Remus One Past, Future and Present

The Atlantic waters off the coast of what was once colonial Virginia had always held whispers of forgotten tales. For Dr. Emerson Hancock, head of maritime archaeology at the Chesapeake Institute, these whispers were usually no more than the creak of old timbers or the glint of discarded pottery. But this season, the whispers had turned into a shout.

For months, his team had been meticulously excavating a wreck site, initially identified by sonar anomalies and anecdotal historical accounts. Their preliminary findings confirmed their hypothesis: they had stumbled upon the remnants of a significant 18th-century merchant vessel, likely attacked by pirates. The discovery was already monumental, promising to rewrite small chapters of maritime trade and piracy during the tumultuous era preceding the American Revolution.

The initial recoveries were spectacular. Over three thousand artifacts had already seen the light of day. There were stacks of gold and silver bars, tarnished but unmistakably valuable. Crates of fine silk and wool textiles, miraculously preserved in the anaerobic silt. Jewels, still catching the faint glow of the submersible lights. Religious artifacts, crucifixes and chalices suggesting a European origin. Coins aplenty – English sovereigns, French écus, even a handful of gold dinars from distant lands, each a testament to the global reach of 18th-century commerce. Pieces of exquisite Chinese porcelain, shattered but beautiful, lay scattered across the seabed.

“It’s truly a treasure ship, Emerson,” Dr. Olivia Springer, a historical consultant and close colleague, had enthused earlier that week, her voice crackling over the comms from the surface vessel. “Every piece tells a story. Look at these figurines, small Madonna and Child, almost untouched. This ship must have been bound for the colonies, laden with goods for a burgeoning upper class.”

Emerson had agreed, her heart thrumming with the familiar thrill of discovery. But as the deeper layers of the wreck were carefully uncovered, a new, disquieting note began to hum beneath the surface of their excitement.

It started subtly. A strange, smooth, brightly colored container, unlike any ceramic or metal they had ever encountered from the period. Then another. And another. These weren't wood, or iron, or clay. They were something else entirely.

“Dr. Hancock, you need to see this,” called out Ben Carter, one of the submersible pilots, his voice tight with confusion. He hovered his ROV over a newly exposed section of the hull. “We’ve got… something really weird here.”

Emerson adjusted his monitor. What Ben was pointing at made his stomach clench. Nestled amongst barnacle-encrusted wooden beams and corroded muskets were objects that screamed ‘anachronism.’ There were rigid plastic containers, clearly designed for food storage, though the contents were long gone. A set of flexible, reflective sheets, oddly familiar in their geometry – solar panels, unmistakably. Further in, compressed bundles of what looked like durable fabric, later identified as deflated, inflatable structures, not cotton sails or canvas tarps, but something synthetic and incredibly strong.

The crew was a mix of awe and disbelief. “Is this some kind of sick joke?” whispered one of the younger technicians. “Modern debris? Did a fishing boat just dump its trash here decades later?”

But the depth, the sediment layers, the intactness of the surrounding historical artifacts – it all argued against contamination. These items were part of the wreck.

Then came the truly mind-bending discoveries. Transparent plastic bags, remarkably resilient, filled with seeds – each bag bearing a faint, printed label showing botanical names and what looked like harvest dates. Unidentifiable electronic devices, sleek and metallic, with no discernible wires or ports that matched any known technology. And perhaps most jarring of all, compact medical kits, hermetically sealed, containing advanced implements and sterile packaging that just did not exist.

The crowning enigma was an ivory plaque. It was intricately carved, with patterns reminiscent of ancient scrimshaw, but inlaid with gold letters that shimmered with an unnatural luminescence. Its surface was warm to the touch, even after centuries underwater. When they carefully brought it to the surface and into the lab, the gold letters began to coalesce into symbols that no known historical language database could identify. Yet, there was a faint, almost subliminal hum emanating from it, a whisper of complex data.

