How Stephen King Destroyed the Universe

by Hector Cuello

By the year 2500, scientists had developed an AI story-writing algorithm. They scanned and inputted every book ever written. In minutes, it could generate original stories on any chosen topic.

Due to budget cuts to staff, the two remaining scientists, Ricardo and Bea, were worried. Taking a break, they brainstormed ideas in their lab kitchen.

“I heard our funding’s getting cut even more,” Ricardo sighed, running his hands through his slicked back hair. “The Committee thinks we’ve milked this project for all its worth. And I haven’t saved enough to retire.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Bea nodded.. “We’ve been at it for, what, twenty-five years? I don’t even remember. And I can’t lose this job either—I’m living in a walkup with six strangers.”

“It felt like just yesterday we took the lift to this department,” Ricardo chuckled. “But I have an idea. You know how our funding dried up because of endless wars and civil unrest?”

Bea took a bite of her synthetic meat sandwich. “Yeah, dystopia is a pain in the butt.  They can’t get those people under control…”

Ricardo cut her off. “You know. I read a best-selling book I scanned about a guy named Satoshi Nakamoto, the guy who invented Bitcoin. So, a crazy thought. What if there was a way to go back in time and we seed an author with stories that become bestsellers? We could take royalties and secure our funding.”

 “That’s crazy enough to work!” Bea’s eyes lit up. “Hey, you know what? There’s a lab a few levels down where they claim to have developed time travel. I know the lead scientist there—Bob. We went through indoctrination together. Let’s go see him.”

Taking the lift down a few floors to meet Bob at the time-travel lab. While Bob gave them a tour, they devised a plan. Bob explained that strict rules governed the machine’s use; time travel had been curtailed since the Hawking Incident, when a scientist was stranded in the past, crippled, with no memory of what happened. The Committee wanted to avoid paradoxes and changes to the timeline. It was under guard during the day to avoid tampering. Bob pointed out that the lab was empty and unguarded at night, offering a chance to bypass the restrictions.

They searched the historical archives and found a failed author named Jack Edwin King. According to historical records, King hung himself in a barn in Portland, Maine, in 1967, depressed over his unsold book. Their plan was simple: one of them would travel back to give Jack a polished book to sell. If it worked, they’d do it again, benefiting both Jack and themselves.

“Remember the rules,” Bea reminded. “Only one of us can go back. The other stays here to generate the stories.”

“I’ll go,” Ricardo volunteered. “I’ll find this Jack guy and ask about his book.”

Bob handed Ricardo a wearable eyeglass communication device. “You can send us messages and scan text. We’ll send back files you can print in that time period.”

Ricardo used the machine to travel to 1967, Portland, Maine, and set out to find Jack King. After a few days of asking around, he located him working as a janitor at an industrial laundry. At around 9:30 p.m., Ricardo walked past a security guard engrossed in a pulp novel. Ricardo noted the title: The Machine Stops by E. M. Forster.

He followed the sound of machinery. He looked around and spotted a pathetic looking figure moving like a ghost engulfed in the steam, wafting up from the floor trenches. He approached the man, who was mopping up soapy water near a leaking industrial washing machine.

Seeing the man's name tag, Ricardo asked, “Excuse me, are you Jack King?”.

Jack, his thick glasses fogged from the humidity, looked up, slightly perturbed. “Ayuh. You’re an outsider, aren’t you? Never heard that accent before. Are you a bill collector?”

“I’m an outsider, yes, but not a bill collector,” Ricardo replied. “Call me an interested party.”

“Interested in what?” Jack asked as he pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of his dirty overalls.

 “Your book, of course,” Ricardo said matter-of-factly.

“Why?” Jack asked as he wiped his glasses, staring at his visitor with beady eyes.

“Because it has potential.”

Now that he had Jack’s attention, Ricardo asked for a copy of his latest book. Jack led him through a dingy tunnel to his locker and gingerly pulled out a tattered, yellowed, manuscript titled Griselda.

“Careful, this book has seen more rejections than a one-legged blind man at the annual Sadie Hawkins dance.”

Ricardo took it. “Don't worry, I'll be respectful but honest.” He then scanned it with his eyeglass device and 8 minutes later handed it back.

A stunned Jack stared, “What in the Sam Hill was that? Are you an Evelyn Wood speed reader or something?”

“More like or something, but better you don’t ask, we value privacy.’” Ricardo said. “I’ll get back to you. What time are you off shift?”

Jack, puzzled, answered, “I punch out at 11 p.m.”

