A Time Traveler's Guide Through the Multiverse

Enrico Fermi wasn’t the last physicist who was both an experimental and theoretical genius, but Professor Gail Hoff will never receive the Nobel Prize. She goes time-traveling through several universes of the multiverse, never to return to her little lab outside Philly. Jeff Langley, her jack-of-all-trades electronics wizard, accompanies her. Their escapades, both amorous and adventurous, make this sci-fi rom-com a far-out road-trip story filled with dystopian and post-apocalyptic situations, first encounter, robots and androids—all that and more await the reader who rides along.

Praise for Steve Moore’s Sci-Fi Stories

"[Survivors of the Chaos] is an inspiring plot that will keep you on the edge of your seat."—David Menefee, Pulitzer-nominated author

"[Rogue Planet] does a great job with describing both the good and bad aspects of humanity and showing how it can work out for good or ill, depending on the intent…of the people."—Sherri Fulmer Moore, Readers’ Favorite

More than Human: The Mensa Contagion: I was reminded of Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars trilogy.—Debra Miller, reader reviewer

"[The Last Humans] created a very believable post-apocalyptic world where a bio-weapon sweeps the Earth."—Ann Killborn, reader reviewer

Prologue

In the beginning, all the universes in the multiverse were only bubbles in the multiverse’s froth…if there was a beginning. Did God see it all and call it good but play a grand joke on us mortals just for kicks? Maybe the bubbles keep coming? I’ll never know the answer to that question, of course. No mere mortal can know. But there is a multiverse, and it’s filled with universes, quantum states of a unique universe, and mostly filled with stars…and delightful and dangerous weirdness.

Jeff and I jumped around in some of these universes, and, in the process we found each other. This is our story. Other time travelers will have different ones, if only because their time machines will take them to other universes. In particular, and as far as I know, only a few humans populate ours now, reduced to one Earth-like planet far from the Earth where it all began.

This is a guide for future time-travelers (did I just create a complex oxymoron for current physics?). It’s meaningless, of course, because they can come from any universe that’s a quantum state of the multiverse. You might want to call it my strange idea for a travel diary. Our AI calls it crazy human behavior. Our children and grandchildren will have some fun reading it, though.

It’s Jeff’s travel diary too. I made him write about half of it, and then I edited the whole thing. If any descendants and literary-type humans or ETs find any errors, they’ll have to make their own corrections, like with a Wikipedia article. This version will reside on the Nirvana colony’s server under the watchful AI’s eye. I’ve had it with writing and editing this whatever you want to call it. I much prefer equations.

In fact, the equations and discussions about theoretical and experimental implementations about time travel are contained in a separate manual, also authored by Jeff and me. I wrote the theoretical sections; Jeff wrote the implementation parts. Readers of this guide can consider it a preface to that technical manual. The colony’s AI helped with typesetting the equations. I didn’t trust him for anything else. I’m not sure it approved of or even understood time travel.

I can’t put a date on this because dates don’t have much meaning anymore. All I can say is everything started when I hired Jeff many universes ago. I love you, Igor.

Here we go!

Gail Hoff

Nirvana, Universe #8

Part One

The Dentist’s Chair

Chapter One

Jeff

You’re late. I’ll buzz you in. The voice seemed distant and muted to me. A woman’s voice?

Late? I know that!

My car had broken down…again! I had to call a taxi, a trip requiring a visit to the ATM and nearly all my remaining cash from the bank and my pockets. I refused to start an Uber account! And they didn’t take cash. My credit cards were all near their max. I also expected the cops to tow the car from where I’d parked off the side of the road near my apartment—that charge would finish bankrupting me.

Wasn’t happy with the prospect of having to ask my dear old man for money. His I-told-you-that-you-needed-an-advanced-degree sermons had become annoying and overbearing, to say the least, especially because I wondered if he might be right. Sometimes he was, and he let the whole world know about it if it involved me in the least bit.

