Round the Clock and Back Again

I glance at the clock — 1am. It's late, I need to be up and out by 8am, but… if this works, it could double the length of the night. The length of my night, anyhow — it wouldn't affect anyone else's. Not that that's the reason to invent this thing, definitely not, but it'll be a useful side effect.

I elect to carry on. I'll go to bed later. If I can get this to work soon — let's say within the next hour or so — it'll be worth it. Well, it'll be worth it anyway, but also worth staying up late for.

The smaller models worked. I tested them on whatever happened to be lying on my desk at first — pens, USB sticks (until I realised I could lose all my files), old batteries. I had carefully gathered up a spider from the ceiling and got it into the little box to check that it worked with living things.

This, though — this almost metre-cube box in front of me — is the first version I'll be able to try out on myself. The thought comes with both dread and excitement. I already know what I want to do, first time I use it. But what I plan doesn't matter, because as soon as I turn it on I'll find out exactly what I am actually going to do.

Thankfully it takes less than an hour to finish. The wiring took a while, but now the coil segments connect properly and the supercapacitors are in place; they start charging up as soon as I plug it into the power. It's going to need a bit more juice than the smaller versions, but I'm pretty sure there's no danger, even if I got my figures wrong. If the supercaps don't reach a high enough voltage and I try to dump their energy into the system, it simply won't be able to activate. If it does, but the total energy isn't enough, it just won't be able to hold the link open for as long, bringing forward the latest time the second anchor can be placed. But it either works, or it doesn't — I have assured myself there's no risk of ending up like Jeff Goldblum's character in The Fly.

So, this is it. Showtime. The moment of truth. I'm about to find out what the experience of time travel actually feels like. I tap my fingers on my knees as I wait for the charge cycle to complete, then I… well, I was going to push the button, but instead I hover my finger over it for many seconds, hesitating and hesitating.

I sigh. The tests have all shown it'll be safe, there's really nothing that can happen above and beyond the usual risks from day to day living.

I glance at the voltmeter and type the reading into the computer, which gives me an estimate of 3 hours, 47 minutes. That'll do nicely. I take a deep breath and push the button.

There's a muffled electronic thump as the capacitors discharge into the system, followed by a slight crackle, I'm not sure what that's from. I take a look around at the components and can't see anything smoking so hopefully it's not an indication of anything bad.

All looks fine. The link seems to be holding. So now, this is really it. Time to push button number two and set the first anchor. And to do the swap — at least, the first part, the first end of it. Or the second part of it, depending on which way you look at it. The second part (or the first) will be later, and what happens now depends on what will happen then, which seems like a paradox but… hopefully isn't. With any luck, the constraints of time travel on the universe will just mean that any universe where there are time travel paradoxes can't exist in the first place — and since this universe does exist, no paradoxes are going to happen. Not that they can't, they just won't. Ugh, it's brain-melting to think about. Anyway, back to the button.

I check the door of the swap chamber is fully shut and the coil sections are making contact. Again, my finger hovers over the button for several seconds before I can force myself to push it.

There's a quiet, muffled thud, but nothing else happens. No dramatic dimming of the lights, and thankfully no eldritch horrors — not that I was expecting any. The universe doesn't instantaneously cease to exist either, which is quite a relief. I suppose if it had ceased to exist, I wouldn't be here to talk about it.

I reach to open the swap chamber door. My feeling had been that earlier-me should be in charge and should dictate the pace of this first trial — later-me would already know what would happen anyway, so wouldn't need that kind of reassurance. I could only assume I wouldn't change my mind about that before I reached the second anchor point and earlier-me became later-me.

I crack open the door, which thankfully opens easily — apparently none of the coil contact points have fused despite the huge current involved. Inside… oh my. That, I was not expecting.

"Okay", I say. "Come on out." I try to stay calm but I can't help the huge grin spreading across my face.

The furry form inside the almost-a-metre-cube swap chamber is scrunched up, packed somewhat tightly into the small space. I offer a hand to help him up, and he grabs it and pulls himself forward, falling over as he pops past the edge of the door. He then stands up and shakes himself off.

Okay yeah, it's me. At least I assume it's me. But I didn't expect I'd be wearing my fursuit for the swap! At least not the first swap I'd ever attempted on myself. Surely that would be foolhardy — but then again, maybe not? After all, I now know it worked, so in a few hours' time when we near the end of the link and set the second anchor point, there'll be nothing to worry about. It's already worked!

