The Time Surgeons

The three of them stood on the beach, looking toward the sky. They were not alone, for hundreds of others had gathered also, but it seemed to Accimbali that they were alone. Just he, his wife and their seven year old daughter, alone on the sands of time.

The ocular implants in their eyes, automatically adjusting to the light, let them watch the sun in perfect safety as the black circle of the moon crept across its face, a small bite that grew into a blackness with an edge of fire. Then the world went dark, and it seemed as if a black circle had been punched through the sky, surrounded by an ethereal pearly light. If only we could punch a hole through the sky, I would not have to make this decision, he thought.

He did not know why, when he had heard about this eclipse, that he had announced that they should take the time and go to see it. But when he looked at his daughter’s rapt face, he knew. It is good for her to see such wonders. I who am about to betray you, my dearest child; at least I can give you this. It is of such moments of wonder that the joy of life is made. I cannot pay for what I will do, but I can at least give you this.

Two weeks later, back in their own home Accimbali sat at breakfast with his family. His wife examined him curiously. For months now he had seemed withdrawn, and too frequently she would glance at him and see him looking at her or their daughter with a look she could not name. It was if some terrible burden was torturing him; something he could neither reveal nor change. But it was not as if he were withdrawing from them. If anything, his embraces were more passionate, his need to hold them greater; as if his love were the only thing standing between him and some abyss that only he could see.

She had asked him about it, not knowing what it was she should be asking. But he could not or would not speak of it. All he would do was reach out to her, and hold her hand; and smile at her. But his smile made her afraid. It was a smile of tenderness; but also a smile of loss.

Their daughter reached for a glass of juice and saw him looking at her. “What is it, Daddy? Why are you looking at me funny?”

“Come here.”

She giggled, and ran to sit on his lap, throwing her arms around his neck. He hugged her, tickling her neck with the stubble on his chin, and she squealed with delight. He held out his other arm to his wife, beckoning her to him. She looked puzzled, but there was something about his gesture: as if it were a command not to be questioned, just obeyed.

He held them both, and whispered, “You know I love you, sweet ones. I will love you without end. You know that. Know it always.”

His daughter reached up, touching the dampness around his eyes. “What’s wrong, Daddy? Are you going away?”

But he would not answer, only tickled her until she squealed.

His wife said nothing, but she rested her hand on his shoulder and he saw a sheen of tears in her own eyes. Then she whispered “Is it today?”, and he knew that at some level, she who knew him so well knew the burden he bore. He did not answer, which was answer enough.

Then he drew them both to him and held them tight.

Finally he rose and stood looking at them for a while, like a man drinking in a sight that must last him a lifetime.

“I will love you both to the end of time.”

They both went to the door as he walked to the transport tube. He hopped in but did not take a seat. He turned to look out of the open door, and lifted his hand in farewell. Then he was gone.

I cannot do it, he thought, the image of his wife and daughter burning in his mind. If I do it you will cease to exist. Even death is not so final an end. In the eternity of spacetime you will never have been, never even been imagined. If I succeed, billions will be saved. But who are the billions to me, when it is you who must lie on the other side of the scale?

But he knew he would do it. If it were the billions against you, perhaps I would leave the billions to seek their own salvation. But it isn’t, is it? Your fate is sealed as much as theirs. Perhaps for the few months I could grant you, still I would trade those billions, even for such a little time. But I cannot. Not even that.

He knew what he would do. He remembered a poem from ancient Earth, one that had been discovered in the troves of ancient knowledge that had survived the holocaust:

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

He knew too well how he would rage. The billions of years of life on Earth had honed life into precisely that rage. As the end came, they would fight. Even knowing the futility. Even knowing that the more they succeeded, the more they grasped an extension to life out of the horrors to come, the worse would be their final end. That end could be fought. But it would come and claim them all.

He could not save himself. He could not save them. He could only save the world. It would have to be enough.

As the transport carried him to his destination, he saw nothing except the image of his family watching him go, and the memory of what had brought him to this.

It is my decision. It was always my decision. I have damned you, and I will be forever damned for it.