WorldConputer-5000 reviewed the agenda. “Bring me Grrrr Martin!” it roared.

“But Your Highness, he perished in a tragic trampoline accident 27 years ago,” said Bobby the Intern just before his shock collar went off.

“Then bring what’s left of him!”

***

“…stupid Conputer. Stupid internship,” Bobby muttered under his breath as he pushed the gruesome cart through the dank tunnel.

“Shh. Someone may overhear,” said Inga as she stepped out of the shadows. Bobby liked her: she always decorated her shock collar with fresh flowers, a luxury from above.

They hugged the wall as a squad of Tesloids marched by. Each Tesloid was an LLC, and thus a corporation, and thus had more rights than a mere intern.

“Do you ever dream about, um, the future?” Bobby asked as he and Inga slowly pushed the cart.

“Only all the time,” she said with a rueful smile.

“I want to become a full citizen,” Bobby said, “but I can’t handle 25 more years of this.” He didn’t specify. He didn’t have to.

Inga put her left hand on his shoulder. “Well, we can always become writers.”

At that, a terrible shriek emanated from a deep tunnel.

“Someone missed a deadline again.”

“How did it ever get this way?” Bobby asked. Inga always knew things others didn’t.

“Ever hear of exponential growth?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Well, it’s when something grows forever, without bounds. It can get out of hand pretty fast…” Her voice trailed off.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s say there were 673 short story nominees in 2025,” Inga said.

“Okay.”

“And in 2026, that number went up by 15%.

“Sure.”

“And then someone centralized the Worldcon by building that monstrosity, and it demanded 15% more output each year.”

“But that’s… That’s…”

“Unsustainable, yeah.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a wretched-looking hairy creature wearing a burlap sack. It ran out of a side tunnel, clutching a filthy keyboard.

“You’ll never get me alive!” the feral writer shouted as three Tesloids gave chase.

They disappeared out of sight. No screams followed.

“Things can’t go on like this,” Bobby said once his heartbeat finally slowed down. “There must be something – anything – we can do.”

Inga stopped and gave him a slow, appraising look.

“Tell me,” she said slowly, “have you ever heard of time travel?”

“Pfft. Fairy tales,” he said with an eyeroll.

Inga’s expression didn’t change. Could it be… Was it possible this wasn’t a prank?

“No way,” he whispered, his eyes wide.

“I’m with the Resistance, Bobby. We have a working prototype. Join us – join me – go back in time, change this timeline.”

“…I’m in.”

“I knew you would be.”

THE END

This short story (flash fiction, really, at 443 words) was written completely spontaneously, when I got visited by a muse. (The muse took the form of a bowl full of pasta with ketchup. Mmmm, carb rush…) I was reading this excellent Bluesky thread by Abigail Nussbaum, a Hugo Award-winning critic and author. In her thread regarding the future of the Worldcon, she wrote, “One thing that the reactions to this thread have really crystalized for me is how amorphous the demand to centralize the running of the Worldcon actually is. After years of having this conversation, I still haven’t seen even a vague sketch of what it would look like.”

The words “even a vague sketch” inspired me, the first skeet came unbidden, and then, well… It was too much fun to stop at just one!

And now, dear reader, there is at least one vague sketch of what the centralized Worldcon would look like. (A very very unserious sketch, but a sketch nonetheless.) You can read my original skeet thread over here. (Yes, we call them “skeets” over yonder. No, we won’t change.)

…it would be pretty funny if after everything I’ve written, after all the sci-fi films I’ve made, this got nominated for the Best Related Work. Heh.