The voice on the intercom had been more than distant and muted; it had been a bit breathless, garbled, high-pitched, and hard to understand, but the buzzer still sounded. I walked into the old lab building, one of the oldest at Middleton Institute of Technology, the MIT of eastern Pennsylvania AKA Philly slums. Nothing middle town about the campus. You could even imagine an Amish buggy creating a traffic jam. I noticed paint peeling and holes in the walls, exposing old bricks. Studied the stairs with trepidation. Often took them for exercise, but these spelled danger to life and limb so maybe not so good for my health.

I could hear my old man complaining about the building. He’d grown up in NYC’s public housing that was probably a lot worse, but even I could still understand why he felt he had earned something better and might have wanted me to have it too. Some people might say I was only another poor black kid being where he wasn’t supposed to be, but Dad wouldn’t take that from anyone. He’d made something out of his life. I wondered if I could too.

Why the security? Most other buildings on campus were open to the public, something the homeless and sleeping sots from nearby burbs greatly appreciated and often used, like at that MIT in Cambridge—areas in the People’s Republic of Cambridge were as sketchy as the area where my apartment was, or so I’d heard. Thought I might be joining those homeless and sots soon if this job didn’t work out. Didn’t drink much—couldn’t afford it—so sot-ness wasn’t in my future, but I’d soon be homeless living in my car. Oh, right! My car was probably on its way to an impound lot.

I pulled out the slip of paper. It had gone through one wash of my faded and religious jeans—they were hole-y. I was also wearing a faded tee with #MeToo on it and slapped pavement like a big, waddling goose, with my Jesus boots. Again nothing religious implied. My father wasn’t an old hippy, but that’s what he called me in my sandals.

I’d copied the want-ad message from the university’s website: Technical assistant wanted. Must have experience writing code to connect and control different electronic installations of sensors and other electronic equipment. Inquire with Prof. G. Hoff, Brooks Lab, Room 5H, Middleton Institute of Technology.

I tested those stairs at the end of the dark corridor and then started to climb. Tripped on the edge of a riser and broke my big toenail. Sandals could be my downfall…literally. Hoped the toe wouldn’t bleed. Guess elevators didn’t exist when they made this building!

***

I arrived on the fifth floor a bit out of breath. To create consistency with my previous religious thoughts, decided the H in 5H meant hell instead of heaven. Who says hell can’t be up too? My gym membership had expired…about a year and a half ago. I’d never pass the physical if they reinstated the draft. Didn’t need a haircut that bad, though, for the draft or otherwise—mostly combed the curly mess back and down when I didn’t have dreadlocks. Yeah, Pops! The old Black Panther look! I preferred to call it the out-of-work-graduate look. I might do better as a Russian literature graduate. The government always needed people to help them figure out what the Russkies were doing…or help them interfere with elections, Russia’s or US’s. That had become a bipartisan game in the US because the Russian leader’s hobby was to destabilize when not poisoning people he didn’t like.

Knocked once at 5H and again after some moments of waiting. Because I was huffing and puffing, I thought of blowing the door down. It looked flimsy and not secure at all.

Patience is a virtue. Wait a damn moment! The voice was still muffled. There was a pause. A woman’s voice? I asked myself again. Yep. Deep contralto. Come on in. Take a seat. Not literally, of course. And not mine. See you real soon, now.

Another buzzer sounded. I entered and looked around, but saw no one. Rows of workbenches were covered with equipment and parts, tools, and takeout cartons—a chaotic mess that didn’t bother me as much as it would some people who thought scientists were orderly human beings. And I hadn’t even gone to grad school to receive the full training in chaos!

Professor Hoff?

There was a tall object toward the back that looked like a Gemini space capsule sitting on its large end. A hatch opened, and a young woman in a bikini stepped out as if the capsule were a gateway to a Caribbean resort. I didn’t whistle. She was a professor, after all. And she was white. Respect, Jeff! She had short brown hair in disarray—mine was longer—but no tan, and the bikini straps were strained in all the right places.

