"Heavens, what is wrong with you?"

Professor Caleb Anon Faifai Bronsky, "Calf" to his friends, orbited the time machine with increasing despair in an ever-decreasing radius. But no matter how hard he tried, his tired grey matter could find neither flaws in the design nor faults in the manufacturing.

His drum-like creation waiting in the middle of the clean-room sported cutting-edge technology. The last chunk of silicon had gone into the chips running the controls, and the last precious drop of petrol had got processed to form the appliance's smooth coating. Bronsky's invention represented the last hope of a populace clinging to an overcrowded, polluted planet. Well, only for a select few of them, of course.

And that was assuming she would eventually concede to function.

Bronsky took a sip from his vintage Coca-Cola. Drinks were forbidden in here, but who cared. He craved the subtle flavours, the sugary acidness of his beloved ambrosia. Plus, it helped him think better.

So, what if he recalculated? No point, he had tried so many times before.

What if he ran more system tests from the snow-white console, checking the performance against the design blueprint? No chance, he had done that more often than he could remember.

Hell, no, he would have to admit defeat.

Tonight.

In front of the board of Global Industries, who had sponsored this desperate attempt at finding a backdoor into the past, a way of escaping the inevitable end. The Earth's population was gasping for air, murdering each other for a drop of water or a morsel of synth-bread. Apart from a chosen few, an elite to which he soon would belong no longer.

Time was up.

Panic rose at the back his throat, scorching the soft tissue of his throat like the acid rain drumming on the roof of the clean-room. Bronsky shoved his emotions back down and squared his shoulders. He was a scientist. A physicist. An engineering wizard. He could do it. And he really should stop drinking Coke; it only gave him heartburn.

Bronsky hiccuped once, manoeuvred his thin body through the narrow entrance and lowered himself onto the translucent gel-O-chair in front of the console, still clutching the bottle to his chest.

The lights shone, the engine sent warm vibrations through the seat, the computer was fully functional.

So, why the devil did they not achieve shift off?

"Close!" Bronsky snapped at the voice-control and, obediently, the sliding doors hissed shut.

He sipped his Cola, the metallic-sweet tang of his precious drink soothing his anger. A hint of fizz remained in the fluid, worth every credit he had spent.

Bronsky stared at the console. At the screen, taunting him with a question mark instead of the "Enter" command. At the control panel with its array of LEDs, all winking green at him. At the levers, that set the year.

As if there was any choice. The latter part of the Victorian era it would be. Far enough away but not too far to harbour dangerous diseases or horrid military conflicts that could not be avoided by being on another continent. It had all been settled and agreed. They only needed a few test drives.

"Aye, there's the rub," Bronsky addressed the console and belched once.

Movement caught his eye, and he scanned the rows and rows of coded countdown sequence scrolling over the control screen, softly glowing amber.

As he had done many times before—his heart skipped a beat and adrenaline spiked in his veins.

"Freeze screen," he shouted.

The scrolling stopped.

"Expand!"

Obediently, the monitor grew to thrice its former size.

Oh, yes. Now Bronsky saw something, something that should not be there. Something he had never spotted before. A foreign algorithm lurked among his code. Not of his design; crippling his precious programme.

With a tap on the monitor, Bronsky highlighted the offender and accessed the time machine's central computer for an answer.

"Quality control bot," was the laconic answer. "Routine Beta Two. Standard for new developments. To prevent excessive use of energy."

Quality control? Red rage rose and blurred his vision. His old nemesis, Dr Olga Gandhi, had dared to mess with his development? Had crippled the Gl lifeboat?

Bronski took a deep breath. Then another one. Impossible. She would not dare to, not permanently.

Window-dressing. It could only be that. Had to. Otherwise, he would never have found it.

His fingers fluttered above the notouchboard.

"Enter," he said, more breathlessly than he would have wished.

A deep humming sounded in response. With a flicker, the algorithm changed, and the invader vanished.

Instead, the "Start" command now blinked on the monitor.

Waiting for him.

"I've done it!" he yelled and threw up his arms. The Cola bottle launched itself towards the screen, bounced off the unbreakable plastiglas and hit the console, sprinkling drops of lukewarm nectar over the notouchboard. Then it rolled out of sight under the panel.

"Shit!"

Bronsky swiped his labcoated arm over the mess—and his sleeve got caught on the start button.

"No!"

Too late. A shrill ringing pierced his eardrums, and the control screen changed. No longer did it display the algorithm, instead numbers appeared. Not numbers, years. Years counting backwards.

The time machine was in motion.

The professor tensed in his seat. Not that he had ever imagined his first trip to start like that, but then what did it matter? He had done it. His creation worked. Mood soaring as if flipped to the skies on an elastoband, Bronsky sank into the chair and watched the years slip by.

