The Individuality Gene

by G Sauvé

The sense of guilt persists for a while. Minutes turn into hours as I replay the recent events over and over in my mind. Kara’s death, and the discovery that she’s a robot. Jonn’s unwillingness to explain things. My decision to return to my time, and my shock at discovering I’m no longer trapped in the past. But what does being here accomplish if my mother isn’t here? I ponder this for a while before realizing my mother isn’t the only person I care about in this time.

  “Grace,” I gasp. I haven’t seen her in months, and the prospect of being reunited with the only person who truly cares about me fills me with joy. I rush out of the seedy motel room and make my way to the nearest subway station. It’s not until I reach the turnstiles that I remember I don’t have any money. Jumping the stiles would be easy, but now that I plan on remaining in this time, breaking the law seems unwise. I thus make my way back to the surface and begin the long journey back to the orphanage.

  The trek across the sleeping city takes hours. I spot the occasional night bus zooming along and consider trying to convince the driver to let me on, but they speed by without a second look. I continue the long walk. Soon, my legs begin to tire, but I keep going. And going. And going. By the time I reach the orphanage, the sun is beginning to rise. Its warm rays caress my skin and bring a smile to my lips.

  I stare at the orphanage. It’s a plain brick building with large windows and a massive oak door. The words “Orphelinat Saint-Antoine” appear above the entrance in large brass letters. I have read them hundreds of time, yet never before have they brought me such joy. I used to think living in an orphanage sucked, but given all I’ve been through, I’m rather looking forward to the dull, boring life that awaits within.

  I scale the steps and approach the door. I hesitate for a moment then knock.

  Nothing happens.

  I knock again.

  Still nothing.

  I’m debating whether to keep knocking or give up and wait until the orphanage opens for business when the door swings open to reveal the most beautiful woman in the entire world.

  Grace.

  I’ve never been so happy to see her. In her eyes, I may have been gone mere hours, but it’s been months since I saw her. She looks just as magnificent as I remember. The urge to hug her overwhelms me, and I take a step forward, but a powerful force grabs hold of me before I can progress any further.

  “What the—” I mutter, but that’s all I have time to say before the mysterious force yanks me backward. One moment I’m standing on the threshold of the Orphelinat Saint-Antoine; the next I’m in a decrepit park in company of my former friends.

  “Dammit!” I mutter.

  My older self was right. Ignoring my duties isn’t an option.

  Memory 62

  W elcome back,” says my older self. He sits on the same park bench where we met during my first visit. His face remains bathed in shadows, but I can tell he’s smiling by his joyful tone.

  “Let’s skip the pleasantries,” I say. “Just tell me what I need to do.”

  “Not here,” he says. Standing, he leads me to the same motel room where we last spoke. It’s just as filthy as I recall.

  “All right,” I say once we’re both seated. I shift into a comfortable position and stare at my older self. He sits in the room’s only chair, legs crossed and hands in his lap. He seems so calm I can’t help wondering what it must be like to be him. He has all the answers, knows everything I’m going to say before I even think of it. Yet there he sits, patiently waiting for me to initiate the conversation.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask.

  “It’s simple,” says Old Will. “You must return to the past and reset history to its proper course.”

  It sounds so easy when he says it, but I know from experience it will be anything but simple.

  “I’ve already tried. Twice.”

  “That’s not entirely accurate.”

  He’s right. Our first attempt at freeing the enslaved humans failed, but my second plan of attack was interrupted by Kara’s untimely death. If I reset and return to the Colony, perhaps I can convince the free humans to attack the sentinels and rescue their imprisoned comrades. It shouldn’t be that difficult now that I know—

  “I know what you’re thinking,” says my older self, “but Snow will never agree to put his people at risk.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Trust me. I’ve tried every permutation of that scenario and never have I managed to free the enslaved humans. On the rare occasions when I managed to convince the Colony leaders to go to war, Avalon always found a way to defeat us. There’s only one way to set things right, and I can assure you it doesn’t involve the free humans.”

  “Does it involve Jonn and Kara?” I ask.

  Old Will shakes his head.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do this alone.”

  “Good.” The last thing I want is to partner up with my former friends. They betrayed me, and they deserve whatever’s coming. I honestly don’t know whether they will succeed in defeating Avalon, but that’s no longer my problem. All I care about is rectifying the mistake I made. After that, I’m coming right back here and forgetting all about time travel and the insanity that comes with it.

  “Tell me what to do,” I urge, eager to put this entire ordeal behind me and focus on finding my mother—and possibly my father.

  “You’re eager,” says Will 2.0. “I like that, but you mustn’t be brash. I’ve tried dozens of different plans and hundreds of variations before finding an approach that worked. But it won’t be easy. Trying to rush through it will only result in failure. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “What’s the one thing that has consistently kept you and your friends…”

  “They’re not my friends,” I say, but my older self ignores me and keeps speaking.

