by Orton, D. L.
“Impending disaster?” Her voice is tight, and the dog lets out a soft whine and looks up. She pets his head. “You mean the Ebola pandemic? Or radioactive fallout?”
“No, something worse than either of those. Sometime in the next few months, an ill-conceived vaccine will mutate and turn out to be worse than the virus itself.” I rub my eyes, fighting back exhaustion, and then reach down and pet Lucky on the head. “Even if we managed to shut down every hospital, university, and private lab, there’s no guarantee that the vaccine isn’t already out there just waiting to mutate. And whoever designed it wanted to eliminate future animal vectors for the disease too, so the vaccine was designed to work on all warm-blooded genotypes.”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah. Between the virus and the vaccine, it’s the end of the age of mammals.” I glance at my coffee. “By our best guess, we have nine months, perhaps a year.”
“How do you know that?”
Lucky jumps up into my lap and I stroke her soft fur. “Have you ever heard of a Tesseract computer?”
“Back before things fell apart, Stanford University claimed to be building one. They planned to use it to confirm the existence of other universes?”
“Correct. Well, we’ve gone one step further. We have one that can see into other universes. A fortnight ago, we found a world, one out of tens of thousands, where doomsday is avoided. Either the vaccine isn’t released, or it doesn’t mutate—we don’t know which.” I look up at her. “Our best guess as to why that universe is different from ours—”
“You mean the thing that keeps the vaccine from mutating?”
“More like the first domino in a long and complicated string of dominoes, but essentially yes.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Your relationship with Diego Nadales.”
She rubs the back of her hand across her mouth. “How could you possibly narrow down the difference to two ordinary people? That’s absurd.”
“Well, it wasn’t easy—that’s for sure. Essentially, we compared two movies to determine the place where they diverge, and then we tried to figure out what caused the split. Imagine trying to compare one day in our world with a nearly identical day in another.” I shake my head. “We had to hope that something significant caused the split, something that would be noticed by lots of people.”
“Someone dying,” she says, “versus a frond falling off a palm tree on Fiji.”
“Exactly. We concentrated on things you would read about on the front page of the New York Times, but we didn’t find any differences, so we started looking at famous people who died and worked our way down to obscure individual deaths.”
I run my finger through my thinning hair. “But, it turned out that those differences evened out: some people died a day or two earlier, and some a day or two later. It didn’t seem to matter. Then we started over with births, and then marriages, divorces, and even adoptions. The task was gargantuan.”
She takes a sip of her tepid coffee.
“Finally,” I say, “a very smart graduate student figured out a way to use the computer to do a crude compare, sort of like using sound waves to cancel each other out. She ran a whole day’s worth of data through the computer in an hour, and we used those results to cancel out all the changes that didn’t make a difference. After we had done that with thousands of universes, we were left with the critical events: the things that are different in the world that survives.”
“And?”
“You and Diego are at the top of the list.”
She pins me with her gaze. “So why are you here?”
“As I said, there’s not much time left, and our resources are dwindling. We have made the decision to act now, even though the risks are high.” I try to soften my tone. “The critical split in the multiverse happens at precisely the moment when you and Diego break up—that’s how we know it’s important. In the narrow stream of universes that lead to survival, that break never comes. For as much as we can determine, the two of you meet, fall in love, and remain together for the rest of your lives.”
She shuts her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, and whispers, “So it could have been forever.”
“Unfortunately, we know what needs to change, but not how to make it happen. We have been spending twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, peering into progressively more distant universes, looking for a way to keep the two of you together.”
“It’s that bad?”
I laugh. “Well, in most of the universes, you don’t even meet. In a few, you meet but don’t connect. And in a still smaller few, like our own, you meet and date briefly before things get dodgy.”
She looks away. “You want me to go back in time and make our relationship work?”
“Essentially, yes—but there are a few things I need to tell you first. We’ve addressed the problem with the time machine, so we’re pretty sure we can get you there in one piece, but there won’t be any way to get you back. It’s a one-way trip.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
“And there are some, uh, side effects. We can’t guarantee you will remain healthy for more than a day or two, but we do have a team working on that problem even as I speak.”
She stares at me. “So you planned to kill Diego—even if the time machine hadn’t malfunctioned.”
“No. He was injected with a custom-made vaccine, and we were hopeful that it would protect him. The instructions were also in the Einstein Sphere. Diego knew the risks, and he choose to go anyway.”
She blinks back tears but doesn’t speak.
“Unfortunately, it was designed to work on a single genome: Diego’s.”
“So you want to send me back in time, even though you know it’s going to kill me?”
I can feel my face redden. “That’s the worst case scenario, but it is possible.”
“Why me, professor? Why not send a marriage counselor or a conflict resolution expert? For Pete’s sake, send Oprah. Why do you need me? I already screwed it up once.”
“Diego was our first choice, but...” I look down and pet the cat, unable to meet Isabel’s eyes.
“So it has to be me.”
