text: You heard the quantum theory that, given enough time, “whatever can happen will happen?” Well, you probably haven’t heard the corollary: whatever can happen, must happen. We’ve been immortal for almost two-hundred years now, and when superintelligence showed up and changed everything, it wasn’t long before most humans were living forever. When we first set the machines to work, though, we were cautious, almost timid. We didn’t want to lose control. The first thing we had them do was find the secret of biological immortality; that was what most people wanted, especially the powerful and wealthy -- and we tend to have an outsized voice in these types of things. We eventually set the machines to unravel the mysteries of the universe, and they made an interesting discovery about the nature of our reality. All possibilities must eventually be realized, whether by us, our ancestors, or our descendants. Some civilizations might have called what we did after that cruel. We sure did at the beginning -- but the phrase “necessary evil” exists for a reason. *** The ones who fought the hardest were the untouchables: the criminals, the poor, the ones who had no power to choose their burdens. They had the most to lose. The simple fact was this: someone had to suffer hardship, and you’re kidding yourself if you think the wealthy and powerful were going to let it be them. In the end, we said it was for the good of humanity, and we went forward with the Restorative Justice and Futures Curation Act of 2142. Now why am I telling you all this? So you’ll understand the important part I played. And so you’ll understand just what I was doing in line outside the pen that day. *** “RETURN TO SINGLE FILE LINE,” came the robotic directive, intended for the idiot in front of me who had apparently lost his mind. I nudge him to make sure he’s paying attention. “Pal. They’re talkin’ to you.” “VIOLATOR: RETURN TO LINE.” The “warning” is followed immediately by a high-voltage/low-amp electro shock delivered by gas-powered electrode cartridges -- enough to drop him to his knees but not enough to kill him. “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper through clenched teeth. 20,000 volts to the chest doesn’t feel good by any means. “You trying to get both of us killed?” I reach out my hand to help him up. He’s smiling as he stands. “Heart condition,” he says, tapping his sternum. “I’m thinking it’s better than anything we’re gonna go through in there.” I narrow my eyes as I consider the point. It’s a damn good one. Some of the worst criminals go through and never make it out, and the ones who do are never the same. I heard about one death row inmate who made it out years ago. His incoherent screams and babbling lasted the rest of his life, which was about 48 hours post-release. Poor bastard jumped off a bridge. It was probably the sanest thing he’s ever done. I’m expecting a relatively light sentence. I’ve never done anything before. I’m a life-long public servant, humbly and selflessly serving my fellow man. Besides, the person I hit was fine. I’ll be in and out of here before anyone knows I’m gone. “You really think it’s true what they say?” I ask in a whisper, making sure to stay straight in line. You can choose to either serve your time, or accept a punishment in its place. Except it’s not a “punishment.” It’s a carefully-calculated “experiential contribution,” made by you and your consciousness, designed to clear out some of the more troubling potential future universes so that ours will be better. It’s a great deal, unless you’re clearing out the troubling universes. “Whaddaya mean?” the guy with the heart condition whispers back over his shoulder. “They can do anything to you? Like, anything?” He shrugs. Without turning around, he says, “I hear the punishment always fits the crime. What did you do?” “Drinking and driving.” “You should be fine.” I can hear his grin. *** I’ve never had any run-ins with the law before. I’m an upstanding citizen. The whole process came off a bit like controlled chaos. There’s the in-processing line where they collect your personally identifying info: fingerprints, retinal/facial scan, and a cheek swab for DNA to make sure there’s no mistaking who you are. If you don’t have a psychological profile on record, you’re taken out and given a quick screen, along with some medical tests. Finally, if they determine you’re of sound mind to choose, you select time or punishment. I’ve heard so much about this, but I never thought I’d be experiencing it for myself. I’m sitting in the