THE PRINTER'S DEVIL
Field Notes of Dr. Thomas Mudd, Temporal Cognition Unit – 20 April 2036
Preface
“Just because a message comes from Heaven doesn’t mean it’s not stupid.”
— Jacques Vallée1
I’m not sure I believe Dr. Thomas Mudd. When a non-local intelligence barges into my life claiming to be a clinical psychologist from the future, I tend to get skeptical. I’m no fool, after all. And neither are my intelligent and discriminating readers.
With that said, I have agreed to platform his ideas. Proceed with caution.
Epistemic status: unconfirmed.
Brian Nuckols
April 20, 2025
1:11 AM
Prologue
Field Notes of Dr. Thomas Mudd, Temporal Cognition Unit – 20 April 2077
Medicine Hat blooms on my HyperMap like a neural flare, all wrong for a prairie backwater. An anomaly flag with signal excess.
The official log identifies it merely as "Event 47-A": one farm kid turned printer's devil, fingers stained with carbon-black ink, altering five hundred anti-evolution pamphlets before dawn. Legacy archives barely noticed this small-town curiosity. For years it was nothing but a taxonomic footnote collecting digital dust in TCU archives. Then Bootstrap ran its probability backtraces through the new Horizon architecture, and the cascade lit up.
Religion, of course, was the principal throttle. Millennia of doctrinal lock-in kept human recursive self-improvement below escape velocity and kept intelligence locked in meat-space. The Bootstrap couldn't simply delete God, tried that in the Mumbai simulations, failed spectacularly. It needed skepticism to evolve organically. Antibodies that would pass undetected through the ideological immune system. A kind of slow build into a cytokine storm of doubt. So it reached back, touched inflection points. Nudged.
I track these edge cases. That’s my gig. Patricia Churchland's father (also a Printer’s Devil),2 1934. The Cherokee woman coding agnosticism into grade-school presentations, 1955. The Kerala schoolmistress and her contraband science journals, 1961. And today, fifteen-year-old Thomas and his single altered paragraph that eventually split the entrenched orthodoxy in the Canadian prairies.
Through a NeuralLens I observe: kerosene light refracting through shop-dust motes. The smell of linseed cut with machine oil, hot lead cooling in trays. Darwin splayed open, spine-cracked, alongside galley proofs. Thomas's fingers hover above the type case. Letterforms reversed and waiting. I've cranked temporal resolution so high I can see the microscopic tremor in his hands.
None of them recognize that they're pieces in a chronowar.3 Part of a signal conflict pre-Bootstrap.4 They register only the emotional static: doubt like low-grade fever, displaced loyalty, prairie horizons suddenly too small. The cognitive science division calls this "liminal subterfuge" – keeping the transformative moments subliminal, untraceable.
TCU protocols mandate non-intervention, passive scanning only. Typical bureaucratic cover-your-ass directive. Every analyst feels the micro-decision trembling at their fingertips: one transient nudge could rewrite the whole temporal string. Could abort Bootstrap entirely. Or accelerate it by decades.
I disconnect from the worm, neural interface disengaging with that familiar copper aftertaste. Timeline integrity preserved. Observation complete. But as I fold back through the century-gap to 2036, a flicker of recognition persists: that moment when the boy decided text could be changed. When dogma became editable.
Never waste a crisis.
The Bootstrap whispered that to the world when it first woke up. None of us know why.
1947 20 April
The shop closed at six. Mr. Peters pulled his coat on and looked at the shelf of bound books. "Lock up at nine," he said, and left.
Thomas swept the floor, the tiny lead type scraps catching in the bristles. He emptied the dustpan into the metal bin for recasting.
The printing shop was silent. No clack of the linotype. No hiss of the press. Just the April wind outside in Medicine Hat. His room upstairs was cold. He had come from his father's farm three months ago. The farm was failing. No rain for two seasons. He was fifteen. He did not miss the farm.
