Flashforward

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Michiko didn’t smile, but she did nod, almost imperceptibly.

  Lloyd did not know if it was the right time—his whole life, he’d been plagued by his inability to sense when the right moment was: the right moment to make his move with a girl in high school, the right moment to ask for a raise, the right moment to interrupt two other people at a party so that he could introduce himself, the right moment to excuse himself when other people obviously wanted to be alone. Some people had an innate sense of such things, but not Lloyd.

  And yet—

  And yet the matter did have to be resolved.

  The world had dusted itself off; people were getting on with their lives. Yes, many were walking with crutches; yes, some insurance companies had already filed for bankruptcy; yes, there was a still-untold number of dead. But life had to go on, and people were going to work, going home, eating out, watching movies, and trying with varying degrees of success to push ahead.

  “About the wedding…” he said, trailing off, letting the words float between them.

  “Yes?”

  Lloyd exhaled. “I don’t know who that woman is—the woman in my vision. I have no idea who she is.”

  “And so you think she might be better than me, is that it?”

  “No, no, no. Of course not. It’s just…”

  He fell silent. But Michiko knew him too well. “You’re thinking that there are seven billion people on the planet, aren’t you? And that it’s blind luck that we met at all.”

  Lloyd nodded; guilty as charged.

  “Perhaps,” said Michiko. “But when you consider the odds against you and I meeting, I think it’s more than that. It’s not like you got stuck with me, or me with you. You were living in Chicago; I was living in Tokyo—and we ended up together, here, on the Swiss-French border. Is that random chance, or destiny?”

  “I’m not sure you can believe in destiny while at the same time believing in free will,” Lloyd said gently.

  “I suppose not.” She lowered her eyes. “And, well, maybe you’re not really ready for marriage. So many of my friends over the years have gotten married because they thought it was their last chance. You know: they’d reached a certain age, and they figured if they didn’t get married soon, they never would. If there’s one thing your vision has demonstrated, it’s that I’m not your last chance. I guess that takes the pressure off, doesn’t it? No need to move quickly anymore.”

  “It’s not that,” said Lloyd, but his voice was shaky.

  “Isn’t it?” said Michiko. “Then make up your mind, right now. Make a commitment. Are we going to get married?”

  Michiko was right, Lloyd knew. His belief in an immutable future did help ease his guilt over what had happened—but, still, it was the position he’d always taken as a physicist: spacetime is an immutable Minkowski cube. What he was about to do he had already done; the future was as indelible as the past.

  No one, as far as they knew, had reported any vision that corroborated that Michiko Komura and Lloyd Simcoe were ever married; no one had reported being in a room that had contained a wedding photo in an expensive frame, showing a tall Caucasian man with blue eyes and a beautiful, shorter, younger Asian woman.

  Yes, whatever he said now had always been said—and would always be said. But he had no insight whatsoever into what answer spacetime had recorded in it. His decision, right now, at this moment, at this slice, on this page, in this frame of the film, was unrevealed, unknown. It was no easier giving voice to it—whatever it was that was about to come out of his mouth—even knowing that it was inevitable that he would say it / had said it.

  “Well?” demanded Michiko. “What’s it going to be?”

  Theo was still at work, late in the evening, running another simulation of his and Lloyd’s LHC experiment, when he got the phone call.

  Dimitrios was dead.

  His little brother. Dead. Suicided.

  He fought back tears, fought back anger.

  Memories of Dim ran through Theo’s mind. The times he’d been good to him when he was a kid, and the times he’d been mean. And how everyone in the family was terrified all those years ago when they went to Hong Kong and Dim got lost. Theo had never been happier to see anyone than he was to see little Dim, hoisted up on that policeman’s shoulder, coming through the crowded street toward them.

  But, now, now he was dead. Theo would have to make another trip to Athens for the funeral.

  He didn’t know how to feel.

  Part of him—a very large—was incredibly saddened by his brother’s death.

