Flashforward

  Lloyd sighed. He did love her, but—damn it, damn it, damn it. He found his head shaking back and forth in negation. “I don’t want that to be the future anymore than you do,” he said softly.

  “Then don’t let it,” said Michiko, taking his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. “Don’t let it.”

  17

  “HELLO?” A PLEASANT FEMALE VOICE.

  “Ah, hello, is that—is that Dr. Tompkins?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Ah, hi. This is—this is Jake Horowitz. You know, from CERN?”

  Jake didn’t know what he’d expected to hear over the phone. Affection? Relief that he’d made the first contact? Surprise? But none of those emotions were conveyed by Carly’s voice. “Yes?” she said, her tone even. That was all; just “yes.”

  Jacob felt his heart sinking. Maybe he should just hang up, get the hell off the phone. It wouldn’t hurt anything; if Lloyd was right, they were bound to be together eventually. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

  “I—I’m sorry to bother you,” he stammered. He’d never been good at phoning women. And, indeed, he hadn’t phoned one—not like this—since high school, since that time he’d worked up enough courage to call Julie Cohan and ask her for a date. It had taken him days to prepare, and he still remembered how his finger was shaking as he stabbed out her number on the phone in his parents’ basement. He could hear his older brother walking around upstairs, the wooden floor creaking with each of his ponderous footsteps, an Ahab on deck. He’d been terrified that David would try to come down while he was on the phone.

  Julie’s father had answered the phone, and then had called out to her to pick up on an extension—he hadn’t covered the mouthpiece, and he spoke to her roughly. Nothing like the way he’d have treated Julie. And then she picked up the phone, and her father had let the handset tumble back onto the cradle, and she said, in that wonderful voice of hers, “Hello?”

  “Ah, hello, Julie. This is Jake—you know, Jake Horowitz.” Silence, nothing. “From your American History class.”

  A tone of perplexity, as if he’d just asked her to calculate the last digit of pi. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering,” he’d said, trying to sound nonchalant, trying to sound as if his whole life didn’t depend on this, trying to sound as though his heart weren’t about to burst, “I was wondering if you—if you’d like, you know, to go out with me, maybe Saturday…if you’re free that is.” More silence; he remembered when he was a kid the phone lines used to crackle with faint static. He missed that now.

  “Maybe a movie,” he’d said, filling the void.

  Heartbeats more, and then: “What makes you think I’d possibly want to go out with you?”

  He’d felt his vision blur, felt his stomach churn, felt the wind being kicked out of him. He couldn’t remember what he’d said after that, but somehow he’d gotten off the phone, somehow he’d kept from crying, somehow he’d just sat there in the basement, listening to his older brother pacing above.

  That was the last time he’d called a woman and asked for a date. Oh, he wasn’t a virgin—of course not, of course not. Fifty dollars rectified that particular handicap one night in New York City. He’d felt terrible after that, cheap and unclean, but someday he would be with a woman he wanted to be with, and he owed it to her, whomever she might be, to be—well, if not skilled, certainly not flailing about without a clue.

  And now, now it looked like he would be with a woman—with Carly Tompkins. He remembered her as being beautiful, remembered her as having chestnut hair and eyes that were green or gray. He’d liked looking at her, liked listening to her, when she gave her presentation at the APS conference. But the exact details of her appearance were elusive. He recalled freckles—yes, surely she’d had freckles, although not as many as he himself had, but a gentle dusting along the bridge of her small nose and her full cheeks. Surely he wasn’t imagining that—

  Carly’s perplexed “yes?” still rang in his ears. She must know why he was calling. She must—

  “We’re going to be together,” he said, stupidly blurting it out, wishing the moment the words were free that he could recant them. “In twenty years, we’re going to be together.”

  She was silent for a moment, then: “I guess.”

  Jake was relieved; he’d been afraid that she was going to deny the vision. “So I was thinking,” Jake said, “I was thinking maybe we should get to know each other. You know, maybe go for coffee.” His heart was pounding; his stomach was churning. He was seventeen again.

