I can’t believe it. Finally, my dream come true, a chance to visit the 21st Earth of legend, and it turns out to be an amateur archeologist time jumper’s worst nightmare. It was all a myth. Those idiots who’d flung themselves out into space weren’t carrying actual history with them at all on all those crude hard drives. Even though they were stored using the technology of the era of planned obsolesce and so incredibly fragmented, we had gotten got a lot out of it. It’s obvious now that it was just their version of it.
The Grand Trump and his band of Trumpettes had been delusional.
It now seems far more likely that they’d fled the converging crises that were about to go down down on that mad mad world below. Well, fled isn’t exactly the best term to use; their crude attempts at cryogenics had left a bit of a soupy mess in their capsules.
Fools, they didn’t realize that the Renaissance that followed the inevitable crash and burn of the 21st century could eventually lead to a future where the money he so worships means nothing, where there’s plenty for all, and we work to better the whole of the cosmos.
But only if I make it so. Now that I’ve seen the truth of things down there, they probably bloody well encouraged him to blast off. I’m tempted to go down there and stun him a few times myself right now.
Le sigh. But no, I’m not a man of violence. Surely humanity has gained enough wisdom by this point in time not to give this idiot any real power.
The story of the Donald that the Trumpettes had concocted told of their noble leader’s efforts to flee the Earth and start a new civilization of little Trumpsters on one of the newly discovered exoplanets. We’d always wondered what underlying assumptions he’d based his plan on. It looks like the only actual assumption he had was that he deserved to win, and that he knew how, despite a lifetime of epic failures.
Their end was fitting, at least, he stayed his course.
It appears that the alien invaders they wrote of were bloody Terrans, just like the rest of us. It appears that the stuff we’d pieced together about carrying concealed weapons and bombings were all things he wanted to do, not what he was defending the Earth against. Obviously the Trumpette’s stories of the ups and downs of climate weren’t about extremes at all, they were based on the man’s inability to interpret simple data figures and his colossal bloody ego.
Well, time pressure is on. With what we’ve learned about the infinite dimensional possibilities of alternate karma, the prime directive has been waived for one’s home planet. I’m going to take the plunge, leave my solitary life of the 24th Century and live the real adventure of this one, hope for the best. Having seen some of the options for my time out there, I’ve got to get down there and make sure the Trumpster’s story of his glorious victory doesn’t come true, fantasy or not. Of course while I’m down there, I might as well record some real observations of that mad mad world. Archaeology was my first love; perhaps I’ll leave something behind for those of the future who share it.