Michael Remembers Books 1Vassar Smith / Actions & Adventure / Science Fiction
(A Novel in Three Parts)
By V. W. Smith
MIDNIGHT EXPRESS BOOKS
Copyright © 2010 by V. W. Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein. Note that this material is subject to change without notice.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters are totally from the imagination of the author and depict no persons, living or dead; any similarity is totally coincidental.
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Berryville AR 72616
Then I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth.
This nightmare came upon me:
It seemed to me that then
I’d somehow been born over
And had to live again.
April 8, 2301—April 30, 2356
My name is Michael Tadlock. I am a historian. Some would tell me to put that second statement in the past tense or the future, since I cannot officially work as a historian until I am an adult again. But I am still a historian. Nothing else quite so interests, indeed fascinates me as human history. It seems ironic, then, that I don’t remember my own childhood—my original childhood—very well. It’s not that I have bad memories of it, just very few from that time, thanks to the Retrogression Procedure.
One of those memories is a gift from my uncle on my birthday when I turned nine. He gave me a fine, gold-plated, old-fashioned writing pen and a green, leather-bound book of blank pages. He told me that, though few people do so nowadays, centuries ago cultured people would keep a written record of their daily activities, even of their thoughts and conversations that they wanted to preserve for reference. They wrote such things down every day, or nearly every day. The book was called a diary or a journal, after the Latin and French words for a daily record.
It seemed like a neat idea at the time, so I tried it—for about three days. It wasn’t that I didn’t like writing. It was just that, for a nine-year-old, most days are so much alike, for one thing, and, for another, it’s hard to distinguish the salient from the superfluous. Within a week the beautiful pen and book that Uncle James had given me lay unused in my desk drawer.
This time I’m determined to keep a record, to preserve the story of my life, or, to put it more accurately, my lives. This time I’m writing on a computer disk, and I’ll make both backup disks and hard copies. I’ll keep them somewhere safe. I may look like the same little boy who started a diary on the day he turned nine years old. But that day was over 45 years ago.