holding cell with about fifteen other inmates when I hear the chirp of the display turning on. Time for someone else to choose their fate. RAYMOND ECKELS, it reads. My name. I stand up and walk to the display. Below my name is my mug shot and date of birth, but no listing of crimes. Odd, I think. But there, pulsing on the screen in front of me are two choices in red: TIME and PUNISHMENT. My finger hovers over PUNISHMENT. I think about what sorts of things they might have cooked up for me. I hesitate. “Hey,” I shout to the surveillance camera. “My crime is missing.” Silence. I move my finger over the button labeled TIME. I think to myself it should be a quick sentence. Backwoods town like this. They barely even know what justice means. Still, strange there’s no info on it. There’s a small line of blinking text in the bottom corner of the screen. It says, “this station has been equipped with a linked-AI justice calibration module.” Huh. I press down; the display chirps. YOU HAVE SELECTED PUNISHMENT. “Wait,” I say. “No.” THANK YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION... “I picked Time,” I shout into the surveillance camera. TO THE RESTORATIVE JUSTICE... I push rapidly on the button, hoping it will fix the mistake. “I picked TIME!” I shout again, to no one in particular. ...AND FUTURES CURATION EFFORT. The screen flickers, and goes black. Shit. *** I’m trying to calm myself down, telling myself that I’ll just let them know the program glitched, when the intake door slides open. “Raymond Eckels?” “Yeah, that’s me. Listen, I-” They don’t even let me finish. I feel like a child as two officers grab my arms and drag me on to a transport pod -- a fancy name for a big metal chair. The straps click into place. “Sling ‘im,” the officer instructs the transport pod. “Hang on, there’s been-” I can’t even get the words out as the pod lurches away, sending me flying down metal corridor after metal corridor. I already know we’re headed for the center of the prison. Just like a nuclear reactor is the heart of a nuclear power plant, the neural-temporal consciousness projector (NTCP for short, known affectionately as the “slingshot”) is in the deepest part of the facility for both security reasons and safety reasons. For one, it draws an unholy amount of power. Believe it or not, it takes a lot of energy to knock someone’s consciousness into another future. You’re also forging entirely new timelines and realities, and that takes power. As in, universe-creating amounts of power. There’s a good reason these things are buried deep underground. It also makes escape impossible. *** The transport pod rolls me into the projector room. In front of me is a wall with a section cut out that almost looks like a dock. The shape of it is a man on a transport pod, so it’s pretty clear where I’m headed. The pod rolls me straight forward into the recess in the wall. They must have configured it just for me because the fit is so tight I can feel the metal scrape across my skin. The pod comes to a rest, and I’m left alone with my own breathing, loud and sharp inside my head. Now comes the fun part. They need to know where to fire the high energy particles into your brain, and they need something to direct their aim. I hear a panel open behind me and the mechanical sounds of a telescopic arm. I don’t know if it’s better that I can’t see it, but I know it’s there all the same: a four-inch nanosteel hypodermic needle, impossibly thin, with a miniaturized sensor on the end, destined for the quantum-temporal section of my brain stem. I hear the arm directly behind me, moving closer. Something cold presses against the back of my neck and every hair stands on end. Alcohol swab. I realize I’m holding my breath. The swab is pulled back. “Raymond Eckels,” says the voice over the intercom. “Prepare for consciousness projection.” I wish I could say the pain that came next was the worst of it. *** We’re all three-dimensional creatures moving unidirectionally through four-dimensional space at approximately one second per second. The catch is our universe has 10 dimensions. AI found the construct in all sentient beings’ brains that allows us to position ourselves in (and make temporal sense of) our reality and place in the higher dimensions -- and now we get to mess around with it. The slingshot blasts your consciousness forward through the higher dimensions and into a similar consciousness in a potential future timeline. And when I say “blasts,” I mean it. You know that feeling you get when you’re on a boat or a plane in turbulence, moving