  “Jacob,” she said. Jacob, saying his name—no one ever started good news by saying your name. Jacob, reminding him of who he really was. Jacob, what makes you think I’d possibly—

  “Jacob,” she continued, “I’m seeing someone.”

  Of course, he thought. Of course she’s seeing someone. A dark-haired beauty with those freckles. Of course.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He meant for her to take that to mean he was sorry he’d disturbed her, but he felt it both ways. He was sorry she was seeing someone.

  “Besides,” said Carly, “I’m here in Vancouver; you’re in Switzerland.”

  “I have to be in Seattle later this week; I’m a grad student here, but my field is computer modeling of HEP reactions, and CERN is flying me in to Microsoft for a seminar. I could—we’ll, I’d thought about, you know, coming to North America a day or two early, maybe by way of Vancouver. I’ve got tons of frequent-flyer points; it won’t cost me anything.”

  “When?” asked Carly.

  “I—I could be there as early as the day after tomorrow.” He tried to make his tone light. “My seminar starts Thursday; the world may be in crisis, but Microsoft soldiers on.” At least for the time being, he thought.

  “All right,” said Carly.

  “All right?”

  “All right. Come up to TRIUMF, if you want to. I’d be glad to meet you.”

  “What about your boyfriend?”

  “Who said it was a boy?”

  “Oh.” A pause. “Oh.”

  But then Carly laughed. “No, just kidding. Yes, it’s a guy—his name’s Bob. But it’s not that serious, and…”

  “Yes?”

  “And, well, I guess we should get to know each other better.”

  Jacob was glad that the act of grinning from ear to ear didn’t make a sound. They firmed up a time, and then they said their goodbyes.

  His heart was pounding. He’d always known the right woman would come along eventually; he’d never given up hope. He wouldn’t bring her flowers—he would never get them through customs. No, he’d bring her something decadent from Chocolats Micheli; Switzerland, was, after all, the land of chocolate.

  With his luck, though, she’d turn out to be a diabetic.

  Theo’s younger brother, Dimitrios, lived with three other young men in suburban Athens, but when Theo came calling, late in the evening, Dimitrios was home alone.

  Dim was studying European literature at the National Capodistrian University of Athens; ever since childhood, Dim had wanted to be a writer. He’d mastered his alpha-beta-gammas before he’d entered school, and was constantly typing up stories on the family computer. Theo had promised years ago to transfer all of Dim’s stories from three-and-a-half-inch diskettes onto optical wafers; no home computers came with diskette readers anymore, but CERN’s computing facility had some legacy systems that still used them. He thought about making the offer again, but didn’t know whether it was better that Dim think he’d simply forgotten, or that he realize that years—years!—had gone by without his big brother having managed three minutes to request that simple favor from someone in the computing department.

  Dim had answered the door wearing blue jeans—how retro!—and a yellow T-shirt imprinted with the logo of Anaheim, a popular American TV series; even a European Literature major apparently couldn’t help falling under the thrall of American pop culture.

  “Hello, Dim,” said Theo. He had neve
r hugged his younger brother before, but had an urge to do so now; facing the fact of one’s own mortality fostered such feelings. But Dim would doubtless not know what to make of such an embrace; their father, Constantin, was not an affectionate man. Even when the ouzo was flowing more than it should have, he might pinch a waitress’s behind but he’d never even tousled the hair of his boys.

  “Hey, Theo,” said Dimitrios, as if he had seen him just yesterday. He stepped aside to let his brother enter.

  The house looked like you’d expect the home of four guys in their early twenties to look—a pig sty, with items of clothing draped over furniture, take-out food boxes piled on the dining-room table, and all sorts of gadgets, including high-end stereo and virtual-reality decks.

  It felt good to be speaking Greek again; he’d gotten sick of French and English, the former with its excess verbiage and the latter with its harsh, unpleasant sounds. “How are you doing?” Theo asked. “How’s school?”

  “How’s university, you mean,” said Dim.