  “…from freeing the enslaved humans?”

  I take a moment to consider the question. I go down a few rabbit holes, but they all lead to dead ends. It’s not until I return to the very beginning that it dawns on me.

  “Avalon.”

  Old Will shakes his head. “Avalon is pulling the strings, but she isn’t directly responsible for your failures.”

  “She isn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then who?”

  “Sentinels.”

  He’s right. They’ve been a pain in our butts ever since we started trying to free the humans. Without them, the enslaved men and women would have escaped long ago.

  “How do we get rid of them?” I ask.

  Will 2.0 smiles. “You already know the answer.”

  “I do?”

  He nods.

  “Avalon unwittingly revealed the solution when she put an end to the rebellion you and your friends orchestrated.”

  “She did?”

  “Do you remember the letter you received when you and the humans reached the surface for the very first time?”

  I nod.

  “Do you recall what it said?”

  “Avalon gloated, explaining how nothing we did in that time could make up for our mistake.”

  My older self nods.

  “What else?”

  “She revealed she’d been spying on us ever since we first arrived.”

  “How?”

  “She used the sentinels. Everything they see is recorded and relayed to a central computer, which is located at the centre of the Earth. But what does any of this—”

  “Don’t you see?” asks my older self. “The robots are controlled remotely via a central command hub.”

  “So?”

  “Think about it.”

  I do. It takes a while, but the simplicity of Old Will’s plan finally dawns on me.

  “What will happen to the robots if we destroy the computer?”

  “They will go offline,” says Will 2.0, beaming.

  “It can’t be that simple,” I say, refusing to get my hopes up. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. Once I
incapacitate the robots, freeing the humans will be easy. Once liberated, they will evolve and become true individuals, thus returning history to its intended path. There’s only one problem.

  “How the hell am I supposed to get to the centre of the Earth?” I ask. “And even if I do, how will I locate the computer?”

  “You’ll need help.”

  “Forget it,” I say. “I’m not working with Jonn and Kara.”

  “That’s not who I was referring to.”

  “It’s not?” I try to compile a mental list of my possible allies, but I come up blank. Now that my former companions betrayed me, there’s no one I can turn to for help. Unless…

  “A’lara.”

  “That’s right,” says Old Will. “She’s the key to everything. With her help, destroying the computer and freeing the humans will be easy.”

  He’s right. But that doesn’t mean all our problems are solved.

  “If it’s so simple,” I ask. “Why didn’t you do it yourself? Why bother coming back and convincing me to do it?”

  Will 2.0 sighs.

  “By the time I figured it out, it was already too late.”

  “What do you mean? Too late for what?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Please. I need to know.”

  Old Will remains silent for a while.

  “You’re right,” he finally says. “Up until now, I focused all of my attention on making sure the past—my past—remained unchanged.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to ensure your path led you here, to this very moment.”

  “Why?”

  “This is the moment that changes everything,” says my older self. “This is the last time we will ever see each other.”

  My heart skips a beat, and panic gains me. Though he rarely shows himself, knowing Old Will is watching over me makes me feel as though everything will be all right. The mere prospect of losing him terrifies me.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “It’s simple. By freeing the humans and resetting history to its proper course, you will effectively be erasing the timeline that led to me coming here. I will cease to exist, and you will become the only Will Save.”

  It makes sense, though I’m still quite perplexed.

  “Why wait until now? Why not warn me before and keep this entire series of event from happening in the first place?”

  Will 2.0 sighs.

  “The past is complex. The further back you travel, the more repercussions a single event can have. By waiting until now—the last possible moment—to intervene, I have maximized the odds of our plan succeeding. Had I tried to interfere before, I would have set off a chain reaction of events that may well have done more harm than good. Not to mention the fact that you would now be alone and without guidance.”

  I’m not sure I understand what my older self just said, but he spoke with such conviction I can’t help believing him. Then again, it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it now. What’s done is done. But that doesn’t mean I understand all that’s going on.

  “I have a question,” I say. “Is the individuality gene real?”

  Old Will seems taken aback, but only for a second.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve been thinking. Avalon could have lied to us, made up the whole dormant gene thing to trick us into altering the past.”

  “It’s true,” admit my older self, “but you never could have altered the past had the individuality gene been a hoax. Your actions would have had no effect, and history would have unfolded as intended. The mere fact that we’re having this conversation proves the individuality gene is, in fact, real.”

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  “What about the free humans?” I ask. “They’re true individuals.”

  Old Will nods. “That’s true, but your—our—actions have nonetheless caused the deaths of countless people. It has also led to the enslavement of a large portion of what remains of the human population. Without our interference, the humans would have evolved before the Kra’lors could take possession of Earth and none of this would have happened. Whether or not the enslaved humans are unevolved or merely uncultured matters little. You still need to save them.”