Dr. Hancock, usually the picture of scientific rationale, found himself battling a growing sense of the impossible. The team worked around the clock, trying to reconcile the meticulously preserved 18th-century wreck with the undeniable presence of 21st-century or even 22nd-century technology. The story of a simple pirate attack no longer held water. This was something else entirely. Something… unrecorded.

It was Olivia Springer, poring over the anomalous plaque, who made the breakthrough. She had dismissed it as a bizarre, perhaps ritualistic, 18th-century artifact, until a flicker of light from a laboratory scanner hit it just right. The gold letters flared, and a holographic projection shimmered into existence above the plaque – a swirling vortex of stars and then, a spacecraft. A ship unlike any ever built.

The projection stabilized, displaying complex schematics and then a log entry in a universal script that the lab’s AI, after hours of processing, managed to translate.

LOG ENTRY: Captain Beatrice Colombo, Vessel: Remus One. Date: 4 July 2367. Mission Objective: Establish New Rome Colony on Mars

Emerson and Olivia stood transfixed, the impossible words echoing in the sterile lab.

UNFORESEEN CATASTROPHE: Quantum destabilization during take-off sequence. Temporal Coordinates shifted drastically. Impact imminent. Atmosphere breached. Splashdown detected. Coordinates: North American Atlantic Coast. Time displacement: Approximately 590 to 600 years.

The implications hit them like a physical blow. This wasn't a pirate wreck. This was a spaceship from the future that had crashed in the 18th century.

The holographic log continued, detailing the crash, the desperate survival efforts of the seven-person crew, and their terrifying realization: they were stranded in a past they could not interfere with, yet could not escape.

Flashback: 1772 CE, Chesapeake Bay

The roaring tear in the sky had been visible for miles, a jagged wound of ozone and light, followed by a thunderous splash that sent a monumental wave crashing onto the sparsely populated shores of the colonies. Farmers and fishermen, already wary of approaching squalls, spoke of it as a sign from God, a meteor of impossible size.

Inside the slowly sinking vessel, The Remus One, chaos reigned. Captain Beatrice Colombo, her face grim with soot and sweat, barked orders over the dying hum of the life support systems. "Damage report, Tony! Harper, can you get us any kind of atmospheric read?"

Tony, the burly engineer, shook his head, struggling with a damaged console. "Main temporal drives offline, Captain! Power core unstable! We're not just damaged, we're stranded. And the external sensors are painting… pre-industrial tech signatures. Really primitive."

Harper, the ship's slender navigator and pilot, her usual calm demeanor replaced by stark terror, pointed to the main viewport. "Captain, we're in an ocean. And the landmass… it matches early Earth cartography. Specifically, the North American eastern seaboard. The calendar shows… 1772."

A collective gasp swept through the remaining five crew members. Mark, the medic, was already assessing injuries, his advanced med-kit – now a precious, limited resource – glowing faintly. Laura, the Archivist and Historian, ran rapid diagnostics on her datapad, her face blanching as she cross-referenced the current timeline with her vast knowledge of Earth's past. Jacob, the security specialist, stood by, his plasma rifle – now almost useless without a stable power source – held reflexively. Jade, the quiet botanist, looked out at the alien, yet familiar, green shores, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek.

"Five hundred and ninety-five years," Laura whispered, her voice hoarse. "We're almost five centuries in the past. On the eve of what will become the American Revolution. We cannot, under any circumstances, reveal ourselves. The temporal integrity protocols are absolute."

Colombo nodded, a steely resolve replacing her initial shock. "Agreed. We are unrecorded. Our mission now is survival and minimal historical interference. First, we salvage what we can. Anything that screams 'future' must be disguised or discarded beyond recognition."