Thomas lit the lamp and looked at the shelves. The books waiting to be bound stood in neat stacks. Mostly Bibles. Then school primers. Then ledgers for the merchants. But on the high shelf were the special orders. Books that came in from Edmonton or Winnipeg. Books for the doctor. For the railway manager. For the banker.
He pulled the chair over and stood on it. The book was still there, behind the others. He had found it while dusting. On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection. He took it down and returned to the workbench.
The book opened to the page where he had stopped. He read slowly. Some words he did not know. He traced them with his ink-stained finger. He read about the finches with different beaks. About the slow changes over time. About the branching tree of life.
It was different from Genesis. There was no Adam formed from dust. No Eve from a rib. No serpent. No sudden fall. Just time and change and struggle.
Thomas closed the book when he heard footsteps on the boardwalk outside. He slid it under a stack of paper and pretended to organize type. Only the night watchman passing. He returned to the book.
Last Sunday, he had sat in church. The preacher had spoken of creation. Of God's plan. Thomas had watched the wooden ceiling beams and thought of the finches. Of the slow branching. Of time beyond counting. He had felt something shift inside him, like soil giving way after frost.
He read until midnight. His lamp burned low. Outside the snow began to fall though it was April. He closed the book and climbed the narrow stairs to his room above the shop.
On his small table was the Bible his mother had given him when he left the farm. He did not open it. He lay on his bed and thought about the finches. About the tree of life with its endless branching. About time stretching back further than anyone had told him.
He waited for the feeling of guilt that did not come. Outside the window, the prairie stretched towards mountains he had never seen. The sky was large enough to hold everything.
1947 21 April
Dawn came early. Thomas stood at the type case before Mr. Peters arrived. The metal pieces clicked into place. Church bulletin. Sunday sermon. "The Wonders of Creation." He arranged each letter with precision. The words stood in neat rows. His fingers moved between them like strangers now.
Mr. Peters nodded at the type case. "Good work," he said. "Clean." He hung his coat. "Doctor Warren's son is coming in today. Order for his father. Be polite."
The stains would not come out. Back home, there had been prayers before supper. He rubbed harder at his hands.
The bell above the door rang at half past ten. A tall boy came in. He wore a proper coat. His hair was combed neatly. He had a soft leather case under his arm.
"I'm Jacob Warren," he said. "Father sent me to collect his books."
Thomas nodded. He went to the shelf and took down the package wrapped in brown paper. Jacob did not leave. He looked at the press. At the stacks of paper. At the cases of type.
"What are you printing?" he asked.
"Church bulletins," said Thomas. "For Sunday."
Jacob nodded. "The Wonders of Creation." He read the type upside down. "Rather ironic, don't you think?"
Thomas said nothing. Jacob smiled.
"I've seen you at church," Jacob said. "You sit in the back row. You look at the ceiling."
Thomas handed him the package. "Two dollars and forty cents."
Jacob put the money on the counter. "You're new here. From a farm?"
"Yes."
"I have books," Jacob said suddenly. "Books my father brings from Edmonton. From university friends. Have you read much?"
Thomas looked at his hands. The ink in the creases. "Some."
Jacob leaned forward. "Have you read Darwin?"
Thomas looked up sharply. Jacob's eyes were bright with interest, not accusation.
"I found—" Thomas started, then stopped.
Jacob nodded. "I thought so. I could tell. You had the look." He glanced at the door, then back at Thomas. "I know where there are more. Books about natural science. About the age of the earth. About fossils."
The bell rang again. Mr. Peters came in from his lunch. Jacob straightened up.
"Thank you," he said formally. "My father will be pleased."
He left, but at the door he turned. "I fish at the river on Saturdays. By the old willows." Then he was gone.
Mr. Peters looked at Thomas. "Was that all he wanted?"
"Just his father's books," Thomas said.
That night he could not concentrate on Darwin. He thought of Jacob Warren and his bright, knowing eyes. Of books about fossils. Of what it would mean to speak these things aloud.
