My gift certificate for DownTime Inc. permitted me one trip to the past for a time period not to exceed 60 minutes and with a .0016 percent risk to the timeline, which meant I wouldn’t be sleeping with Queen Victoria, debating socialism with Trotsky, robbing banks with Bonnie Parker, or singing duets with Ella Fitzgerald, and so on. Only government-approved historians were allowed more than a century into the past, and no one was allowed a temporal entanglement risk greater than 0.0053 percent. Still, it is time travel. Paradoxes happen.
The clerk asked me to roll up my sleeve, providing access to my bio-port. Once she verified my identity and my data (medical history, psychological profile, employment background, and personal temporal entanglement probabilities), I would be on my way, whoosh.
For months, I have been anticipating this moment with a mixture of dread and excitement. Four months ago, my wife, Esme, gave me this wonderful gift, one she knew I desired but would not indulge, not wanting to further deplete our savings given that my life expectancy predictors had fallen from ‘not terrible’ into an actuarial category best described as ‘oh dear.’
“You do understand your survival data?” The clerk asked, a slender, brown-eyed lady who could have been anywhere from 20 to 40 years old, given the latest age-masking technology. I knew she wasn’t an artificial person since DownTime’s brochure guaranteed ‘humane and human’ service.
Though my mouth felt like sand, I managed a snarky answer, an attempt at courage, “Yes, I have read and signed the required documents. I have waived my right to pursue legal actions on the minuscule chance that a large amount of excrement hits a spinning object.”
The clerk, Akira, threw me a mischievous grin, as if we were long-time friends, and said, “Eli, an efficient ‘yes’ would have sufficed.”
I smiled. I liked her.
“Eli, please step onto the circle.”
I complied. The Temporal Displacement Platform stood beneath a lone, soft, bluish light. Despite hundreds of workers huddled at their computers stretched out behind Akira, I felt terribly alone. “So, with a flick of a switch, I’m back in my past? It all seems so… effortless. Will it hurt?”
Akira drifted away from her desk, slender fingers working her pad. “DownTime takes pride in the softest landings in the business.”
Describe ‘soft,’ I thought.
Despite two days of reassuring prep and temporal toxin injections, my stomach felt like a nest of snakes. I wanted to be brave. I wanted my wife to be proud of me. I had not handled my illness with the grace and courage I had hoped.
Instinctively, I reached for my wife’s hand.
She wasn’t there.
Two weeks ago, she jumped into the future and never returned. She had grown tired of caring for me, or perhaps she lacked the steadfastness and empathy to witness the inevitable. I considered suing UpWhen, Inc. for malfeasance, but my lawyer convinced me that UpWhen did not need my approval. “She’s an independent person of sound mind, Eli. Exactly when and where she jumped is confidential, but she jumped beyond her own survival probabilities and safely within temporal entanglement limits. She’s not coming back.”
Akira adjusted my coat, hat, and mittens. “Sledding with your brother? A lovely moment.”
“I suppose it seems silly, given all the potential options. We were kids. We were happy. At least it’s Immersive. Not Observational. I will touch and feel everything.”
“It’s a lovely birthday gift. Your wife clearly loves you.”
“It’s a goodbye gift,” I said and held my breath.
Previously published on 365Tomorrows.
Frank Sikora writes speculative fiction. A few of his short pieces have won awards. Most don’t, but he keeps trying. His work has been published in Canada, Australia, and the U.S. When he is not writing, he works as a substitute teacher, cross-country, track, and field coach, and Uber driver. Yes, he is retired. For more stories, talented writers from the U.S. and Canada, check out his blog: 600miles2Leadville. https://600miles2leadville.blogspot.com
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