Over the next few days, the crew of The Remus One performed an extraordinary feat of engineering and deception. Their ship, though advanced, was not indestructible. It was slowly sinking, its hull ruptured beyond repair. They worked tirelessly, using their limited future tech to create plausible 18th-century items. The large inflatable structures, designed for emergency habitats, were repurposed. Some of the damaged panels, stripped of their internal technology, were reshaped to resemble metal plating or even decorative elements.

They had access to a sophisticated material synthesizer, which, despite low power, could still create basic elements. With this, they fabricated thousands of gold and silver bars and wood indistinguishable from the real thing. They spun fine threads into fabrics, created porcelain, and even replicated historical coins from their ship's extensive archives. These would form their "treasure" – a plausible cargo for a merchant ship.

"Why create treasure, Captain?" Tony had asked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Wouldn't it be easier to just disappear?"

"Because," Colombo explained, "if a wreck is found centuries from now, it must be dismissed as a historical curiosity, not a temporal anomaly. A pirate treasure ship is plausible. A future spaceship is not. We mix our impossible artifacts with the utterly mundane, the utterly historical. We create a narrative for our disappearance."

The crew’s MREs, compact and nutritious, became their primary food source, carefully rationed. The advanced medical supplies, sealed and sterile, were invaluable for treating their own injuries and for future survival on land. Jade carefully transferred vast quantities of seeds from the ship's botanical preservation units into robust plastic bags, each labeled with future knowledge, hoping they might one day grow food.

Their main challenge was disposing of the Remus One’s core systems and most overtly futuristic components. They systematically dismantled them, using powerful, if limited, energy tools to melt, pulverize, and scatter the debris across a wide area of the seabed, far from the main wreck. What remained of their ship would be a hollowed-out shell, identifiable only as a 'shipwreck'.

Then came the second calamity. As they prepared to make their final departure from the half-submerged wreck, a ship appeared on the horizon – not a merchant vessel, but a sloop flying the infamous Jolly Roger. Pirates.

"They're coming for us!" Jacob yelled, gripping his almost power depleted plasma rifle.

Colombo glanced at the rapidly approaching vessel. This was it. Their final act of deception. "Laura, the plaque. Is the log upload complete?"

"Yes, Captain. It's set to activate on external pressure changes, deep water immersion, and upon the passage of sufficient time. It should hold its data for millennia."

"Good. Tony, open the lower ballast tanks. We will scuttle the ship. Make it look like a battle. Jacob, minimal defensive fire. Scare them, but don't engage. We let them think they struck us. We sink."

They executed their plan with chilling precision. A few precisely aimed energy blasts from Jacob's sidearm, set to low power, caused superficial damage above the waterline, mimicking cannon fire. The pirates, emboldened, returned fire. Colombo ordered the internal charges set to blow the remaining structural supports, ensuring the true nature of their craft remained forever hidden under the guise of an unfortunate maritime incident.

As the pirate cannonballs splintered wood and shredded sails, the crew of The Remus One deployed their emergency inflatable survival pods – small, self-contained units that looked like oddly shaped wooden barrels to casual observation. They loaded themselves and their select, plausible treasures onto these 'barrels', leaving behind the bulk of their future tech mixed with the fabricated gold and historical items. The plaque, carefully placed, awaited its eventual discovery.

The Remus One groaned, its futuristic hull tearing apart under the combined assault of the pirates and its own self-destruction. It quickly slid beneath the choppy waves, the 'pirate attack' a convenient cover. The pirate captain, seeing the ship sink, would assume victory and sail on, none the wiser to the impossible truth that had just plunged to the seabed.

Back in the present, in the hushed laboratory, the holographic log finally faded. Dr. Emerson Hancock and Dr. Olivia Springer stood in stunned silence, the weight of a secret spanning centuries pressing down on them.

"Unrecorded to history," Olivia finally whispered, breaking the silence. "They wanted to be unrecorded. And they were… until now."

