Flashforward. Part 20

Yes, with her. 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 was what he wanted to do, what he needed to do. 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 Beranger 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 gentiemen, 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 a.s.sembly 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 j.a.panese 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 come 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, A Christmas Carol, by the British writer Charles d.i.c.kens. 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." by the British writer Charles d.i.c.kens. 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 ba.n.a.l, 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 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." 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 gla.s.s doors of the General a.s.sembly building. The New York air stung his eyes-d.a.m.n, 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.

"Doctor Simcoe!" shouted one, a middle-aged white man. "Doctor Simcoe! What happens if consciousness doesn't drop back to the present day? What happens if we're all stuck twenty-one years in the future?"

Lloyd was tired. He hadn't been as nervous speaking in front of people since his Ph.D. oral defense. He really just wanted to go back to his hotel room, pour himself a nice Scotch, and crawl into bed.

"We have no reason to think that such a thing could happen," he said. "It seemed to be a completely temporary phenomenon that began the moment we started the particle collisions and ceased the moment we ended them."

"What about the families of any people who might die this time? Will you take personal responsibility for them?"

"How about the ones who are already dead? Don't you feel you owe them something?"

"Isn't this all just some cheap quest for glory on your part?"

Lloyd took a deep breath. He was was tired, and he had a pounding headache. "Gentlemen and ladies-and I use those terms loosely-you are apparently used to interviewing politicians who can't be seen to lose their temper, and so you can get away with asking them questions in haranguing tones. Well, I am tired, and he had a pounding headache. "Gentlemen and ladies-and I use those terms loosely-you are apparently used to interviewing politicians who can't be seen to lose their temper, and so you can get away with asking them questions in haranguing tones. Well, I am not not a politician; I am, among other things, a university professor, and I am used to civilized discourse. If you can't ask polite questions, I will terminate this exchange." a politician; I am, among other things, a university professor, and I am used to civilized discourse. If you can't ask polite questions, I will terminate this exchange."

"But, Dr. Simcoe-isn't it true that all the death and destruction was your fault? Didn't you in fact design the experiment that went awry?"

Lloyd kept his tone even. "I'm not kidding, people. I have had quite my fill of media exposure already; one more bulls.h.i.t question like that, and I'm walking away."

There was stunned silence. Reporters looked at each other, then back at Lloyd.

"But all those deaths . . ." began one.

"That's it," snapped Lloyd. "I'm out of here." He began walking away.

"Wait!" cried one reporter, and "Stop!" shouted another.

Lloyd turned around. "Only if you can manage intelligent, civilized questions."

After a moment's hesitation, a melanic-American woman raised her hand, almost meekly.

"Yes?" said Lloyd, lifting his eyebrows.

"Dr. Simcoe, what decision do you think the UN will make?"

Lloyd nodded at her, acknowledging that this was an acceptable interrogative. "I'm honestly not sure. My gut feeling is that we should indeed try to replicate the results-but I'm a scientist, and replication is my stock-in-trade. I do think the people of Earth want this, but whether their leaders will be willing to do what the people desire I have no way of knowing."

Theo had come to New York, as well, and he and Lloyd that night enjoyed the extravagant seafood buffet at the Amba.s.sador Grill in the UN Plaza-Park Hyatt.

"Michiko's birthday is coming up," said Theo, cracking a lobster's claw.

Lloyd nodded. "I know."

"Are you going to throw a surprise party for her?"

Lloyd paused. After a moment, he said, "No."

Theo gave him a "if you really loved her, you'd do it" look. Lloyd didn't feel like explaining. He'd never really thought about it before, but it came to him full blown, as if he'd always known it. Surprise parties were a cheat. You let someone you were supposed to care about think you'd forgotten their birthday. You deliberately bring them down, make them feel neglected, uncared for, unremembered, unappreciated. And then you lie-lie!-to them for weeks on end leading up to the event. All this, so that in the moment when people yell "Surprise!" the person will feel loved.

In the marriage he and Michiko were going to have, Lloyd wouldn't have to manufacture situations in order to make Michiko feel that way. She'd know of his love every day-every minute; her confidence in that would never be shaken. It would be her constant companion, his love, until the day she died.

And, of course, he'd never lie to her-not even when it was supposedly for her own good.

"You sure?" said Theo. "I'd be glad to help you organize it."

"No," said Lloyd, shaking his head a little. Theo was so young, so naive. "No, thank you."

23.

The United Nations debates continued. While he was in New York, Theo got another reply to his ads looking for information about his own death. He was about to simply issue a short, polite response-he was going to give up the quest, really he was-but, d.a.m.n it all, the message was just too enticing. "I did not contact you initially," it said, "because I had been led to believe that the future is fixed, and that what was going to happen, including my role in it, was inevitable. But now I read otherwise, and so I must elicit your help."

The message was from Toronto-just a one-hour flight from the Big Apple. Theo decided to head on up and meet face to face with the man who'd sent the letter. It was Theo's first time visiting Canada, and he wasn't quite prepared for how hot it was in the summer. Oh, it wasn't hot by Mediterranean standards-rarely did the temperature rise above thirty-five degrees Celsius. But it did surprise him.

To get a cheaper airfare, Theo had to stay overnight, rather than fly in and out on the same day. And so he found himself with an evening to kill in Toronto. His travel agent had suggested he might enjoy a hotel out along the Danforth-part of Toronto's major east-west axis; Toronto's large Greek community was centered there. Theo agreed, and, to his delight, he found the street signs in that part of town were in both the English and Greek alphabets.

