Edan Osborne

(Originally written on 9th November 2024)

Today marks two years since we lost my colleague, Dr. Artemievna. Of course, nobody but me will remember her. Technically, she never existed.

Dr. Artemievna dealt with the physics and maths in my lab, while I dealt with the chemistry and IT. In 2021, she began developing temporal technology, including Þ-Chips, the stasis chamber, and pocket dimensions. All three of these technologies – and more – have been crucial to ensuring the safety of my evil lab work.

Þ-Chips prevent glassware from being broken accidentally. I have a mainframe which detects a breakage using sensors in the chips, and then initiates the brief reversal of time for the beaker and its contents. It's hilarious to watch, as it makes the beakers appear to bounce when dropped.

The stasis chamber is simply a box into which time cannot penetrate. When sealed and switched on, time stops for everything inside. This has endless uses; but I took to using it as a sort of hot fridge.

The pocket dimension allowed us to expand Lab 273½ from a literal broom cupboard into a full size lab, without actually taking up more space. It also could allow us to make the lab portable: all we would have to do is prise the door off with a couple of crowbars and carry it away!

Anyway, her final experiment was performed on 9th November 2022. We had both been working tirelessly on a groundbreaking concept: time travel. Clichéd, I know, but it honestly seemed like we could do it.

We first decided to test the machine with an inanimate and inconsequential object, so I forged a couple of Roman denarii and placed them in the machine. Donning radiation suits and air tanks, we set the date to 1st January 1970, powered it up, and pressed the red button. However, there was one factor we forgot to calculate for: magnetic interference.

The coins were made from bronze, which contains copper and tin. Copper is diamagnetic, while tin is paramagnetic. This caused the electromagnetic field that localises the time travel to be warped, which caused only part of the machine to be transported to 1970. This then caused further problems, as part of the main memory was in the missing chunk, causing the machine to freak out. The last thing I can remember is a blast of white light.

I awoke some hours later, in complete darkness, with the vague sensation I was floating. I pulled my torch out of my labcoat and turned it on, only to find that it made no difference. I could see the torch, but everything else was still black. I called out, but there was no response.

I can't say with any certainty how long I was there, but it was long enough to figure out where I was. The machine had zeroed out. I had been sent back to before the universe began.

Some time later, something caught my eye. A tiny pinprick of light in the dark void. It looked to be expanding. My yellow suit began to smoke and blacken as the light drew closer, and then it was over. I thought I had been vapourised by the big bang.

But then I woke up.

I took a long, choking, deep breath. Standing around me with puzzled expressions were five people wearing white coats, featuring an insignia on the right pocket I could recognise but not describe.

I tried to stand up, but I appeared to be in a box of only about 3 cubic metres, and so couldn't. I reached for my laser knife, thinking I could cut my way out of the box; but fortunately one person was kind enough to open the door...only to take me to another room and handcuff me to a radiator.

After they could confirm my identity, I was informed that I was in a research laboratory in Stokksnes. The machine I had awoken in was an experiment to recreate the oldest and first object in the universe which, as it turns out, was me. I asked if they had found another person, but they told be no. I waited for them to leave the room, and cut through my shackles with that laser knife, which I had concealed under my collar, before removing my radiation suit and walking back to the machine. Nobody stopped me: I was just another scientist.

I attempted to restart the machine, but no person appeared in the box. Only a few orange bursts of flame, which I suspected to be hydrogen from the big bang that had almost ended me. I kept trying until the scientists returned and dragged me back to the room. In the end, I had to threaten to break a vial of Von Neumann machines (aka “grey goo”) in order for them to let me leave. I caught a flight back to my home in [REDACTED], and tried to find sleep.

The following day, I went back to the ESC. I was expecting the Þ-Chips to have done their stuff and restored the lab to its former state; but I opened the door to find...a broom cupboard.

It didn't make sense: the door was labelled 273½, and my name was beneath it...but Dr. Artemievna's wasn't. I asked around if anyone knew what had happened; but everyone I asked claimed not to have heard of her. I quickly understood what had happened. Dr. Artemievna hadn't been sent to the Big Bang; she had been erased from existence. I only remembered her because I had been sent to a time before time. Thank fuck I had her blueprints on a disk in my pocket.

Setting up shop in the broom cupboard and borrowing some equipment from next door, I engineered a Von Neumann machine with a simple program: construct more nanobots until there are enough to efficiently rebuild my old lab, rebuild the lab using the floorplan and blueprints from my disk, then disassemble each other and put the materials back.

I then left for Site-119, where I would remain for roughly two years, researching the temporal anomalies that tend to appear there.

When I eventually returned, I of course was surprised to find my lab full of bees – but you all know what happened there.

So, on this day, I will be remembering Dr. Kosma M Artemievna. Gone and forgotten, but not by me.