Emerson ran a hand through her hair, her mind racing. The pieces fit. The gold and silver, the textiles, the jewels – all fabricated. The porcelain and religious artifacts – either replicated or actual historical items from their future archives meant to lend authenticity. And the modern items – remnants of their desperate, ingenious effort to dispose of their advanced technology while simultaneously creating a convincing, 'historical' shipwreck.

"The crew of seven," Emerson mused aloud. "What became of them? Did they survive? Did they integrate into 18th-century society? Did they live out their lives, or did they find a way back?"

The plaque offered no further information. It was merely a log, a desperate message set to be found, a testament to an impossible journey. The historical implications were staggering. If true, this wasn't just a discovery; it was a paradigm shift. Humanity had been visited, not by aliens, but by its own future self, accidentally, centuries before. And those visitors had lived among them, contributing silently to the tapestry of an unrecorded past.

Emerson looked at the ivory plaque, then at the recovered MRE container, the seed packets, the solar panels. The ship wasn't a treasure chest of gold and jewels; it was a time capsule of secrets, meticulously crafted to be overlooked, designed to be inexplicable until the right moment.

Back in the past

The seven crew members, in their remarkably resilient pods, drifted towards the distant shore, ready to begin their new, deeply unrecorded lives in the crucible of the 18th century. They would live, adapt, and blend, their advanced knowledge becoming secret advantages in a world of candlelight and raw ambition. They would witness history unfold, knowing its every detail, yet prevented from altering it. They would be the 'unrecorded', the silent observers, their influence subtle, perhaps sparking an idea here, accelerating an invention there, but never leaving a single verifiable trace of their true origin. Their purpose was no longer observation, but quiet, profound survival.

The drift was longer and more harrowing than their simulations had accounted for. Three days they spent battling the relentless Atlantic swells, rationing their remaining compact MREs and purified water. Mark, the medic, battled an encroaching fever in Harper, while Tony rigged a rudimentary sail from a discarded section of the pod’s outer material, using an internal structural rod as a mast. Jacob, ever vigilant, scanned the horizon for dangers beyond the waves, his plasma rifle now a mere stick, its true function a ghost of power. Colombo, a beacon of calm determination, charted their course mentally, guiding Harper’s clumsy steering motions towards what Laura’s datapad – miraculously still functioning on emergency power – confirmed was a secluded cove in what would become northern Delaware.

On the fourth morning, a thin sliver of land appeared, shrouded in mist. The pods, battered but intact, scraped against sand and tumbled onto a deserted beach. The crew emerged, blinking in the unfamiliar glare of a pristine, unpolluted sky. The air, thick with the scent of pine and salt, felt profoundly ancient. Jade, the botanist, knelt and gently touched the soil, a silent reverence in her movements. This was Earth, but an Earth centuries younger, brimming with raw, untamed life.

Their first priority was to establish a secure, inconspicuous camp. Using concealed energy cutters, they harvested timber with impossible speed, constructing a sturdy, yet rustic, log cabin hidden deep within the coastal woods. The remaining MREs were stretched thin, supplemented by Jade’s surprising knowledge of edible wild plants. Mark’s medical kit, used sparingly, became their most precious asset, treating scrapes, sprains, and the inevitable bug bites.

Their fabricated treasure was their ticket to integration. Within weeks, Colombo, disguised as a weathered merchant captain, approached a small colonial port town, claiming to be the sole survivor of a shipwreck, the rest of her crew lost to the waves. She spun a convincing tale of a desperate escape with a handful of salvaged coins of gold and silver, enough to buy a modest plot of land further inland, away from the prying eyes of the British customs. Tony, with his engineering mind, subtly improved the design of a local farmer's plow, earning trust. Harper, with her natural charisma, became adept at bartering. Jacob, imposing and quiet, served as their 'bodyguard', his watchful gaze missing nothing. Laura, immersing herself in local news papers, began to subtly influence conversations, introducing modern concepts of sanitation and crop rotation that, to the colonists, seemed like brilliant, if unconventional, ideas. Jade, meanwhile, began her true work, planting the preserved seeds from the future – hardy, disease-resistant strains of corn, wheat, and fruits – hoping they would take root and subtly bolster the nascent colonial agriculture.