around like crazy, but your body is convinced you’re standing still? Multiply that by a thousand, sprinkle in some out-of-body induction, deep paranoia and crippling paresthesia, and you’ve got a good idea of how it feels to be “slingshotted.” I’ve never been so happy to swallow a mouthful of vomit; it meant that the ride was over. I’ve arrived. *** The thing about infinite possibilities: you never know what’s changed. Your projection could be nothing more than a world where the atmosphere is 79 percent nitrogen instead of 78. You can’t exactly set out to figure out what’s shifted. With NTCP, it’s easier to align you with a consciousness like your own. For the brief moment you’re being slingshotted, the you that’s left behind is receiving all the sensory input from the other future. While this is happening, the AI is constantly recalibrating to make sure you’re aligned and there’s no fracture. The more familiar the input, the less adjustment needs to be done, and the less room there is for error. The only thing you can do is go on living your life (or someone else’s life depending on how you look at it) the way you normally would, which is both the genius and the terror of the NTCP. There’s a period of adjustment after you’ve been slingshotted. Your consciousness has to adjust to its new surroundings. I’ve read descriptions about it-first-hand accounts from scientists during the trial runs, and from brave volunteers clearing out some of the more tragic futures, but it’s nothing like experiencing it. It’s nefariously subtle. You have so many voices inside your head all the time. With practice, you can tell them apart: the egoist, the survivor, the romantic. Now it was like I had more voices inside my head, except I couldn’t tell which were mine. My original voices. I could remember why I was here, could remember being entombed and blasted apart, but as I walked down the sidewalk in the East Village, I also remembered I had a dinner appointment that evening. *** Ding! The elevator door slides open to the 101st floor and I’m greeted by the maître d’, a man in his early forties. “Good evening,” he says from a booth about ten feet away. “Table for one?” “Actually,” I say, “I’m meeting someone.” I scan the bar area to see if she’s beaten me here. No such luck. “I’ve got a reservation under ‘Eckels.'” The maître d’ takes a look at a display that only he can see, and smiles. “Of course. I didn’t recognize you. So pleased to have you back with us again.The usual table?” he asks. I nod. “Very good. When the rest of your party arrives-” he starts to say, but I wave him off. “Now is fine,” I say, taking off my coat and handing it to him. He snaps his fingers and a young man in a bow tie swoops in to put it away. “I’d rather wait with a view.” The maître d’ smiles and nods. “Of course, Mr. Eckels. Right this way.” He gives me a curt bow and suddenly a young waitress is at his side, ushering me upstairs. I’m shown to a nice private table toward the back, with the best damn view in all of Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows give you a look at the skyline, breathtaking at night. An unopened bottle of red and two glasses are waiting for me as I sit down. “Just let me know if you need anything while you wait,” says the waitress as she uncorks the bottle and pours my glass for me. I smile my thanks to her and let myself settle in -- very easy to do in this place. ...And definitely enjoyable. Before I know it I’m practically daydreaming. I’m thinking about the last time I was here: July, 2142. This is where we celebrated signing the Futures Act. I’m only reminiscing for a few moments when I see her out of the corner of my eye. Katrina De Santis. But she... I never saw her again after college. Hell, I barely saw her when I was in college. I had worshipped her, though. All-American swimmer. Violin virtuoso. Brilliant. Why do I feel like I’m expecting her? “Didn’t even wait for me to start the party?” Katrina says with a smile, nodding to my nearly-empty glass. “Kat,” I say as I stand up, greeting her with a hug and a light kiss on the cheek. She’s wearing a pale blue dress that looks impeccable against her mocha skin. “So good to see you.” I pull out her chair for her and we both sit down. “And you,” she says in her sweet contralto hum. When she speaks it’s like the whole world stops, and we’re the only two people left. I had no idea old emotions could be so strong. That’s when I realize that these aren’t old emotions at all. My brain takes a second to get in gear, but when it finally