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Geoffrey Charles marched down the empty corridor, hoping to reach the Professor before she left the nursery. He carried a briefcase filled with ancient papers. He passed by the doors until he reached the ones numbered in the 500s.
"501, 502, 503," he read as he passed. 503 was the Professor's office. He stopped to reset his posture before walking through the doorway as it dilated.
Professor Anneliese was alerted instantly to his presence. "Welcome, student!" she exclaimed, motioning for him to sit down across from him at her round desk. "What brings my favorite student to my workplace?"
Geoffrey stifled a laugh. He was sure the Professor called all of his students her "favorite". Somehow still, she seemed to be entirely genuine.
The Professor knew exactly why he was there---he was reporting on an assignment she had given. Besides, she had access to all of her students work. No one could hide a secret from her.
Despite his recognition of this game---or maybe because of it, he played along: "The papers from 5421. We're done analyzing them."
"Excellent!" said the Professor, waiting for him to continue.
"They are authentic documents, with invaluable insight into a mind of a slave during the UISR revolution."
"What kind of insight?" she asked. The Professor was obviously still toying with him. She knew the significance of the discovery before he had a clue. This time, he decided to call her out.
"You know everything I could ever know about the papers. Why quiz me?" His words might be disrespectful to any other teacher, but the Professor liked her students to stay to-the-point when they talked with her. "Etiquette isn't epistemology," she would often remind them.
She smiled. "I want you to consider the papers' meaning. What can we do with them?"
Geoffrey squinted. "We'll study them, then file them away with the others. History sleeps eternally. We'll have time to look them over later."
"No. No. No." she said slowly. Her face hardened. "What if we could do more? What if we could use these scraps of paper to bring history to life?"
"Isn't that what we're doing? We're storing them for the future. Students centuries to come will know about James, resident of 5421 who became an important force in the revolution. We'll always have a glimpse into the life of someone who lived in one of the most treacherous times of history. Heck, even though he's dead, he benefits from this. His name lives on."
The Professor's smile returned. Either she found his words endearingly amusing or laughably naive. "But what if," she started, focusing on his face, keeping their attention locked. "What if we could save these papers, not only for future generations, but for past ones as well?"
Now Geoffrey laughed to ease his frustration. "Professor, you like asking 'What if?' Could you speak plainly to me as you have us speak to you?"
The Professor tensed slightly, as if preparing for a violent response. "We historians love learning about the past. It brings us sweet joy to learn about our ancestors, the way they lived, and how their lives in the past shaped the world we know today."
Geoffrey nodded. What person wouldn't want to know their great-great grandparents? He would love to understand their lives, to learn from their experiences.
"What if it worked the other way?" she continued. "What if, instead of learning about the past in the present, those in the present learned about the future?"
He said nothing for a moment, staring at her. She was serious. The implications started flowing out of his mouth as they came to mind: "If we could see the future, we could learn all kinds of things. We could correct our mistakes before we make them. We could fix society's path and avoid the results of bad choices." It was impossible---hopelessly utopian, but the Professor couldn't be joking.
The Professor's soft smile reshaped into a full grin: the king you show to the child who doesn't realize the impossibility of their adventurous plans to travel to the moon in their cardboard freezer box. She sighed, "If only it were so easy."
"What do you mean?" Geoffrey asked. He was right so far. What did he miss? The Professor had proposed the idea. If anyone was fantasizing, she was. Did she have something else in mind?
"It would be foolish for the past to know the future's secrets. Imagine the Aztecs with 20th century nuclear weapons to disintegrate their enemies. Imagine if Hitler had the Internet of the 2000s. He would have a database of everyone in his empire. The Jews and anyone who protected would find hiding almost impossible."
He laughed at the thought, aware of how morbid it sounded. An objection flew out of his mouth before he considered it, "Couldn't we do better? What if we are responsible with the future's technology?"
"I see you have joined my game of 'What if?'s," she chuckled. "No. I don't believe we would, or even could, be more responsible. No matter how hard we tried."
Geoffrey sighed. He wasn't sure if he agreed. The Professor seemed to be relying on the misanthropic idea that humans were basically evil.
"Then why did you bring up the idea?" he asked.
The Professor now grinned genuinely. He asked the question she wanted him to ask, redeeming him from his previous failing. "We can't be trusted with the future. It is beyond us. But we can be trusted with the past."
He asked the next obvious question, once again playing her game of dialogue. "But did you just say the people of our past also can't be trusted with modern technology? The Aztecs and Nazis, as you said."
"Of course." she replied, throwing up her arms in preparation for her conclusion. "But I don't want to give the past technology."
The Professor waited quietly as Geoffrey connected the dots. If not technology, what? They were historians. They would give *history* to the past. Geoffrey beamed. Why not? If they did it responsibly, past people would learn about their descendants. The ancient would learn about the modern. Mother about daughter. Grandfather about grandchild. Up endless generations.
But could this be done?
---
During the following years, Professor Anneliese of the University of Unituwah worked with her students on a new project. It was initially called "An Attempt to Relate to the Past by Means of Historical Records." That's what you get when university students with needlessly vast vocabularies get naming rights.
But as their research solidified and became more public, they needed a better name. A name that would resonate with the people of the present and the past. Everyone who heard it should instantly understand their mission. It should also be catchy.
The project eventually broke off from the University and became its own independent organization, run privately by volunteer historians and scientist who wished for ancient peoples to know the future. They were able to accomplish their goal, and while the means are highly classified for the sake of the integrity of history, those of the 21st century began to learn about the lives of those of the 24th.
The new organization also got its own name: The Reverse Historical Institute. RHI for short.