by Peter Ward
So Geoff was dead. And he still hadn’t managed to ask Tim what type of mushroom was more important than him. Perhaps the computer had meant mushroom clouds, which were about to envelop every city on the planet.
Fifteen
It wasn’t a pleasant thing watching human civilization being wiped off the face of the Earth before your very eyes, even if it was just a video simulation. Tim was so shocked at what the supercomputer had just shown him that he had to sit down on the floor.
“Holy shit, Geoff!” he said, shaking nervously. “Did you see that? It’s a good thing we double-checked what would have happened before sending you back the twenty-first century! If you’d have gone back now, the Varsarians would have invaded two hundred years earlier than they should have! We’d have all been killed!”
Geoff said nothing.
“I’ve got to think,” Tim said, standing up again to pace up and down. “This doesn’t make any sense. Why did the light turn green? Why did the computer clear you for travel? An alien invasion is a pretty fucking big thing for it to miss, wouldn’t you say?”
Still Geoff said nothing.
“Geoff?”
Tim stopped pacing and looked round. Geoff had collapsed on the floor of the paradox-scanning facility, unconscious.
Typical, Tim thought.
Was it something he’d said?
Sixteen
As a matter of fact it was something Geoff had heard himself say on that video simulation that had caused him to pass out: “I bring a message from Tringrall. In the year of Dranculees, you must revert.” These words must have triggered something powerful in his mind because he immediately found himself lying in a rickety old rowboat, drifting peacefully in the middle of his imaginary lake. This was getting a little ridiculous now; he’d been back here so many times in the past couple of days that he was surprised his imagination wasn’t charging him rent.
There was something slightly different about this latest visit though: something Geoff couldn’t put his finger on. On the surface, everything certainly looked very familiar—his bench was where it should have been, the air smelled the same, and all the trees were pointing in the right direction, but somehow, Geoff sensed that something had changed, something he couldn’t describe. It was a bit like seeing a friend who looked like they might have had a haircut, but being too scared to say anything in case they hadn’t.
Geoff sat up in the boat and stretched his legs. It must have been the beginning of a new day in his imaginary world, the bright orange sun just beginning to peek over the hills in the distance. This wasn’t any old sunrise mind, like the generic ones often used as logos for morning television; this was something quite glorious, the bright orange glow of the sun dissipating into a patchwork quilt of pink and blue cirrus cloud. Indeed, it was almost romantic—Geoff could well imagine young couples playing to stereotype and sitting in front of this sunrise on a beach before realizing how bloody cold it is outside on the coast at six thirty in the morning.
The only blemish to this magnificent view was a little dot gliding across the sky, like someone flashing a laser pen on the screen at the cinema. Geoff looked closer. It appeared to be a seagull circling high above the lake.
“Blimey—that was quick!” a voice shouted. “You back already?”
Geoff looked around. Where had that voice come from? There was certainly no one in the boat with him, and as far as he could tell, there was no one standing on the edge of the lake.
“Up here!” came the voice again.
Geoff looked up. The seagull seemed to be getting lower and lower.
“That’s right!” it shouted. “It’s me!”
Great. First a talking fish, now a talking seagull. Geoff was a little unnerved by the number of talking animals populating his imagination. He really needed to cut down on watching so many cartoons.
The seagull swooped down over Geoff’s head, arched its wings into a landing position, and perched itself on the end of the boat. It appeared to be holding a piece of paper in its left foot.
“Remember me?” the seagull said, tucking its wings back into its body and adjusting its footing.
“Erm … no.” Geoff said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. Didn’t think you would. Those bastards made you forget everything, didn’t they?”
“What?”
“The Varsarian who attacked you—he made you forget everything. Eric’s murder, what he told you about fixing the algorithm, everything.”
“Eric told me how to fix the algorithm?”
“Yep.”
“And this … Varsarian made me forget?”
“That’s right.”
“But … how?”
“I don’t know for sure. You must have been in a semi-lucid state after you were attacked, which meant that everything you experienced here was a mixture of the real world and your imaginary world. That would explain how they were able to talk to you in your dream, hypnotize you into forgetting everything, and why the injury to your hand was both real and imagined.”
Geoff considered himself to be quite lucky. There probably weren’t many seagulls in the world that were capable of putting together such an eloquent, psychoanalytical hypothesis for everything that had happened to him today. In his experience, the only things most seagulls were capable of doing were eating small fish, shitting on cars, and if they were feeling really adventurous, standing on one leg.
“Who are you?” Geoff said. “Are you real?”
“Am I real?”
“Yeah. Are you someone talking to me in the real world?”
“What?” the seagull said. “Am I someone talking to you in the real world? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Who are you then?”
“I’m a seagull.”
“But you’re talking!”
“Yes, I’m a talking seagull. Well spotted. And I don’t mean that I’m well spotted by the way because there’s no such thing as a well spotted seagull.”
Geoff was really confused now.
“Sorry—bird watching joke,” it said.