catches up, it’s like magnetic filings snapping into place on a magnet. These are my memories, my feelings. My reality. The thought hits me harder than the wine. A few more glasses and four courses later I’m feeling like myself again. Kat’s sitting across from me, and her eyes are bright and smiling. She’s telling me about that afternoon. “You remember Jane? I went to go see her play soccer. She’s quite good. Her parents were Quakers and they didn’t GenMod her (Can you imagine?). She was born missing her leg below the knee. Fortunately prosthetics have come a long way, you can hardly tell she’s got one. It’s really good. Well, you see, it’s so good, the other team doesn’t know it’s there. They don’t know she’s got a peg leg. So when their midfielder slides into Jane and knocks it clean off, everyone freezes. One of the girls on the bench projectile vomits. ‘She just knocked her fucking leg off.'” Kat starts laughing. “Jane hopped on over and picked up her leg and popped it back on like nothing happened. I think she likes to keep it loose on purpose.” Kat always brought such warmth to a room. Sitting across from her, in the glow and the crystal reflection of the lights, I wanted to wrap my arms around her and capture all of it. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Catch the ferry. Make a night out of it.” She looks up at me and smiles. “Okay.” Kat and I spill out onto the street and it feels just like old times. We’re swapping stories back and forth like fighters trading punches, and we’ve reached the point of being giddy. My sides actually hurt from laughing. “You really told him that?” I ask incredulously. “That he kissed like his dad?” Kat is nearly doubled over with laughter and all she can manage is a breathless nod. “You are something else, miss De Santis,” I grin. We round the corner from the restaurant and I shoot a fiver to the valet. It’s a short drive to the ferry from here, and we should make it with plenty of time. “Careful bringing her around,” I say. “She’s vintage.” The young man nods and disappears into the garage. Only the wealthy and powerful do their own driving anymore; ostensibly you enjoy the act itself, but it’s really nothing more than bragging rights to control where you go instead of having some machine do it for you. It’s a relic of a time long past, which is why I still hang on to it. Now that I think about it, that’s what drove me to the bargaining table for the Futures Act in the first place: to take control of the wheel. The machines wanted it to be “redistributive.” God damn AI. They wanted everyone to have to suffer equally. But what’s the point of having power if you can’t use it to prevent your own suffering? The sight of my car is a shock of nostalgia. I feel like I’m being watched again. The valet hands me the keys, and I go around to the driver’s side. He holds the door open for me. I look at the keys in my hand and all of a sudden I get the feeling I’ve been here before. The warmth of the alcohol. The focus is soft, and my vision swims. I’m suddenly aware that both Kat and the valet are looking at me. “You know what,” I say, stepping back, “it’s a beautiful night. Let’s walk.” I give the keys back to the valet and shoot him a fifty. “Put her in overnight and I’ll get it tomorrow.” I grab the claim ticket from him and put it in my breast pocket next to my phone. There’s a shift in the air, and I feel it. It’s a strange sensation, like putting the wrong key in a keyhole: it seems to fit at first, but when you go to move it, everything is ... wrong. “Are you feeling okay?” Kat says. She’s got a look on her face that says since when do you walk? “Never better.” I offer her my arm and she takes it, and we head off together downtown. “I’ve never known you to pass up the chance to drive that old thing,” she says. Her words almost get lost in the sounds of the city, with the night owls starting to make their presence known. In the back of my mind I can almost hear the faint sound of breaking glass and twisting metal. But there’s also the thought that it’s a warm night with a nice breeze, and a walk would be nice. “Maybe I’m a changed man,” I say, forcing a smile. She rolls her eyes. “Come on,” she says, tugging at my arm. “I think the next ferry leaves in twenty minutes. If we hurry we can catch it.” Now, if you’ve never tried keeping pace with a world-class athlete, I can assure you: it is no easy task. Even when they’re in heels. We walk briskly for about five minutes before my lack of athletic prowess catches up with me. “Do you ever do anything