Timecaster

TWENTY

The Mastermind is nervous.

It will work. The math is good. The tech is solid. He’s not worried about witnesses, because even if he is seen, no one will know who he is or what he’s doing.

So why the dry mouth and the sweaty palms?

Perhaps it is simply a symptom of incipient genocide.

But then, it isn’t really genocide. Not technically. Or, at least, not immediately.

He muses about the mouse. Talon is doing well. Better than expected. Still not close to figuring it out, but the clues are difficult.

Perhaps he’ll never figure it out. Perhaps he’s not good enough.

Perhaps he’ll die first.

The Mastermind hopes he’ll have a chance to meet with Talon. To explain himself.

He doesn’t care how history judges him. He can pick the history that suits him best.

But he wants respect from his adversary. Wants him to appreciate the breadth and scope of his genius, the depth of his determination, the brilliance of his plan.

If you play chess against yourself, you’ll always be the winner.

Where’s the fun in that?

He buys his ticket. Sits in his seat. Double-checks his settings; the world shrinks.

He envies Talon, in a way. The joy of discovery is such a pure pleasure. The unknown happens to everyone, but so few quest to discover it.

That fool Sata never understood that simple point. Debont whored it for wealth.

As he looks down over humanity, he recalls a poem by T. S. Eliot.

Do I dare disturb the universe?

Yes. I dare.

I dare in a big fucking way.