He didn’t know how it worked. Hell, he didn’t know what it did. But he would try it.

The console was recovered from the alien base found on Titan in 2144, then stolen by Typhon Technology. It was a chair, a terminal, and five more chairs in plastic domes. Two years with a gaggle of private experts, and all they knew was that you sat in the chair, entered a number and turned it on. Henry Typhon intended to do just that. He was tired of waiting.

He picked the number 5. Not too small, not too large. He sweated, hesitated – then pressed.

A strange green light flooded the domes – when it receded, Henry was astonished. Inside each was Henry Typhon – and it looked like the leftmost one was a few years older than he himself was. And the next one, a few years more. Each Henry was mouthing words, looking surprised. Wait – all but the last one.

The Henry on the right was bashing his head against the plastic, and was clearly screaming. Blood and bits of bone smeared the inside. Then, he stopped. A dead stop.