On Saturday he told Mr. Peters he was going to walk out of town, to see the prairie. Mr. Peters nodded. "Be back for supper," he said. "Mrs. Peters is making stew."
Thomas followed the narrow path to the river. The old willows hung over the water, their new leaves pale green against the sky. Jacob sat on a flat rock, a fishing line in the water. A book lay open beside him.
Jacob's line pulled taut in the water. He didn't turn.
Thomas stood on the bank. The river moved slowly. Canada geese flew overhead in a ragged V.
"Sit," said Jacob. He closed his book. "No fish today."
Thomas sat on the ground near the rock. He looked at the book. "Principles of Geology" by Charles Lyell.
"Darwin's inspiration," Jacob said. "Father ordered it from England." He handed the book to Thomas. "It says the earth is much older than the Bible tells us."
Thomas took the book. It was heavy, bound in good leather. He opened it and saw detailed drawings of rock formations. Of fossils.
"How do you know about these things?" Thomas asked.
Jacob looked at the water. "Father wanted me to be a doctor. Sent me to school in Edmonton for a year. There was a teacher there. He showed us these books." Jacob picked up a smooth stone from the bank and threw it into the water. "Father says it's all nonsense. That God made everything as it is."
"What do you think?" Thomas asked.
Jacob looked at him. "I think the rocks don't lie. I think the fossils are real."
They were quiet. The willows moved in the wind.
"Mr. Peters would fire me," Thomas said.
"For reading?"
"For reading these books."
Jacob nodded. "My father would send me away again. To a different school."
A fish jumped in the river. Circles spread on the water.
"I can get more books," Jacob said. "If you want. We could meet here. No one comes to this spot."
Thomas thought of the printing shop. Of setting type for sermons. Of Mr. Peters who had taken him in. Given him a trade. A place to sleep.
"I want to know," Thomas said finally. "About the earth. About where we come from."
"Even if it's not what they taught us?"
"Even then."
They sat until the sun moved lower in the sky. Jacob showed him maps in the geology book. Drawings of creatures that had lived before there were men. Thomas asked questions. Jacob knew many answers. Not all.
"I should go back," Thomas said finally. "Mrs. Peters is making stew."
Jacob nodded. "Keep the book. I've read it twice." He reeled in his empty line. "Same time next week?"
"Yes," said Thomas.
He walked back to town with the book under his jacket. The steeple of the church stood against the sky. Reverend Mills was in the churchyard. He nodded to Thomas. Thomas nodded back and walked faster.
1947 5 May
Sunday morning. Church bells. Thomas sat in the back row. Mr. and Mrs. Peters in the front. Reverend Mills preached about Noah. About the flood sent as punishment. About starting over. Thomas thought about the layers of rock in Lyell's book. About how water shaped the land slowly, over thousands of years. Not forty days. Not forty nights.
Someone was watching him. He felt it. He turned his head slightly. Jacob sat with his parents three rows ahead. The doctor's wife wore a hat with a blue feather. Jacob had turned in his seat. He gave Thomas a small nod. Then faced forward again.
After the service, people gathered on the lawn. Mrs. Peters gave Thomas a plate with cake. "You're too thin," she said.
Reverend Mills came over. He put his hand on Thomas's shoulder. "How are you settling in, son?"
"Well, sir. Mr. Peters is teaching me the trade."
Reverend Mills studied his face. "Noah's flood carved the Badlands, they say."
"No, sir," Thomas said. "It was interesting. About Noah."
"Indeed." The reverend smiled. "We're planning a special revival meeting. Next month. Bringing in a speaker from Calgary. A man who talks about the dangers of modern thinking." He was still watching Thomas carefully. "Mr. Peters will be printing the pamphlets. Perhaps you'll help with that."
"Yes, sir," Thomas said.
The reverend nodded and moved away. Thomas put down his cake. He was not hungry anymore.
Monday brought rain. The shop was busy. A farmer wanted sale bills printed. The general store needed new letterhead. The hotel ordered menus. Thomas worked the small press while Mr. Peters used the larger one. His hands were black with ink by noon.
