The Spacetime War Will Not Take Place

Julian stared intently at the serrated rocks beneath his feet, dampened by the late-afternoon mist. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his left foot up, then his right, and counted the steps.

297, 298, 299… 300. Almost halfway.

Out of a job and kicked out of his previous apartment, Julian had sought refuge at the tail end of an obscure mountain trail – a paltry pagoda, benches arranged in a hexagonal fashion, with a hollow roof held together by wooden beams. He had repurposed the pagoda into something that resembled a tent, using the roof to store an umbrella, a clock, and a spare water bottle – nothing of value that would attract unwanted attention. All in all, Julian found such a living arrangement preferable to sleeping on the streets, where cockroaches and rats shyly crept around him as if attempting to socialize with one of their kind. He had also tried his luck at various McDonalds’ across the city, but locals and employees alike scowled at him as if his very existence was an offense to their identity.

354, 355, 366…

His shoulders shrieked in pain as he shifted the weight of his backpack from one side to the other. He took a deep breath, and suppressed the urge to sit down. By now, the pagoda was just about visible, imposing its sinister frame on the retreating sun. Known to the locals as ‘Sir Shenton’s Lookout’, the pagoda was intended as a resting place for those ambitious few who had the willpower to hike up the steep mountain. In recent years, however, it seemed hardly anyone was in the mood for hiking anymore; those who were fortunate enough to hike during their free time were long gone, evacuating from the city well before the first unmanned drones had rained down and terrorized the entire populace into submission.

633. Julian threw his bag down in the middle of the pagoda, next to his two-way radio and sleeping bag. He sighed, slowly lay down on one of the benches, and closed his eyes. He felt the scorching midsummer sun broil his face, forearms, and legs. His shirt, drenched from perspiration, attached itself to his body like a parasite leeching blood. Successions of shy breezes glided across his body, and rustled the shrub above his face.

The brittle crunch of glass being stepped on. A voice from behind him: “Hello, Julian.”

Julian banged his head on the bench, and sprang up on his feet like a cat seeing a cucumber. He turned to face the source of the voice. A pale, stocky man with black hair and barely-visible stubble stared straight into his eyes.

“What the f- who the fuck are you?”

“Before we continue our conversation, OTIP regulations stipulate that you must agree to the following terms and conditions before-”

“What do you want?” Julian hastily reached into his backpack, trying to find his counterfeit Swiss army pocket knife.

“By continuing this conversation, you implicitly agree to the terms and conditions as stipulated in two-thousand and fifty-three, hyphen twelve-fourteen period sixteen forty-seven, forward-slash one-a-thirty-three.”

Julian’s fingers finally found the smooth, metallic knife. He pried open one of the blades. The man-ghost stared back at him, his eyes conveying not the slightest indication of having free will, his lips pressed together to form a straight line; expressionless, nonreactive, like a computer being fired up for the first time in years.

“Who are you? Are you a hiker?”

“Thank you for your implied agreement to the terms and conditions. I am John, serial number five zero eight two three-”

“Listen, man, I don’t know what you want, but I ain’t got nothing for you to rob. You can search my bag, I literally don’t have anything valuable.”

A pause. “Julian Lawson. I am here to offer you a choice. To live, or to die.”

Julian froze. His lungs stopped working.

Is he threatening to kill me?

Slowly, Julian raised his knife, half pointing it at the man, and half staring at his own shaking hand in disbelief. With chilling accuracy, John grabbed Julian’s wrist and squeezed it. Julian yelped in pain, the knife clattering to the floor.

“Physical assault is unwarranted under these circumstances,” said John, sounding almost disappointed. “The agency warned me of your propensity for violence, but I have not given you any cause to attack me.”

“Okay, okay, sorry! Can you let go of my fucking wrist?”

John stayed silent.

“I agree to your terms and conditions too, okay? Just let me go!”

John released his grasp, and Julian inhaled through his teeth, rubbing his right hand with his left. Unfazed, John continued.

“Julian Lawson, you have a choice. You may choose to live or die.”

Julian’s exhaled deeply. He felt his mind wandering, trying to find an idea that he could latch onto – a thought that could distract him from whatever was happening now. The howl from a police siren below brought him back to his senses. “Are you… are you going to kill me?”

“This depends on your definition of ‘killing’. If by ‘killing’, you mean attacking you like you tried to attack me just now, then no. However, if I do not intervene, then you will die.”

Julian let himself grow frustrated. At least that was preferable to shivering in fear like an idiot. “My guy, you just made me more confused. Are you going to kill me or not?”

“According to your colloquial definition, no. I am not going to kill you. But if I do not intervene, you will die in two minutes, thirty-two seconds and five deciseconds.”

What the fuck is a decisecond?

