The Price of Admission

Paul looked directly at 'Citizen BXD 315—Unemployed', known to her family as Brittany, 26 years old. Her recent employer relieved her from her position after she could not arrange child care for her newborn and return to work in a timely manner. Her son, Hank, 10 months old, sat contently on her lap, his eyes looking upon Paul in the cubicle office space that was drowning in a sickly shade of green light.

"I'm granting you four years of child care, living allowance, and four years of liberal arts schooling," Paul told Brittany. "Your emotional IQ and associative reasoning scores are indicators our algorithm examines to respond to the future job market. We think you're a solid investment for The Alliance," he explained.

Brittany, not knowing how to express her joy, was unable to say anything.

Paul was expressionless. He had handed out a few generous Action Plans today, and roughly a half dozen the day before. The situations and people differed—from ex-convicts, refugees, to those who became ravaged from sickness. Those subpoenaed to meet with a Social Productivity officer such as himself expected to be designated to the servitude industry despite their desires.

"Paul!" the office boss, Gerry, roared after BXD 315 left her seat.

Paul gently lifted himself away from the faded brown leather executive chair, joining Gerry in his office.

"We set aside credits for exceptional individuals, not every lowlife that walks through our doors."

The space between the front of Gerry's teeth contained a mushy white filling, likely the remnants of the daily synthetic salmon sandwich lunch that Paul and his coworker's nostrils were all too acquainted with. The shine on his extended forehead was also brighter than usual, and his nose grew redder as he fumed.

"I'm sorry, sir. Based on the analytics from the Productivity algorithm, I thought BXD 315 would be a sound investment for The Alliance."

"Paul, we don't give credits to those people."

Paul respected Gerry about as much as he respected the office coffee machine. It served a function, produced what you expected, but the coffee was miserable to swallow. Yet, every day, Paul drank coffee. "Of course, sir, I apologize. Perhaps it'd be best if I run some of these investments through you first."

"I'll make it real simple, Paul, just to make things more efficient between us. The citizens that sit in front of you, think of them like the land in the world. A cliff, glaciers, lake …"

As Gerry conjured up the words to make his point, Paul grew dizzy. During this momentary lapse, Gerry appeared even more disheveled, and wore a military uniform. Fortunately, the mild hallucination broke as Gerry wagged his finger at Paul.

"… so unless you have the summit of Mount Everest sitting in front of you, your decision is simple."

"Of course, sir. I'll serve The Alliance better." Paul feigned sincerity. He had bigger things on his mind, and a decision much more important.

"So will your clients." Gerry continued, "Designate them to servitude. We don't have enough people to fill those positions. And if we don't fill them—well, you better brush up on your Mandarin."

Gerry continued to lecture him on the delicate politics of The Alliance, a history lesson on what type of attitudes caused The Great Divide of the United States, and the fact the Department of Social Productivity was thought to be the entity that launched The Alliance to the economic superpower it now was. Paul balanced his eye contact between Gerry's face and the pictures of his family on his desk. Gerry attempted to insert small personal anecdotes about Paul during the scolding before crossing the line.

"Listen Paul, I saw that The Alliance denied your birth application again. You and Kirsten must be heartbroken, and I see that she's taken time off work. You must realize population control is a must. We can't dedicate resources to everyone over 28 who wants to have children. We can't take the strain on the health system, along with the pull of Kirsten from the workforce, lightly. And honestly, look at BXD 315 or any others who decide to have children before 28. Unless they have a caseworker like yourself, they're headed to a life of servitude. You're much better than that."

"Of course, sir. We understand our importance to The Alliance," Paul responded.

"Kirsten's a hell of a policy analyst. Her productivity levels are in the 94th percentile."

"She's quite ambitious sir."

"Why don't you take the afternoon off, spend some time with her. Come back tomorrow with a fresh attitude."

"Thank you, sir."

Paul's ride home through the hyper-loop was uneventful. He turned off the newsfeed on his ocular lens system for the journey. The any-day-now-revolution of the serving class continued to dominate its news feed, along with conspiracy theories that continued to claim that members of the ruling Lion political party were compromised by China, acting as agents looking to sabotage the progress made by The Alliance. That's not to say that Paul didn't believe in such claims; he had heard enough of the subject from his estranged wife.

Of course, their separation wasn't public, yet. When found out, Paul would lose his job, or be "re-assigned" to servitude—at best—a result of Kirsten joining the revolutionary forces known as "The Revolt". He would also suffer days—at best—of torture, all in the name of serving The Alliance.