She was about my height, which meant we were both short. I didn’t mind being with women taller than I was. I even dated a six-three basketball player in college. But shortness was another thing my old man criticized me for. I took after my Creole mother, not my hunky, chunky, and tall father. Professor Hoff didn’t look like a runway model, but she still was the best looking scientist I’d ever met. Most were doddering old men.

Don’t look so damn surprised. It gets hot in there. She grabbed a lab coat, threw it on, and approached me. Gail Hoff. I shook her hand, still admiring the landscape. She also inspected me from top to bottom. Pretty scruffy. I don’t like stubble. And you need a haircut. I’m guessing you’re Jeff Langley. Are you mute?

No, you just surprised me, like you said.

She shrugged. I get that a lot. Even other physicists are expecting G. Hoff to be a doddering old man. Especially other physicists, I should say. My subject matter also helps explain why I’m tucked into a lab in this building in a godforsaken corner of a small institution’s campus, a building that deserves to be condemned.

She appeared to be breathless after those statements. I wasn’t surprised. Her last statement had come out like a burst from an automatic weapon. Knew what they sounded like—my father had tried to teach me to shoot. Of course, he’d heard them often enough in the ‘hood. I’d made sure he failed. I don’t like guns. And cops always seemed to assume black guys had them!

She took a deep breath and continued. I’ll not likely receive tenure and will have to find a job in another small college, this time deeper into the middle of nowhere, not in the middle of a ton. She smiled and poked me in the chest. That’s a terrible ton-pun, I know. I reviewed your rap sheet, Jeff, and liked what I saw. A bit of a rebel like me, right? I can’t pay much. Thirty k per year plus all the usual worthless benefits, like a 401(k) and healthcare coverage that will leave you broke if you ever become seriously ill. Okay with that?

Nice to know she has to pause for breath again. 30k per year? I smiled. Didn’t much like the rap sheet reference, but thirty divided by zero made for an infinite raise!

Sure. Am I supposed to jump in, or will you explain what you want from me? I’ve never worked in basic research. Odd jobs only in applied areas.

Mostly jump in. I have no idea how you work your magic, and you likely won’t understand or care about how I work mine. She waved at a whiteboard covered with multi-colored equations. I keep running out of markers, but that’s the gist. My equations are like a doctor’s prescription too. Sometimes even I can’t read them. And I ran out of Latin and Greek letters, hence the Cyrillic.

Theoretical physics?

Applied is a better descriptor. Though not what you call ‘applied’ maybe. She formed quotes with her two index fingers. I’m as much an electrical engineer as a physicist, but I’m not that good at making devices talk to each other electronically. Can do it if I have to. It’s like flossing my teeth where I prefer to let an expert do it—like a dental hygienist. Electronics lab was my hardest engineering subject. That’s your mission, Mr. Job-Seeking Hunt, if you’re willing to accept it. Be forewarned: the mission might damn well become impossible. For now, I only need another pair of hands. She took the lab coat off and tossed it into a chair. "Strip down unless you want to make an omelet from your huevos."

Pardon?

"Spanish for eggs, used lewdly in this case. Like I said, it gets hot in the capsule. It’ll be even hotter with two people in it. I only use it in case an explosion needs containment. Close quarters too. Just don’t get any ideas, Mr. Hunt. That mission is impossible!"

I smiled and began stripping down to my skivvies—boxers and the tee shirt.

We spent the rest of the day together connecting circuit boards, she in her bikini and I in my briefs. I only followed her directions—I had no idea where she was headed. A bit after four p.m., she tossed tools into the old dentist’s chair with the cracked upholstery that filled most of the capsule.

Time for a beer, my friend. Student center pub. I’ll treat. Get dressed and I’ll meet you downstairs in the foyer. The chess nuts will be at the pub.

