The Syndrome of the Unwilling Traveler

(Unpublished)

By that time, time machines had already become obsolete. Like old phonographs or the first bulky computers, they gathered dust in technology museums, evoking indulgent smiles from visitors. People had learned to travel through time on their own. One moment someone was here, next to you, and then, with a dive, they found themselves in another place, in another time.

The practice of "diving" through time was introduced in schools, though it wasn't very popular. After all, who would want to complete their history homework by being thrust into the middle of events, risking being eaten by a dinosaur or trampled by a mammoth? Yet, diving had become indispensable. Machines had proven too unpredictable and dangerous, leaving humans no choice but to master time travel themselves.

Despite this advancement, people were unable to influence the past or the future. They could observe, participate, but not change anything. Paradoxically, they couldn’t prevent the death of loved ones, wars, or disasters they already knew about but still tried endlessly to alter the circumstances leading to these events. It was a perpetual cycle of attempts and failures—a tragic farce in the theater of time.

This unpredictability gave rise to chaos and anxiety. People feared living "here and now" because "now" could instantly turn into "then." New phobias emerged: agoradiving (the fear of diving in crowded places), chronoclaustrophobia (the fear of being trapped in the past), and temporal anemia (the fear of losing oneself in time).

Life with this gift of movement was chaotic. Employers struggled to retain staff, as people could dive mid-workday, returning hours, days, or even years later—or not at all. International negotiations often broke down when one party suddenly disappeared from the table. Public transportation became a lottery: no one could predict whether a passenger would complete their journey. Bus drivers became unsung heroes in cities, as their dives were the rarest of any profession. Scientists hypothesized that the constant grip on the wheel might stabilize chronofields.

Society had to adapt with new rules. People began wearing necklaces with written contact information in case they were found in the past or future. Communities of "divers" formed, sharing advice and offering support. Some divers returned as heroes, bringing stories of places and times humanity had never seen. More often, though, their return brought anxiety—no one could predict what they had experienced and how it might affect their minds.

Mark stood in line at the supermarket, holding a pack of pasta. The queue moved slowly, and he kept glancing at his watch. He was supposed to meet his wife in half an hour and already knew he’d be late. Suddenly, he felt a familiar sensation—a slight tremor, a chill in his fingertips. “Not now!” he thought. But it was too late. The world darkened, as if someone had flipped a switch, and then burst into a thousand new hues.

When he opened his eyes, he was in the middle of a raging storm. Around him were towering waves, the creak of ropes, and the shouts of men. Saltwater sprayed his face, and someone shouted, "Grab a weapon! We’re under attack!" He was aboard a pirate ship in the midst of a skirmish.

Mark struggled to keep his balance, gripping the slippery railings. His heart pounded as though it might burst from his chest. “Just hold on,” he told himself. He knew the dive would end once his body and mind stopped resisting. The key was to avoid panicking. But that was easier said than done when swords were flashing mere steps away.

When he came to, he was back in the supermarket. The pasta lay on the floor, and the cashier stared at him as if he’d just announced plans to rob the store. “Are you okay?” she asked. Mark nodded, realizing he would definitely be late.

In an attempt to control the chaos, a new branch of science—dive prognostics—emerged. Scientists like Emilia studied patterns. She could predict a dive down to the minute—but only for herself or those close to her. For everyone else, predictions remained impossible. One day, while analyzing statistics, she noticed something strange: some dives didn’t fit the general pattern. They occurred at critical moments in history, almost as if someone was deliberately orchestrating them. For the first time, she considered the possibility that someone might be using time’s chaos to their advantage.

Emilia sighed and removed her glasses. “Chronoterrorists,” she thought. The idea sounded absurd, yet growing evidence suggested that someone knew exactly where and when they would land. Someone was playing with time.

Mark felt the tremor again. This time, it wasn’t an ordinary dive. It was stronger, more powerful, more deliberate. He looked at his watch. “Now,” he whispered. Seconds stretched into eternity as everything around him faded into darkness.

When he came to, he saw Emilia standing in front of him. “Hello,” she said, as if she’d been waiting for him. “It seems we have a lot of work to do.”

November 6, 2017, 9:07 PM