Numbers moved across the screen in a steady procession. Years passed, until Bronsky shook himself out of his jubilant trance. He needed to start the trials. Fingers tapped the monitor once more. The year froze on the screen.

2021—pre-Yellowstone blowout.

A soft snap over the notouchboard opened the vents. As the air samples came in, Bronsky's eyes remained glued to the monitor with the readings. They seemed unbelievable, displaying air of a purity unknown in a world where one volcano once triggered a fatal chain reaction.

The professor possessed the final proof. He had gone back in time.

Correction—his brainchild had done it. And he needed to return and explain his sudden disappearance. Only one thing left to do: drop a probe and watch how it performed.

One quick flutter of the hand and a yellow light started blinking. "Hatch opened. Probe released," the monotone voice of the central computer informed him. On the right monitor, a pair of disgusting yellow incisors under a twitching nose appeared. Spidery whiskers tested the air; then the rat scuttled into the lush green undergrowth of trees he had last seen in the museum as a child. Until it got closed for lack of funds. Pines he believed they were called.

Bronsky monitored the vital function of the probe for another ten minutes. The rat was doing okay.

He would run more check-ups once he was back in his own world. But in his heart, he knew the mission to be a success. The probe would live and so would they—stirring on the left screen caught his eye.

The time machine shifted once more. Back in time as it should. Only, Bronsky had not told it to, nor had he pushed any buttons this time.

"Stop and reverse time shift."

The machine kept moving.

"I repeat, stop and reverse time shift."

The numbers kept flowing across the screen. If anything, they accelerated.

"Stop, I said!" Bronsky yelled.

The numbers flickered even faster, raced, became a blur.

Whatever Bronsky tried—it did not work. Not the emergency override, not reprogramming, nothing halted the numbers, which turned into pulsating glow on the screen, impossible to read, filling the chamber with an ominous amber flicker and a whirring noise.

Breathing became harder and harder, pressure built on his chest as if aeons were weighing it down.

He was dying, was drowning in time . . .

No, wrong. The iron clampdown on his chest eased.

As the professor drew shuddering breaths, the glow changed, the mad flicker slowed down until individual numbers again appeared on his screen like a final countdown.

Absurd numbers.

Twenty . . . ten . . .

Three, two, one.

Zero.

The flickering, whirring and pulsating stopped. The machine was quiet. Dead quiet. Only now did a faint chemical odour hit his nose. As if something was sweetly smouldering. The efficient cabin AirCon unit sucked it away until once more he inhaled air purified into blandness.

What had happened? And where, or rather: when was he?

A big fat zero glowed from the screen.

With a groan, Bronsky drew himself into a sitting position and activated the external sensors.

"Show readings," he commanded.

The side screen flickered, then displayed the same zero that taunted him from the other monitor.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he mumbled to himself.

It could only be a malfunction, possibly caused by that stupid QA bot.

"System check," he commanded.

Spectral colours flowed from the monitors, showing the system was in test mode.

Finally, the central computer delivered the result, still in its deadpan voice. "Ninety-nine percent of systems functional, one system flawed. Start sub-analysis?"

"Of course," the professor barked and wiped his sweating forehead with the sleeve of his stained lab coat.

More spectral colours, followed by the verdict. "Central temporal control unit corroded."

Corrosion? The whole thing was new?

"Reason?"

"Unknown chemical reaction."

An uneasy feeling spread from his stomach. Chemistry had never been his forte.

Bronsky shook himself. Later, he would work out what had gone wrong. First, he needed to establish his location.

"Launch probe," he commanded. "Display progress on screen."

Obediently, the computer switched the primary monitor to a row of cages, showed a robot claw picking one, a hatch opening, a squeal—abruptly cut off as the inmate of the cage hit whatever surrounded the shield protecting the time machine.

And disappeared.

A split-second later the vital signs of the probe got wiped out and replaced with the message "Launch failed."

That was not so good.

Zero readings. Meaning zero life support.

He launched another probe. Another big fat zero.Like the one on the screen.

He had to get out of here.

Bronsky took a deep breath—was it his imagination, or had that stink returned? Perhaps the carbon dioxide levels—no, they were still fine. Also, whatever he noticed no longer smelled sweetish. More—sulfuric? Then it was gone, sucked away by the ever-vigilant AirCon unit.

Once again, the professor's fingers fluttered above the notouchboard, changing, reversing the algorithm. He looked up.

"Input needed. How many years have passed."

Amber flickering, then the computer flashed a number at him. Bronsky sensed his muscles slacken. That input was unacceptable.

"Re-compute."

More amber. The same figure.

"That number is stupid," said a sweating Bronsky.

"Incorrect statement," stated the monotonous voice. "Correct computation."

"How amusing," Bronsky snarled. "I can't have travelled fourteen billion years into the past."