  And part—

  Part was elated.

  Not because Dim was dead, of course.

  But the fact that he was dead altered everything.

  For Dimitrios had experienced a vision, a vision verified with another person—and to have a vision he needed to be alive twenty-one years hence.

  But if he were dead here, now, in 2009, there was no way he could be alive in 2030.

  So the block universe had shattered. What people had seen might indeed make up a coherent picture of tomorrow…but it was only one possible tomorrow, and, indeed, since that tomorrow had included Dimitrios Procopides, it was no longer even that—no longer even possible.

  Chaos theory said that small changes in initial conditions must have big effects over time. Surely the world of 2030 could not possibly now turn out as it had been portrayed in the billions of brief glimpses people had already had of it.

  Theo paced the halls of the LHC control center: past the big mosaic, past the plaque that gave the institution’s original full name, past offices, and laboratories, and washrooms.

  If the future was now uncertain—indeed, was now surely not going to turn out exactly as the visions portrayed—then perhaps Theo could give up his search. Yes, in one once-possible future, someone had seen fit to kill him. But so much would change over the next two decades that surely that same outcome wouldn’t happen again. Indeed, he might never meet the person who had killed him, never have any encounter with whomever that man might be. Or, in fact, that man might himself now die before 2030. Either way, Theo’s murder was hardly inevitable.

  And yet—

  And yet it might still happen. Surely some things would turn out as the visions had indicated. Those who weren’t going to die unnatural deaths would live the same spans; those who had secure jobs now might well still hold them then; those marriages that were good and solid and true had no reason not to endure.

  No.

  Enough doubt, enough wasted time.

  Theo resolved to get on with his life, to give up this foolish quest, to face tomorrow, whatever it might bring, head on. Of course, he would be careful—he certainly didn’t want one of the points of convergence between the 2030 of the visions and the 2030 yet to come to be his own death. But he would continue on, trying to make the most out of whatever time he had.

  If only Dimitrios had been willing to do the same.

  His walk had taken him back to his office. There was someone he should call; someone who needed to hear it from a friend first, before it blew up in his face in media all over the world.

  Michiko’s words hung between them: “What’s it going to be?”

  It was time, Lloyd knew. Time for the appropriate frame to be illuminated; the moment of truth, the instant at which the decision spacetime had already recorded in it would be revealed. He looked into Michiko’s eyes, opened his mouth, and—

  Brrrring! Brrrring!

  Lloyd cursed, glanced at the phone. The caller ID said “CERN LHC.” No one would call from the office this late if it wasn’t an emergency. He picked up the handset. “Hello?”

  “Lloyd, it’s Theo.”

  He wanted to tell him this wasn’t a good time, tell him to call back later, but before he could, Theo pressed on.

  “Lloyd, I just got a call. My brother Dimitrios is dead.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Lloyd. “Oh, my God.”
>
  “What is it?” said Michiko, eyes wide with concern.

  Lloyd covered the mouthpiece. “Theo’s brother is dead.”

  Michiko brought a hand to her mouth.

  “He killed himself,” said Theo, through the phone. “An overdose of sleeping pills.”

  “I am so sorry, Theo,” said Lloyd. “Can I—is there anything I can do?”

  “No. No. Nothing. But I thought I should let you know right away.”

  Lloyd didn’t understand what Theo was getting at. “Ah, thank you,” he said, his voice tinged with confusion.

  “Lloyd, Dimitrios had a vision.”

  “What? Oh.” And then a long pause. “Oh.”

  “He told me about it himself.”

  “He must have made it up.”

  “Lloyd, this is my brother; he didn’t make it up.”

  “But there’s no way—”

  “You know he’s not the only one; there’ve been other reports, too. But this one—this one is corroborated. He was working in a restaurant in Greece; the guy who runs the restaurant in 2030 also does it here in 2009. He saw Dim in his vision, and Dim saw the guy. When they put that on TV…”

  “I—ah, shit,” said Lloyd. His heart was pounding. “Shit.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Theo. “The press will have a field day.” A pause. “Like I said, I thought you should know.”

