The Theory of Insanity

by Rick Newberry

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  The little voice yelled at me, now loud and clear, telling me exactly what to say. “Your eyes are green.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “And your last name is green, with an “e.””

  “What’s your point?”

  I had read somewhere that science described déjà vu as an anomaly—created by recalled experiences that actually never happened. Yet, staring at me was completely a different explanation. “How would I know your last name unless…”

  “Unless what? You’re not making any sense. I think you’d better—”

  “How many times have we had this conversation?”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t bother. I guess I knew the truth as soon as I met Sebastian—or should I say, as soon as I met him again for the first time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Even with his years of wisdom…even he slipped up a couple of times. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it, now it’s beginning to make sense.”

  “You’re the one who’s not making any sense.”

  I rested my hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me. You think you have the advantage because you can read my mind, but all I have to do is look into your eyes to see the truth. You and I have already gone back in time. Be honest with me, how many times have we done this?” She hesitated. Where did her loyalties lay, with Sebastian or with me?

  “It’s not like that,” she said picking up on my thoughts, “we’re all on the same side. I want you to succeed. Sebastian does, too.”

  “Then why didn’t he just tell me the truth?”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to put you under any added pressure.”

  There it was—confirmation. Even though her words affirmed my suspicion, I wasn’t buying the reason. How much more pressure could there be than having the fate of the world on my shoulders? What I needed now, more than anything, besides a drink, was the truth. I locked my eyes on hers and glared. “How many times have we tried to change the future?”

  She lowered her head and in a quiet voice said, “We’ve gone back eight times.”

  “Eight…” I turned away, facing the congested avenue in front of The House of Questions. People trudged along in all directions, their features vague, their movements sluggish. They sauntered by in waves, like quiet mourners at a state funeral. I wanted to join them, to wander with them till the end of time—no obligations, no more lies.

  My overactive imagination kicked in, allowing shadows of a past I couldn’t recall to drift through my mind. I had been brought back to life to stop a nuclear war, and I had failed at that task eight separate times. Eight. Wasn’t that reason enough to wander off with the rest of humanity on an endless walkabout?

  “You can’t do that,” Samantha said, “you have to try again.”

  I glared at her. “A ninth attempt? And after that…what—a tenth? Then a—”

  “No. The window is almost closed.”

  I shuddered. Sebastian warned me about the Window of Opportunity. The next question that popped in my head brought all kinds of fear, but I didn’t have to ask. Samantha plucked it from my thoughts.

  She answered in a calm voice, “This is the last chance we get to save the world before…”

  “Before it can’t be saved.”

  We made our way across the porch where two Adirondack chairs faced the avenue. I sat down, sucking in a lungful of sweet morning air.

  A tear rolled down Samantha’s cheek. “We’ve tried everything, did everything by the book, it’s just that…” She sat down.

  “Just that what?” I said. This time, I filled in the blanks myself. “Just that I keep getting sent back to earth without any memory of the previous attempts and have no idea of what to do. What did Sebastian call it? Oh, yeah, a glitch. Well, Sam, apparently that little glitch turns into nuclear annihilation time and time again.”

  “They’re working on the problem—”

  I scoffed. “Sebastian used that word too—a problem. Well, maybe it isn’t just the silence you and I share when we get back to earth, maybe the real problem is silence from the big guy.”

  “The big guy? You mean God?”

  “Damn right I mean God.” My cheeks burned, my heart rate kicking up a few beats. “Why do we keep screwing around with this Portal thing and time travel? Why can’t God just wave his little pinky and make everything okay? Where’s His will in all this?”

  Samantha sniffled, wiping at her tears. “We don’t get to question God’s will. His ways are not ours.”

  “How convenient. Well, since it’s my ass that keeps getting blown up every time, I think I have a right to question His will. So, what do you recommend? I just keep trying to change the past, and keep failing, and keep dying, and keep—”

  “Yes,” she said taking a step toward me. “We just keep trying and keep trying, because that’s what we do. Maybe what happens—or doesn’t happen—is God’s will, maybe not, I don’t know. Personally, I think The Nefarists have selected Dr. Knight’s death as the perfect spark to end the world. And they’ve successfully achieved that goal eight times. But, in spite of failing time and time again, we have to keep trying.”

  “That’s Einstein’s theory of insanity, you know, his classic definition—doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

  She scoffed. “Funny you should mention Einstein. You do know he’s—”

  “So, why does Dr. Knight’s death trigger the end of the world? Yeah, I understand the arena with twenty thousand people as a factor, but hell, The Nefarists could have blown up a thousand stadiums during soccer games, or baseball games, or hockey—”

  “Didn’t Sebastian tell you?”

  Apparently not.

  “Dr. Knight is on the verge of announcing his scientific, spiritual, and transcendental accord—SST. Nearly every political, scientific, and spiritual leader on earth has agreed to join the accord. There are exceptions of course, but in time, he believes every notable human will be on board. Do you realize what that means? He’s actually circumnavigating the military-industrial complex. This has been an ongoing process, very hush-hush, but just imagine—the dawn of a new age is at hand.”

