of the trousers. That's when I realised that I didn't want to travel in time anyway. Who needs it? I'm going to sidestep the bastard, he's never done me any favours.

  “But you're not rich.”

  “Not here, I'm not. Help me get this thing in place.”

  Together we lift the flimsy chicken wire coop over myself and the box of bits that will make all this work. It's awkward having to huddle down over the box, but a bigger coop would require more support and be harder to deal with on my own.

  “Shouldn't I be in there too?” Frank asks.

  “I'm not going anywhere yet. I'm just making sure it will work.”

  There is some chance that pieces of the chicken wire may not make it through, in fact I'm not sure any of it will. But everywhere will have chicken wire, right? So I can always make a new one if I need to move on again.

  “There's not much room left. You sure we both gonna fit?”

  “No problem. Look.” I push myself to one side to show much room is left. Not a lot. I glance across at my bag of essentials, things I may want to get my hands on quickly when I get there. I think there is enough space left.

  After I worked out that I didn't actually need to travel in time, a lot of impossibilities dropped right out of the picture. All I need to do is step between realities to the one where I made all the right choices. And, it turns out, switching realities is easy. How? Do some slow time of your own and figure it out.

  “Frank, we're going to need that list you made. Who won what, and so on?”

  Frank's eyes light up at the chance to finally place some winning bets. He turns to go and get the list, and then turns back, his expression worried. “You're not going without me?”

  There's no point turning up somewhere as a second me. I'm not the sharing sort, so I'm not likely to welcome myself with open arms. If I want what he's got then he can't be there. Anyway, there's some sort of conservation of mass thing going on with this thing. You can't move to another reality without something from that reality moving back to this one. Simple. My problem becomes my solution. I move there and he comes back here. Some might call that spiteful, but he's had all the lucky breaks, now it's my turn.

  “I'm not leaving yet, Frank. Here, help me get out. I'll do some last minute checks while you get the list and anything else you want to take with you.”

  Frank helps me out and grins at me, relieved that I'm not leaving him behind. He is pretty thick.

  When Frank is gone I slide over my bag. With my bag, my little machine and the chicken wire, the conservation of mass thing means that some other bits will get switched back to here with my other self. Since he's the lucky sort it might be stuff he treasures. Or it might not. Whatever, that's his problem.

  There's room for the bag, even if there isn't room for Frank. He can't come with me, not even if I wanted him to. I doubt if any of the lucky versions of me are still stuck with Frank, and this thing focuses on the individual, not on the place. It will find me in those other realities, wherever I am. Frank would just confuse it and we'd never go anywhere.

  I will miss Frank a bit, we've been together for years. I'm not sure whether I've done my other self a favour or not. On one hand I'm lumbering him with Frank, but on the other I'm giving him a ready made friend who is very loyal – not to mention gullible.

  It won't be long before Frank gets back, I have to hurry. The chicken wire is awkward to handle on my own, but as I told Frank, it's not heavy. I make sure the wire is neatly settled all around me and that no part of myself is touching the wire. It's not comfortable, but I've had worse.

  To Frank it will appear to happen in an instant, if he's back in time to see it, but I could be stuck in here for a while. If my theory is right, and my soldering accurate, my little machine will give me flickering glimpses of myself in alternate realities as I pass through – sort of like tuning a television set. When I find one that looks like he got all the luck, I just release the lever and we switch. If it turns out to be not so good, I just hop back in and try again until I find my perfect life.

  “What are you doing?” Frank asks from the door.

  “So long, Frank.” I don't say I'll be seeing him, because I won't.

  “Wait!”

  I press the lever.

  # # #

  gmw 4-Sept-2013.

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