  Lloyd tried to calm himself. How could he have been so wrong? “Thanks,” he said, at last. And then, “Look, look, that’s not important. How are you? Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “’Cause if you don’t want to be alone, Michiko and I can come over.”

  “No, that’s okay. Franco della Robbia is still here at CERN; I’ll spend some time with him.”

  “Okay,” said Lloyd. “Okay.” Another pause. “Look, I’ve got to—”

  “I know,” said Theo. “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Lloyd replaced the handset in its cradle.

  He’d never met Dimitrios Procopides; indeed, Theo didn’t speak of him very often. No surprise there; Lloyd rarely mentioned his sister Dolly at work, either. When it all came down to it, it was just one more death in a week of countless deaths, but…

  “Poor Theo,” said Michiko. She shook her head gently back and forth. “And his brother—poor guy.”

  He looked at her. She’d lost her own daughter, but for now, at this instant, she found room in her heart to grieve for a man she’d never met.

  Lloyd’s heart was still racing. The words he’d been about to say before the phone rang still echoed in his head. What was he thinking now? That he wanted to continue to play the field? That he wasn’t ready to settle down? That he had to know that white woman, find her, meet her, and make a sensible, balanced choice between her and Michiko?

  No.

  No, that wasn’t it. That couldn’t be it.

  What he was thinking was: I am an idiot.

  And what he was thinking was: She’s been incredibly patient.

  And what he was thinking was: Maybe the warning that the marriage might not automatically last was the best damned thing that could have happened. Like every couple, they’d assumed it would be till death did they part. But now he knew, from day one, in a way that no one else ever had, not even those others like him who were children of broken homes, that it wasn’t necessarily forever. That it was only permanent if he fought and struggled and worked to make it permanent every waking moment of his life. Knew that if he was going to get married, it would have to be his first priority. Not his career, not the damned elusive Nobel, not peer-review, not fellowships.

  Her.

  Michiko.

  Michiko Komura.

  Or—or Michiko Simcoe.

  When he’d been a teenager, in the 1970s, it looked like women would forever dispense with the silliness of taking someone else’s name. Still, to this day, most did adopt their husbands’ last names; they’d already discussed this, and Michiko had said that it was indeed her intention to take on his name. Of course, Simcoe wasn’t nearly as musical as Komura, but that was a small sacrifice.

  But no.

  No, she shouldn’t take his name. How many divorced women carried not their birth names but the cognomen of someone decades in their past, a daily reminder of youthful mistakes, of love gone bad, of painful times? Indeed, Komura wasn’t Michiko’s maiden name—that was Okawa; Komura was Hiroshi’s last name.

  Still, she should retain that. She should remain a Komura so that Lloyd would be reminded, day in and day out, that she wasn’t his; that he had to work at their marriage; that tomorrow was in his hands.

  He looked at her—her flawless complexion, her beguiling eyes, her oh-so-dark hair.

  All those things would change with time, of course. But he wanted to be around for that, to savor every moment, to enjoy the seasons of life with her.

  Yes, with her.

  Lloyd Simcoe did something he hadn’t done the first time—oh, he’d thought about it then, but had rejected it as silly, old-fashioned, unnecessary.

  But it was what he wanted to do, what he needed to do.

  He lowered himself onto one knee.

  And he took Michiko’s hand in his.

  And he looked up into her patient, lovely face.

  And he said, “Will you marry me?”

  And the moment held, Michiko clearly startled.

  And then a smile grew slowly across her face.

  And she said, almost in a whisper, “Yes.”

  Lloyd blinked rapidly, his eyes misting over.

  The future was going to be glorious.

