Then Again Read online

  “Maybe so,” he said, “but you’ll probably find it frustrating not being able to do with perfection what your mind says you should be able to.”

  “If I decide to go back that far, I’ll deal with those things,” I said. “What else?”

  “Quite a lot, actually. For example, if you went back to your early teen years, you would run into even more serious conflicts between your biological age and your advanced mental capacity. These would be most pronounced in the inevitable tug-of-war between your juvenile endocrine system and your adult desires.”

  “Endocrine system,” I repeated. “That’s glands and hormones, right?”

  “It is, and that system is especially volatile during puberty. It’s hard to say how this interaction will play out, but one problem may arise when you become uncontrollably horny—which you will from time to time—and your adult mind wants you to proposition someone Aurélie’s age. Also, since you would know a lot more about sex than other kids your age, that knowledge could become a major frustration when you find yourself trying to perform in ways your body is not yet mature enough to allow.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, unable to conceal my growing despair. “Anything else I should be considering?”

  “There are many things, Rix,” he said. “So many in fact that there’s no way we can know what they all are or how they will interact with each other. Obviously, there are no medical or psychological studies of the phenomena, since they’ve never been observed before. Consequently, you’ll be on your own when it comes to figuring out how to cope.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that I’m going to have to play it by ear.”

  “You are,” he said. “And although it may seem like a difficult thing to face, there’s probably no one on earth who could handle it any better than you. After all, you’ve been playing by ear all your life. You don’t need a road map any more than you need sheet music. All you need are your instincts and your memories. In fact, that’s one reason why I chose you.”

  “What, my ability to improvise? That’s not unique among musicians.”

  “Yes, but there are few who can do it as nimbly and seamlessly as you,” he said. “Being able to think on your feet will be a great asset when it comes to confronting situations that arise unexpectedly. And believe me, you’re going to face many of those. One of the things you do better than just about anyone is what you musicians call faking it. Your years of working in cover bands honed that skill to perfection, and it will serve you well.”

  He glanced at the video screen, where the image had changed to one of me fronting The Madisons, the last band I worked with before striking out on my own. We were basically a blues-rock group, although we played all kinds of venues, from teen concerts, to frat parties, to social gatherings for retirees where we had to take requests for ancient standards we’d never played.

  “But the real reason I sought you out goes much deeper than that,” Heyoka continued as the image shimmered and dissolved into another scene, this one of a darkened stage with a spotlight on me performing solo. “You know, I wasn’t lying when I said I was one of your biggest fans. I’ve been following your career for many decades, not for scientific reasons, but because I love your music. You wouldn’t be aware of it, but I’ve attended dozens of your concerts and club performances over the years, and I’ve always felt you deserved more notoriety than you were afforded.”

  While he spoke, the screen began to show a montage of my solo career, starting in the early days after a couple of my songs had charted, and running through the decades that followed. Seeing the venues change from concert halls to small auditoriums to “intimate” nightclub settings was depressing, but even worse was watching my hair lose its color while my smooth, tanned skin faded to chalky parchment like a decomposing corpse.

  “During those years,” he went on, “I was developing the techniques I’ve been using to simulate the kind of observational time travel I experienced on my vision quests. And once I had that process perfected, I began to think about carrying it one step further, from observation and benign participation, to actual transference of consciousness. It may come as a surprise to you, but one of the things that sparked my interest in this came from wondering how you might have fared if you’d made different choices in your life. So, in a way, you were the one who inspired me in the first place.”

  That cement-mixer feeling started to invade my brain again, and I had a strong urge to get out of there. Though I’d never been claustrophobic, the walls seemed to be closing in, and I had trouble breathing. “I need to get out of here,” I said, starting to rise. But before I could get to my feet it felt as if a hand grenade exploded in my chest and everything went black.

  Dodging Bullets

  Rix? Hey, Rixter!” The voice thrummed against my skull like a roll of thunder. “Come on, Rix, it’s time to wake up.” My eyelids felt like they had been plastered shut, but after a few tries I managed to crack through the goo and open a slit. “That’s good,” said the voice, which I now recognized as Aurélie’s. “Can you squeeze my hand?” I felt her fingers wiggle against my palm and I managed a weak squeeze, whereupon she let out a whoop. “He’s baaack,” she said, returning my grip. That’s when I felt the log someone had stuck in my throat, and the beeps and buzzes increased in volume around me until I could no longer think.

  My second awakening was a bit less unpleasant. For one thing, the log seemed to be gone from my throat, and the calliope of hospital sounds was muted. “Water,” I managed to croak over the melting asphalt on the back of my tongue.

  “It’s only a little ice,” Aurélie said, as a cool moisture spread across my lips. “We can’t give you water until you’re able to sit up.”

