There is one chance to stop the coming crisis, a world war that will lead to the end of civilization and the annihilation of mankind. To bring that message, the son of the future's most powerful man has used an unreliable technology of his own design to come back twenty years to our time and weave the tale of what is to come. The political and social unrest and the widespread corruption have fostered a dangerous rebellion. Its power is growing already, unnoticed in small towns, arming for a war. Time is against us, now and in the messenger's time. For us, it is a danger to our way of life and the comparative peace that we now have. For them, it is a question of the survival of the species. A lone reporter holds the key to stopping the crisis with the power of his voice.

CHRONOS UNBOUND

By Theodor Richardson

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2012 Theodor Richardson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4772-6875-9

Chapter One

The technological creature moved naturally and fluidly without any of the halting, jerking movement of machines. Whoever or whatever was behind the helmet wore an astounding suit of armor, the likes of which neither the reporter nor any contemporary engineer had dared fathom. Somewhere in the sudden maelstrom of the reporter's thoughts, he realized the obligation of the meeting. The writer reached slowly for his tape recorder. Distracted, he did not notice the disappearance of the segmented helmet. The face behind the armor, although definitely human, was no more comforting. The stranger's face was hard set and unnaturally pale, accented only by his flowing, thick brown hair. The stranger's face held no trace of expression except that of a grim brooding. The plates on his shoulders, which held his long, deep blue cape, were set at a decisive downward angle. The lack of reflection in the dark metal covering the whole of his armor added an incongruous sense of privacy, or possibly humility, which accompanied the obvious power. The chest plate, forcing itself inches above the interlaced body sections, accented the muscles of his upper torso just as the gauntlets accented his arms. The only object that stood out in contrast to the strong and alien nature of the figure was the hand-carved wooden cross hung about his neck, reaching to his heart.

"Relax," the stranger said in an almost mechanical tone, "it is only armor. I am a relic of the future, and I ask that you listen to the entirety of what I must say before you inevitably cast your judgment upon me and my story."

"How?" Realizing his interjection only too late, the writer snapped back into silence, praying he would not be killed.

"That is a reasonable question, and quite simplistic, actually. You see, all forms of energy are relatively interchangeable. My technology converts the very energy of life into temporal energy. It is quite an exhilarating and exhausting experience as I have found. This trip alone, however, has taken years off of my expected life span. Others fear this technology for good reason, so its exploitation remains limited to my person alone. As to how time travel is even possible: the universe is not as solid and stable as you may wish to believe." His tone was stilted and strange, nothing like the casual slang the reporter usually heard. "We exist in the instantaneous intersection between two times, as time is seen as the fourth dimension. To avoid overwhelming you with the physics, suffice it to say that it becomes a matter of forcing the right intersection." The writer thought that the stranger's voice seemed strong and serene, embodying a gale force brimming with unrealized thunder. "Now as to the reason for such travel, I have come a very long way to bring you this story. It is the story of my life, and it begins twenty years from now. I suspect you should find it more to your liking than the news you are used to regurgitating. In my telling, you will realize it is also the story of this planet and the life that is to come for every person aboard it."

The blood flow was slowly returning to the writer's face. The reporter saw a lifetime of struggle in the stranger's darkened eyes, but the man's face was untouched by physical tragedy, thanks most likely to the armor he wore. The stranger's face was as unrevealing as the helmet that preceded it, giving no quarter or hint of solace.

"My father is a very important man in the future history and I seek to change that. He controls over half of the world in my time. At first, I was pleased with the prospect of inheriting such a powerful position. Then, I suppose in a manner of speaking it can be said that my father's spirit possessed me. I suddenly sought to conquer the conqueror. I have my own reasons for that, as you will know in time. I was not in the position, being his son, to lead a revolution as you may imagine, so instead I appealed to both his vanity and his loathing of me. I chose to battle him in something much more personal but no less decisive.

"I challenged him to a game of chess; it was the only game he ever taught me," the stranger said, sucking air in through his closed teeth. "The rule of the empire and the fate of the world rested on this game. We each had our 'pieces,' most of them living people, and a complicated series of moves ensued. Eventually though, checkmate came. I have now come back to assert my victory. This is a dark tale and I weave it for you now as the worst kind of sinner: one who does not regret.

"I had planned my challenge, and the time had come to begin recruiting." The man picked up one of the white knights from the chess board delicately in his armored fingers. He turned the horse head to face him, staring into its empty plastic eyes.

Chapter Two

"I AM OPERATING on the opinion that forewarned is forearmed; therefore, I shall tell you as much as I can of the events that are yet to transpire. I remember when my campaign really began. It was a rather overcast day, not at all unpleasant. The sky had an ominous purple cast to it, not unlike today, waiting to see if the storm could be mustered out of the ambience. At the time, I was, or is that will be, having lunch in a rusted out neutral bar and grill in the outskirts of the capital city, New Charleston. As I sat alone at the bar, a ruckus erupted from outside the prefab structure. This was common enough in the neutral areas, especially if the military personnel that patrolled them got bored, and they usually got bored very often. This time, it sounded as though someone was being unceremoniously thrown into an alley, which also tended to happen quite frequently.

"The man that walked through the sliding steel and glass doors with his long black hair badly mussed looked as though he had experienced just that. He looked to be a teenager, and he was wearing a most peculiar garment. It was composed of a singular black strand of material nearly two inches wide covering him from neck to foot. The crisscross pattern of the fabric was reminiscent of the wrappings of an ancient Egyptian mummy, and I surmised that the band was not a simple single layer. A belt and boots of the same chemical composition completed his outfit, but somehow the most striking feature of the slight young man was the scar that ran the length of his face just beside his left eye. Whatever had caused this had dug deep into him yet had left him functional.

"Intrigued and otherwise constantly seeking recruits, I offered him a meal, being that it looked as though his last had come a week ago. As he crossed the room and prepared to sit down, the youth caught a faint glimpse of his reflection in one of the shards of glass scattered throughout the establishment, remnants of rather messy entanglements with my father's less than chivalrous soldiers. He looked to be surprised by his own appearance. He approached a mirror that hung on the wall with the same trepidation as a pup that sees its reflection for the first time. His face blended into the shadows as he gazed at his visage. Emotion overcame him in an instant.

"When he noticed the scar, a scream escaped his lips before he could even open his mouth. The resounding noise raged with years of pain. The scream also added a new depth to the mystery of the man. As the youth stood reeling from the sight of his own visage, a spark sizzled from his wrist. I was certain it was neither an artificial limb nor an illusion. The scope of the situation soon became clear to me.

"Someone had...