  22

  Ten Days Later: Wednesday, May 6, 2009

  GASTON BÉRANGER HAD BEEN SURPRISINGLY easy to convince that CERN should try to replicate the LHC experiment. But, of course, he felt they had nothing to lose and everything to gain if the attempt failed: it would be very hard to prove CERN’s liability for any damage done the first time if the second attempt produced no time displacement.

  And now it was the moment of truth.

  Lloyd made his way to the polished wooden podium. The great globe-and-laurel-leaf seal of the United Nations spread out behind him. The air was dry; Lloyd got a shock as he touched the podium’s metal trim. He took a deep breath, calming himself. And then he leaned into the mike. “I’d like to thank—”

  He was surprised that his voice was cracking. But, dammit all, he was speaking to some of the most powerful politicians in the world. He swallowed, then tried again. “I’d like to thank Secretary-General Stephen Lewis for allowing me to speak to you today.” At least half the delegates were listening to translations provided through wireless earpieces. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Dr. Lloyd Simcoe. I’m a Canadian currently living in France and working at CERN, the European center for particle physics.” He paused, swallowed. “As you’ve no doubt heard by now, it was, apparently, an experiment at CERN that caused the consciousness-displacement phenomenon. And, ladies and gentlemen, I know at first blush this will sound crazy, but I’ve come here to ask you, as the representatives of your respective governments, for permission to repeat the experiment.”

  There was an eruption of chatter—a cacophony of languages even more varied than what one hears at CERN’s various cafeterias. Of course, all the delegates had known in advance roughly what Lloyd was going to say—one didn’t get to speak in front of the UN without going through a lot of preliminary discussions. The General Assembly hall was cavernous; his eyesight really wasn’t good enough to make out many individual faces. Nonetheless, he could see anger on the face of one of the Russian delegates and what looked like terror on the faces of the German and Japanese delegates. Lloyd looked over at the Secretary-General, a handsome white man of seventy-two. Lewis gave him an encouraging smile, and Simcoe went on.

  “Perhaps there is no reason to do this,” said Lloyd. “We seem to have clear evidence now that the future portrayed in the first set of visions is not going to co
me true—at least not exactly. Nevertheless, there’s no doubt that a great many people found real personal insight through the glimpses.”

  He paused.

  “I’m reminded of the story A Christmas Carol, by the British writer Charles Dickens. His character Ebenezer Scrooge saw a vision of Christmas Yet to Come, in which the results of his actions had led to misery for many other people and himself being hated and despised in death. And, of course, seeing such a vision would have been a terrible thing—had the vision been of the one, true immutable future. But Scrooge was told that, no, the future he saw was only the logical extrapolation of his life, should he continue on the way he had been. He could change his life, and the lives of those around him, for the better; that glimpse of the future turned out to be a wonderful thing.”

  He took a sip of water, then continued.

  “But Scrooge’s vision was of a very specific time—Christmas day. Not all of us had visions of significant events; many of us saw things that were quite banal, frustratingly ambiguous, or, indeed, for almost a third of us, we saw either dreams or just darkness—we were asleep during that two-minute span twenty-one years from now.” He paused and shrugged his shoulders, as if he himself did not know what the right thing to do was. “We believe we can replicate the experience of having visions; we can offer all of humanity another glimpse of the future.” He raised a hand. “I know some governments have been leery of these insights, disliking some of the things revealed, but now that we know the future is not fixed, I’m hoping that you will allow us to simply give this gift, and the benefit of the Ebenezer Effect, to the peoples of the world once more. With the cooperation of you men and women, and your governments, we believe we can do this safely. It’s up to you.”

  Lloyd came through the tall glass doors of the General Assembly building. The New York air stung his eyes—damn, but they were going to have to do something about that one of these days; the visions said it would be even worse by 2030. The sky overhead was gray, crisscrossed by airplane contrails. A crowd of reporters—perhaps fifty in all—rushed over to meet him, camcorders and microphones thrust out.