Future Imperfect

I will not be just a tourist in a world of images,
watching pictures pass by wherein I cannot live, make love,
or possess anything as a permanent source of joy and ecstasy.
—Anais Nin

Paul Coren is a genius, so when he called me on his cell and demanded I meet him in downtown Toronto, I knew something wonderful was going to happen.

He owns a big house in Rosedale he inherited from his aunt and uses the adjacent carriage house as his workshop.

I hear he’s working on a version of 3D TV, but Paul never stays on track—one idea leads to an improbable discovery and before long, he’s light years away from what he originally intended.

So, I was eager to find out what serendipity brought him to this time.

“What have you got?” I ask, tossing my coat on a chair.

“I don’t know.”

My jaw drops. “You’re kidding me. You called me all the way down here for nothing?”

“Shhhh—just look.”

He’s staring at people on a TV screen.

“Oh great! —You invented TV—too bad it’s 70 years too late.”

“It’s not TV,” he says, transfixed by the images on the screen.

“Okaaaay…it sure as hell looks like TV to me.”

He stops watching and turns to me with that serious, half-frown he gets when he’s puzzled.

“There’s no signal coming in—the screen should be full of snow.”

“Maybe it’s a random signal from some nearby tower,” I suggest.

He shakes his head. “I checked all that out—it’s not receiving a transmitted signal—it’s not receiving any signal.”

“Fine. Then what do you think it is?”

He takes a bite out of his cheese sandwich. “I told you—I have no idea.”

I sit beside him on the couch and we stare at the scene. It’s a generic streetscape, but there’s something spooky about it.

“This is weirding me out,” I tell him.

“Me too! Where the hell is this taking place—or maybe I should say, when the hell is it happening?”

“Good questions—the buildings aren’t like any I’ve seen.”

“Let’s try something,” he says impulsively.

“Hey, don’t risk losing this picture,” I sputter, but it’s too late—his thumb is already punching the remote.

A new scene appears. It looks like a traffic cam video, shot from an angle above a freeway—but the images are of cars and trucks unlike any I’ve ever seen.

One lane of the highway is dedicated, and sleek cars with over-sized wheels are streaming past at high speed—just like a train.

The cars are all evenly spaced as if tailgating in a convoy.

Then, I notice digital display markers on the center barrier separating the two streams of traffic.

The markers seem to be counting each car that passes—some cars are empty—totally devoid of occupants.

“Oh man, this is really weird,” I gasp.

“Yeah, I know.” Paul’s intently studying the screen.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“A date—a place—a road sign.” He shrugs. “Who knows? I want to find something that tells me where and when this is.”

“Maybe you should…” Before I can finish my thought, he clicks the remote again.

We’re watching a hockey game. It’s incredibly fast-paced and violent.

One player swoops down left wing and blasts a shot that threads past bodies like a laser and ripples the net. A roar goes up from the crowd. The logo at Center Ice is a blue Maple leaf—it’s Toronto.

On the next play after the faceoff, a puck fired at the net hits a player in the side of his face.

“Oh my God, Paul—that guy’s dead. That puck must have been traveling well over a hundred miles an hour.

The camera pans in for a close-up. The player’s face is half-missing, but instead of torn flesh and bone, there’s mangled printed circuit boards and protruding wires.

“A robot!” Paul shouts gleefully, “Or a cyborg—who knows?”

They remove the player from the ice and the game resumes at a frenetic pace.

“This so awesome, Mark—now, do you see why I called you?”

I nod, but he’s unaware. His eyes are fixed on the images swirling before him.

I begin to feel nauseous. It dawns on me what Paul had stumbled upon in his weird genius.

As incredible as it seems, in his mad search for way to display images in 3D, Paul’s penetrated into the fourth dimension and is now scanning the future.

To be continued...


© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved


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