Then Again Read online

  “Yep,” she said, turning her chair around to face me. “But you can’t change anything. You have to relive them exactly the way they happened.”

  “Then what’s all this talk about going back and starting over with my adult mind and doing things differently if I choose.”

  “That,” she said, “is Stage Three, which will involve actual mental transference, the insertion of your current consciousness into yourself as a younger person. It’s something Heyoka has been working toward for a long time, and it involves far more than chemical inducement.” She spun back around to the desk. After a few more hand movements, the light dimmed again and something began to materialize above us. As the holographic image descended, it resolved into an odd-looking beehive-like structure wrapped with a silver tube that formed a continuous angled spiral.

  “This,” she said, “is our version of a particle accelerator. In miniature, of course. The real one is on the other side of that wall.” She pointed to the wall opposite the entrance. “It’s similar to the LHC, however, it is not a collider. It is a continuous accelerator, able to move subatomic particles at velocities that come so close to the speed of light the difference cannot be measured.”

  “Right,” I said. “If it’s not a collider, then where do you get the subatomic particles?”

  “See,” she said, “you do know more than you let on. Unfortunately, the answer to that question is almost impossible to illustrate visually, so let me try an analogy you should be able to conceptualize.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, but don’t let that stop you.”

  “Okay. First a little mumbo-jumbo, then I’ve got an idea about relating it to something you’re familiar with. Briefly, when matter is accelerated to the speed of light, it gets stretched out, forming something like a plasma. In this state, matter becomes divisible into its smallest component parts, which are all basically different manifestations of one thing: an oscillating or vibrating string. The importance of this phenomenon, at least for us, is that the acceleration of these strings can, under the right conditions, lead to a state of intense sympathetic vibration, causing a rift or gateway in the fabric of space-time. It’s not unlike the frequency overload that leads to audio feedback, which, as I’m sure you know, if left unchecked can rip the cones of speakers, not to mention a few eardrums. You might say we’re plucking the strings of the universe until they vibrate so wildly they crack the cone of the space-time continuum.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Kind of like how sympathetic vibrations of a high note can shatter a wineglass.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Probably because you weren’t suggesting the total destruction of space-time, only a crack. In any case, believe it or not, I get it. Well, I don’t really get it, but at least it doesn’t sound like complete nonsense. One thing I’d like to know, though, is how you manage to achieve that kind of acceleration in a device that is obviously much smaller in overall size than the LHC, and that looks to be far too compact to accommodate the huge magnets necessary to create such acceleration.”

  “To understand that you’ll have to accept some of the precepts of quantum physics.” She waved a hand over the desk, and the accelerator was replaced by a transparent globe about the size of a soccer ball. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the fact that what we think of as solid matter is mostly empty space.”

  “Heyoka and I already had that conversation,” I said. “At the time I was playing dumb, as you call it. But even though I’ve read a lot about the subatomic world, I more or less have to take those concepts on faith because they’re too bizarre for me to grasp in a realistic sense.”

  “Don’t feel bad, nobody can rationalize the data in terms of everyday realism. However, I might be able to help you visualize what we’re talking about if you can think of this globe as an atom. As you can see, it appears to be empty. That’s because at this scale the components of an atom would be too small to be seen. We would have to blow the globe up to more than a mile in diameter before the nucleus would be visible, and then it would only be the size of a tiny pebble. And the electrons would be smaller still, say like grains of sand. So there’s a lot of empty space inside.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  “I say so. Anyway, Heyoka has developed a method of compressing matter. That is, squeezing out most of the empty space until it becomes super-dense.” As she said this, the globe shrank until it was no larger than a BB, then expanded again, morphing into the original image of the accelerator. “Our acceleration tube is made of this super-dense material, and, unlike the single circular tube of the LHC, it wraps around in a continuous serpentine spiral, a little like a closed double helix. If unwound, it would be as long as the collider tube, but only about one-fifth the diameter.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I said. “But it still doesn’t explain the lack of magnetic fields. And, if I’m not mistaken, that kind of acceleration would also require temperatures near absolute zero.”

  “You are not mistaken, however, in order to understand how these things are accomplished you would have to be able to comprehend some complicated scientific theories. To put it in the simplest terms possible, this super-densification process not only produces an incredibly strong and highly magnetized material, that material is able to absorb and concentrate the thermodynamic properties of its immediate environment with extreme efficiency. The reason you don’t see any magnets is because the entire tube is the magnet, and its proximity to the super-cooled LHC enhances the effect of our own advanced, cryogenic cooling system, allowing for temperatures even lower than those that surround the CERN collider. In case you haven’t already figured it out, we are directly below the center of the LHC.”

  As mind-boggling as her explanations were, I couldn’t believe she was making them up. What would be the point? There was no denying that the facility was vast and scientifically sophisticated, and unless I chose to dismiss what she said out of hand, I had little choice but to accept it as the truth. “Let me ask you something,” I said. “You say this Stage Two is more realistic than the Stage-One memories I’ve been experiencing?”

  “Yes. Far more.”