As 1774 bled into 1775, the whispers of revolution grew louder. Laura’s historical datapad, now powered by a cleverly disguised solar array, became their grim oracle. Daily, she cross-referenced the news trickling in from Boston and Philadelphia with the known timeline. Lexington and Concord, Bunker Hill, the Olive Branch Petition – each event unfolded with chilling familiarity. The crew watched, their hearts heavy, knowing the bloodshed that was to come, yet forbidden from anything but the most subtle intervention.

“This is an excruciating form of torture,” Jacob muttered one evening, polishing a crudely fashioned musket. “To know what’s coming, and do nothing.”

“We are doing something, Jacob,” Colombo replied, her gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight. “We are ensuring it happens. The paradox, remember? We are here because history as we know it happened. If we don’t ensure it, then we never would have existed to come back.”

The true nature of their mission began to crystallize – not merely to survive, but to preserve. To be the unseen hand that nudged the tapestry back onto its pre-ordained path whenever it threatened to fray. Their vast wealth, carefully managed, allowed them to fund struggling patriots anonymously, to buy strategic land that would later become crucial battlegrounds, to even, on occasion, “lose” certain British intelligence reports or “find” vital colonial dispatches. These were small, imperceptible ripples in the vast ocean of time, easily mistaken for coincidence or fate.

Then came the winter of 1776, and with it, the great deviation. Laura’s datapad, usually a steadfast companion, began to flash urgent warnings. The historical probabilities were diverging wildly. The grim reality of Valley Forge was known to them – the brutal conditions, the suffering, the near collapse of the Continental Army. But what Laura’s data now showed was horrifying: General George Washington, devastated by the losses and the apparent futility of the struggle, was not only considering, but actively drafting, surrender papers by December 23rd. He intended to send them to the British on Christmas Day.

“This cannot be,” Laura whispered, her face ashen, pointing to the glowing text on her datapad. “This isn’t what happened. He was supposed to attack Trenton! This is… a catastrophic alteration. If he surrenders here, the Revolution is over. America never forms. Our future… it ceases to exist.”

A profound silence fell over the small cabin. The stakes had just become unimaginably high. Their unwritten rule of minimal interference was now directly at odds with their very existence.

“We have to act,” Tony stated, his voice firm. “Forget subtle. This is a direct threat to the timeline.”

“But how?” Harper asked, wringing her hands. “We can’t just walk into Washington’s camp and tell him ‘The future says attack!’”

Colombo rose, her eyes glinting with a dangerous resolve. “No. But we can remind him of something he already knows. We can provide a catalyst, a spark. Something that will seem like providence.”

Their plan was audacious, bordering on reckless. Mark, using his medical knowledge and their remaining purified water, prepared a potent, quick-acting stimulant, disguised as a traditional herbal remedy. Jacob, with his stealth and knowledge of 18th-century military movements, would secure a path. Tony meticulously studied crude maps of the encampment.

On the night of December 23rd, under the cover of a freezing, snow-laden darkness, Colombo, Laura, and Jacob made their way towards Washington’s headquarters at Valley Forge. The camp was a tableau of misery: skeletal figures huddled around dying fires, the air thick with despair and the stench of sickness. It tore at their hearts, but their mission was paramount.

They positioned themselves near Washington’s command post, waiting for the opportune moment. Through a crack in the door, they saw him, hunched over a rough table, quill scratching across parchment – the very surrender papers Laura had warned them about. The weight of centuries pressed down on them.