“So you’re a talking seagull. Is that not more ridiculous than being someone in the real world talking to me?”
“Hey! I’m not just any old seagull! I’m a herring gull! We’re pretty smart birds, let me tell you!”
Geoff didn’t need convincing of that. This talking herring gull was probably so smart that it could beat him at chess using only the top hat from Monopoly.
“Funny thing is,” the seagull continued, “I’m actually a part of your subconscious. I’m you.”
“What do you mean you’re me? You’re a seagull.”
“Let me ask you something,” the seagull said, edging its way round the rim of the boat towards Geoff. “How did you feel when those people from the future told you that you were totally insignificant?”
Geoff leaned against the back of the boat and let out a deep breath.
“Not brilliant,” he said, looking up at the sky. “Bit crap actually.”
“Not brilliant?” the seagull replied. “You were angry. Deep inside, you resented the fact that you’d been conditioned to live a life of obscurity for all those years—that your life wasn’t allowed to follow its natural course. These people had stopped you from trying to better yourself, kept you indoors playing computer games, and even restricted your contact with other people. They’d placed you in a carefully controlled artificial environment to turn you into the person they needed you to be—someone society considers as being useless, an “insignificant nobody.” But you’re so much more than that.”
“I am?”
“Oh yes,” the seagull said. “Trust me Geoff—you are capable of great things.”
“I don’t know,” Geoff said, shaking his head. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve wondered what I was really looking for in life—what contribution I could make to the world. But I always ended up
drawing a blank. The fact of the matter is—I don’t have any real skills to apply to anything. In fact, the only thing I’m great at is playing computer games, and that’s not exactly the most worthwhile of pursuits, wouldn’t you say?”
“That’s the conditioning speaking again Geoff,” the seagull said. “Don’t you see? Your mind has been suppressed by these people for so long, all you’re capable of these days is self-doubt. But think about it again—why are you so good at computer games?”
“I don’t know,” Geoff said. “I guess I’ve got pretty fast reactions …”
“Go on …”
“And I’m good at finding an enemy’s weak spot. Noticing patterns in the way they attack. Anticipating what they might do next.”
“That’s it!” The seagull began jumping up and down. “What else? Don’t stop now!”
“Also,” Geoff said, sitting up in the boat, “when I play online with a group of others, I’m usually the one everyone wants to take charge of the situation—I’m good at formulating a strategy, problem solving, and telling everyone their role in the mission … You know, that sort of thing …”
“There you go!”
“But … that’s just in the world of computer games,” Geoff said, sinking back down again into his seat. “It’s all just make-believe, isn’t it?”
“True,” the seagull said. “But is there any reason why those sorts of skills can’t be applied to real life?”
“I guess not,” Geoff admitted, dangling his arm over the edge of the boat and dipping his hand through the silky surface of the lake. “But I don’t really find myself in any real life situations that require that sort of strategic thinking …”
“And whose fault is that?” the seagull asked.
Geoff looked at the seagull in silence for a moment, feeling the cool water trickle round his fingers.
“I suppose I’ve never really been given the chance to show what I can do,” he said, “now that you mention it.”
“That’s right—you haven’t. What’s worse, being identified by that supercomputer as someone worthless to society was almost a self-fulfilling prophecy. So tell me—how did you feel when you found out that the supercomputer might not have been so super after all? That there might have been some sort of mistake in its calculations?”
“I don’t know,” Geoff said. “Relieved?”
“No, no no. It was more than that. The moment you found out there was a flaw in the algorithm, something woke up inside you—something that had been dormant for a long time.”
“You’re right,” Geoff said. “Now that you mention it, I did feel something stir inside me. But I thought it was that lasagne Tim made the other day. He always puts bloody zucchini in it.”
“This wasn’t Tim’s lasagne,” the seagull said. “Remember why Mr. Knight hired you to be a Time Rep? He hired you because you had absolutely no aspirations. No desire to better yourself. But all that changed when you discovered you might not be worthless after all. You became determined to prove that you weren’t just some insignificant nobody.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You might not have realized it, but you did. And that’s where I come in.”
“You?” Geoff said.
The seagull nodded. At least Geoff thought it looked like a nod. He wasn’t particularly experienced at talking to seagulls and wasn’t quite sure if he’d translated the gesture properly.
“I am the symbol your subconscious has chosen to embody all the confidence these people have been trying to take away from you, all your resistance to the idea of being an “insignificant nobody,” and all your desires to show them what you are truly capable of.”
“A seagull?” Geoff said. “Wouldn’t it have been better for me to choose a massive robot with rocket launchers for eyes or a big tank with loads of guns? You know—something bastard hard?”