“Okay, I’ll meet you in the parking lot at 11:05.”

As Ricardo scanned the book, it transmitted to Bea, who used the AI algorithm to refine it and sent a polished version back to Ricardo. At 10 p.m., Ricardo found a closed insurance office, slipped through its unlocked back door, and used a printer to download the revised manuscript.

At 11:05 p.m., Ricardo waited in the parking lot. Jack arrived on time.

Ricardo shared the results. “They sent the book back with some edits. First, this title won't do. Griselda just doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

Jack thought for a moment. “How about I change it to Wendy? That’s succinct enough, isn’t it?”

 “Sounds like some derivative Peter Pan crap,” Ricardo laughed. We suggest Carrie. Our algorithm says it’s a better title.”

Jack, desperate to get published, concedes. “Okay, whatever gets it sold. So, what’s the deal?”

“We’ll feed you stories and books to publish,” Ricardo continued.

“Hey now, how do you know they’ll sell?” Jack asked.

“They will,” Ricardo assured him. “The algorithm guarantees they’ll sell in this time period and beyond. For a royalty sum, we can guarantee new material for years. But, one last change, though.”

“Wait, you mentioned that twice already; what’s an algorithm?” Jack asked. “And what’s the last change you are talking about?”

“It’s like an advanced computer program,” Ricardo explained. “The algorithm suggests changing your first name to Stephen and dropping your middle name.”

“Stephen? Well, Hell’s bells. Wait a minute, my parents named me Jack, why change it now? Although I guess that Edwin isn’t a great name for an author.”

“You’re right about Edwin. There are a couple, but none really notable. But Stephen-Now that’ll add gravitas to your books.”

Jack-now-Stephen saw the logic. “I guess I have to make some sacrifices. How will I reimburse you?”

“We’ve set it up to transfer funds to stocks, Bitcoin, and pork bellies,” Ricardo said, remembering an old movie Trading Places he saw in grammar school

From his previous work baling hay on a farm, Stephen knew pork bellies but had a question. “Great, that’s hunky-dory. What's bitcoin?”

“That’s a bit complicated but you'll see in a few years.”

 “If this caper works, I’ll use it to better my life,” Stephen replied. “Maybe even buy a farm for Tabitha.”

Ricardo grinned. “You got a deal, buddy. Just one tip. No matter what happens, stay out of the barn.”

Stephen frowned, stroked his chin stubble, and considered the odd advice. “Hey now, you’re not the devil, are you? I won’t sell my soul.”

“No, definitely not,” Ricardo said, pausing. “But hold on a second…”

Ricardo stepped away and whispered into his device, out of Stephen’s earshot, “Okay, Bea, all done here for now. Let’s get me back home.”

Bea’s voice crackled through time, “Ricardo, bad news, the machine’s energy surge triggered an alarm. Bob told The Committee it was an electrical anomaly—a glitch. They locked it out for extended maintenance. Sorry, but you might be stuck there.”

Remembering his history, Ricardo made a quick decision. He turned back to Stephen. “You know, on second thought, I might stick around for a while. By the way, I’m Satoshi—Satoshi Nakamoto.”

“Pleased to meet you, Satoshi,” Stephen said. “I think we’re going to have a very beneficial relationship.”

Stephen walked over to his cherry red 1959 Plymouth Fury and proudly stated, “This is my baby Christine.”

He pulled two cold Narragansett beers from a cooler in the trunk, handed one to his new friend, and raised his bottle. “You know, my daddy used to say that. ‘The scariest moment is always just before you start...’ So, to the two friends who will change the world! You know, that bitcoin thing sure sounds intriguing.”

In the year 1967, in the dark parking lot, their bottles clinked loudly, followed by laughter.

In the year 2500, Bea was alone in the time lab. Bob had gotten spooked and left her high and dry. She awaited word from Ricardo. It had been five minutes since their last communication, when she gave him the bad news.

Suddenly, even though locked out, the machine came to life. An alarm flashed on a monitor: “Temporal Rupture Detected-1967.” The electrometer surged off the scale. Her hair stood on end. Barometer readings hit 720 and dropped rapidly. Thinking it might be an electrical storm, she moved to the window, to get a look. A flicker caught her eye.

“Hold on—something’s wrong,” she blurted out, her voice trembling with confusion. Before her eyes, the stars began to vanish, a silent wave sweeping from left to right, extinguishing the light from each one. “My God, Ricardo, what have you done! Damn you-Stephen King!”

The End