  Theo nodded. He’d always referred to his own postsecondary studies as university, but his brother, pursuing the arts, was just in school. Perhaps the slight had been intended; there were eight years between them, a long time, but still not enough of a buffer to insure the absence of sibling rivalry. “Sorry. How’s university?”

  “It’s okay.” He met Theo’s eyes. “One of my professors died during the Flashforward, and one of my best friends had to leave to look after his family after his parents were injured.”

  There was nothing to say. “Sorry,” said Theo. “It was unforeseen.”

  Dim nodded and looked away. “Have you seen Mama and Poppa yet?”

  “Not yet. Later.”

  “It’s been hard on them, you know. All their neighbors know you work at CERN—’my son the scientist,’ Poppa used to say. ‘My boy, the new Einstein.’” Dimitrios paused. “He doesn’t say that anymore. They’ve had to take a lot of heat from those who lost people.”

  “Sorry,” said Theo again. He looked around the messy room, trying to find anything on to which he could shift the conversation.

  “You want a drink?” asked Dimitrios. “Beer? Mineral water?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Dimitrios was quiet for a few moments. He walked into the living room; Theo followed. Dim sat on the couch, pushing some papers and clothes onto the floor to make room. Theo found a chair that was reasonably free of clutter and sat on it.

  “You’ve ruined my life,” said Dimitrios, his eyes meeting then avoiding his brother’s. “I want you to know that.”

  Theo felt his heart jump. “How?”

  “These—these visions. Dammit, Theo, don’t you know how hard it is to face the keyboard each day? Don’t you know how easy it is to become discouraged?”

  “But you’re a terrific writer, Dim. I’ve read your work. The way you handle the language is beautiful. That piece you did about the summer you spent on Crete—you captured Knossos perfectly.”

  “It doesn’t matter; none of that matters. Don’t you see? Twenty-one years hence, I won’t be famous. I won’t have made it. Twenty-one years hence, I’ll be working in a restaurant, serving souvlaki and tzatziki to tourists.”

  “Maybe it was a dream—maybe you’re dreaming in the year 2030.”

  Dim shook his head. “I found the restaurant; it’s over by the Tower of the Winds. I met the manager; he’s the same guy who’ll be running it twenty-one years from now. He recognized me from his vision and I recognized him from mine.”

  Theo tried to be gentle. “Many writers don’t make their living writing. You know that.”

  “But how many would go on, year after year, if they didn’t think that someday—maybe not today, maybe not next year, but eventually—that they would break out? That they’d make it?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

  “It’s the dream that makes artists go on. How many struggling actors are giving up today—right now—because their visions proved to them that they’ll never make it? How many painters on the streets of Paris threw away their palettes this week because they know that even decades hence they’ll never be recognized? How many rock bands, practicing in their parents’ garages, have broken up? You’ve taken away the dream from millions of us. Some people were lucky—they were sleeping in the future. Because they were dreaming then, their real dreams haven’t been shattered.”

  “I—I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

  “Of course you hadn’t. You’re so obsessed with finding out who killed you that you can’t see straight. But I’ve got news for you, Theo. You’re not the only one who’s dead in the year 2030. I’m dead, too—a waiter in an overpriced tourist joint! I’m dead, and so, I’m sure, are millions of others. And you killed them: you killed their hopes, their dreams, their futures.”

  18

  Day Eight: Tuesday, April 28, 2009

  JAKE AND CARLY TOMPKINS COULD HAVE MET at TRIUMF, but they decided not to. Instead, they met at the Chapters superstore in the Vancouver suburb of Burnaby. This one still devoted about half its space to actual pre-printed books that were for sale: guaranteed bestsellers by Stephen King, John Grisham, and Coyote Rolf. But the rest of the facility was taken up by individual display copies of titles that could be printed on demand. It took only fifteen minutes to produce a single copy of any book, either in mass-market paperback or as an octavo hardcover. Large-print editions could be had, as well, and computer-translated editions in any one of twenty-four languages could be produced in only an additional few minutes. And, of course, no title was ever out of stock.