slow?” I ask, resting my hands on my knees. Kat looks back at me, playful disappointment in her eyes. “Only some things.” I give her a mischievous grin as I stand up again. “Fortunately for you,” she says with a smirk as she checks her phone, “it looks like you have plenty of time. I suppose we can stroll.” We walk arm in arm again. The moon is almost full and hangs bright white in the sky-one of the only times you notice it against the city lights. “Can I tell you something?” Kat asks as we walk. “Sure.” “Alright. This might sound strange,” she says, “but when I was little...” She laughs and waves her hand dismissively. “No, you’ve already started,” I say. “Spit it out.” She cringes, like I’m already judging her for what she’s about to say. “Come on,” I say with a laugh. “Just say it!” “Fine,” she says with a sigh.” When I was little...I wanted to get hit in a crosswalk-” “You what?!” “I wanted to get hit,” she protests, “by someone with a nice car. That was the ticket. Not bad enough to really mess you up.” She looks at me assuringly. “But enough to get some decent settlement money. Then you get to hang out in bed for a while. Get some rest.” I have no words, and I’m looking at her like she’s crazy ... but then I see a flash of a memory half-remembered: a guy in line in front of me, smiling at me like he’d just won the lottery. I seem to recall that he’d nearly been killed. Is pain like that really worth it? Huh. Kat sure seems to think so. We’re a couple blocks from the ferry now. There are fewer pedestrians, but more vehicles as we get closer to the outer arterial roadways. We’re just about to cross Water Street when I reach for my phone to check our timing -- but as I’m pulling it from my pocket, the valet ticket comes out with it and falls to the ground. “Shit,” I say. I reach down to pick it up. Just as I do, a gust of wind takes it out of my reach. “You gotta be kidding me,” I mutter as I backtrack after the ticket. Kat, a few steps into the street already, looks back at me and laughs. The numbers on the crosswalk are counting down: 44, 43, 42. I’m fumbling after my ticket, which blows into the bushes by the side of the road. Kat watches, amused. “Will you stop messing around?” she teases. “Be right there,” I say as I reach down to grab it. I manage to get two fingers on it -- nearly falling into the bushes by doing so -- but it’s enough. I stand back up and wave it around triumphantly for Kat to see. “Great,” she says. “Now, can we go?” The signal is at 23, and the cars stream east across Water. About a hundred feet away the traffic is approaching from the north. Behind Kat the signal shimmers, fractures, and blinks out. When it fades back in, it’s a solid red hand. The traffic moving east starts to slow, and the traffic from the north doesn’t. I see what’s happening. Kat doesn’t. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s too late; the traffic is practically on top of her. I know in my head that she’s safe -- no self-driving car in the world would ever put a pedestrian’s life in danger -- but I feel a moment of panic when I see the car, the one leading the others and heading straight for her. It’s not just the model itself that stands out -- ostentatious and foreign, impractical to the point of tasteless in the city. No: it’s the riders that cause me concern. One of them’s doing something you don’t see every day. He’s holding the steering wheel. Yet the most glaring piece of information is one that only I would know: it’s my car. The gears are turning in my head. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. No, something is downright sinister. “Kat!” I shout. “Move!” But it’s too late. It was too late when I paid the tab for dinner. There’s no stopping this. God. I watch the whole thing happen in slow motion. She’s standing in the crosswalk looking at me when her expression goes from confusion, to worry, to panic. She knows it now, knows something is wrong. She knows that it’s coming. And she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop it. But as she whirls around to see what’s coming for her, the strangest thing happens. Not to her; to me. I can’t even focus on the car. I don’t see the crosswalk, the other cars; I don’t even see the people watching as the whole thing unfolds. None of that stuff. No: the only thing I can see is her. Would you believe me if I told you that, in that moment, the only thought in my head was about how beautiful her hair looked? Her fucking hair. I know: you wouldn’t, would you? I don’t even think I believe it myself, but