  “Whaa … haa …?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Now don’t freak out on me, but you had a little heart attack. During the cardiac catheterization they found a blocked artery, so they did a balloon angioplasty and inserted a stent. There was minimal damage to your heart muscle, but the angioplasty released a cloud of plaque into your bloodstream, some of which ended up in your brain causing a couple of minor ischemic strokes. Anyway, barring any setbacks, they say you should be up and around in a couple of weeks. The surgeon did mention that your kidneys and liver are in bad shape, and he had a few choice words about cleaning up your act, so we should talk about that when we get back to the villa. For now, you need to rest and give yourself time to heal.”

  “Mmmmm,” I said. And the room went dark again.

  The next few days were a jumble of tests and dreams and removal of life-support equipment, through all of which Aurélie remained by my side. She was always there when I woke up, sometimes accompanied by Heyoka, who seemed much more concerned about my condition than I might have expected. Aurélie, on the other hand, was upbeat, joking around, reading to me, and cajoling me into playing Scrabble—in order to exercise my recovering synapses, she said. I’d developed what I thought was a sizable vocabulary from years of songwriting, but I was no match for the human data bank. As soon as I was ambulatory, physical therapists took over, and it wasn’t long before I was almost back to normal, with only a slight limp and a little numbness on the right side of my face.

  Since it was clear I was not going to make it to my gig in Bordeaux, Aurélie had taken it upon herself to contact my agent and explain the situation, a gesture I found reassuring because it seemed like they were acknowledging the fact that, if I chose to, I could refuse their offer and resume my tour, such as it was. The heart attack, however, had served as a wake-up call. I knew I’d dodged a bullet from a gun that was still cocked and loaded, and that I’d be hard pressed to survive the next round as anything more than a human turnip.

  Back at the villa, Aurélie and I settled into a routine of daily, therapeutic walks punctuated by humorous innuendo and futile debate over the sex that was not to be. Once I agreed to go through with the experiment, her argument turned from the surrogate excuse to one based on the fact that I wasn’t going
to be around to spend the rest of my short life with her. And my rebuttal that we should take the opportunity while we had it fell flat. Besides, she said, if we fell in love and I decided not to go back, Heyoka would never forgive her, and that was apparently more important than a few rolls in the hay with me.

  During one of our walks, I asked if she would ever consider going back herself, and she said there was no reason, that she was satisfied with her life as it had evolved so far. “I can’t say how I’d feel if I were in your shoes,” she said. “I’m hoping I have a long way to go, but even if I don’t, I tend to think that one time around will be enough for me. If I did go back, I wouldn’t know what to change.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” I said. “I mean, I’ve had some ideas, but how do I know what the consequences will be? If you believe the science-fiction writers, I could step on a twig or swat a fly, and the butterfly effect might end up causing a nuclear war.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” she said, as we negotiated a narrow trail behind the villa. “I’m not sure any particular change you make will have much of an impact beyond your own immediate future. It’s like the ripples in a pond that radiate from a dropped stone. Unless you continue to drop more stones, the ripples dissipate and the water becomes calm again, just as the opposing forces of yin and yang tend to balance things over time.”

  “You a Buddhist?”

  “I’m a mathematician using Buddhist terminology to describe a proven theorem called LLN, or the law of large numbers, something you probably think of as the law of averages. Christians might refer to it as reaping what you sow. Casino operators call it the odds. It doesn’t matter how you describe it—yin-yang, divine justice, karma—it all comes down to a mathematical certainty: things always average out over time.”

  “Karma,” I said. “I’ve always thought that made a certain kind of logical sense. Unfortunately, I’ve seen little evidence of it in real life. Some of the biggest assholes in the world seem to be doing just fine, prospering, having loads of fun, all at the expense of others about whom they couldn’t give less of a damn. If there is this averaging out factor, then I’m thinking it would require more than one lifetime to play out, which would mean reincarnation. And isn’t that what Heyoka’s trying to do: develop a scientifically acceptable version of reincarnation? I mean, you’re giving a soul, or a consciousness as you call it, a second chance by transplanting it into a new body.”

  “I guess you could look at it that way,” she said.

  “And that brings to mind something I’ve been thinking about. Heyoka has never said there would be any limitations on what I choose to do in my new life, other than those I put on myself. But what you seem to be suggesting is that there are balancing forces out there that would limit the effects of the choices I make. And if that’s true, I’m wondering what would happen if I used my knowledge of past events to make a bunch of money, or publish hit songs before the original writers come up with them.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, stopping at a spot that looked out over the valley below. We sat together on a fallen tree, and she twiddled with the leaves on a tiny branch that clung to the life ebbing from its host. “If I were to speculate, I’d have to say there would be a price to pay. I have no idea what that price would be, but it seems to me you’d have to settle the account sooner or later. Would you do that, Rix? Take advantage of your knowledge just to get rich or hurt others by stealing their material?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Money never meant much to me, and fame wouldn’t mean a thing if it didn’t come from my own creativity. I have my own style and that’s not going to change. I might make different decisions about how to apply my talents, who to befriend, what options to choose when it comes to venues and producers and agents and such. But I would never steal someone else’s material. Of course, I couldn’t avoid being influenced by the music I’ve heard, but I’d try my best not to let that influence result in outright copies. After twenty years of working in cover bands, there’s nothing I hate more than playing other people’s music.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, touching my hand. “In spite of all your shortcomings and errors in judgment, I like this version of Rix Vaughn. At least the essence of him. Strip away some of the bad decisions, and I think what you’d have left is a pretty good guy.”