Standing in what was once their apartment, over the sink, after fashioning a soybean butter sandwich, Paul reminded himself that he had to decide on his exit plan. With Kirsten's official time off ending in days, and Paul's own erratic behaviour, it wouldn't be safe for him much longer. Joining The Revolt was an exercise in futility, unless a shortened life was what he coveted. He made that point to Kirsten, along with the fact that the two once stood behind the beliefs of The Alliance as the best (yet imperfect) solution for keeping civilization stable. The Revolt also preached anarchy, which was hardly a solution to the problems the planet faced. Going off-grid, another soul-saving option, was a noble choice—but Paul was hardly a man that could do much with his hands. That left him with his final, most reasonable option; finding solace in another world. The decision was more than a matter of life or death; it was one of finding a life worth living.

Paul set out on foot an hour before the sun set. He looked to the sky, half expecting to see something else. He remembered being told of a time when colour was more vibrant, before scientists diffused the atmosphere with pale white artificial overcast clouds in order to regulate the temperature. It resulted in a perpetual orange glow in the shadows, a lifeless world when compared to the pictures found in the texts he studied of the world before Climate Intervention took place. Of course, few seemed to mind—most were wrapped up in making ends meet, and even fewer had the education of Paul. But it just wasn't memories of images from textbooks that made Paul pine for a brighter sky. He seemed to have vivid memories of looking upon one, memories he couldn't place.

One hundred and forty-two minutes later, he sat at a bar open to the street in an industrial park. He made this walk often as of late, and his feet were blistering to a point where he was putting much less pressure on his right big toe.

A few bistro tables sat on a patio that spilled onto the sidewalk at The Watering Hole, an automated pub. The establishment situated itself in an automated manufacturing plant park, and aside from the odd security supervisors and robot-care technicians, very few ventured by the establishment on foot.

Paul walked right into the restroom. It smelled sour, and the dim tint of the light accented the yellow stains on the malfunctioning sink and on the floor. Paul used the toilet, and after it flushed, and with his ocular system now back online, he scanned his iris at a machine attached to the wall that dispensed mints. The bathroom wall, which featured digital advertisements, shut off its display and quietly slid into itself, exposing an entrance.

The room was the size of a school gymnasium. There were high ceilings and no windows. Light came from large tripods, with an array surrounding an old wooden desk piled with paper, a tablet, and monitor. Another array illuminated a tank filled with water, big enough to hold a human.

The Professor, an old, dark, long-haired man, was at the desk, and didn't bother casting his eyes through his spectacles in Paul's direction, remaining focused on the monitor.

"Have you decided yet?" he asked. "You have until tomorrow night, of course. I'd just like to prepare mentally for body disposal if necessary."

He got the impression the Professor didn't believe he had the courage to escape this world, to give up on his wife, and to abandon a job plenty would kill for. "I need more time," Paul replied.

"You can discard your clothing now," the Professor said.

"Will I be able to remember both sides after tonight?" Paul asked, seeking reassurance. "The memories of the other world are fleeting. When they emerge, they seem unreal. I don't know if you're drugging me, if I'm losing my mind, or if I've actually traveled."

Again, silence. The Professor appeared to ignore the question as he typed away, his fingers moving along the keyboard like drops of rain on a tin roof. When he finished, he tapped the fingers of his right hand, starting with his pinky and ending with his thumb twice on his desk before speaking.

"You should remember something concrete tonight. But it's different for everyone, especially those without academy training. Again, the only thing I can guarantee is the price of admission. I'm providing an opportunity. The rest is up to you."

Paul climbed the ladder to the platform above the tank. He lowered himself in, put on the breathing apparatus, and shut the lid. He was in complete darkness, laying in water, eventually finding himself in a reclined position, not quite comprehending the depth or how close he was to the top of the tank, before losing himself.

* * *

His eyes opened. Sweat drenched his body. The room, a gentle blue. The sheets of the bed, white and damp. A dark gentle yellow glowed on the wall of the hallway. He was alone.

The room felt familiar. Another nightmare? Paul understood he had been having a lot of them as of late.

The air above the comforter was cool. Paul wore a faded blue t-shirt and white boxer shorts, and his wavy hair was flattened in several directions. He could not activate his ocular hardware. His contact lenses had either malfunctioned or needed charging. However, on the side table, a black box displayed 7:04 a.m. in large red digits, which allowed Paul to orientate himself to the day.

