The machine was almost a relic. Neither sleek nor shiny, no polished steel, no touchscreen interface. It was boxy, ugly even, like something you'd find in a basement workshop, the kind of machine built by someone who had too much time and too many spare parts. Its switches clicked when flipped, its lights blinked unevenly, and wires snaked in every direction like vines. It didn’t look like it could do much of anything, let alone open a portal through time. But as the historian stood in the dim light of his study, watching that faint shimmer grow into a swirling aperture, he knew better.
Through the open portal into the past, he could see Washington, D.C. With power levels at fifty percent, the details came into focus slowly. He was able to make out Pennsylvania Avenue, the 500 block. Cars rolled past, a few people walked briskly by, heads down, oblivious. It was early September of 2001, and the world was on the brink of a watershed moment. Twenty minutes, that’s all he needed and all the power cells could muster. He adjusted the timer on his belt and took a deep breath. He knew he’d have to move quickly once he was through. This was no time for panic, no time for second thoughts. He had to deliver the message.
With one final glance at the machine, he stepped forward into the gate just big enough for a man to walk through. He disappeared into the past, each atom of his being pulled back into history, ripped out of his timeline and sent hurtling backwards.
The landing was harder than he expected. His body hit the concrete with a dull thud, the air forced from his lungs. For a few minutes, he lay there coughing and trying to get his wind back, his mind still drifting between two worlds. When he finally came to, his head was pounding and the smell of singed hair lingering in the air. He groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows, the world swimming around him. He steadied himself and glanced around. Washington, D.C., September 9th, 2001. He was here. He made it.
Two men in poorly tailored dark suits stood over him, their expressions a mix of concern and confusion.
“Hey there, fella,” one of them said, his voice soft, with that unmistakable Canadian lilt. “You alright? Looks like you took quite the tumble.”
The historian blinked rapidly, his vision clearing as the world around him sharpened. But as he looked around, frustration welled up inside him as he saw the royal coat of arms upheld by a lion and a unicorn. Of all the places he could’ve landed, it had to be here—in front of the Canadian Embassy. Useless!! There was little they could do. But still, time was short, and he had to try. Apart from some tourists across the street, there were few people milling about on a late Sunday afternoon in DC.
He staggered to his feet, brushing the dirt from his lab coat, his legs still wobbly beneath him. “I’m... fine,” he muttered, steadying himself. “But listen, you need to hear this. Something terrible is about to happen.”
The men exchanged glances, frowning in the way only civil servants can. “What do you mean, eh? You sure you don’t need a doctor or something? We were just out for a dart, and saw you here.”
The historian shook his head, trying to keep calm, trying to suppress the rising urgency in his chest. He didn’t have time for questions. He had to get straight to the point. “Very soon, September 11th. There will be an attack. Planes will crash into the World Trade Center in New York. Thousands will die in terror. It’s the start of something much bigger—“
The men stared at him, their expressions hardening as his words sank in.
“Planes? Terror? What are you talking about?” one of them asked, his tone cautious, unsure whether this was a joke or something worse.
The historian sighed, rubbing his temples. “It won’t end with that. The wars will spread—Afghanistan, Iraq. And out of it, ISIS will rise, like a phoenix from the ashes.”
The taller of the two bureaucrats shifted uncomfortably. “Look, bud, I don’t know who you are, but you sound like you’ve been watching too many conspiracy theories on late-night TV.”
“No,” the historian said, his voice calm but firm. “This is not a theory. This is history. Our history! And it gets worse.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. He didn’t want to rush this, didn’t want to lose them. “After the wars... after all the bloodshed... comes the plague. A virus, through gain of function. Wuhan China, dammit! They’ll call it COVID-19. It’ll sweep across the planet. Millions will die. Countries will lock down, borders will close. Masks, mandates, vaccines, the whole world will change. You won’t recognize it.”
The shorter man scratched his head. “A plague? Gain of what? That seems like a kind of dystopia..”
“It happened,” the historian said. “It will happen again, from this vantage point. The roots of it, the unrest, the chaos—everything started then. But you’ll see. You’ll see how it spreads. And then...” He hesitated, feeling the weight of what he had to say next. “Then comes the real fracture. January 6th, 2021. There’ll be a riot at the U.S. Capitol. It’s the start of the Great Division. My machine only has the power to send me back, not forward. See… it has calculated this may come to pass. The leader of the Free World has dementia and access to the nuclear codes. It must all be stopped now, here in the past, in these sunny halcyon days. You have to believe me!”
