Rita Reddington sat alone amidst the boisterous din that packed Hilda’s tavern. Her fingers habitually toyed with the dice in her hand, a silent invitation, hoping someone, anyone, would take a seat at her table and challenge her to a game of chance. But those days were long gone. No one wanted to play with her anymore. Rita always won. Her legendary wrist control allowed her to dictate the outcome of any dice roll. Name a number between one and six, place your coins, and if Rita rolled anything but that, you’d win ten times your bet. Her last contender, Mirena Veilstorm, had been apoplectic with rage when she lost, expressing her displeasure by pulling a pistol and aiming it squarely at Rita’s head. “How about a game of Russian Roulette for Rita the cheater?”
Mirena, however, hadn’t picked the best venue for intimidation. Hilda’s tavern teemed with Reddington sisters. Lori Reddington had been the first to materialize at Rita’s side. “Why don’t you put that gun away and play nice, Mirena? Otherwise, I might just have to call Blaze over there, and we all know she hates being disturbed when she drinks.” Rita smiled at the memory; Mirena had taken one look at Blaze chugging down a pint of ale, her scowl a force of nature, and backed down immediately. But winning, Rita knew, was bad for business, and the pervasive gossip of “Rita the Cheater” had ensured she hadn’t had a game in months.
Hence, Rita was pleasantly surprised when a beautiful woman with a shock of long ginger hair pulled up a chair at her table. “It’s not often we see Torqueburns in this fine establishment,” Rita said, extending a hand to her new companion.
“Trust me,” the woman replied, her voice tinged with weariness, “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate.”
“Well, pick a number and place your coin.”
The woman, Tempora, placed a surprisingly large pile of coins on the table. “I didn’t come here to play games. But I need your help.”
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Rita’s eyes gleamed with a familiar greed, assessing the substantial funds before her. “And how may I be of assistance?”
Tempora took a deep breath, knowing her question might sound utterly insane. “Am I mad for doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result?”
Rita hadn’t indulged in philosophy for some time, but the coins were persuasive. “Not if you’re rolling a dice. Why do you ask?”
Tempora hesitated, cautious about revealing too much, yet desperate for answers. “Let’s say I invented a time machine. But every time I go back to the present moment, the future unfolds exactly the same way. It’s a future I don’t like, and I was wondering, what can I do to change it?”
Rita, of course, didn’t believe in time travel, but with a pile of coins on her table and days of boredom stretching behind her, she chose to indulge the conversation. “Randomness is baked into the fabric of reality. The element of chance must be factored into our reasoning and explanation of the universe.”
Tempora slammed her fist on the table, the coins jumping. “Speak English! What do you mean? Is it possible to change the future or not?!”
Rita didn’t flinch, though her eyes meticulously tracked the coins that rolled off the table after Tempora’s outburst. “Basically, if you want an entropic split, you need to make sure a lot of people do something different in order to increase the chance of a probabilistic divergence.”
Tempora was growing irritated. She was smart; she had invented time travel, for heavens’ sake, but Rita was speaking in riddles. “Give me an example.”
“I can do better. How about a demonstration?” Rita rolled a single die across the table. “The result is always between one and six.” She then pulled out a handful of dice, seven of them, and rolled them across the worn wood. “This total result can be anything from seven to forty-two. The more dice I roll, the more possible results. If you want to change the future,” Rita concluded, her eyes locking onto Tempora’s, “don’t try to do it alone.”