He noticed a nutty aroma before he heard a clatter. He got out of bed, involuntarily pulled a white robe out of the closet, put his feet in grey slippers, left the room, looked out a hallway window, and realized he was in an apartment. The rooftops of other buildings were littered with greenery. He thought it peculiar the roads were painted white. Making his way down the hallway, he peered into a bedroom. Clothes littered the floor, and a bite of a cheese sandwich along with an empty glass sat on the bedside table.

He heard voices from down the hall and approached cautiously. The framed pictures on the hallway wall left him unsettled. There was a picture of himself looking uncharacteristically content beside a dark-haired woman with olive skin, along with a young boy, maybe 13 years old.

"When's dad going back to work?" a boy's voice asked from around the corner.

"I don't know," a woman responded.

"Is everything okay?"

"I don't know."

Paul turned the corner and saw the faces from the photographs. There was a bout of silence when they saw him, and they scrambled to frame a more appropriate conversation.

"Morning," the woman said. She was dressed in a burnt-orange blouse and black pants, her red hair tied in a bun. Paul looked at her with a name on the tip of his tongue.

The kid looked down at his breakfast—eggs, berries, juice, and toast—food for the rich.

"I need to go to school," he said, taking one last bite.

"I can help you study tonight," Paul blurted, "for your Global Relations test."

The woman and child shared a glance and developed slight signs of relief.

"You sure?" the boy asked.

Paul wasn't sure why he said what he said, but he felt it was important.

"Absolutely."

"I get home from gardening at six," he said.

The boy got a kiss on the forehead from his mother before he left for school, leaving Paul and the woman.

"Feeling yourself today?" she asked.

"Why would you ask?"

She turned to a frying pan and cracked some eggs.

Paul only had eggs once or twice a year, usually during holiday feasts. The coffee also smelled rich, lacking the stinging burnt fragrance he was accustomed to. But his mind questioned where those thoughts and memories came from. He searched for the woman's name. "Claire?"

"Yes?"

"I'm having a hard time piecing things together at the moment," Paul wondered what had happened to him, why he was struggling to find his footing in his home. He felt hungover.

Claire flipped an omelette and turned off the stove element. She poured a cup, and put it on the island table in the kitchen, an invitation for Paul to sit, which he accepted. Next, she put a plate in front of him and dished up the omelette, blueberries, and sliced avocado.

"About a week ago you went missing. I woke up, and you weren't in bed. We found you a couple hours later on the roof of our building. You weren't sure who you were and how you got there. Dr. Hildebrand called it a psychogenic fugue state, and seems to think it's because of pressures at work and the emergent nation uprising—"

"—Hildebrand?" The name sounded familiar.

"Yes, you have an appointment with him in a couple of hours. You've known him for years. Mornings have been tough, but you eventually figure things—"

"—In the Union building, corner of Seventh and Main? Near work. Of course! I don't know what's gotten into me," Paul recollected, before taking a sip of his coffee. "This is incredible." Without explanation, he came to his senses.

Then the fragrance of the coffee evaporated, and his nostrils became stuffed with what you'd find in a sewer. His stomach dropped and his legs developed the consistency of overcooked noodles.

"Are you going to be alright?"

"The Eurasia business. He'll want to talk about it."

"You need to talk about it," she reminded him.

As if his memories were being downloaded in real-time, Paul gained a better sense of his recent past. He'd arrived home over a week ago after a diplomatic mission to meet with Eurasian leadership. The trip was a response to missile tests from the area—missiles that could easily hit North America. He felt incredibly uneasy, not wanting to face the issues tormenting his very being.

"It's going to be okay," Claire leaned across the island and grabbed Paul's trembling hand with a tear streaming down her cheek. "We're going to be okay."

With tears filling his eyes uncontrollably, further weighing down the bags that gathered above his cheeks, he uttered, "I'm sorry," to his love, without truly understanding why.

"I know you can't tell me what you saw, but I know how much you care about your work—I can't imagine what's been going through your mind."

After a few more emotional statements, they gathered themselves as Paul continued to come to his senses. They readied themselves to leave the apartment.

Claire put on sunglasses, prompting Paul to ask if her ocular hardware was also malfunctioning.

"Ocular hardware? Do you mean glasses? I don't wear them, Paul."

"Of course," he replied.

Riding bikes, Claire escorted Paul to his appointment through the white roads of the city. Fruit and vegetable markets lined most of the commercial streets, while coffee shops, restaurants, and closed bars dominated the greenest areas.