  I swallowed, hard. During the We Are One tour, Dr. Knight had met with hundreds of people behind closed doors—politicians, scientists, activists. Some I knew, most I didn’t. He was forever on his laptop, cell phone, computer, late into the night. It made sense now. He planned to single-handedly bring the world together. The dawn of a new age…

  Shuffling footsteps from the street in front of the house grew louder. I turned and faced the wandering mass of souls. Every one of them ended up here because of something I failed to do, or something I did, or—

  “Don’t blame yourself, Brooks,” Samantha said touching my arm. “You have to learn to forgive yourself—none of this is your fault.”

  I thought of all I had lost during the war—innocence, empathy, trust. But the biggest kicker—those feelings weren’t just lost, they were replaced, becoming cynical, angry, pessimistic. I kept the world at arm’s length because I had learned what it was capable of.

  “And what is it capable of?” Samantha said.

  “Haven’t you ever heard the expression “a world of hurt?””

  “Nonsense. It’s a world of love, of beauty, of possibilities. How I wish you could see the world through my eyes. If anything, being dead should give you a new outlook on life.”

  I took a breath and considered her words. I had worn negativity like a cheap coat for so long, it became a part of me, like a bad tattoo. The thought made me nauseous. Samantha was right. If anything, being dead should be a time for forgiveness—to forgive myself, to forgive the world. “I’m sorry,” I said, “let’s try again. But this time, let’s put Einstein’s theory to the test.”

  She cocked her head and smiled. “What do you mean?”

&nbs
p; “Tell me about the other times we went back. Does it always play out the same?”

  “Yes and no. I mean the main events are the same, you know, the We Are One tour makes all the same stops, and people generally say and do the same things, but…”

  “But what? Tell me.”

  “It’s hard to explain. Certain events change, sometimes subtly and sometimes brutally, and without warning. Each time we go back, there are differences.”

  “Not following.”

  “It’s like we’re never going back to the same past. Events differ just enough to keep us on our toes…well, to keep me on my toes, you never know any difference, because to you, it’s just…life. Since you don’t remember coming back before, you’re unaware of any difference.”

  The sound of the wandering multitude droned on, blending into the background, and in doing so, remained silent. Even though the morning could have been on the front of a postcard from paradise, an ominous force stalked us—invisible, yet so palpable. “Tell me about the differences.”

  “Well, Dr. Knight cuts his speech short in Rio de Janeiro because of exhaustion. But that only happened one time—he speaks in Rio, as scheduled, on all of our other trips back. During another stop in Rio, Tilly is kidnapped, taking up your full attention. On one occasion, the flight from Mexico to Las Vegas was redirected to San Diego because of mechanical difficulties and Dr. Knight is ambushed when we land. On another occasion, there’s an attempt on his life in Germany.”

  “Is he killed?”

  “No. Once again your team saves his life. Your team always manages to save him until the bomb in Las Vegas.”

  “Sounds to me as if The Nefarists are behind the attack in Germany.”

  “No, I don’t think so. He always dies in the arena in Las Vegas. Because of the massive casualties, it always leads to a nuclear war. In fact, I think if Knight were to be killed on foreign soil, the president would, most likely, forego any large-scale retaliation.”

  Old habits are hard to break—I allowed myself a cynical smile. “Sounds like my team might have had some sinister help in saving the good doctor’s life on the road to Vegas.”

  “Maybe. Listen, The Nefarists are always behind the bomb in the arena, but each time we go back, they use a different individual to plant it.”

  “Maybe they don’t want to take the chance I’ll remember something from a previous journey back, so they mix it up—not enough to change the final outcome, but just enough to throw us off the trail.”

  She closed her eyes and whispered, “So, it sounds like Einstein is right—we’re doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.”

  “Maybe not this time.”

  A wry smile brightened her face. “There’s an idea brewing in that head of yours.”

  “Could be. C’mon, tell me what happens each time I die and come back to After World.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Sebastian explains the procedure to you and we travel back through The Portal. I do my best to guide you once we’re on earth, but our communication has two modes—impossible and hopeless. The bomb always goes off and we wind up back here.”

  “Where you convince me to go to The House of Questions and talk with Sebastian—on and on, same old same old.” But does it always have to be that way? “Tell me, have we ever had this conversation before? Have you ever told me about the previous times we tried to save the world and failed?”

  “No. Sebastian forbids it. He insists it’ll only reinforce your negativity.”

  “But doesn’t that mean everyone but me is in on the joke?”

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Of course not.” I scoffed. “That’s just an expression. What I mean is, I’m the only one who doesn’t know we’re trying to change history, even though I’m the only one who can physically do something about it. Right?”

  She nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “So, since this is going to be our last trip back, what do you say we change things up? Tell me everything about the other eight times, no matter how insignificant. I want to know about every time you and I might have communicated. For instance, when I saw you in the arena and you shouted my name—what was that all about? How’d you do that?”