“Yes,” I say. “I can give you more details about the plan we’ve come up with, but essentially, we want to send you to a universe very similar to ours. Once there, you would need to prepare a nineteen-year-old Diego to meet your younger self. This scenario has the highest likelihood of success with the least likelihood of causing unwanted side effects.”
“So if I go back twenty years in time, could it change things now? Could it keep Diego…”
“From dying? I’m afraid not. You can change the past in another universe, but not your own.” I watch her for a moment, feeling like an executioner. “But I can say: if you succeed, something in our future could change, something important.”
“I see.” She looks at me with those piercing green eyes. “But I would get to see him one more time, even if it’s only for a day?”
“Yes.”
She lets out a soft sob, and then leans over and hugs the dog. “How soon do I leave?”
No wonder he loves her so much.
Part Three
La Isla, Another Universe
They say that time changes things,
But actually,
You have to change them yourself.
Andy Warhol
Chapter 33
Isabel: It Beats Taking the Bus
I ’m surrounded by total darkness, panic rising in my chest and choking me. It’s bitterly cold inside the high tech sarcophagus, and icy numbness is spreading through my limbs like a corpse buried in an avalanche. I gasp for air, but try as I might, I can’t move—can’t exhale or shiver or even blink.
This is what it feels like to die.
Sometime later, diffuse sunlight falls acr
oss my eyelids. I lie there, my body trembling from the cold, and try to make sense of the flickering patterns of light and dark flashing across my retinas. Something is wrong. I know something is terribly wrong, but I’m so sleepy...
Wake up, Iz! You’re suffocating!
Adrenaline leaks into my bloodstream, and I pound my fists against the translucent lid, my heart racing. Warm air rushes into my frozen grave, and for long moments, I lie transfixed, lungs burning, chest heaving, hand throbbing.
At last, the sublime sound of surf breaking on sand caresses my ears, and I take a breath from a quarter century in my past.
Oh my god, I made it.
I open my eyes and attempt to get out, but every muscle in my body shrieks in protest and my head spins. I fight down the vertigo and eventually manage to sit up. My left hand hurts like hell, and when I will my fingers open, an orange seashell drops onto my bare thigh, the sharp white spines flecked with scarlet drops of blood.
I stare at the gash in my hand and then use the flimsy towel to apply pressure to the cut while I look around. Condensation covers the cold walls of the coffin, but it’s otherwise undamaged. I wish I could say the same. I feel like I was knocked down by a hockey puck and then run over by a Zamboni.
I pick up the shell and wedge my elbows against the slick, concave walls. My legs are rubbery, so I fling one foot over the edge and try to pry myself out with my arms. The pod shifts and I slip, landing hard on my shoulder. Sharp pain shoots across my back, and I vomit yellow bile against the translucent wall.
I shut my eyes, imagining Diego’s arms around me, my head resting against his chest, his heartbeat in my ear.
Somewhere out there, he’s alive.
And then I try again.
I flex my ankles to get the blood flowing, and then lever myself up onto the narrow rim using my elbows. I lower my feet onto the ground and then lean against the slippery coffin, shaking uncontrollably. There, half buried in the fine white sand, is a man’s shoe. It’s wedged under the pod, as if I landed in tropical Oz and accidentally crushed the wicked wizard of the tropics.
I watch a hermit crab scramble across the leather toe. “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
He waves his claw at me and scuttles away.
A warm breeze, soft as kitten’s fur, tickles my bare back, bringing with it the cloying scent of plumeria and ginger.
Well, it beats the hell out of cold, desolate Colorado.
I reach into the capsule and grab the towel, and then attempt to stand. I totter for a step or two, but I can’t seem to balance, and a moment later, the beach smacks me hard on the butt.
“Damn it all to hell.”
I yield to the whims of gravity and lie back in the warm sand. Above me, towering palm trees buttress a deep blue sky, their fronds throwing emerald spatters of paint against a cerulean canvas. I lie still, waiting to die, or for my heart rate to settle, whichever comes first.
A few minutes later, I press my abused elbows into the soft sand and work my way up to a sitting position. The scene before me is exquisite: a white sand beach rimmed with verdant tropical forest nestles against a lazy azure sea. To the west, thunderheads bump against the jagged sides of steep volcanic peaks.
Just another day in paradise.
I take a couple of deep breaths and check that the strand of pearls is still around my neck. If the bank account number I have memorized doesn’t work, I plan to pawn the necklace, but I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that. Still, I can’t wait to see the look on the teller’s face when I walk in wearing only a towel and tell him all my belongings have been stolen.
I glance back at the coffin, drops of condensation still glistening on it in the sun. I consider camouflaging it, but decide against it. Time is of the essence, and the pod will disintegrate quickly if those thunderheads follow through.
I pick up the seashell and the sandy towel, and then slowly stand, using a bit more caution this time. I wrap the thin cloth around my bare torso and do a double take: full perky breasts, flat tummy, and miles of smooth alabaster skin. Even my toes are cute. Wow.