"Incorrect statement," the computer responded. "Correct computation."

Bronsky decided not to launch into an argument with that damn calculator.

"Enter computation into temporal algorithm. Reverse time shift to starting position."

Spectral flickering, then "Unable to execute command."

"What?"

"Central temporal control unit corroded and out of time. Reversal unachievable."

Icy fear sent spidery fingers down his spine as the professor stared at the controls, the monitors with their zero readings. And that incredible number whizzing through his head.

He had travelled back to the spot where time began. More precisely—he was caught in the time and space singularity, which was stupidly named, for there was neither time nor space. Only the shields around his machine protected him from the nothingness outside.

His guts cramped. "Computer, protection level?"

"Hundred percent. Deterioration beginning in thirty minutes," the computer said.

"Consequence?"

"Spontaneous disintegration expected in thirty-five minutes," the monotonous voice of doom said.

A hysterical laugh tickled the professor's throat. He had just over half an hour to live. Caught in no-time land, billions and billions of years ago—what had the computer said? Spontaneous disintegration? Could it be possible . . .

"Computer, what caused the Big Bang?"

Spectral flickering. "Reason for original ignition unknown. Theological and scientific explanations available." Links appeared on his screen.

There was no need for them, the professor already knew the answer. He and his time machine would be gods. For a fraction of a nanosecond. Before they "disintegrated", kick-starting the universe as he had known it.

"Let there be light, and there was light," Bronsky giggled, a strange haze engulfing his brain. Was the AirCon failing already? Why did he keep smelling brimstone?

"Now you disappoint me," a honey-mellow voice said, filling the cabin until there was almost no space left for Bronsky.

"Computer, state purpose and origin of this unidentified function," Bronsky said, furious despite his predicament.

"Name function," the computer responded blandly.

Did he imagine an annoyed overtone?

The syrupy voice bubbled a laugh into his ear. "You got this all wrong, you know? I'm not part of your oh-so-clever invention."

"What?"

"Your machine. I'm not part of it."

Irritation replaced any despair Bronsky might have previously felt. He was stuck in his time machine at the beginning of time. So why was somebody, or something talking back to him? Other than the computer of course. Olga's pesky QA bot, perhaps?

"Who are you, then?" he asked.

Another buoyant giggle was the only response. Followed by "What did you think? A spirit upon the water? Well, if it floats your boat . . . "

Bronsky's heart skipped another beat. And another. It did not matter. He would be dead soon, anyway. But he needed to establish what entity he was dealing with.

"Are you telling me, you are—the creator of the universe?"

Another giggle. "No, I'll leave that honour to you. The other guy got things entirely wrong. Maybe you're a bit more qualified?"

Another skipped heartbeat.

"What guy?"

"Guy, gal . . . It doesn't matter to me, so I keep forgetting."

"What?" By now, Bronsky felt faint. He waved his hands over the notouchpad. Yup. Oxygene levels were down. Not dangerously low, no. But not good either.

"O2 is not your problem, believe me," the cheerful voice gonged through the cabin. Was it a man or a woman he was talking to?

"I told you already. It doesn't matter. You don't have much time left, the end is nigh, you'll be gone anon and all that jazz," the voice continued mercilessly. "Maybe you would like to have your life flash in front of your eyes before you go?"

Bronsky cringed.

"Oh well, it was just an idea. Trying to be helpful, you know? " Now, there was an accusing tone in that angelic voice.

"Okay then, let's not waste any time, shall we?"

Before he could respond, a klaxon boomed through the time machine. "Life support systems failing. Shields compromised. Start evacuation procedure now."

Evacuation. Where to?

"Precisely," the voice said. "There's nothing out there. You'll be nullified in no time. Which you will be anyway, but here you get to do it in your comfy chair."

"Asshole," Bronsky muttered.

"Now, let's not get personal," the voice said, hurt.

The klaxon got louder "Evacuate! Evacuate! Evacuate!"

"Any last wishes?" the voice asked.

"I'll be God," Bronsky said dreamily.

"Uh, that's a bit hard to do."

What?

The professor focussed his fuzzy brain, willed his weakness away and addressed his invisible companion one final time.

"Who are you?"

But it was too late. Bronsky's fogged brain refused to carry on, his vision blurred and the last thing he noticed was his fingers dropping onto the red button in the middle of the panel.

Red button?

Oh, the autodestruct button. That one. That was alright . . .

With a fiery bang, the time machine exploded into the surrounding nothingness. A huge whoosh and previously nonexistent atoms expanded and slammed into previously nonexisting space. And time. Of course, time. Important, that.

Accompanied by a sulfuric whiff, a voice began to count. "And one, and two, and three . . . "

Laughter sparked through the rapidly expanding baby universe.

Alternative history had just begun.