  “And the Stage-Three thing is what you want me to be the guinea pig for?”

  “Guinea pig is a harsh way of putting it, but I suppose you could say that.”

  “Okay, what I’m wondering is, has anyone even tested Stage Two?”

  “Absolutely. Heyoka, of course, and Fred and myself. If you’re worried about it, I can assure you there is absolutely no danger involved. But listen, you don’t have to make a decision right now. You can wait as long as you like. Talk it over with Fred if you want to. And to reiterate what Heyoka said, you are under no obligation to do anything at all. You can stay here indefinitely, or go back to Lyon tomorrow.”

  “Maybe so, but if that’s true, why the subtle con?”

  “Come on, Rix,” she said. “You can’t really believe you would have gone along with all this if we’d told you everything up front. If you hadn’t been introduced to these ideas a little at a time, you’d have been running for the exits, accusing us of being lunatics. It may seem like a con to you, but if it was, why would Heyoka invite you to leave, or pay your hotel bill, or offer to pay your expenses for the duration of your stay in Lyon? Face it, this is a legitimate proposal, one you are free to either accept or reject.”

  “But I was drugged,” I said. “Without my consent.”

  “Granted, but not until you arrived here at the villa. You voluntarily agreed to take Heyoka up on his offer of hospitality back at the restaurant, and at that time you were under the sole influence of unadulterated Jack Daniel’s, both your own and some that came straight from the bar. The drugs were only used to give you a taste of what’s possible. They have no power over your decision-making processes. Think about it, do you feel like you are being chemically coerced? That we’ve robbed you of your free will? If so, you can go back to the
villa and refuse any more drinks or food from us. I know you have a private stash of whiskey. If you want, you can return to your tour, take a year to make sure there’s nothing of ours left in your system. The offer will still stand. The fact is that none of this will work without your complete, voluntary cooperation, so we wouldn’t force you into anything you don’t want to do even if we could.”

  I leaned back in the chair and watched the accelerator spin like a top in slow motion. Even though I was trying to think of some way to dismiss what she said, I knew it didn’t matter. My life was a wreck, and there was no chance of dodging the inevitable. If my luck held out, I had maybe two more years of deteriorating health and increasing misery before I landed in a nursing home. Or worse, in the morgue. So what if the whole thing turned out to be an elaborate hoax? At least I might be able to go out with some great memories, one of which had already been sparked by the woman sitting across from me.

  “You’re staring again,” Aurélie said, touching my arm. “You know, Rix, my resemblance to Robin was not part of the plan. Some kind of karmic anomaly, maybe, but certainly not deliberate. I’ve been working with Heyoka for over twenty years, since long before we knew any details about your past.”

  I was no longer capable of being shocked by what they knew about my life, so it didn’t strike me as odd that she would be aware of the memories her resemblance to Robin had conjured up. Still, I wasn’t convinced this hadn’t been part of their plan. “Why should I believe you?” I said. “For all I know you’re her reincarnation. Maybe Heyoka inserted her mind into your body. Or maybe you’re not even real, just a chemically induced hallucination.”

  “Could be,” she said. “But considering your experience with hallucinogens, you should be able to tell the difference by now. As for my being a reincarnation of Robin, that’s out of the question. We have to take into consideration the ethical ramifications of what we do, and replacing one person’s persona with another’s would be like committing murder. Seriously, Rix, this isn’t Voodoo or some kind of evil brain-swapping experiment from an old horror movie. Just because we choose not to be restricted by the arbitrary boundaries of ‘legitimate’ science doesn’t mean we aren’t compassionate human beings.”

  “It may not be Voodoo, but it sure sounds—”

  “Hold on,” she glanced over her shoulder at the computer screen where a light had begun to pulse. After a couple of seconds the light faded and she turned back. “Unfortunately,” she said, “Heyoka’s going to be tied up for a while, so we won’t be able to include him in our conversation until the morning. Why don’t we grab something to eat, and I’ll try to answer any other questions you have. We can do that here in the cafeteria, or we can go back to the villa. Whichever you prefer.”

  “This place has a cafeteria?” I said, rising to follow her toward the entrance.

  “It has a lot more than that,” she told me as we emerged from the IMAX room. “In addition to several specialized labs and workshops, there are dorms for the staff, temporary sleeping quarters for visitors, a lounge, and even a game room. At times there are over fifty of us working here: technicians, maintenance personnel, researchers, data-entry folks, and the like. So, what do you think? Should we head back to the villa or tough it out here?”

  “Tough it out? Is the food that bad?”

  “Actually, no. It’s just sandwiches and salads and two or three hot entrées, but they’re all freshly prepared twenty-four-seven, and they’re a lot more appetizing than what you’d get from your average institutional food service. Plus, since we’re probably going to be coming right back in the morning, we could bed down here and avoid the long commute.”

  “Bed down? You and me?” I said with a smile.

  “Sure … Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean …”

  “Kidding,” I said. “Not that I wouldn’t like to.” I waited for some reaction: anger or maybe revulsion. But her expression remained passive.

