Dash Chandler had been in tight spots before. But it didn’t look like he could get out of this one. Everyone’s time runs out eventually, he thought to himself, but I didn’t think it would end like this.
Surrounded by maybe a hundred clones of Dr. Zoe Zeddie, better known as the infamous Brainstorm, all of whom aimed state-of-the-art 24th Century antimatter-stream pistols at him, Dash was in a real fix. A fatal fix.
“So, Mr. Chandler,” the original Brainstorm intoned from the surrounding vid-sets that floated around the laboratory, “I believe this is the gunfight at the O.K. Clone-aral. Excuse the terrible pun, but really, you must let me enjoy this final encounter between us. I only wish that I could be there in person to see you blasted into atoms!”
That much was true. Dash had ruined a half dozen of Brainstorm’s attempts to take over San Francisco IV. Being the only telepathic, telekinetic private detective in town, the job usually fell to him.
The number of clones made it impossible for Dash to use either his telekinetic or telepathic abilities to stop them. Escape looked impossible.
He could stall for time, but that would only prolong the inevitable. Maybe that was the answer. Time. What if he . . .
“Hey, Brainy,” Dash called out to the moving array of vid-sets, “I can wait for you to show up in person.” Dash began reaching out with his mind in a tightly controlled beam of telepathic energy.
“Cute, Mr. Chandler, a comedian to the end. And guess what? The end is close. I believe it’s time for this lovely little dance to be over.”
“Ah, come on, shouldn’t we face each other, one last time? You’re going to regret missing this opportunity.” Dash layered on the sarcasm. He needed more time.
The clones moved closer to Dash. An impenetrable circle of antimatter death.
“Patience, my beautiful clones. Let Mr. Chandler sweat a tad more, realizing none of his mental abilities or detective skills will save him this time.”
“Don’t forget my good looks and charm,” Dash wiseassed. His telepathic probe found what he was searching for.
“Yes, I shall miss your misplaced and comic arrogance. But all good things must come to an end. Apparently all bad things as well, which bring us back to you. Clones; obliterate Dash Chandler!”
“You need to tell your clone army which one is the real me.”
In that split second, hundreds of identical Dash Chandlers popped into the laboratory, intermixed with the Brainstorm clones for a very confusing crowd of only two people, endlessly repeated.
“What’s this? Kill them, clones, kill every Dash Chandler there!” Brainstorm screamed.
As one, the army of Dash Chandlers pushed into the Brainstorm clones’ minds and gave them a sleep command. The Brainstorms dropped to the lab floor like the empty-headed sheep they were. In a wail of frustration, the vid-sets flickered off, leaving only hovering black screens.
One of the Dash Chandlers stepped forward to shake the suddenly saved Dash Chandler’s hand. “Great to meet me, albeit a couple hours younger me. I didn’t realize I was so handsome,” he said to himself.
“Then I guess it worked; you’re me, a little farther down the timeline,” Dash-Present answered, a bit dazed by all the Dashes in the laboratory.
Future Dash nodded, explaining, “You sent a controlled telepathic stream forward through time; normally that would do nothing, but because I knew you would do it, having done the same thing myself only a few hours ago, I projected a telepathic link back in time to you. When they met, a time portal opened, as you guessed.”
“And hoped.”
“Anyway, time is a series of infinite layers, one for each nanosecond; Dashes from each of these layers knew the situation as well, so they all stepped through the portal, and here we all are. Since we were already here in the past, time let us all co-exist despite the impossibility.”
“Now how to get you all back,” Dash-Present mused.
“No problem. As time moves forward, we’ll coalesce into one Dash.” Three Dashes winked out just then. “See? And by the way,” Future Dash added, “you’ll catch Brainstorm in the next hour. I know because I’ve already done it!”
Rod Drake lives in over-the-top Las Vegas and has decided that work is less fun than it was advertised as being in college. Check out Rod’s other stories published in Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward, MicroHorror, Six Sentences and AcmeShorts.
Very clever, Rod! I love the wit and the ‘cheese’ factor to these little episodes, too.