The men stood silently, their faces tight with gray disbelief. The historian could see it in their eyes. They weren’t sure what to make of him, of the things he was saying, but he wasn’t done.
“And then comes the machines. The AI. It hasn’t taken over yet, but could soon. It’ll start out small, just algorithms and giant databases, tools to make life easier. The internet will be in our pockets and on our wrists. But the machines are projected to grow smarter—smarter than any of us. Soon, they’ll control more than we realize. The roots are already there, already growing. We can’t alter things in my time. These events are already set into motion in my era.”
The men exchanged another glance, this one more uneasy than before. The shorter man shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “This... this is all a bit much, don’t you think?”
The historian nodded. “I know. The world’s gone mad where I’m from! Some things that sound impossible are true in my time. Robert F. Kennedy... will support Donald Trump for president on the Republican ticket. And Dick Cheney, the current Vice President? He’ll throw in with the Democrats!!!”
There was a long, heavy silence. The two men stared at him, their expressions hardening into stone.
“Alright,” the taller man said, his voice tinged with annoyance. “That’s enough. Kennedy, Trump? Cheney, a Democrat? I know enough about this town to say that what you’re spouting is impossible and that you are clearly insane.”
“Yeah,” the shorter one added, shaking his head. “The stuff about the virus and the machines, I could maybe buy. It sounds like a few of my favorite movies. But Cheney siding with the Democrats? He’s the Republican's Republican. You’re off your rocker, bud. And didn’t Robert Kennedy die thirty years ago?”
The historian opened his mouth to argue, to try and explain, but then he heard it—the faint beep from his belt. His time was up. He looked down at the device, watching the lights flicker. He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t finished. The shimmering started at his hands, his body beginning to dissolve, fading into embers as the machine forced him back. His eyes widened, and he tried to speak, tried to reach out one last time, but it was too late. “You have to stop the pla-”
He was gone, as if he had never been there at all.
The two men stood there, staring at the empty space where the strange traveler had been just moments before. A soft breeze kicked up, swirling the faint trace of ash left on the sidewalk.
“Cheney, a Democrat?” the taller one muttered, shaking his head. “And some incomprehensible shit about a Republican called Kennedy? Now I’ve heard everything.”
His compatriot frowned, wiping the ash from his sleeve. “Still... the other stuff? The plague? The rioting?”
They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling over them like a dark cloud. One of them snorted, a forced laugh escaping his lips. “Nah. This has to be a trick. Some kind of illusion. Maybe Criss Angel’s in town.”
Buddy chuckled nervously. “Yeah, that must be it. Some big magic stunt, right? That guy did kinda look like one of those illusionist types.”
They turned and walked away into the building, their laughter fading into the hum of the city. But even as they tried to brush it off, that cold knot of unease lingered in their guts. Maybe it was a trick. The whole episode was so fantastic that no one would ever believe them, anyway.
An early evening sky above seemed a little darker, the air a little heavier. And somewhere, just beyond the horizon, the future stirred restlessly, its roots already burrowing deep into the present, ready to pull everything apart.
Quite literally, from their perspective the worst was yet to come.
The world’s gone crazy. Dick Cheney is backing Kamala Harris for president. It’s difficult to make this stuff up, but the betrayal reveals a lot about America’s recent past (circa 2000) and the current state of the Democratic Party. It is very unlikely that the former VP has undergone a political conversion. He is very much the same Dick who engineered the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. What’s far more likely is that he’s showing his true colors. Cheney didn’t care about conservatism, the preservation of domestic tranquility, or free enterprise. His supporters in 2000 and 2004 were hoodwinked. He cares primarily about maintaining the domestic security apparatus and the unfettered projection of military power. Domestic prosperity and legislative oversight are of little concern. At this point, the slogan for the DNC might as well be: “Vote with joy, vote with Dick, vote for Harris.” Hooray for the unrestrained war party.
As to the election, a jaded skeptic might conclude that if Dick’s in the bag for Harris, the outcome could already be decided. If you can’t beat him, kill him. If you can’t kill him, swap out the competition. Cheney doesn’t have a time machine, but he might not need one to predict the country’s political future.