Jacob created a diversion, a muffled scuffle in the outer perimeter that drew the attention of the few guards. In the brief moment of distraction, Laura, moving with the practiced swiftness of a temporal operative, slipped inside. She placed a small, crudely wrapped package on the table, next to the half-finished surrender document. It contained the stimulant, a hastily written, anonymous note, and a single, perfectly preserved, albeit ancient, gold coin from the Remus One’s fabricated treasure – a coin identical to ones in Washington’s own pocket, but with an impossibly crisp, almost glowing, clarity.

The note, penned by Laura in a deliberately archaic script, read simply: "The ice holds. The Hessians slumber. Christmas Eve, the river crossing. Trenton calls to destiny. Providence favors the bold, not the resigned. Look North."

Laura was gone before Washington even looked up, startled by the brief commotion outside. His eyes fell on the package. He opened it, revealing the small vial and the note. His gaze fixed on the coin, turning it over in his fingers, a flicker of something indefinable in his weary eyes. He then read the note again, slowly, his brow furrowing. The stimulant's contents, absorbed through the skin on the coin and vial, would clear his mind, sharpen his focus, and quell the encroaching fog of despair, making him receptive to the seemingly prophetic message.

On Christmas night December 25th, 1776, was etched into history. Washington, against the counsel of many of his officers, against all logic, made the impossible decision. He gathered his ragged troops, and under the cover of a raging nor’easter, began the fateful crossing of the Delaware. The Battle of Trenton, a decisive victory that rekindled the flame of the Revolution, unfolded exactly as history recorded.

Back in their hidden cabin, the crew of The Remus One watched the news trickle in, a collective sigh of relief escaping them. They had done it. They had pushed the timeline back onto its rails. But the cost was profound. They were no longer mere observers. They were active, silent participants.

Over the ensuing years, they continued to live their unrecorded lives, their subtle interventions becoming a seamless part of the historical narrative. Mark’s medical knowledge, shared anonymously, improved camp sanitation and reduced disease. Jade’s future-strains of crops, slowly gaining traction, would later be credited to unusually fertile soil or innovative farming techniques. Tony’s engineering insights would occasionally surface as remarkably efficient tools or building methods, attributed to forgotten artisans. Harper’s navigational acumen would anonymously guide supply convoys around British patrols. Jacob’s security awareness would prevent several critical intelligence leaks. Colombo’s leadership and Laura’s historical foresight ensured these small nudges always served the greater purpose.

They never sought recognition. Their names would never appear in history books. They saw the war through to its victorious end, watched the fragile birth of a new nation, and then, as the decades passed, they slowly faded from the public eye, their identities blending into the growing American tapestry. Their fabricated gold, carefully invested, provided for their quiet, comfortable lives, and for the generations that followed.

The whispers from the Atlantic had turned into a profound silence, pregnant with the weight of an unwritten, yet now discovered, truth. The true treasure wasn’t the gold, but the story. The realization that history wasn't a fixed, linear path, but a complex, multi-layered tapestry, interwoven with threads from unimaginable futures, stretching back into unrecorded pasts. It was a secret held in the heart of humanity itself, a testament to the extraordinary, self-correcting nature of destiny, guided by the silent, unseen hand of seven brave souls who had fallen through time, to ensure it happened, exactly as it was meant to be.

Now in the present time

“This changes everything, Emerson,” Olivia reiterated, the words barely audible. “Every history book, every timeline, every understanding of the past.”

Emerson nodded slowly, still staring at the blank space where the projection had hung just moments before. The sterile hum of the lab, usually a comforting backdrop to their discoveries, now felt like a high-pitched whine, a warning. The Remus One wasn’t just a ship; it was a paradox, a temporal anomaly buried beneath centuries of ocean. The crew’s desperate act of camouflaging their advanced technology, of creating a convincing 18th-century wreck, suddenly made chilling sense. They hadn’t just survived; they had integrated, disappeared, woven themselves into the fabric of a past that wasn't their own. And they had done so with a clear objective: to leave no discernible trace, to ensure history remained undisturbed until its designated future.