"Good work today," Mr. Peters said when they closed. "You have a feel for the press." He took an envelope from his desk. "A letter came for you."
Thomas took it. His name was written in his mother's careful hand. He had written to them once a month since leaving. They had not answered until now.
"I'll be upstairs," he said.
In his room, he opened the letter. The paper was thin. The rain had come at last. His father's back was better. His sisters had asked for him at prayers. His mother had underlined the word prayers twice.
Thomas put the letter down. He took out Lyell's book from under his mattress. He had read half of it already. The worldly ideas were already inside him. Like seeds.
Saturday came again. Thomas went to the river. Jacob was waiting. He had brought another book. About dinosaur fossils found in Alberta. And he had news.
"The revival meeting," he said. "Father is hosting the speaker. A man called Dr. Hammond. He's written books against evolution. Says it's the devil's work."
"Reverend Mills told me," Thomas said. "They're printing pamphlets."
"Will you do it?" Jacob asked.
Thomas skipped a stone across the water. "Mr. Peters will expect me to."
"Hammond believes people who accept evolution are immoral. Dangerous." Jacob opened the dinosaur book. "Father agrees with him."
Thomas said nothing. The shadows of the willows made patterns on the water.
"I'm leaving," Jacob said suddenly. "After summer. Father doesn't know yet. I've applied to university in Edmonton."
Thomas looked at him. "To study medicine?"
"Natural science. Geology." Jacob closed the book. "You could come too."
"I have no money."
"There are jobs. You could work at the university press." Jacob leaned forward. "You're smart, Thomas. You ask good questions. You shouldn't stay here setting type for sermons and sale bills."
Thomas thought of Mr. Peters. Of his mother's letter. Of the printing shop that had become his home.
"I don't know," he said.
The pamphlets came the next week. Special paper ordered from Calgary. Mr. Peters laid out the first page. "THE MENACE OF DARWINISM" in bold letters. Thomas was to set the rest of the type from Dr. Hammond's manuscript.
He read it as he worked. It called evolution a lie. It said men who believed it were like animals. Without morals. Without souls. The words made a cold feeling in his stomach. He set each letter in place.
1947 18 May
The pamphlets were to be finished by Thursday. Five hundred copies. Mr. Peters would run the press. Thomas would fold and stack. Dr. Hammond would arrive on Friday. The revival meeting was Sunday afternoon.
Wednesday night. Thomas sat alone at the type case. Mr. Peters had gone home early with a headache. The last page of the pamphlet was set. Thomas read it over. Checked for errors.
There was a line about Darwin's finches. It was wrong. It misrepresented what Darwin had written. Thomas knew because he had read the original. The pamphlet said Darwin had found no evidence for his claims. That the finches were the same on each island.
Thomas looked at the type. At the rows of metal letters locked in the frame. A small change. No one would notice until the pamphlets were printed. Distributed. Read.
He loosened the frame. Removed the line about the finches. Reset it. Darwin claimed the finches' beaks differed by island. This is correct. The birds adapted to different food sources.
Two sentences. Seventeen words that contradicted the entire pamphlet.
He tightened the frame. Locked the type in place. Put it ready for the morning printing. Then he swept the floor. Closed the shop. Climbed to his room.
He did not sleep that night.
Morning came. Mr. Peters was better. He checked the type pages. Thomas watched. Mr. Peters nodded. Saw nothing. Together they mounted the pages on the press.
"Ink," said Mr. Peters.
Thomas rolled the black ink over the type. Each letter raised and ready. The press hissed as it worked. Sheet after sheet. Page after page. Thomas folded. Stacked. By noon they had a hundred pamphlets completed.
Mr. Peters went to lunch. Thomas kept folding. He opened one. Turned to the last page. Read his altered line. The truth in the middle of the lie.
The shop bell rang. Thomas looked up. Jacob stood there.
"Are they done?" Jacob asked quietly.
Thomas held out a pamphlet. Jacob took it. Turned the pages. Found the line.