But it's hard to think about the technical details when I've got a tiger fursuit — not just a fursuit but Rob, my tiger fursuit — standing in front of me, arms out, asking for a hug. Obviously that's the first thing to do, so in I go.

Oh my god, it's good. Hugs with friends are great and all, but… something's different here. I guess I know exactly what I'm looking for in a hug so Rob doesn't hold back, hugs me really tight, and holds onto me for a good long time. The hug lasts so long that from anyone else it would be rude, then worrying. But yes, this is what I'd wanted for a long time, what I'd secretly dreamed about, so of course my later self would be ready to do exactly that for my earlier self at the first opportunity.

In the end I give a final squeeze and step back.

"Let's get a look at you", I say, before realising I really don't need to say anything — my other self has already lived through this and surely remembers exactly what will happen. Rob plants his feet a bit apart and holds his arms out to the sides so I can examine him all over as I walk around him.

Yeah, I like my fursuit. I always wonder whether I'm wearing it to it's best advantage, though. So I walk round and check from all sides that it's all looking right. And yes, it is. In fact… it's better than it should be. I can only guess that future-me had my other self check the suit over before I got into the swap chamber, and adjust it to be as perfect as I could get it. The tail isn't pulling down on the back of the bodysuit, nor is it riding up. The neck flap is… not flapping. What? It's stuck down somehow. There's supposed to be a kind of flap, cowl, whatever you want to call it, attached to the fursuit head to cover up the join where the head ends and the neck of the bodysuit starts. I almost find myself asking apologetically if it's okay to touch, then realise: he is me, and he already knows what will happen. So I step forward and feel around Rob's neck without asking. He flinches for a moment — hmm, maybe I should've at least warned him, he might not have remembered every detail. But it's too late now.

"Sorry. Let me just check this…"

I run my hand over the edge of the neck flap, over his shoulders. The flap's there alright, it's just… attached. It takes a few moments but I realise it's sewn down to the bodysuit's shoulders, so the fursuit's head is attached to the body. When did that happen!?

I move round to the front and find the neck flap is sewn down all the way round. The zip pull is nowhere to be seen either — when the zip's closed the pull-tab is normally at the top, so it must be under that sewn-down flap. I check Rob's paws and they're sewn on too! Both hand and feet paws have been firmly attached to the body suit. I always wanted to be sewn into my suit for a bit… I guess it was obvious that as soon as I had my other self's assistance I'd actually do it. I didn't really expect to be surprised with the results the very first time it was possible though — well done, future me, for the nice surprise!

Rob isn't talking, of course — I don't talk in fursuit — and I'm still pretty tired. He mimes yawning so I guess he's not come from far enough in the future to have got a full night of sleep… so yes, time for bed.

For safety, I unplug the machine before we leave the room. After all, I'm not sure I trust the wiring I did while tired, and anyway it doesn't need to be plugged in — the charge already in the system will keep the link open without any external power until we set the second anchor. I check the gauge and see we've used about three percent of the charge so far. So, about four hours should do it. I set an alarm on my phone for three and a half, just to be safe. Not that I really need to worry — the swap has happened successfully so we physically can't miss it — but I may as well be prepared and not have to rush.

I collapse onto my bed and beckon to Rob, who, without looking round, flicks off the light with the same gesture I usually use, and flops down beside me. I reach over to his opposite shoulder to pull him in close, resting my head on his chest, and settle down to sleep, cuddled up to my favourite fursuit tiggy, and listening to his heartbeat as consciousness dissolves away.

--

The alarm goes on and on and on, needling my ears, annoying me until I finally get it together enough to rub my eyes and try to wake up. I feel tireder than before I went to sleep. Three and a half hours of sleep is really not that helpful.

Rob sits up as I move, and I swing my legs off the bed, groaning as I reach over to cancel the alarm. Then I just lean against him.

"Oh god, so tired", I mumble.

He puts his paws round me and we cuddle again. He seems much more awake than me, less tired; the extra three and a half hours he's had on top of the three and a half hours I've just had must have been enough to give him a reasonable night in total. I look forward to being in his place.

Step one, though: see how much time we have left. I need to walk into the other room and see how far the charge level has dropped. Then we'll have an idea how much time we have left — how much we need to rush to get me ready for the swap.

I'm still dog tired though. Still leaning my head on Rob's shoulder, I shut my eyes for a moment, then find myself waking up — how long did I just lose!? Rob seems unconcerned, so hopefully it wasn't long.