“They wanted to be found,” Emerson murmured, a new thought solidifying. “But not now. Not like this.” The plaque was a message, but perhaps the timing of its discovery was a mistake, an accidental breach of a deliberate historical silence. The implications of revealing this truth were monstrous. Entire fields of study could be upended. The very concept of linear time, of cause and effect, would shatter.

Just then, a commotion from the deck above filtered down through the ship’s hull. The muffled shouts of crew members, the distant thrum of an unfamiliar engine cutting through the rhythmic lapping of waves against the research vessel. Emerson and Olivia exchanged a look of mild irritation. They had imposed strict no-visitor rules, especially after the latest, more perplexing finds.

“Go see what that is, will you, Ben?” Emerson called out to a nearby technician, still poring over digital scans of the baffling electronic devices.

Before Ben could move, the lab door swung open. A deckhand, looking flustered, poked his head in. “Dr. Hancock, Dr. Springer, sorry to interrupt. There’s a… a visitor. Insisting on seeing you.”

“Insisting?” Olivia raised an eyebrow. “Have security send them away. We’re in lockdown.”

“He’s already here, ma’am. Pulled up in a small motorboat, came right alongside. Said it was urgent. And… he mentioned something about the wreck. Something specific.” The deckhand looked genuinely unnerved.

Emerson felt a prickle of unease. Specific? How could anyone outside their immediate, highly vetted team know anything specific about the true nature of this wreck? She exchanged a glance with Olivia, who, despite her usual calm demeanor, also seemed to sense an impending unraveling.

“Alright, show him in. But only him,” Emerson instructed, her voice firm, a subtle warning in her tone.

Moments later, a young man stepped into the meticulously organized chaos of the lab. He was lean, with sun-bleached hair and eyes that held an unnerving intensity. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five, dressed in simple waterproof gear, looking more like an independent diver than an official contact. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering briefly on the holographic projector, then on the strange, brightly colored containers.

He walked directly towards Emerson, his movements purposeful. “Dr. Emerson Hancock?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly calm, despite the tension radiating from him.

“That’s me,” Emerson replied, his posture stiffening instinctively. Olivia moved to stand beside him, a silent guardian.

The young man met Emerson’s gaze, unblinking. “My name is Jason. Jason Argonaut.” He paused, letting the name hang in the air. “And I’m a descendant of the Remus One crew.”

A jolt, cold and sharp, went through Emerson. The air in the lab grew thick, suddenly devoid of sound save for the distant hum of the research vessel’s engines. Olivia’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly beside her.

Jason’s eyes, bright and knowing, searched Emerson’s face. “Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”

Emerson’s mind raced. The holographic log, the ‘unrecorded’ history, the immense, terrifying weight of the secret they now bore. This young man, a tangible link to that impossible past-future, now stood before them, confirming their most outlandish fears. To speak the truth, to confirm it verbally, felt like tearing a hole in the fabric of time itself. It was forbidden, a betrayal of the Remus One crew’s sacrifice.

His gaze flickered to Olivia, then back to Jason. She took a slow, deliberate breath. Her lips remained sealed. Instead, she performed a minuscule, almost imperceptible nod. A tightening of the eyes, a fractional tilt of her chin. A signal. Affirmative. Yes, I know exactly what you’re talking about.

A flicker of relief, mingled with something akin to grim determination, crossed Jason Argonaut’s face. He understood. He saw the recognition, the burden, in her eyes. The secret, the terrible, magnificent truth, was shared. And the unspoken command, the desperate plea from centuries past, resonated in the silent lab: You must never reveal what you have found. It was meant to be found in the distant future. Knowledge of your find has not been recorded by history. Revealing it could change time and history itself.

The reality settled over Emerson with crushing weight. Their discovery wasn’t just a scientific breakthrough; it was a sacred trust, a temporal paradox they were now sworn to protect. The true work, the most dangerous work, had only just begun.