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Message-ID: <40619asstr$1043791802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Crimson Dragon <dcrimsonp@nym.alias.net>
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Dawn of Time [007/157] (MF+, bond, control) {Crimson Dragon}
Date: Tue, 28 Jan 2003 17:10:02 -0500
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Author's Shortened Preface:
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In the interests of reducing bandwidth the full preface is now 
available at:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www

I would encourage you to read it at least once. If you ignore
the full preface and end up offended, you have nobody to blame but
yourself. Caveat emptor. The really important bits:

This is a work of erotic fiction. As such there may be scenes with
nudity, sex, and even questionable non-consensual bondage. If you
are a minor, or you are irresponsible at any age, you shouldn't be
reading this -- find somewhere else to play. I won't be offended.
If you are looking for a quick stroke story, this probably isn't
it. For a piece of writing of 157 chapters, there is remarkably
little sex. You've been warned. Twice.

This is an original work, copyrighted by the author, Crimson Dragon.
Please do not use it as if it were your own. Enjoy the writing, but
do not archive or sell it in any manner without my written
permission. I'm easy to contact if you wish to redistribute my
words.

Lastly, I thoroughly enjoy hearing from people reading any of my
stories. Feel free to contact me with raves, rants, encouragement or
dissertation (note the lack of invitation for spam). I do try to
reply to all who are kind enough to drop me a note.

Now, if you are still with me, onto the story,
 - Crimson
   (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Crimson_Dragon/www

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Dawn of Time - Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

Chapter 7

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(C) Copyright 2002 - All Rights Reserved

Crimson Dragon (dcrimson@yahoo.com)

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It was done, the world as quiet and serene as he remembered it. It
was the quiet of emptiness, the silence of solitude. It was the
silence of a world unbound by the ravages of time.

The fans surrounding him had fallen quiet from their restless and
incessant clatter, the air conditioning of the building silent and
calm. If his calculations were correct, he and the bubble he had
cast around himself, were perhaps the only matter in the universe
that existed in a normal time frame.

After a long ten minutes, he finally picked himself up off the floor
where he'd been thrown by the force of the universe bending around
his body. Nausea trickled slowly out of his belly, leaving him
gasping, but conscious. His ribs ached, and his lungs felt like they
were on fire, but he was alive. The symptoms of time shifting were
transient -- he'd experienced them before and knew that they would
subside in a few minutes.

The ride had been bumpier than last time -- perhaps the changed
parameters, perhaps a factor of age. He was five years older than
the last time he'd attempted this, after all. He was far from old,
only in his mid-twenties, but time was cruel, even to the young.
While he could feel the difference, a more complete mastery of the
time surrounding him -- more stability -- he could also sense time
slipping around him. It would take mental energy to keep the
universe in this state, if not outright attention. But what a state!

Slowly, he climbed to his feet. The room spun for a moment, but
eventually righted itself.

He began to laugh, softly at first, but then a roaring, almost
insane laugh. The giggles held him in their grip for a few more
minutes before he finally settled down and stared at the computer
screen, frozen in time, the phosphors still showing the last
calculations.

"Success," he whispered.

He staggered over to the door and automatically extended the time
bubble that surrounded him to envelop the door so that it opened at
the press of his hand. The hinges creaked -- a sound he'd never
heard from this door before, what with the cacophony of the fans and
the building noise. As he walked out, and the door fell outside of
his sphere of influence, it snapped back to a closed position
without so much as a sound.

In the washroom, he crouched by the sink consciously avoiding
allowing the fixture to enter a normal timeframe. The drip from the
faucet hung, mid-air, not wavering, not falling, frozen with the
rest of the world around it.

Cause and effect, he mused. The universe protects herself, oh yes.
He hadn't fully understood the intricacies of time manipulation,
still didn't quite understand why and how the universe protected
herself from paradox, but she did. Why did the light of the sun
shine, even though its nuclear fires were frozen? Why didn't he fly
across the room when the Earth stopped spinning beneath him, in a
violent show of Newton's veritable laws of motion? Why could he
extend the time bubble that surrounded his body to encompass the
sink in front of him, hot and cold water emerging as though the
pipes leading to it weren't frozen in time?

Cause and effect bent to accommodate. It had nothing to do with him
and his control of the dimension of time. He shook his head. No. It
was in the nature of the universe to prevent paradox, and these
unusual occurrences were merely a manifestation of that. Strange
things happened when one played with time. Thankfully. Otherwise, he
couldn't exist here anymore than he could exist without food, water,
light and air.

Cause and effect didn't always work as they should. He had to
remember that. The universe could be a strange place.

Could a particle be in more than one place at once?

He smiled. Ask Schroedinger's cat. And that happened in normal time.

The universe protected herself, even when she was bent and formed to
his will. But she had been designed for that. Oh yes. He didn't
quite understand it all, but more than he had five years ago. He had
more control, this time. No question. Even if he was rusty at the
wheel.

He extended the time bubble that separated him from the true
timeline, the primary timeline. The bubble expanded, the sink
intersecting with his control. The drip fell with an audible splash
into the sink and disappeared, as if everything were normal, down
the drain. He turned on the taps, waiting for the water to warm a
little. He gasped as tepid water splashed his face. Feeling
refreshed, he dried his face with a paper towel quickly. The towel
blinked out of his timeframe as he released it from his time bubble.
Litter control, he smiled.

He crouched in front of the sink again. Every minute or so, a drip
appeared, fell, and disappeared. He glanced over towards the
urinals. Johnson, as always wearing an uncomfortable looking suit,
stood in front of the far commode, staring blankly at the wall in
front of him. Johnson was as motionless as the rest of the world,
forever stuck penis in hand, peeing for eternity. Or at least until
the universe was returned to primary timeline.