It was quiet, but plants brought life to every scene, with gardens growing vertically on buildings. Sprinkler systems misted periodically. The air was fresh, and up above was a dark blue sky. Everything the sun touched seemed to flourish.

Dr. Hildebrand was a psychiatrist, slender, with thick grayed hair, dark skin, matching hazel eyes, and a confident temperament. He wore an orange sweater with leather elbow patches, navy blue slacks, and brown running shoes. Paul remembered the counseling that he and Claire received from him before they had Henry.

"Paul," he said, his greeting warm, and his face absolutely familiar.

"Dr. Hildebrand."

"I don't know how many times I need to say it, but you can call me Tom."

"Of course."

Hildebrand sat behind an old wooden desk with Paul's file in front of him. Shelves of leather-bound books and rows of filing cabinets lined the wall behind him.

"You need to get your assistant to digitize those files, make space for more books," Paul said, in a feeble attempt to make small talk.

"Digitize?" Hildebrand asked.

Paul couldn't quite grasp why he said that, and uttered something along the lines of how things might be easier with a computer.

"Ah yes. But unfortunately, my profession does not provide enough credits for one of those machines." Hildebrand had the voice of a storyteller, a slight rasp, but with power from the gut. "Perhaps that's something you're accustomed to in an international office?"

Paul nodded, not sure of what to make of the exchange.

"Have you caught yourself doing more of that since I last saw you?"

"Doing what?" Paul asked.

"Oh well, you know—odd suggestions which seemingly all relate to technology. It's as if you're referring to another world. It could come off as highly peculiar, socially."

Paul remembered the conversation with Claire this morning regarding ocular hardware.

"No, I don't believe I have," Paul replied.

Hildebrand warmed Paul up by asking about his morning, sharing what he had for breakfast, and by asking how Claire was, before asking if he was, "Still having the dreams?"

"Dreams?"

"Yes, you know, the one of the dystopian world with class warfare and polluted skies, in which you're destined to a life of dooming the less fortunate."

The reference jogged Paul's memory, and Citizen BXD 315, his foul-mouth boss, and little Hank, came to mind.

"Yes."

"DRC, or 'dream-reality confusion', is what you're experiencing, along with short-term memory loss due to your fugue state. The shock of what you saw in Eurasia has done quite the number to you. Knowing you for some time, I have no doubt it has to do with the degree of empathy you have for others. While that's a strength to most, it's difficult for those without combat training to deal with when they encounter the atrocities you have."

Images filled Paul's head, and his senses ignited. The air in the room sucked the moisture from his body, and a yellow glow blurred his vision before a young boy's crying eyes flashed across his own. Paul's chin dipped, and his shoulders came to his ears as he curled into himself.

"Let's stop, Paul. We're going to revisit what you saw when it's appropriate, when we can get there in a logical manner, so it doesn't jump out and scare us, so to speak."

Hildebrand began writing in Paul's file, allowing silence to consume the room as he leafed to previous notes.

"Two days ago, we talked about your frustration with work. Do you believe you were frustrated before your trip?"

"Our department is responsible for eliminating the climate crisis. We wouldn't be having this conversation if it weren't for us."

"Of course, yes, our nation holds your department with the highest esteem."

Hildebrand waited for a reaction while Paul's mind wandered. He thought of the job he held in his dreams. He grew confused at the notion that his boss at The Department of Social Productivity was merely a figment of his mind. The silence in the room ultimately ran out after Hildebrand tapped the tips of his fingers on his wooden desk, starting from his pinky and ending at his thumb, twice.

"Paul?"

"Yes."

"Are your dreams coming back to you right now?"

"Perhaps."

"You go there when you don't want to deal with this world. It's a fantasy—a place to escape. Remember that."

"Of course," Paul replied, adding, "but how can I be so sure of that?"

"Let's bring you back here first, to Claire and Henry."

"No—wait. Why would I go back to such a dark place, where citizens are destined to undignified labour, all in the name of national productivity? Why would I escape to some twisted political nightmare?" His tone drifted to annoyance. "Why would I go to a place where my love life fell apart, where I'm childless, where it's a struggle to breathe the air? How does that make sense?"

"You can't go on living in both worlds. Your mind is fighting itself, your subconscious is trying to justify actions of this world—actions that you have no control over. You mentioned last time that you were freeing people in your other world. Perhaps, you feel you have more control there than you do here—you can be a leader, a hero of sorts, in the other world."

"There's nothing left in that world."

"You said earlier this week that there was no famine or disease in your dream."

"But no freedom."