  “I have no idea. From what Sebastian says, the technicians are constantly working on the problem of communication, you know, tweaking this and changing that. They must have hit on the right combination of code or something—maybe the planets aligned just right, I don’t know. But what I do know, is sometimes…”

  “Sometimes, what?”

  “Sometimes I swear you can hear me. You get a funny look in your eyes—”

  I probably wore that look now as the endless march of souls wandered past The House of Questions in search of answers. “What kind of funny look?”

  “I don’t know…a different expression on your face, like you know I’m there. I can’t explain it.” She sighed, dropping her shoulders. “Sometimes, I have to admit, what we’re trying to do is just so impossible.”

  I grinned. “Listen, there’s a plaque hanging in my office. It says—”

  “I know—the difficult can be done immediately, the impossible takes a little longer.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Her expression perked up, and without warning, she hugged me—tight.

  “Whoa.” I took a step back. “Is that even allowed? Humans hugging their guides?”

  “I’m not sure. Besides, it was the other way around, I hugged you.”

  I leaned in, closing my arms around her. “Good to know we aren’t breaking any supernatural rules.” She felt warm.

  I glanced back at the House of Questions. Two shadowy forms appeared in a window on the second floor—a female and male. Blackout shades were closed so fast, I questioned having seen the figures at all. Taking Samantha by the arm, I led her off the porch and down the stairs. We marched toward the chaos of the crowded avenue. “Is there any way at all to block Sebastian from being able to read our thoughts?”

  “I’ve never tried, why do you ask?”

  “I think it’s time to try.”

  VII

  Using my size, Samantha and I merged into the mass of souls wandering the avenue. I studied the expression of those around us. They never verbally objected to our joining their numbers, but their eyes told a different story. We were not wanted, and I soon understood why. The overcrowded street had little space to offer.

  Samantha glanced up at me. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.” I exaggerated each syllable, pronouncing the sounds like a child learning to speak. “For-now-just-re-lax.”

  “Once again, where are we going?” Her eyes grew wide. “And, how am I not able to read your thoughts?”

  I smiled, a broad, shit-eating grin. “It works.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I jammed my thoughts by doing multiplication tables in my head. You know, two times two is four, two times three is six, two times—”

  “I know how the tables go. My God, you were talking so slow, I thought you were having a stroke. But you were still able to carry on a conversation with me at the same time. How is that even possible?”

  “I know, right? Isn’t it awesome? I didn’t think I could do it.”

  “And you can’t. I can pick up your every thought now. We’re going to the café.”

  “I never said it was easy, but at least it can be done, for a little while anyway.”

  Her breath warmed my face. “So, why are we going to the café?”

  Two times two is four, two times three is six, two times—

  “Brooks. Answer me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, “I’m just practicing. I want to get out of this crowd so we can have a private conversation. I can barely hear myself think.”

  “Very funny. I can, now that you’ve stopped that incessant number babbling. You want to discuss our previous attempts on earth. And you think by speaking in a noisy caf
é, we won’t be overheard by Sebastian. Why don’t you trust him?”

  I didn’t want to discuss this with her on the sidewalk, and I didn’t want her reading my thoughts anymore. I practiced reciting the tables in my mind.

  “Not fair.”

  “It-beats-you-snooping-a-round-in-my-head.”

  She protested but didn’t do anything drastic to stop me. After a few moments of elbowing through the crowd, we stood in front of the same café we’d visited earlier today.

  “How juvenile,” she said. “So now you’re the big man who can block my snooping around in your head.”

  “Ha, so you admit it’s snooping.” Opening the door, a swarming mass of endless souls confronted us. The place was far more crowded than it had been just a two hours ago. We pushed forward, shoving our way to the bar, where six barmen positioned themselves to serve patrons. Like before, two stools sat open, as if reserved just for us.

  I ordered a double bourbon for me, and a Guinness Stout for Sam. We air toasted, knocked back the alcohol, then eased the glasses onto the gleaming surface of the bar. I held up two fingers for more.

  “Something’s been puzzling me,” I said raising my voice and leaning in to her. “How did you know about the bomb planted in the podium?”

  She took another drink, this one long and slow. “I don’t know, I just did.”

  I saw no signs of deceit in her body language and facial expression. She was being sincere, even if her lack of understanding frustrated our ability to figure out how to do it again.

  “Maybe if we ask Sebastian—”

  “No. I don’t want him to know that we’re talking. He seems to think it’s a bad idea, and, for the moment, I want him to keep on thinking that.”

  “Why? Why are you so suspicious?”

  I’m always suspicious of someone who lies to me. I began my multiplication tables.

  “Hey, let me in. We’re a team, remember—don’t lock me out.”

  She was right. I’d needed to trust her, which meant I needed her to trust me. “Sorry. It’s just that Sebastian thinks I should go back to earth with no memory of past attempts, like a clean slate each time. I say he’s wrong. You and I have some kind of connection—I can feel it. We have to nurture that bond, use it to our advantage. Sebastian might not understand.”