My work here is finished, and tonight I return to the future.
In your future—my past—A. R. Judge is the leader of the Reformed United States. Following the 2014 dissolution of the European Union and the Reconstitution of the 3rd Reich in 2018, the United States waned in power and nearly crumbled in a series of wars fought on domestic soil. New York was leveled by a trio of nuclear devices. Smallpox was released into the larger Midwestern cities. Judge's girlfriend died, Judge joined the military's dwindling numbers, and the rest is history. Complete history, now.
My birth occurred in the backroom of a Seattle speakeasy over several months. After A. R. Judge's Drying of the World campaign, such bars were illegal, but ours was disguised as a tiny used book shop. The bar was only one of thousands in the state, tens of thousands in the nation, a tiny segment of a growing confederacy. Our membership roles claimed drunks, of course, but also doctors and scientists and engineers.
I was cobbled from empty beer cans, from wooden shipping crates. My legs were cored with barstool wood; my head was formed of melted and reshaped bottle glass. The shell of my body was weak, but into it went one of the future's most powerful computers. And into my hands went ten poisonous needles, one for each finger.
I was sent across the country, to the new center of state. My mission was to destroy the President, but I was shot down by his bodyguards and lackeys. My parts were taken in for examination, but one of the official scientists—one of our moles—retrieved my computer brain, and returned it to the bar on the West Coast.
The assassination attempt thrilled our co-conspirators, and now, with more funding, they were able to construct a new body for my advanced computer brain, a body forged of Dolomite and Titanium, shot full of liquid metal capable of healing old wounds. They wound me with incredible reflexes. They reinserted my computer brain. And this time they sent me back in time.
The goal: not to destroy the future President, but to ruin him for the future.
I appeared at the University of Northern Iowa. My body was incredible, was new, but it was obvious a man-made device, out of place in this, the past. I had a target—a potential host body with close access to Andrew Judge—and I found him on the campus, at night, on the phone with his ex-girlfriend (an M. McLain). I rushed him, removed a pen from his hand, and gouged it into his back. I slit a seam to his neck and peeled off the skin, my new suit. I slipped it in, stuffed meat into the right places, and finally I looked just like him.
My brain had been pre-loaded with every biography written on the future's great leader, and so I knew where to go, which room he and the host body had shared. I also knew that the formative experience of his life was only days away.
His girlfriend had just broken up with him. He was desperate, was too sad to drink. This was supposed to be the point at which he sobered up, put away the booze, and began to train his body and mind for the future leader he would become. But now, something else would happen: I would pour him drinks, and keep him sloshed, until he was too far gone to come back.
My creators have a way of communicating with me—an audio device that is unhindered by the gap in time. The rule has always been to let me do the contacting, to avoid exposure. But last night they were too excited—there was a shimmer to their reality, a thinness to the world. Things were changing at the foundation of their world, and the past was being reformed.
My goal is accomplished.
I'm off to the future to seduce your future wife with my pheromone-steaming robot body, Judge. Don’t worry; you'll be too drunk to notice.
My birth occurred in the backroom of a Seattle speakeasy over several months. After A. R. Judge's Drying of the World campaign, such bars were illegal, but ours was disguised as a tiny used book shop. The bar was only one of thousands in the state, tens of thousands in the nation, a tiny segment of a growing confederacy. Our membership roles claimed drunks, of course, but also doctors and scientists and engineers.
I was cobbled from empty beer cans, from wooden shipping crates. My legs were cored with barstool wood; my head was formed of melted and reshaped bottle glass. The shell of my body was weak, but into it went one of the future's most powerful computers. And into my hands went ten poisonous needles, one for each finger.
I was sent across the country, to the new center of state. My mission was to destroy the President, but I was shot down by his bodyguards and lackeys. My parts were taken in for examination, but one of the official scientists—one of our moles—retrieved my computer brain, and returned it to the bar on the West Coast.
The assassination attempt thrilled our co-conspirators, and now, with more funding, they were able to construct a new body for my advanced computer brain, a body forged of Dolomite and Titanium, shot full of liquid metal capable of healing old wounds. They wound me with incredible reflexes. They reinserted my computer brain. And this time they sent me back in time.
The goal: not to destroy the future President, but to ruin him for the future.
I appeared at the University of Northern Iowa. My body was incredible, was new, but it was obvious a man-made device, out of place in this, the past. I had a target—a potential host body with close access to Andrew Judge—and I found him on the campus, at night, on the phone with his ex-girlfriend (an M. McLain). I rushed him, removed a pen from his hand, and gouged it into his back. I slit a seam to his neck and peeled off the skin, my new suit. I slipped it in, stuffed meat into the right places, and finally I looked just like him.
My brain had been pre-loaded with every biography written on the future's great leader, and so I knew where to go, which room he and the host body had shared. I also knew that the formative experience of his life was only days away.
His girlfriend had just broken up with him. He was desperate, was too sad to drink. This was supposed to be the point at which he sobered up, put away the booze, and began to train his body and mind for the future leader he would become. But now, something else would happen: I would pour him drinks, and keep him sloshed, until he was too far gone to come back.
My creators have a way of communicating with me—an audio device that is unhindered by the gap in time. The rule has always been to let me do the contacting, to avoid exposure. But last night they were too excited—there was a shimmer to their reality, a thinness to the world. Things were changing at the foundation of their world, and the past was being reformed.
My goal is accomplished.
I'm off to the future to seduce your future wife with my pheromone-steaming robot body, Judge. Don’t worry; you'll be too drunk to notice.
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