Julian finally let out the breath he had been holding for the past minute. He looked down at his right wrist. It was slowly swelling to the sides, and limp from the numbness. He mustered the courage to look up at John. The weirdo had shuffled back to the exact same spot where he had first made himself known — between the bench that was too long and the one that was broken beyond repair. His wore the same stoic expression. The sun only dared illuminate the lower half of his body, trying its best to stay well away from his face, likely for fear of violent retribution.

Julian lifted himself up off the floor and scratched his head. “Okay, uh… you’re kind of confusing me here with your tone. If you’re gonna kill me, you can just say so, you know?” He paused. “I mean, what even are you, a soldier? You gonna call a drone strike on me or something?”

“Incorrect. In two minutes, fifteen seconds, and six deciseconds, the Federation of the Americas’ spaceship will fire its solar laser cannon at southeastern China. There will be almost no forewarning, as the weapon is able to be fired at a moment’s notice. As you are near the epicenter of the weapon’s target area, your body will evaporate from the heat in the span of around two deciseconds.” John paused. “But as I said, you have a choice to live. You will live if you decide to come with me.”

Julian rolled his eyes. So he was crazy after all. “Listen, man, you’re not thinking straight. Now, I know this is probably the last thing you wanna hear right now, but I think you should check yourself in to Saint Angeline’s. Trust me, you are not making sense right now, and-”

“Two minutes and zero seconds remaining.”

Julian sighed.

You can’t argue against insanity, Julian.

“Okay, have it your way.” He sat down on the floor with his back against one of the benches. A dewy breeze greeted Julian face-on. He lifted his shirt away from his skin, allowing the wind to cool him down. John’s hair swayed sideways, but his stubble remained stationary. More sirens in the background — mourning, weeping, like a wolf caught in a hunter’s trap. Julian glanced at John’s legs.

Fuck. He’s not moving.

Julian decided to play along. “Okay, let’s say the Americans are getting ready to flambé us as we speak.”

John nodded. “Correct. The American Space Command has been notified to ready the weapon.”

“Okay, right. Where do you plan on going when that happens? You’re acting like you can survive the heat or something.”

“Incorrect. I am unable to withstand such high temperatures. However, I am equipped with OTIP’s traveler technology, and can avoid being burned to death.”

Julian snorted. “Right, traveler technology. My bad.”

“Yes, traveler technology. It allows me to travel back to OTIP headquarters almost instantaneously.” John blinked three times in quick succession. “One minute and thirty seconds before we die from extreme heat.”

“Will you quit it with the countdown, dude? You’re making me nervous.”

“Noted. I will cease the countdown.” John stared at the floor, looking embarrassed.

What is with this guy?

Julian had encountered reality-challenged individuals on the streets before, but usually their ramblings were incoherent, illogical and jumpy. John, however, did not meander in his talk of apocalypse, and gave the impression of rational certainty, like a mathematician proving a theorem.

Is he on drugs? No, he wouldn’t be so calm. Did he escape from a hospital? Are there even-

An eardrum-demolishing wail. Screeching, piercing into Julian’s ears as if it were trying to claw his brains out. Julian looked down.

No fucking way.

Dozens of police vans were arriving on the major streets, their traffic clearing lights on and blinding the city in an anarchic light show of blue and red. Hundreds, thousands of blue boys hurriedly ushering confused men, women and children into the nearest buildings.

“90% of them will die during the initial attack,” said John matter-of-factly. “And most of those who are in the underground subway when the attack happens will succumb to dehydration. With most of the city’s infrastructure either-”

“Okay, I get the point!” yelled Julian. He felt a strange wave of calm come over him. The sight of the little ants being ushered in to the city’s skyscrapers, combined with the vivid description of the horror the city was about to face, had pushed his body to near breaking point. “Okay, I’m- I’m coming with you, alright? How much time do we got, how much time do we have?” Julian stuttered.

“Thirty-three seconds, and eight deciseconds.”

“Thirty fucking- you couldn’t have warned me sooner?”

John tilted his head. “But you opted out of the countdown.”

“Okay, sorry, I opt back in!” Julian panted. “How do we get out of here?”

“If you would like to not die, you must come with me to OTIP. By coming to OTIP, you agree to relinquish all aspects of your identity, physical body-”

“Yes, I agree! How do we get out of here?!”

“Climb onto my back.” John turned his back to Julian, presenting his hands face-up at his sides.

“What?”

“Climb onto my back. Twenty seconds.”

Julian darted toward John like the world was ending, leapt onto his back, then wrapped his arms and legs tightly around John’s torso.

But John wasn’t finished. “Before we travel, please agree to keep your hands and legs wrapped around me at all times, or else risk grievous bodily harm, mutilation-”

“Are you fucking serious right now? Can we go?” Julian shivered in terror as he felt a gust of warm air blow toward him, like the universe had just opened its giant oven door.

“Please confirm.”

“CONFIRM! CAN WE FUCKING GO?!” Julian squeezed his eyes shut.

No sooner had Julian finished his sentence than he felt a peaceful, cool atmosphere, and a deafening silence.