The seagull let out a little seagull sigh. “Robots and tanks may be pretty cool, but they don’t mean anything to you Geoff,” it said, looking out across the lake. “The seagull, on the other hand, is hugely symbolic. To most people, it may be just a stupid bird that chose to look right instead of left, but to you, it represents so much more. It’s the thing that proves you do make a difference; it reassures you that you’re not the same as all the other Time Reps—that you’re not just another turnip farmer or failed philosopher. But more than that, it’s something you believe will one day reveal your true influence on the course of history—something that will give you a chance to show these people what you’re really capable of.”
“That does sound pretty important, now that you mention it,” Geoff said.
“Oh believe me, there’s more to that bird than meets the eye, Geoff,” the seagull said, jumping down onto the wooden seat in front of him. “Much more. Figure out the mystery behind why it chose to look right instead of left, and you’ll reveal your true significance to the world—significance far greater than anyone could ever imagine.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” Geoff said. “I have enough trouble trying to figure out the mystery of how many Nectar points I’ve got.”
“With this,” the seagull said, releasing the piece of paper in its foot and nudging it towards Geoff. “That’s everything Eric told you about the loophole in his algorithm before he died, and how to fix it. You wrote it all down just before your attacker hypnotized you into forgetting everything.”
“I wrote it all down?” Geoff said, picking the piece of paper up. It was folded in half.
“Well, not literally. You imagined writing everything down as a way of protecting the information in the back of your mind.”
“I see,” Geoff said. “So you’re saying that once I read this, I’ll know how that stupid computer can be tricked?”
“Correct. And once you know that, you’ll be able to figure out why that seagull chose to look the other way.”
Geoff couldn’t think of a better incentive to open the piece of paper and read it, which he did immediately. When he’d finished, he leaned against the back of the boat, looked up in the sky, and laughed out loud—underneath the explanation behind how Eric’s algorithm could be fooled, he’d also written down quite a funny joke he’d heard the other day in case he’d forgotten that as well.
Seventeen
“Geoff?”
“Hee hee hee ……..”
“Geoff!”
“Hee hee … wha ……..”
“Geoff, wake up!”
“Mnnn …..?”
“Stop mumbling and wake up!”
Geoff opened his eyes, only to be greeted by a large, freeze-framed image of his own death—not the most pleasant sight to wake up to after a nice nap. In fact, now that he thought about it, Tim was developing a nasty habit of waking him up in a variety of bad ways: blinding him by opening the curtains, strapping him to a table, putting tubes up his nose, and now tormenting him with a high-resolution image of his body being toasted in a spaceship’s fiery backwash. One of these days he’d have to get his own back—perhaps by tying Tim’s foot to a passing truck while he slept.
“Agghhh!” Geoff yelped, shielding his gaze. “Turn it off! Turn it off!”
“Sorry,” Tim said. “I watched it through again whilst you were unconscious. Computer, please turn off the screen.”
On command, the screen disappeared in a flash of vapor, a bit like Geoff’s body had done in the simulation, as it happened.
“It’s gone,” Tim said, helping Geoff to his feet. “You can look.”
Geoff brought his hand back down from his eyes and sat on the scanning pedestal in the middle of the room. He was sweating.
“You feeling OK?” Tim said.
“Oh I’m just spiffing,” Geoff replied. “I’ve been stabbed through the hand, I’ve watched London being destroyed by an alien invasion, and I’ve seen my own death being simulated in glorious widescreen. Things couldn’t be better. Is there anyone near
by who could kick me in the bollocks just to round the day off?”
Tim sighed.
“Yes, it looks like we’ve got a bit of a problem on our hands here,” he said, sitting down next to Geoff. “Maybe the papers were right about you after all.”
“What?”
“The newspapers. Remember what that journalist said to you before the party?”
“Journalist?”
“You remember. He said you might have been lied to about your insignificance. Maybe he was right.”
“You think?” Geoff said, giving Tim a sarcastic look.
“The question is: how the hell did we miss it?”
“I can tell you how.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I can tell you how you missed it.”
Tim removed his glasses for a moment and rubbed his eyes.
“You can?”
Geoff nodded. “Eric told me how the computer could be tricked before he died.”
“What?” Tim said, leaping to his feet. “I thought you couldn’t remember anything!”
“I couldn’t, until now,” Geoff said, leaning back on is hands. “Listen—you’re not going to believe this, but the person who attacked me also hypnotized me. They hypnotized me into delivering that message about Tringrall and Dranculees to the aliens, and they hypnotized me into forgetting what Eric told me before he died. But I remember now. He did explain the loophole to me.”
“So how come you remember?”
“Because I heard myself say all that crap about Tringrall and Dranculees,” Geoff said. “That was the trigger I was given to restore my memory.”
“What? But why did they want you to remember at all?”
“A cruel trick, I guess. Whoever’s behind all this must have known I was going to die seconds after I said those words. They wanted me to remember how they’d changed history—how they’d managed to finally wipe out the human race—but only when it was too late to stop them. They wanted me to suffer one final moment of torment before my death.”
“But they didn’t think we’d double-check the paradox scan before you went back,” Tim said, smiling. “They didn’t reckon you’d hear those words in a simulation.”