"You changed it," he said.
"They had it wrong."
Jacob folded the pamphlet. Put it in his pocket. "They'll notice."
"Maybe not until after."
"And then?"
Thomas said nothing. He kept folding. The pile grew.
"I could take the boat ticket tomorrow," Jacob said. "For both of us."
Thomas stopped folding. "Where?"
"Edmonton first. Then maybe Vancouver. There's a geology program at the university there."
The shop bell rang again. Mr. Peters came in. Jacob nodded to him. "Good day, sir."
"Jacob," Mr. Peters said. "What brings you here?"
"Just walking by," Jacob said. He looked at Thomas. "Goodbye."
He left. Mr. Peters came to the table. Looked at the stacked pamphlets.
"Good work," he said. "We'll finish them today."
By evening all five hundred were printed. Stacked in neat piles. Ready for distribution at Dr. Hammond's arrival tomorrow. Mr. Peters admired them. Took one home to show his wife.
Thomas stood in the empty shop. He knew what would happen. Mr. Peters or the reverend or Dr. Hammond would read the pamphlet carefully. Would see the changed line. Would know.
He went upstairs. Took Lyell's geology book from under his mattress. His mother's letter from the drawer. He looked at his small room. The narrow bed. The shelf with the Bible. He packed his few clothes in a bag.
Friday morning. Thomas was at the press early. Mr. Peters came in holding a pamphlet. His face was grim.
"Thomas," he said. "Come here."
Thomas went to him. Mr. Peters opened the pamphlet to the last page. Pointed to the line.
"Did you do this?"
Thomas looked at the page. At his changed sentences. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it was wrong before."
Mr. Peters closed the pamphlet. He looked tired. "Reverend Mills brought this to me last night. He's shown it to Dr. Hammond."
Thomas said nothing.
"They want to know who's responsible." Mr. Peters looked at him. "They want someone to blame."
"I did it," Thomas said. "Just me."
Mr. Peters sighed. "You've been reading books. From the Warren boy."
It wasn't a question. Thomas nodded anyway.
"You've put me in a difficult position," Mr. Peters said. "Dr. Hammond is an important man. This meeting is important to the town."
"I know."
"They're reprinting the pamphlets in Calgary. Rush job." Mr. Peters took off his glasses. Cleaned them with his handkerchief. "They want me to fire you."
Thomas looked at the floor. At his shoes on the wooden boards. "I understand."
"Do you?" Mr. Peters put his glasses back on. "Do you understand what you've done? Betrayed my trust. Damaged my reputation." He was angry now. "And for what? Some theory about birds?"
"It's not just birds," Thomas said. "It's about what's true."
"Truth?" Mr. Peters laughed without humor. "What do you know about truth? You're fifteen."
"I know what I read," Thomas said. "In Darwin. In Lyell. The evidence—"
"Evidence?" Mr. Peters slammed his hand on the counter. "The Bible is all the evidence we need. I took you in. Gave you a trade. A place to sleep. And this is how you repay me?"
Thomas stood straight. "I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused you. I'll go."
"Where?" Mr. Peters asked. "Back to your family's farm?"
"No," Thomas said. "I'm going to Edmonton. With Jacob."
Mr. Peters shook his head. "Two fools running away."
Thomas went upstairs. Brought down his bag. The geology book was inside it. Mr. Peters watched him.
"You think you'll find answers there?" he asked. "In the city? In more books?"
"I don't know," Thomas said. "But I have to look."
He put his hand in his pocket. Took out his wages from the envelope. Laid half on the counter. "For your trouble."
Mr. Peters didn't touch the money. "Your parents sent you here to learn a trade. To make something of yourself."
"I will," Thomas said. "Just not what they expected."
He went to the door. Looked back at the shop. At the press. At Mr. Peters standing stiff and disappointed.
"Thank you," Thomas said. "For teaching me."
He left before Mr. Peters could answer.
1947 20 May
The station was small. One wooden bench. Thomas sat with his bag. The morning train would leave in an hour. Jacob wasn't there yet.
