OBSERVERS (SHORT STORY)

Castella(Indistinguishable contest story)

My name is Castella Clay. And I am about to go on the mission I have been waiting for my entire existence. I have been dreaming about it for as long as I can remember and probably even before that. The Wayfarer Initiative was all everybody talked about for more than two decades, but no one has traveled yet. That is until now.

I wonder if this is how Yuri Gagarin felt before boarding Vostok 1; if the astronauts of Apollo 11 were just as nervous as I am. My guess, they were. But then again, they didn't go back in time for a couple of thousands of years.

The Observers. That's what we're called. Now that The Initiative is finally ready for human trials, the elite of class 3021 is chosen to be the first to go through Continuum.
I stand inside my Leap Capsule, it is fully transparent, and I can see Aurora, Bastian, and Rhea getting ready for the leap in theirs.

They are wearing white nanosuits identical to mine. We don't know what year we are being sent to.  All we know is that they are aiming somewhen 1600's. Our suits are designed to morph according to the period we are in, and nanoimplants in our spines will do the same with our appearances, changing any body features or modifications that could stand out. I myself look quite natural, average really. Except for my silver-blue hair, that according to history lessons wouldn't be a problem in 2050's, yet would raise some questions in 1900's. Rhea, on the other hand, had a surgery a few years back and now has a bionic arm that will require some adjustments.

I hear the countdown begin. This is it. This is what I have been waiting anxiously for. I take a deep breath. A thousand thoughts fly through my mind so fast I am not able to register even half of them. I close my eyes and hold still. Suddenly, I am in a vacuum for what feels like an eternity. I'm nowhere, and I'm everywhere. I feel the time itself bending around me and flowing through me at the same time. I'm inside the Continuum, I realize. Next second I am being snatched from it and dropped mercilessly.

My first thought is that the experiment failed, but then my fingers find soft grass. I'm crouched on the ground, unharmed, yet dizzy and nauseous, my vision is blurry. It takes me a few minutes to even be able to get back up on my feet. Well, they did say it wouldn't be pleasant.

I look around. It is difficult to focus, but I can make out the trees nearby. A few miles away I see something that looks like a primitive village. My vision is slowly getting better, "We need to check our holos," I turn around only to find myself talking to the air - my fellow wayfarers are nowhere to be seen. Panic starts to rise in my gut, but I have to keep calm. Maybe we were scattered in different locations by a blast that pulled us out of the Continuum. Or maybe they are not even in the same century. I can't allow myself to think about it.

I need to know where, and better yet when, I am. I press down on my wrist to activate my holo, and a small screen appears above it. I read the data - the year is 1692, and I am in a place called Salem. 

I remember that I'm still in my nano suit and I adjust configurations in my holo. The nanites rebuild it into colonial clothing. It's simple, yet elaborate. I don't think I've ever worn even half as much fabric - shift, petticoat, apron and a black hooded cloak to top it all up. My hair returned to my natural black. I pull my hood over my head to partially conceal my face and head towards town.

I need to find the others, I just hope they are okay and not stuck somewhere in the endless wormhole of time and space. I move cautiously but with confidence trying not to attract unneeded attention. Yes, the Wayfarer Initiative's theory is that you can't change anything in the past even if you wanted to. Everything has already happened. We have already traveled, and all the events surrounding our arrival has already unraveled centuries ago, and there is nothing we can do that would affect the past as we know it. Still, I would rather not take chances.

I move through a crowd of Puritans and then I hear him - the speaker on a low wooden stage. Cotton Mather, I hear someone say his name. I remember reading something about him in history books. He was one of the political influencers in Salem's witch trials - one of the darkest times in human history. So many innocent people lost their lives because of a paranoic mass craze. Right now I wish that Initiative's theory would prove itself wrong. How can we merely observe such horrors and do nothing?

"Go tell Mankind, that there are Devils and Witches," Mather spoke from that little tribune of his,"and that tho those night-birds least appear where the Day-light of the Gospel comes, yet New-England has had Examples of their Existence and Operation; and that not only the Wigwams of Indians, where the pagan Powaws often raise their masters, in the shapes of Bears and Snakes and Fires, but the House of Christians have undergone the Annoyance of Evil spirits..." The man is clearly delusional.

Apparently, I mumbled it out loud because some older lady turned around to face me.

"What's your name, child? I don't seem to recognize you, and I know pretty much everyone in Salem." She smiled. Great. The gossip queen of the town. I put on the nicest smile I can manage and am about to respond when I decide that my real name doesn't sound very puritan, so I blurt out the first name that comes to mind. "Bridget," I say, "Bridget Bishop. I'm just passing through town."I can't remember where I got that name from - a book, a movie maybe; in any case, it feels appropriate. It looks like my answer satisfied her. At least for now.

But then, she took a step back; her eyes are widened and full of terror. She kept backing down, away from me, and I notice that the rest of the crowd began doing the same. For a long moment I can't understand what she is looking at, then I register familiar tingling in my scalp, and suddenly it feels like I've  dropped a few pounds in weight. I look down at myself, and it hits me like a tsunami wave hits the shore - my nanosuit malfunctioned. My hair was colorizing itself blue again, and those pounds that I lost were my colonial clothes.

"Wi... wit.," the village woman was struggling to get the words out, but manage to scream, "Witch! She's a wiiitch!!!" I turn around to run, but before I can make a step, my hands are bound behind me, and villagers are pointing anything that could pass as a weapon at me. I start to panic. I am all alone in this godforsaken century, my technology is not working, and even if it were it still wouldn't be much help now. Now, that I was about to stand trial for witchcraft, I realize.

Two men drag me on stage to face the preacher. All the talk about Devil's forces at work in New England, and here I am - living proof of what in their eyes was nothing if not magic.

" This woman shall stand trial for the worst possible crime - pleading her soul and allegiance to Satan! And shall  it be known that the good people of Salem will not kneel before the Unholy!" Then Cotton Mather said something to a man who, judging by his clothes and weapon, was a guard or a soldier. The man nods and leaves only to come back in a few minutes with a wooden chair in his hands.

They put me in the chair and tie me to it. The crowd is cheering "Kill Her! Kill the witch!". And I can hear people shouting all the different ways to take my life. "Burn! Drown! Hang!.."

"Nooo!" I try to tell them,"I'm not a witch! Stop it! Please!" But I am already being dragged to the river, my face all washed with tears. Cotton is making another speech, but I don't hear it - the river water covers my ears, the rock tied to the chair drags my body to the bottom.

 I struggle for few more minutes and, as I let out my last breath, I remember where I got my new name from - a history book. Bridget Bishop was the first woman to be executed in Salem's witch trials.