***

Gail eyed me. Do you have a family, Jeff Langley?

I’d seen a coed, one of the chess nuts, making eyes at me when I sat opposite Gail. Sorority type, I guessed, wondering what the hell a black man was doing in her pub. Didn’t bother me one way or the other. My employer looked a lot better. And she was right there in front of me, not with some frat guy.

Mom died when I was five. My old man is a stiff-necked ex-military dude who wanted me to go to the Air Force Academy. I didn’t have the grades or the motivation. I did okay in electrical engineering, but I was sick of school after the BS. As far as I’m concerned, that degree has a double meaning. Disappointed Dad all around, I guess.

She shrugged. You have a job. That’s better than a lot of college grads. That reminds me. You’ll have to go early to personnel tomorrow morning and sign a bunch of papers. Try to arrive at the lab by nine.

That’s it? I’m hired on your say-so only?

Yeah, pretty much. I’m your last and only roadblock to financial success in life. Personnel sent me your resumé. You were the most qualified candidate.

I grinned. Really? How many were competing for the job?

She looked at me over the brim of her mug, her eyes twinkling and eyebrows dancing. Reminded me a bit of Tinker Belle. Is she coming on to this Peter Pan a bit?

Only one. You. The salary isn’t great, like I said. My grant’s not large either. I gave up two conferences and a graduate research assistant to have enough to hire you—admin calls it ‘creative accounting.’ I should be able to train you. Consider me a Dr. Frankenstein with yourself as Igor. Your operative response should always be, ‘Yes, master.’

I decided that wasn’t racist. Squirmed a bit in the seat nevertheless and the vinyl complained. Gee, thanks. Just what does your research involve?

I guess I put my foot in my mouth saying that. Sorry. My best friend growing up was black. She’s now at NASA. No racism in my family, Jeff. She thought a moment. Now for your question. Einstein was wrong. Sometimes it’s difficult to explain complicated things. There’s no elevator pitch to describe my research. She lapsed into thought again.

I hadn’t been able to figure what her research was about from the equations on the whiteboard or the circuit boards we’d installed. Especially the equations; the boards were standard components for making pieces of equipment talk to each other and didn’t reveal much of anything.

Experiments in time displacement, she finally said with a smile. She drained a third of her beer, wiped off her upper lip, and laughed at my expression. Yes, what the sci-fi writers call time travel. From H. G. Wells to James P. Hogan. The latter author came nearer the truth, according to my calculations. The many worlds of quantum mechanics, better known nowadays as quantum histories, in an applied physics context.

I wasn’t good at physics.

Oh, this is far beyond what you’d ever see even in a PhD program in physics. Cutting edge. She held up arms covered with nicks, scratches, and some Band-Aids, creating a visual pun. This will be your torture from now on, Igor. I’m the brains; you’re the brawn. Well, brains too. We’re supposed to complement each other.

Why the secrecy?

She winked at me. The Pentagon classifies almost anything it finances. Keeps the public from knowing about the crappy and/or stupid projects they support.

Wow! The Pentagon. Why aren’t you swimming in dough?

And why aren’t you making one hundred k? Because the money comes from DARPA, and no one besides me believes my research will go anywhere. By the way, you’ll have to fill out a security form. You’ll pass without any problems unless you’re moonlighting for that narcissistic old asshole in Russia. And, even if you keep failing it, you’ll receive a temporary clearance for a year, like new presidential staff, especially like their family members. That’s time enough for me to get a ton of work from you. Like I said, most things are only classified so people can cover their asses. If I’m successful, they’ll probably make my research into a black program so it can never embarrass them. She put down the now empty mug. Say, do you want a burger and fries? I’m hungry. I forgot breakfast as well as lunch today.

We had another beer with the burgers and Hoff drove me home. Thank goodness we had the burgers to help absorb all that alcohol. She hiccupped.