The Zeno Paradox

An homage to The Twilight Zone

The Twilight Zone redefined storytelling, drawing audiences into the unimaginable. Now, 66 years later, top writers, artists, and musicians are stepping into its eerie glow with a fresh twist. Ready to see where they’ll take you?

Liz Zimmers | Edith Bow | Sean Archer | Bryan Pirolli | Andy Futuro | CB Mason | John Ward | NJ | Hanna Delaney | William Pauley III | Jason Thompson | Nolan Green | Shaina Read | J. Curtis | Honeygloom | Stephen Duffy | K.C. Knouse | Michele Bardsley | Bob Graham | Annie Hendrix | Clancy Steadwell | Jon T | Sean Thomas McDonnell | Miguel S. | A.P Murphy | Lisa Kuznak | Bridget Riley | EJ Trask | Shane Bzdok | Adam Rockwell | Will Boucher

---

The Zeno Paradox | an homage

As the elevator descended, Hanna heard screaming. Already, she could feel the vibration of its warble on her skin as the steel box moved closer. She looked at the buttons on the control panel—Up or Down. Any normal elevator would have an emergency stop switch or a call box. A third option. But here, nothing. Pass or fail.

“Binary,” she thought. Just like the system her father had devised—a system built around simple choices, his.

The doors opened, sirens ringing from every corner as lights flashed. She paused, closing her eyes, taking a long deep breath through her nose. Waiting a moment, it came out in one long exhale. She tried like hell not to let it take her breath, but as the sound grew louder, her heart raced.

As Hanna exited the elevator, the brickwork appeared to vibrate, pulsing in rhythm with the emergency lighting. From memory she followed the long corridor leading past the galley, its stainless steel surfaces reflecting the flashing lights. Then a control room, glowing with the light from dozens of screens. The structure, she thought, was unchanged—yet somehow different, lived in.

All paths led to the main room: a library and the portal. In the cacophony she spotted him—Captain McDonnell. He stood rigid and hunched, staring intently at a tablet computer. Still in his uniform, maybe always, his name badge caught the glow of a clock on the wall: 2:50… 2:51…

“C’mon, Thompson, make a decision,” McDonnell said to the screen on his tablet as if willing something to happen. Hanna hadn’t met him in person, but she knew his type—all brass buttons and soulless efficiency. It was his call that had awakened her just yesterday.

McDonnell was courteous, if officious, until the pretense was over, “We need your help.”

Wait, was it help he asked for? No, he phrased it differently. McDonnell had said, “Warren requested you.” Her skin ran cold, her father’s name used colloquially for a machine. But McDonnell didn’t elaborate further, simply providing transportation details and a schedule that led to now.

McDonnell’s words reverberated in her head as she stood there, the lights making caverns of the library. And then she wondered, standing in this carefully manufactured world, whether he—or rather, it, The Nexus—had requested Hanna, or Bunny, her father’s pet name for her, the one he’d use to coax her participation.

02:53… 02:53…

Hanna watched the clock. Did it just skip? Maybe she blinked and missed it, the way a TV sometimes does when you glance away for a moment.

02:54… 02:55…

She looked at the room; it hadn’t changed much in the twenty-some years since she’d been here. The clock was new, but the portal, the blacked-out round door that led to the simulation chamber, was the same. The library, too, was an extension of her father’s penchant for modern simplicity: a tidy seating area flanked by parallel bookshelves holding a relief map of world events rendered in text. Each book a precise transcription of humanity’s key events.

Her eyes moved along the stacks, ticking off subjects—Napoleonic Wars, Victory or Retreat, partition of India, the space race. They were reference materials, studied for use in the simulation chamber—scenarios where judgment and consequence had already been rendered.

02:56… 02:57…

Another siren, a different one, rang out. The clock stopped, numbers frozen as the lights stopped blinking. In the silence, she heard McDonnell’s ape-like breathing in heavy heaves. Still staring at his tablet, he watched the network map—a spider web with one node blinking red, then yellow—finally turned green. A signal that the system could continue.

For all its vast reach as a predictive learning machine, The Nexus still had to wait for a human response. Her father had built it that way, purposefully limiting its capabilities. As if tying one hand behind its back or making it stoop—if for only a few minutes—handicapping the system just enough to force humanity to intervene.

McDonnell exhaled in one final huff as he straightened, seemingly as relieved as the system itself.

“Captain,” Hanna said aloud.

McDonnell spun around, surprised. “Dr. Lightman.”

She gave a faint smile, the one she reserved for eager students or the lingering guest at a cocktail party who would rather talk about her father than any work she had published. It wasn’t unkind, she thought, just the necessary one, the one that kept herself at arm's length.

He seemed relieved to see her, still paying more attention to the tablet than the forced guest. His tablet beeped as the clock reset: zero.

The portal spun open as a man, drenched in sweat, fell to the floor. Hanna watched as McDonnell helped him to a seat in the library. McDonnell handed the man a bottle of water as he sat down, his breath rasping. They watched as he drank the entire contents, as though quenching a weeklong thirst.

Thompson’s hands trembled as he looked at McDonnell. “What was the time?”

“Too damned close. We were almost locked out,” McDonnell answered.

Hanna stood, hands neatly clasped in front. She knew this was the way, an affectation for hiding her nervousness.

Waiting for Thompson to regain his composure, she spotted the painting. She didn’t have to read the nameplate to know the face: Dr. Warren Lightman. Of course her father’s portrait would be hung prominently in the library. The watchful eye of the creator, his gaze focused somewhere off on the horizon, toward the portal. His look in the painting was different from those commissioned for biographies, the ones with a piercing stare, suited for stark black and white dust jacket covers. This one, she thought, was more hopeful, enigmatic. This look was for posterity—his subtle way of denoting that he would forever oversee every choice made in the room, tethering them all to his vision.

“I wasn’t ready for the rumble,” Thompson said, his voice shaking. “My stomach dropped before I was pulled down into the seat. The weight was intense…” He paused, the memory clearly unsettling him. “I could see the patches on their suits.”

“A new simulation?” McDonnell asked.

“Yes,” Thompson whispered, his voice barely audible. “Onizuka, Resnik… I was beside them.”

McDonnell thought for a moment, then his face dropped. “Jesus, the Challenger…”