In Utopia, time travel had never been particularly popular. The present was perfect, the reasoning went, so why bother going to the past?
The future, by contrast wasn’t any different from the present, so it wasn’t very entertaining either, other than for the temporary novelty of meeting yourself. Since the later you remembered the conversation, it wasn’t particularly exciting after a while.
An optimistic company from Sweden had tried developing a home time travel kit, and they’d sold a few dozen units, but they’d given up the whole business in short order as it became clear just how uninterested the Utopians were.
The few adventurous souls who had bought the machines returned with stories about disease and aging and something called Snooki. The past smelled; the air was filled with deadly petrochemical fumes as well as with various concoctions with which people doused themselves, hoping to rid themselves of odors which never really went away.
The further back in time, the smellier people got. After a short term fad for time travel, the people of Utopia gradually lost interest, except for a few academics investigating the life of Superman.
When John found the box in his grandmother’s effects, covered in dust, he’d asked if he could have it.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t realized that even fifty years before there had still been devices sold assembly required. Apparently the company had thought that the adventurous types who wanted to go back in time would be more than willing to put the device together themselves.
John cursed as the screw slid down into the machine. The instructions were almost unintelligible, with pictures of parts that looked almost exactly the same. He was actually sweating, something he’d never done unintentionally before.
He stared at the machine; he’d never be able to get the screw out. He was convinced he was missing two or three pieces as well.
Shrugging, he decided it didn’t matter. The odds the machine would work, given the shoddy job they’d done with the instructions were low.
He stood up and slid into the seat. The thing was designed to look like a stationary bicycle; something he was assured from his reading was quite common in the era he was going to. It had the advantage of being something that was often purchased but almost never used.
Some anthropologists had argued that they were actually examples of stationary artwork before time travel had answered the question. The fact that later models had gotten cynical and included hanger for clothing hadn’t helped the confusion.
He slid carefully into the machine and switched it on. He held his breath, but the lights switched on and he could feel a humming sensation.
The button was there; he hesitated, then set the program for ten minutes in the future.
He switched it on and a moment later screamed as he felt a jolt of electricity frying synapses in his brain. The world tilted, and a moment later he found himself on the floor, convulsing.
It was almost ten minutes before he could move on his own.
Any reasonable person would submit themselves to the caregivers to be examined; there were still occasional accidents. The healers would have examined his brain and made whatever adjustments were needed to repair the damage that was done.
Yet somehow he didn’t go to the caregivers. For the first time he didn’t want to do what society asked of him.
The programs that had always comforted him now seemed banal and dull. He was restless, and every time he looked back at the discarded machine in the corner his anger burned.
If he ever got a proper, working time machine, things would become a lot more interesting. He’d find Superman and Lois Lane, force them to change things.
Furthermore, he’d get his vengeance on the company that had caused him pain.
John Tempus swore eternal vengeance on the IKEA company, with their unreadable instructions and promises of parts that wouldn’t fall into crevices and cause disaster.
He wouldn’t be the only one who got screwed.