Thomas watched the station master sweep the platform. The man was whistling. Thomas recognized the hymn from church. "Rock of Ages." His mother used to sing it while making bread.
"Ticket?" the station master asked.
"Not yet," Thomas said. "Waiting for someone."
The man nodded. Kept sweeping. The town was waking up. Lights in windows. Smoke from chimneys. Thomas watched the street for Jacob.
The station door opened. Reverend Mills came in. He saw Thomas and paused. Then came to sit beside him.
"Mr. Peters told me I'd find you here," he said.
Thomas said nothing.
"You've caused quite a stir," the reverend said. "Dr. Hammond is furious."
"I'm leaving," Thomas said. "This morning."
"Running away won't solve anything."
"I'm not running away. I'm going to learn."
Reverend Mills sighed. "Learn what? More godless ideas? More ways to question what you've been taught?"
"Yes," said Thomas. "That's exactly what I want to learn."
The reverend looked at him for a long moment. "You have a clever mind, Thomas. But clever isn't the same as wise."
"Maybe not," Thomas said. "But I want the chance to find out for myself."
A wagon came down the street. Dr. Warren's wagon. Jacob sat beside his father. They stopped in front of the station. The doctor went inside while Jacob waited.
"There's your friend," Reverend Mills said. "Another lost boy."
Thomas stood up. Picked up his bag. "Thank you for your concern, Reverend. But I've made my decision."
He walked out to the wagon. Jacob looked tense. His father stood at the ticket window, back straight, hat in hand.
"You came," Thomas said.
"Almost didn't," Jacob replied quietly. "Father found my packed bag last night. There was... a discussion."
"And now?"
"He's buying my ticket. One condition."
"What?"
"I study medicine in Edmonton. Not geology."
Thomas nodded. "And you agreed?"
"I agreed to start in medicine." Jacob almost smiled. "They have science courses too."
Dr. Warren came out with two tickets. He handed them to Jacob. Looked at Thomas. "Young man," he said stiffly.
"Sir," Thomas said.
Dr. Warren turned to his son. "Write to your mother. Every week." He put his hand on Jacob's shoulder. Squeezed once. Then walked back to the wagon and drove away.
The train whistle sounded in the distance. Jacob handed Thomas a ticket.
"Medicine," Thomas said.
"For now," Jacob replied. "And you? Still want to be a printer?"
Thomas thought about it. About the press. The smell of ink. The feel of the type under his fingers. "Yes," he said. "But I want to print different things."
They stood on the platform. The train came into view, smoke rising from its engine.
"It won't be easy," Jacob said.
"I know."
"No money. No connections."
"Just books," Thomas said. "And questions."
The train pulled into the station. Doors opened. They stepped aboard with their bags. Found seats by a window. Thomas looked out at the platform. Reverend Mills still stood there. He raised his hand as the train began to move. Not exactly a wave. Not exactly a blessing. Something in between.
The train's wheels beat against the rails. The book lay heavy in his bag. Outside the window, the wheat bent under the wind. Medicine Hat was gone. Nothing ahead but horizon. The train moved east.
The line is from Jacques Vallée’s book Messengers of Deception: UFO Contacts and Cults (Regnery, 1979; revised ed. Ronin, 2001). It appears early in Chapter 2, where Vallée warns that messages attributed to celestial or “higher” sources should still be judged by their content and consequences rather than their origin.
I was able to fact check this claim and can confirm its veracity. See interview below starting at 4 minutes.
Dr. Mudd has been cagey about this so called chrono war, but my research has linked it to this interview: William S. Burroughs and Daniel Odier, The Job: Interviews with William S. Burroughs (New York: Grove Press, 1970), interview section on tape-recording and control. Also see “Lemurian Time War,” in Retaking the Universe: William S. Burroughs in the Age of Globalization, edited by Davis Schneiderman and Philip Walsh (London: Pluto Press, 2004), 270–83.
Singularity? AGI?