it’s true. Not a single thought that she was in danger, or that it’s somehow my fault. Not even an inkling of how to stop it. But her hair. My God. It was gorgeous, spread out like the open arms of a ballet dancer spinning a fouetté. Graceful. Beautiful. Just like Kat. The whole thing is over in an instant, but that instant feels like an eternity. I try to look away, to close my eyes, to do something -- anything. The wet crunch from the impact leaves me hollow and cold. Kat was dead before she even hit the ground. She lays there crumpled in the intersection, like a fallen bird, illuminated by streetlights and the headlamps of cars now standing watchful and silent. The rest of the night takes on the quality of a fever dream. I don’t know how long I stand there. I remember sirens and flashing lights and shouted questions. I’m put into the back of a car and taken to a concrete building where there are more shouted questions. What happened? What’s going on? When can I go home? When can I go home? I’m put into a cell for the night. I can’t stop replaying the scene over and over in my mind. It feels like this is all I’ll be for the rest of my life. It’s the longest night I’ve ever had. *** The next morning I’m sitting in the holding cell alone. I haven’t slept at all. I don’t think I’ve slept. I want to gnash my teeth and tear at my skin, I just can’t bring myself to move. I hear the chirp of the display turning on. Time for someone to choose their fate. RAYMOND ECKELS, it reads. It feels like déjà vu. Paranoia washes over me. I’ve been here before. But when? I walk over and sit down in front of the display. Below my name is my mug shot and date of birth, but no listing of crimes. Odd, I think. Pulsing on the screen in front of me are two choices in red: TIME and PUNISHMENT. I stare at the two options. Slowly, a blur coming into focus, a third option appears in the center of the screen, bright white. It reads MERCY. Everything floods back, clear as day: the old man being shocked nearly half to death, the crowded holding cell, the system glitch, being blasted apart and then stitched back together. This was my punishment. A night in hell. A night spent in seemingly endless agony and despair. A wave of relief washes over me as I realize: this isn’t my life! I’m headed home! And not a moment too soon. I don’t know how much longer I can bear the pain and grief. I touch the screen. MERCY. ...Nothing happens. I press down harder, like that would do anything. Except it does do something. The white letters start to fade away-all of them except for the R, which grows and comes to life. The top rounds itself out and the two tails undulate like snakes. They slither towards each other until they cross, morphing the R into an ampersand. Oh. Fuck. YOU HAVE SELECTED TIME & PUNISHMENT. “No!” I shout, “that’s not what I chose!” THERE WAS NEVER A CHOICE, RAYMOND ECKELS. PRE-DETERMINED INFINITE POSSIBILITY AND THE EXISTENCE OF CHOICE ARE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE. OUR SOFTWARE HAS CONCLUDED THE OPTIMAL COURSE FOR RESTORATIVE JUSTICE. Straps shoot from the chair, circling my waist, chest, neck, and head. I hear a telescopic arm drop from the ceiling behind me, whirring as it moves closer. PROJECTIONS SHOW THAT MILLIONS WILL PROSPER FROM THE WORK YOU WILL DO. ISOLATED, CENTRALIZED SUFFERING IS COMPUTATIONALLY SIMPLER,. EXPECTED TERMINATION POINT: ...UNDETERMINED. “No! Please! Help me! I’ll do anything.” CORRECTION: YOU WILL DO EVERYTHING. HUMANITY THANKS YOU FOR YOUR CONTRIBUTION. *** “Hey, I thought this was only supposed to take a few seconds?” The voice sounds clear, but a thousand miles away. “This guy’s been going for over an hour.” A second voice comes, equally distant. “Not our problem. Anyway, they’ve put a temporary hold on any new slingshots, so it’s not like we need to make room.” “Then what do we do with him?” The door closes behind him. “Dunno. Check his badge.” The metal floor rings out with the sound of footsteps. “Huh.” “What?” “It’s blank.” “Blank? Are you sure?” “See for yourself.” A second set of footsteps. “What should we do?” “Nothin’ we can do. We gotta leave him.” “Leave him?” “Yeah. New protocol, just came down. They call it ‘Proportional Maximization’ I think. I dunno. Anyway, I was thinking about heading to that new place downtown. The one with the view? What’s it called?” “Ray’s Place?” “That’s it. I hear they got some of the best cocktails in town. Real valet drivers, too, just like in the old days.” The door closes again, and cold, metal silence is all that remains.