  “You should speak to my ex-wives and a few dozen groupies before passing judgment on the purity of my soul. I talk a good game, and I even believe a lot of what I say, but there’s some awful stinky stuff in my background that proves I don’t always listen to that little angel perched on my right shoulder. In fact, for most of my life I’ve been more prone to the yang than the yin.”

  “But don’t you see,” she said, “that kind of honesty is a perfect example of what I’m talking about. The fact that you’re willing to admit those things about yourself demonstrates one of your most admirable traits: you say what you believe to be true, even if it means being candid about your own shortcomings. I knew this long before I met you, because it comes through in your music, which, at times, is almost painfully honest.”

  “What makes you think that?” I said. “How do you know it isn’t all fabricated bullshit?”

  “Anyone who really listens to your songs knows it isn’t, Rix. Honesty isn’t something you can fake. Oh, there are a lot of young superstars nowadays that sing about their broken hearts and love affairs gone wrong, then claim the songs came from personal experiences. But anyone with a discerning ear can recognize that the lyrics are contrived to pluck the heartstrings of teens and tweens. Sad tales of love lost love. Angry tirades against former lovers. Gangsta rap that plays on the sexism and bigotry many hold secretly in their hearts. It’s all supposed to be honest, but most of it reeks of deliberate commercial manipulation. And you said it yourself: you never set out to write with commercial possibilities in mind.”

  “Lot of good it’s done me, this so-called honesty.”

  “That all depends on how you define ‘good,’ as Bill Clinton might say. You know as well as I do that the reason most music sells has little to do with quality, it has to do with connections and money spent on promotion. There are thousands of struggling singers and musicians out there right now who are just as talented as the few dozen who’ve made it big. Their only problem is that they don’t have the right industry connections, or the money to promote themselves independently. The Internet was supposed to level the playing field, but that turned into a vast wasteland of untalented wannabes. Even if it hadn’t, the minimal exposure provided to independents by the Web could never compete with the money and vast promotional capabilities of the major record labels.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess the cream has a harder time rising to the top nowadays, but the fact is it never was that easy. And I’m not talking about myself here. If you want to know where all the new Dylans or Taylors or Jackson Brownes are—the songwriters whose words actually mean something—most of them are stuck in bars, working for union scale and a few dollars shoved in a Mason jar by drunks requesting songs the artists despise.”

  “Maybe you could figure a way to change all that,” she said. “Maybe, with your knowledge of the industry, you could go back and … I don’t know, become a producer or something. Sell that piece of your soul to get rich and be the benefactor of the unknown singer-songwriter. It’s not written in stone that you would automatically turn into a scumbag as Lord Acton suggested.”

  “Fat chance,” I said, but the idea lit a spark in my brain. I didn’t know what that spark was exactly, or how I could fan it into a flame. Still, it was something to think about.

  We sat silently after that, snuggling together in the early evening chill while another spectacular sunset spread iridescent colors across the darkening sky. Like nervous teenagers exploring the boundaries of intimacy, we intertwined fingers, refusing to move until the gathering darkness threatened our safe return. Finally, with little more than the pale glow of a crescent moon to light our way, we rose and
walked hand-in-hand toward the fading silhouette of the villa.

  THEN

  Coming Attractions

  We spent the following weeks conditioning my brain for Stage Two. Little by little, the active ingredients in Heyoka’s chemical stew were strengthened to the point that the results became evident. Not only was I able to remember details of my life long obscured by a fog of alcohol and drugs, I’d almost beaten Aurélie at Scrabble a couple of times. The only problem was the headaches, which sometimes lasted for hours, and were often so severe I could sense her entering my darkened room simply by the movement of air.

  Heyoka didn’t want me taking painkillers, especially opiates, because he said they would interfere with the rejuvenation process. So he had Fred come in and try to adjust my Qi, whatever that was. Fred, it turns out, had spent many years studying Chinese medicine in Tibet and was adept in the ancient arts of acupuncture and something called Qigong. While he stuck me with needles and taught me how to breathe, move, and visualize, Heyoka continued to adjust the chemicals until the headaches subsided. We waited another week to make sure they were gone for good, and a few days later I was deemed ready to enter the next phase.

  Aurélie and I made the long trip back to the lab and returned to the NIFS Complex, where we took a different hallway that ended at another airlock. “What you’re going to experience here will be much more realistic than the previews I showed you before,” she said, as we emerged from the airlock into a small circular chamber. A translucent dome took up most of the floor space, and when she passed her hand over a panel on the wall, the dome rose to reveal a comfortable-looking recliner. “This procedure combines sophisticated spatial manipulation with advanced holographic imagery, giving you the ability to adjust the point of view to your liking. Essentially, you’re going to be a fly on the wall, observing a linear montage of your entire life. Go ahead, take a seat.”