"Have fun, Johnson," the man at the sink whispered, surprised that
the echo of his voice had not returned. The room remained stuck in
frozen time swallowing the sound as surely as a soundproof chamber.

Technically, the universe continued along the primary timeline, but
so slowly that it would be imperceptible to anyone on the secondary
timeline. His calculations had borne that titbit of information.

The first time through this portal, he had thought that the the
universe had stopped around him, though he could control bubbles of
time, varying time rates within. But the universe had to continue,
if at a pace that would make a snail look like it were moving at the
speed of light. She had to maintain some timeframe, or she would
collapse. Take away a dimension, and the universe would cease -- at
least as humans perceive it. Paradox couldn't survive complete time
cessation. But even if he lived to be a thousand years old, and was
able to maintain control over the universe for that long, Johnson
would move perhaps a millimetre, as would the faucet drips.

This secondary timeline was what happened if the transition was
smooth and sharp. Not like that amateurish attempt last night by
unknown forces.

His head snapped up and he glanced over his shoulder as if expecting
a cloaked figure to be standing there, a conscience regaling him
with admonishments:

"Naughty, naughty. Shouldn't play with Mother Nature."

He shook his head. There was no such figure. Couldn't be. He knew
that. He was the only creature moving on this timeline, or if some
alien life force had avoided the time shift, they were far too far
away to affect him.

He closed his eyes, probing outwards, sensing the flow and ebbs of
time. His perception flowed a long way, but there were limits.

But it was close, a nagging hiccup in the time continuum. Where? He
could sense it, but couldn't quite pinpoint it. Or smooth it. A
person? Had to be within this city, somewhere, that much he could
tell. Someone else able to protect himself from the time shift? An
accident? Or a natural anomaly. The hiccup was slight, probably
nothing. Maybe the change in parameters had allowed a tree to escape
the time shift, a local phenomenon. Nothing to worry about anyway,
he was sure. No other person could have followed him into the time
shift. There was no way.

Satisfied, he turned away, rose from his crouch. As he turned
around, he gathered the time bubble towards himself, almost like a
second skin. He turned, hand on the door ready to pull it towards
him to escape from the dreary bathroom. He had other things to do.
The drip, suspended between spout and drain hung silently in the
air. Johnson, oblivious to the state of the universe continued to
stand stiffly at the urinal, peeing forever.

Smiling, the man pulled open the door, and stepped out into the
office. No printers whirred, no announcements scattered through the
air, no secretaries gossipped, no constant hum of the air
conditioners greeted him. The silence was almost eerie. Time to
fill that silence, he mused.

In a flash, he could free the room from its time bonds, play with
whomever he liked. But that wasn't necessary, was it? He needed
practice, was rusty in controlling the universe around him, but he'd
climb back on, didn't need to prove himself to the anonymous office.
Too many people to keep track of. Not yet, anyway.

Like a bicycle, he thought, as he strode purposefully down the
carpeted hallway. Once you learn, you tend not to forget. The time
bubble controlled by his mind, the one that let him breathe and
move, almost automatically extended and encompassed what was
required for action -- doors, floors, rooms. It was like breathing
- -- unconscious survivalist instinct.

The door in front of him was closed, as it nearly always was. The
name emblazoned on the glass: "Sandra Winters".

Sandra Winters controlled his department, controlled what money
flowed in or not, funded the labs, the research. Or not. He doubted
if she was even aware of his existence -- perhaps his face,
certainly not his name. She never ventured into the labs whose
experiments she influenced -- both negatively and positively.

He hesitated for a moment, a thought nagging at him before he opened
the door. He'd forgotten something. Something important. His
fingers pulled back from the handle without turning it.

Quickly, he ran back to the lab. His briefcase snapped open with a
practised ease. He'd almost forgotten that he'd placed it in there.
The gun felt like a long lost companion in his palm. He wouldn't
need it, he couldn't be hurt here, at least not yet; he didn't need
it for protection, but it would help with Sandra, he was sure.

He walked more leisurely back to Sandra's office, the gun
comfortable in his right hand. His finger stroked easily along the
trigger. It was loaded, and ready, though he doubted if he'd have to
fire it. He continued back towards the closed door, walking slowly;
he had all the time in the world, didn't he? Patience. Patience. He
halted for a moment, glancing about the frozen office. He sighed
with pleasure. He'd returned.

This time, he didn't hesitate at the doorway. He was somewhat
surprised that the door wasn't locked, but it swung open easily at
his urging. He closed the door behind him.

Sandra was sitting at her desk, telephone to her ear, probably
talking to a client. Her eyes were downcast, watching her fingers
upon a pen. She was writing something on a pad. The man wandered
over, peering over her shoulder. Her hand obscured most of what she
was writing, but he truthfully didn't care what it was. What he
could see showed a precise hand, her letters feminine and neat.

He touched her cheek, but recoiled as his finger met the cold hard
surface that was her skin. Outside of time, her skin felt like
concrete -- cold concrete. He hurried back towards the doorway.

She was an attractive woman, well dressed, and fit, but she wouldn't
stand out in a crowd. Her face while attractive, was plain and
freckled. She didn't wear much make-up. Her blonde hair was up,
pulled back from her face with a practical, but attractive clasp.
She was in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties.

He returned to the doorway, leaned back against the glass. She would
be fine to practise with. Fine to play with. For now.

Until he needed to choose, Sandra would do just fine.


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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