  “I’m flattered, Rix,” she finally said, without the sarcasm I might have expected. “Don’t get the wrong idea, but I have to admit the thought has crossed my mind. The thing is, we’ve got more important things to worry about right now, and I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to entice you with sex. You’re having a hard enough time trusting us as it is.”

  “You’ve thought about it? I find that hard to believe. I mean, I’m old enough to be your—“

  “Look,” she said, interrupting me, “your age doesn’t enter into the equation. Whether or not you like to admit it, you’re a fascinating character with extraordinary talents. I’ve been a fan ever since Heyoka introduced me to your music, and I’m no different from any other woman when it comes to being sexually attracted to musicians. But you and I both know other issues are involved here, not the least of which is that you wouldn’t be making love to me, you’d be making love to that memory of yours. And I’m not sure I could handle being a surrogate.” She paused a beat. “Now, are we going or staying?”

  “Staying, I guess. If you’re sure you can trust me.”

  She gave a quick, non-committal nod and headed along the corridor in front of me.

  Aurélie was right, of course, at least about my thinking of her as a substitute. Decades had passed since I’d seen Robin, and she still haunted my dreams. Like most of the positive things in my life, I’d managed to fuck that one up royally, and I’d never forgiven myself. Could I go back and change things? And if I did, how would it affect the rest of my new life?

  I’d read enough to know that time-travel could be a complicated matter, even without the problem of paradox, which Heyoka said wouldn’t happen because I would be entering an alternate reality. But one thing that couldn’t be avoided was what science-fiction writers called the butterfly effect, which referred to the idea that every change a time traveler makes in the past, no matter how small or subtle, will spread into the future like ripples from a pebble dropped in a pond, affecting everything in its path. How strong those effects would be and how far into the future the ripples would extend were questions left up to the writers. And their opinions—which were all over the map—could hardly be relied upon. After all, they were fiction writers, not scientists citing objective studies.

  As we approached another recess in the wall, I noticed a sign above it. It was the only entrance I’d seen so far that was identified with anything other than an acronym. “Second Chance Café,” it said, and I wondered if the name had been chosen for my benefit.

  Playing By Ear

  Aurélie’s description of the food at the Second Chance Café turned out to be an understatement. The bacon cheeseburger I ordered was excellent, as was a basket of the thinnest, crispiest, beer-battered onion rings I’d ever tasted. I had to be satisfied with lemonade, since they didn’t serve liquor, but she promised we would retire to the lounge after we finished, where there was a small wet bar. I asked her if the whiskey there was spiked, and she assured me that, other than a couple of bottles of fake Jack, the rest of the liquor was authentic.

  “I think there’s some George Dickel,” she said, “and maybe a Canadian blend or two. I don’t mean to push it, but you might consider sticking with our simulation. As I’m sure you know by now, it’s as good as the real thing, and it not only sharpens memories, but it will help you think more clearly in general.”

  After sharing a slice of peanut-butter pie, we left the cafeteria and headed down the hall. We’d gone about fifty yards when she stopped in front of an entranceway labeled, simply, “Lounge.” The door opened into a large, circular room with several semi-private arrangements of overstuffed chairs around the perimeter. A panorama of animated nature scenes lined the walls, separated by curtains to simulate windows. In the center of the room stood a self-serve bar, surrounded by a scattering of tables and chairs. A dozen or so people sat at the tables, some working on iPads and notebooks, others staring up at flat-screen TV monitors suspended from the domed ceiling.

  We made our way to a small alcove next to a faux wi
ndow that looked out on a rolling surf. Whitecaps glistened under a full moon. Aurélie flicked her fingers over a luminescent panel built into the arm of her chair, and the seascape dissolved into a valley of brilliant wildflowers. The scene brought back memories of something I’d once seen on a hike into the High Sierras. I remembered being stunned by the multicolored spectacle, nearly brought to tears by its surreal beauty.

  “This one reminds me of Parable,” she said. “‘A thousand wild imaginings were singing in the trees, and as I strolled in silence through the flowers …’”

  “I wrote that song in a valley very much like that.”

  “It’s always been one of my favorites,” she said. “The lyrics are so powerful I can close my eyes and imagine being there.”

  “My producer didn’t think much of it. No hook line, he said. Too long. Too mushy. Album material at best. Not unlike a lot of my music. Writing for commercial consumption was never my bag.”

  “Would you change that if you had the chance?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. If I’d applied my talents in a more commercial way, I probably could have come up with a bunch of hits. But they would have been artificial contrivances, like pages out of a marketing plan instead of music that came from the heart.”

  “That might be true,” she said, “but if you had a string of major hits, you could still write the good stuff, and you’d have a much larger audience to hear it.”

  “Right. Like the politician who sacrifices his values to get elected because his campaign manager convinces him that if he sells a piece of his soul early in his career he’ll be in a more powerful position to do good later. The problem with that is, power itself corrupts, as some famous dude once said.”

  “That dude would be Lord Acton. And the actual quote is, ‘Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.’”