  In a brilliant bit of preadaptive evolution, book superstores had been building coffee shops into their facilities for twenty years now—giving people the perfect place to spend some pleasant time while their custom books were printed. Jake got to Chapters early, entered the attached Starbucks, ordered himself a tall decaffeinated Sumatra, and found a seat.

  Carly arrived about ten minutes after the appointed time. She was wearing a London Fog trench coat, the sash pulled smartly about her waist; blue slacks; and low heels. Jake rose to greet her. As he approached, he was surprised to see that she wasn’t as pretty as he’d remembered.

  But it was definitely her. They looked at each other for a moment, he wondering, as he expected she was, how you should greet someone whom you know for a fact you will one day have sex with. They were acquaintances, already; Jake had encountered people he’d known less well at various times and had either bestowed or received a kiss on the cheek—especially, of course, in France. But Carly decided the matter, extending her right hand. He managed a smile and shook it; her grip was firm, and her skin cool to the touch.

  A Chapters employee came around to ask Carly what she wanted to drink; Jake remembered when Starbucks used to have only counter service, but of course someone had to deliver your books to you when they were printed. She ordered a grande Ethiopia Sidamo.

  Carly opened her purse and reached in to fish out her wallet. Jake let his gaze fall inside her purse. The entire coffee shop was non-smoking of course; all restaurants throughout North America were these days; even in Paris, such rules were coming into effect. But he was relieved to see no pack of cigarettes hiding in the purse; he didn’t know what he would have done if she’d been a smoker.

  “Well,” she said.

  Jake forced a smile. It was an awkward situation. He knew what she looked like naked. Of course—of course that was twenty years hence. She was about his age now, twenty-two, twenty-three. She’d be in her early forties two decades from now; hardly run down, hardly a hag. And yet—

  She had been lovely twenty years hence; surely, though, she was even lovelier now. Surely—

  Yes, yes, there was still anticipation, still wonder, still tension.

  Of course, she’d seen him naked, too, twenty years further down the road. He knew what she looked like—her chestnut hair color was natural, or at least dyed in both places; win
e-colored nipples; those same enchanting freckles painting constellations across her chest. But him? What did he look like twenty years hence? He was no athlete even now. What if he’d put on weight? What if his chest hair had gone gray?

  Maybe her present reluctance was based on what she’d seen of the future him. He couldn’t promise he’d work out, couldn’t promise he’d keep trim, couldn’t promise anything—she knew what he’d be like in 2030, even if he himself did not.

  “It’s good to see you again,” said Jake, trying to sound calm, trying to sound warm.

  “You, too,” said Carly.

  And then she smiled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, come on. Tell me.”

  She smiled again, then lowered her eyes. “I was just picturing us naked,” she said.

  He felt his features stretching into a grin. “Me, too.”

  “This is strange,” she said. And then: “Look, I never go to bed with anyone on the first date. I mean—”

  Jake lifted his hands off the tabletop. “Me neither,” he said.

  She smiled at that. Maybe she was as beautiful as he remembered after all.

  The Mosaic Project didn’t just reveal the futures of individual human beings. It also had a lot to say about the future of governments, companies, and organizations—including CERN itself.

  It seemed that in 2022, a team at CERN—Theo and Lloyd were on it—would developed a whole new kind of physics tool: the Tachyon-Tardyon Collider. Tachyons were particles that traveled faster than the speed of light; the more energy they carried, the closer to light-speed they traveled. As their energy went down, their speed went up—to almost infinite velocities.

  Tardyons, on the other hand, were ordinary matter: they traveled at speeds below that of light. The more energy you pumped into a tardyon, the faster it would go. But, as old Einstein had said, the faster it goes, the more massive a tardyon gets. Particle accelerators, such as CERN’s Large Hadron Collider, worked by imparting great energies to tardyons, thereby boosting them to high speeds, and hurtling them together, releasing all that energy when the particles collide. Such machines were huge.