It’s just as they predicted, and that gives me hope, even though I know it won’t last.
I peer up at the sky. It’s already late afternoon, and I need to find a bank and a place to stay.
The distant sound of laughter startles me.
Down the beach, too far away to make out faces, is a group of guys playing soccer. Farther on, there’s a small cluster of thatched-roof buildings and a three-story hotel, the windows reflecting the afternoon sun. I secure the towel and scan the low dunes for a rough-hewn beach cottage with a large porch. It’s farther away than I imagined, but it’s there.
I take a couple of tentative steps. My legs seem to have recovered somewhat, so I amble out from under the palm trees, pretending I’ve just been sun bathing.
With 500 SPF sunscreen. Yikes! Look how white my skin is!
Almost immediately, the bottoms of my feet are on fire.
“Ouch!”
The dry sand is scorching hot, and the tight towel makes me shuffle like a geisha. After a moment of Asian Farce On Searing Coals, I hitch up the towel and lope toward the shade.
I stop when I reach the shadow of the cabana and hop from foot to foot, giggling.
Add “slap-happy” to the list of time-travel side effects.
When I manage to get back under control, I make my way up the cottage steps and lean against the heavy wooden railing, feeling surprisingly good. I watch the guys playing soccer and try to catch some movement that seems familiar. They’re all dark-haired and skinny, their half-naked bodies gliding across the wet sand, laughing and calling out to each other in Spanish.
And then I recognize him.
I died and went to Diego.
“Well, it beats taking the bus.”
Chapter 34
Isabel: I Was Misinformed
Droplets of seawater explode in fine flashes of late afternoon sunlight, tiny diamonds splashing up on his thighs and chest as I watch him jog across the wet sand and into the shallow surf. He plucks a soccer ball out of a wave, his movements fluid and relaxed, and then jogs back up the beach to rejoin his friends. I recognize him immediately: the dark eyes and bright flash of white teeth against olive skin. His hair is black, longish and wild, and he’s younger than I’ve ever seen him—and I can’t believe how skinny he is!
He returns to the game, teasing and bumping shoulders with his friends. I continue walking toward him, making futile adjustments to the ill-fitting bikini I bought and trying to stretch out the thin pink T-shirt the shop owner threw in.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
A soccer ball comes shooting out of the mass of half-naked male bodies and flies across the sand. I take a couple of quick steps and trap it with my foot, willing him to come. His friends turn and look, but only he leaves the pack, loping toward me like a wolf pup—all legs, damp hair, and enthusiasm.
When he’s ten feet away, he stops. “Gracias!”
I stare at him, unable to move, my heart pounding in my throat.
Oh my god, it’s him.
He shifts his weight. “La bola, porfa, señorita.” He glances at my feet. “Muchas gracias.”
I flick the ball up with my toes, bounce it on my thigh, and catch it. I watch the surprise flit across his face—he taught me that move—and then beckon to him with my finger.
He hesitates, and then strides across the damp sand toward me.
The delay in the game catches the attention of his buddies. One of them shouts, “Póngale!” And then switches to English. “Hey, gringa, come play with us. You can be on my team.” The other guys all laugh.
“You must be Diego.” I toss him the ball.
He trips in the churned-up sand and almost misses the catch.
“Gotta watch out
for those sand snakes.”
He smiles sheepishly. “Do I know you?”
“You have a brother in the United States, right?”
His eyes are wide. “Sí. I mean yes. How did you know?”
One of his buddies calls out, “Vamos, Tego!”
He waves off his friend and then slides his hand around the sandy ball. “How do you know him?”
“From school. You look enough like him to be his twin.” I allow my eyes to roam over his young, handsome face. “My name is Isabel Sanborn.” I lean in.
He hesitates for a moment and then steps closer and kisses me on the cheek. “Nice to meet you, Isabel.”
The sound of my name on his lips—mixed with the scent of his sweat and aftershave—grabs my heart, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
His friends whistle and call out, “La bola, Tego!”
“As you may have noticed, my very impatient friends call me Tego,” he says. “Only my mom calls me Diego.”
“Nice to meet you, Tay-go.” The unusual word catches on my tongue, and I feel my face flush.
“But you can call me Diego, if you like.”
I nod, feeling off balance. “Yes, I mean no.” It’s all I can do not to throw my arms around his neck. “I like Tego. It suits you.”
Don’t blow it, Iz.
I take a couple of steps and gesture with my head. “Would you like to join me? For a walk on the beach, I mean?”
He hesitates for a moment, glancing at his friends.
My heart jumps into my throat.
What if he says no?
“Sure,” he says. “Let me give the ball to the guys, and I’ll be right back.”
I let out the breath I was holding, and watch him lope up the sand, my whole body filled with exhilaration. I glance down and place my toes into his footprint. A wave encircles my ankle, erasing all traces of him. Time, you fickle tease, giving and taking and giving back.
I look up at my teenaged lover, his feet leaving fleeting impressions in the damp sand, and resist the urge to cry out in joy.