I moan again and drag myself to my feet. Okay, I must have slept a bit more, it's, what, ten minutes later than I had meant to wake up? Ugh. I stumble into the other room, squinting at the readouts. I can't arithmetic at this time of the morning so I type the numbers into my progress estimation script and it tells me we have thirteen minutes.

"Thirteen minutes!" I cry.

Rob, who's followed me into the room, tilts his head to one side.

"But there's so much to do, we have to get me into suit, you have to sew me in so I arrive just like you did. I need to find my sewing kit, I don't even know where it is! We need to get that new stitching on your suit unpicked so you'll be able to sew me into my suit. I need to find my seam ripper!" I'm babbling, I'm so tired I can hardly think straight.

I try to step around Rob but end up partly pushing him out of the way just out of tiredness, and head into the spare room to start digging through boxes looking for my needles and thread. I should have a spool of carpet thread somewhere, that's nice and strong and should hold up well. And it's brown so it'll match the fur. But I haven't sewn anything in months and can't remember where I put the tools for it.

I get more and more frustrated. Then, I have a brainwave.

"Rob, where are they?" I say over my shoulder. "The needles and thread. You've done all this only a few hours ago, you must remember where they are, right? Where were they when I found them?"

But he just shakes his head and shrugs.

"No, this is serious, I need to know."

But he puts a paw on my arm and shakes his head firmly, trying to calm me down. But I'm not calming down. Even though I know it'll work out, because obviously it already has worked out because Rob's here, I'm still on the edge of panicking.

I change tack and grab my fursuit box. At least I know where that is. I pull out the head and brush the fur out of its eyes — and this, somehow, does manage to calm me down.

I hold the head up next to Rob's head. Identical, absolutely identical, as it should be given that it's the same fursuit head, just a few hours earlier. Every fibre of fake fur is the same, although not brushed identically, but every little crease and imperfection is the same. I unzip the body suit and am starting to put one leg in when Rob puts his paw on my arm again. He taps his wrist as if he had a watch on, and I look at the clock. Then I hurry back to the machine and check again.

We have five minutes. Maybe five. Give or take.

There's no time.

There's no way for me to get suited up, and for Rob to get out of suit, or at least to get his hands free, then for him to sew me into my fursuit so I'll be identical to how he was when I helped him out of the swap chamber a few hours ago, AND to get me into the chamber, and for him — my other self — to activate the second anchor point, and all before the charge runs out. And I know it's not possible to add more charge to the system when it's already running.

It just isn't going to work.

But Rob seems unfazed. He holds his arms out, offering me a hug.

"But… Just— What— How—"

I have no idea what I meant to say, I'm still dead tired and can't think straight. Rob stops waiting for the hug and steps in, grabs me round the shoulders and squeezes tight for a moment. Then he steps back and crouches down, opens the swap chamber's door and starts to get inside.

"What? No, I'm the one that needs to be in there, but I need to be in suit and…"

I trail off as he looks up at me. He points to his chest, then to the box.

It's the only way, I realise.

There's no time for me to go. But he's ready, he's sewn into the fursuit, just like when he climbed out of that box a few hours ago. It'll just have to do. It's not like we can do anything wrong at this point, the timeline is guaranteed to be self-consistent so nothing we do can cause a paradox or, I don't know, blow up the universe or really do anything harmful.

But I can't help trying to think about the implications of sending Rob back instead of me. I can't think properly though; my exhausted mind goes blank when I try.

And there's no time. We only have a couple of minutes and Rob's already half in the little swap chamber, knees up to his chest, using his hands on the floor to ootch himself in sideways. I crouch down beside him and help guide him in, pushing his head forward a bit, flattening his ears down so he fits, arranging his tail around his feet so it won't get caught in the door. I close it up and double-check that it's sealing correctly and all the coil segments have connected properly.

I sit at the desk and check the readouts. We have maybe a minute or two left, the charge is down to maybe half a percent and steadily dropping. My head spins. I'm sure I need to check things, verify that it's safe, there must be something I need to do. But there's no time and I can't think and the charge level readout is going to hit zero at any second. I'm just going to have to press the button.

"Good luck on the other side, Ouroboros", I hear myself saying, trying to give the situation a bit of dignity by using his full name.

And I press the button.

And there's a quiet, muffled thud.

And the swap chamber is empty.