  He’s right. Now more than ever, I’m determined to do whatever it takes to make things right, even if my actions can never make up for the countless deaths that weigh so heavily on my soul. But first, I have a few more questions to ask.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” says my older self. “Unfortunately, returning history to its intended course won’t disrupt the time loop.”

  “But Avalon said—”

  “She lied. Your actions in the past have nothing to do with the time loop. You’re resetting because Avalon stole your ring and modified it.”

  “That’s impossible. I never took it off.”

  “Are you sure?” asks my older self.

  I scour my memories in search of an instance when I wasn’t in possession of my ring, but the only occurrence that comes to mind is when my former friends and I were staking out the woman who we believed to be the mother of the first individual. Whenever my shift ended, I handed my ring over to whoever was on watch next. In theory, it never left their possession, but I now realize it would have been relatively easy for Avalon to steal the ring and modify it so it sent me back to the same moment in history each and every time I stepped through a portal.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” I admit. “How did I get here? Why didn’t it reset me like all the other times I stepped through a portal? For that matter, how is it I can now return to my time when I failed so many times in the past?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t answer those questions.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” I ask.

  “Does it matter?”

  It doesn’t, so I choose to focus on a different matter.

  “Why wasn’t I able to hug Grace?” I ask, thinking of my first return trip to this time. “I didn’t open a portal. Why did I reset? Or is this one of those questions you can’t answer?”

  Will 2.0 chuckles.

  “No. I can answer that question. From what I was able to gather from my own trips to this time, Avalon’s alterations have deactivated whatever force was keeping you from returning here. The only problem is that the nature of the alterations keeps you from staying more than a few hours. After six hours, you are automatically reset.”

  That explains why I was yanked from this time so abruptly.

  “Can the ring be fixed?” I ask. After all, there’s no point in freeing the enslaved humans if I reset the next time I attempt to time travel.

  Old Will nods.

  “I’m no Kidd, but I should be able to undo whatever alterations Avalon has performed.”

  “Will it allow me to return to this time for more than six hours?”

  “In theory, but I can’t promise anything.”

  I guess that’s better than nothing.

  “How long will it take?”

  “It should be done by the time you wake up.”

  “Wake up?”

  My older self nods.

  “You need to rest,” he says. “Your body regains its strength each time you reset, but your mind needs to recharge. You haven’t had a decent night’s rest in over a month.”

  He’s right. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I’m exhausted.

  “Will you be here when I wake up?” I ask.

  He nods. “Just put the ring on the nightstand, and I’ll take care of it while you sleep.”

  I stare at my ring. Removing it feels wrong, but I know it’s the only way. Sliding it off my finger, I place it on the bedside table and settle in for my first real rest since the start of this insane adventure.

  I pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  Memory 63

  I awake feeling rested. Sitting, I look around the dingy room and, for a brief moment, fear gains me. But then I spot my older self sitting by the
foot of the bed, and the panic subsides. His eyes are closed, but the shallow nature of his breathing tells me he’s merely resting his eyes. I’m about to make my wakefulness known when I notice it.

  Old Will’s right hand is missing.

  I stare at the stump for a moment before my gaze wanders to the nearby food platter. It stands atop a folding table and overflows with an assortment of mouth-watering treats. But I barely even notice them. My attention is focused on the artificial hand that rests against the platter. It looks real but for the fact that it lies apart from my older self’s body.

  I stare at the hand for a while before focusing on Will 2.0 once more. His eyes are now open, and he’s smiling, but his joy quickly fades when he notices my dismayed expression.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

  I don’t answer. I merely point.

  “Oops,” he chuckles at the sight of his artificial hand. “Sorry about that. I forgot I removed it.”

  He takes the hand, places it against his stump, and moves it around until they line up perfectly. Soon, all that remains is a slight discoloration. No wonder I didn’t notice it until now.

  “There are many advantages to having an artificial hand,” says Old Will, flexing the fingers of his fake hand, “but you wouldn’t believe how itchy it gets when I wear it for extended periods.”

  It takes a while before I find the strength to speak.

  “How long?”

  “How long have I had it?”

  I nod.

  “A couple of years.”

  That means he had it during our previous encounters.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  I consider insisting, but I can tell my older self doesn’t want to discuss the events leading to his partial dismemberment. I can’t blame him. It must have been a traumatic experience. Still, I can’t help wondering how it happened, or where the replacement hand came from.

  “How long was I out?” I ask.

  “A few hours.”

  It’s not much, but I feel rested. The only problem is I’m now starving.

  “Do you mind if I have a couple of bites?” I ask, nodding to the platter of food.

  “Take it all,” says Old Will. “I ordered it for you.”