His appointment, though, wasn't on the Danforth. Rather, it was up in North York, an area that apparently had once been a city in its own right but had been subsumed into Toronto, which now had a population of three million. Toronto's subway took him there the next day. He was amused to discover that the public transit system was referred to as the TTC (for Toronto Transit Commission); the same abbreviation would doubtless be applied to the Tachyon-Tardyon Collider he would supposedly someday helm.

The subway cars were s.p.a.cious and clean, although he'd heard they were severely overcrowded during rush hour. One thing that had impressed him greatly was riding the subway-poorly named at this particular point-over the Don Valley Parkway; here the train ran what must be a hundred meters above the ground in a special set of tracks hanging below the Danforth. The view was spectacular-but what was most impressive was that the bridge over the Don Valley had been built decades before Toronto got its first subway line, and yet it had been constructed so as to eventually accommodate two sets of tracks. One didn't often see evidence of cities planning that far into the future.

He changed trains at Yonge Station, and rode up to North York Centre. He was surprised to find that he didn't have to go outside to enter the condominium tower he'd been told to come to; it had direct access from the station. The same complex also contained a book superstore (part of a chain called Indigo), a movie-theater complex, and a large food store called Loblaws, which seemed to specialize in a line of products called President's Choice. That surprised Theo; he would have expected it to be Prime Minister's Choice in this country.

He presented himself to the concierge, who directed him through the marble lobby to the elevators, and he rode up to the thirty-fifth floor. From there, he easily found the apartment he was looking for and knocked on the door.

The door opened, revealing an elderly Asian man. "h.e.l.lo," he said, in perfect English.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Cheung," said Theo. "Thank you for agreeing to see me."

"Won't you come in?"

The man, who must have been in his mid-sixties, moved aside to let Theo pa.s.s. Theo slipped off his shoes, and stepped into the splendid apartment. Cheung led Theo into the living room. The view faced south. Far away, Theo could see downtown Toronto, with its skysc.r.a.pers, the slender needle of the CN Tower and, beyond, Lake Ontario stretching to the horizon.

"I appreciated you emailing me," said Theo. "As you can imagine, this has been very difficult for me."

"I am sure it has," said Cheung. "Would you care for tea? Coffee?"

"No, nothing, thank you."

"Well, then," said the man. "Do have a seat."

Theo sat down on a couch upholstered in orange leather. On the end table sat a painted porcelain vase. "It's beautiful," said Theo.

Cheung nodded agreement. "From the Ming Dynasty, of course; almost five hundred years old. Sculpture is the greatest of the arts. A written text is meaningless once the language has fallen out of use, but a physical object that endures for centuries or millennia-that is something to cherish. Anyone today can appreciate the beauty of ancient Chinese or Egyptian or Aztec artifacts; I collect all three. The individual artisans who made them live on through their work."

Theo made a noncommittal sound, and settled back in the couch. On the opposite wall was an oil painting of Kowloon harbor. Theo nodded at it. "Hong Kong," he said.

"Yes. You know it?"

"In 1996, when I was fourteen, my parents took us there on vacation. They wanted us-me and my brother-to see it before it changed hands back to Communist China."

"Yes, those last couple of years were exceptional for tourism," said Cheung. "But they were also great times for leaving the country; I myself left Hong Kong and came to Canada then. Over two hundred thousand Hong Kong natives moved to Canada before the British handed our country back to the Chinese."

"I imagine I would have gotten out, too," said Theo sympathetically.

"Those of us who could afford it did so. And, according to the visions people have had, things get no better in China during the next twenty-one years, so I am indeed glad I left; I could not stand the idea of losing my freedom." The old man paused. "But you, my young friend, stand to lose even more, do you not? For my part, I would have fully expected to be dead twenty-one years from now; I was delighted to learn that the fact that I had a vision implies that I will still be alive then. Indeed, since I felt reasonably spry, I begin to suspect that I might in fact have much more than twenty-one years left. Still, your time may be cut short-in my vision, as I told you by email, your name was mentioned. I had never heard of you before-forgive me for saying so. But the name was sufficiently musical-Theodosios Procopides-that it stuck in my mind."

"You said that in your vision someone had spoken to you about plans to kill me."

"Ominous, to be sure. But as I also said, I know little more than that."

"I don't doubt you, Mr. Cheung. But if I could locate the person you were speaking to in your vision, obviously that person knows more."

"But, as I said, I do not know who he was."

"If you could describe him?"

"Of course. He was white. White, like a northern European, not olive-skinned like yourself. He was no older than fifty in my vision, meaning he'd be about your age today. We were speaking English, and his accent was American."

"There are many American accents," said Theo.

"Yes, yes," said Cheung. "I mean he spoke like a New Englander-someone from Boston, perhaps."

Lloyd's vision apparently placed him in New England as well; of course, it couldn't be Lloyd that Cheung had been speaking to-at that moment, Lloyd was off boinking that crone . . .

"What else can you tell me about the man's speech? Did he sound well-educated?"

"Yes, now that you mention it, I suppose he did. He used the word 'apprehensive'-not an overly fancy term, but not one likely to be employed by an illiterate."

"What exactly did he say? Can you recount the conversation?"