"Paul—are you ready to tell me what happened last week, in Eurasia?"

The memories of Paul's dreams flooded his mind. He wanted to shut it off.

"Paul. Paul," Hildebrand snapped his fingers. "How about we shift gears and try some mindfulness?"

"These can't be dreams. They're too real. I've done something. I'm not supposed to be here," Paul said, growing restless.

"Paul, you're here because Claire and Henry are worried about you. I'm worried about you."

Paul took a big breath. Hildebrand got him into a comfortable seated position before leading a mindfulness session. "Let's gently move downward, through your face, and to your shoulders, noticing any points of tension, and perhaps, without judgment, the source of this tension." He worked his way down his body, to the hips, thighs, calves, and eventually the feet, and the toes, where Paul, with his feet firmly planted on the ground, the sting of a blister on his right big toe.

He remembered. This was the breakthrough he expected—the conscious awareness of two lives: the dark world that he came from, and this new one he stumbled upon. He understood how he got to this world, through a multiverse travel mechanism that involved taking on a parallel version of one's self, essentially hijacking their body, during sleep.

Paul feigned his way through the rest of the meditative exercise before he and Hildebrand exchanged pleasantries.

"Paul, we don't see each other again until next week," he said, as he was showing him the door. "But don't stay cooped up in your apartment. Saturday night, the symphony is going to be performing pieces from classic movies. It's really quite wonderful, I went to it last year. They project the old films on the walls of the theatre, the likes of It's a Wonderful Life, Blade Runner, Jurassic Park —some titles that are over 175 years old. Have you ever been to the symphony?"

"I haven't."

"Well, it's not for everyone. I'm a bit of an old soul and like to live in the days before the world changed. The only thing I can guarantee is the price of admission, but it might be a good way to escape your apartment—to regain a sense of social normalcy."

"What did you say?"

Hildebrand went back searching for whatever words Paul seemed to have missed. "I was just saying it's not for everyone. I'm eccentric, I suppose. Classic films and classic music aren't exactly in vogue."

"No … about the cost of admission?" he asked, as deja vu struck.

"Oh, yes—315 credits only. They have a hard time filling the seats, even at that price."

Like an unanticipated roar of thunder, Paul realized Hildebrand's resemblance to the Professor, along with the multiverse exercise he was taking part in: Consciousness Transfer.

The technology was legendary, if not regarded as mythic. The program was thought to allow Alliance intelligence agents to gather scientific data from other worlds in order to solve problems of their own.

After their last birth application was denied, and Kirsten left, he found himself on a mission to find out for himself if the world of Consciousness Transfer was real. It involved frequenting off-grid establishments disguised as lounges and bars, along with getting friendly with revolutionaries. He wanted to know if the legends of being able to transfer, or merge (a permanent trip to another universe) were true.

"They are," Paul remembered the Professor explaining. "Of course, The Alliance doesn't want to lose agents to the other side. But, some agents defected after disagreeing with how their intelligence was handled."

Paul remained collected in front of Hildebrand despite his mind raging with memories. Demanding answers from Hildebrand would do nothing but cause greater concern for his well-being. As he left the office, he realized his task—to gather enough information to understand if he wanted to merge his consciousness into this version of himself. He needed to find out if he had it better here than he did in the other world.

Or, he thought, perhaps he was fully mad, plagued with DRC. Paul couldn't come to grips with which explanation, for his delusional state, was the most reasonable.

Paul meandered through the streets after the session. Here, life was less crowded. People relaxed on benches with books, or with drinks between friends. No one seemed to be in a hurry, and neither was Paul, until he realized the day had gotten away from him.

"You have supper in minutes and tutor duty after," Claire reminded him, as he made his way through the door of their apartment. "Maybe you should change your shirt. You worked up quite the sweat—and smell."

She was right. But when he looked in the mirror, he also noticed his body in much better shape than it was in his other life, in the dark world. There was colour in his skin, sharpness in his eyes, and volume to his hair. He looked in the closet for a shirt when he noticed a briefcase on the floor, which had a combination lock.

Paul picked it up and sat at the end of the bed, unable to open it, clueless to the combination, but with the intuition that it belonged to him. He heard Henry come into the apartment and ask where his father was, before being told he was, "Just getting changed." Etched above the combination, Paul noticed the letters "BXD". While it assuredly looked like branding, Paul also remembered Brittany, citizen BXD 315, as he cracked the combination with the digits 3-1-5.

Inside were documents from the Sustainable Development Office, contracts drawn up by himself that were meant as negotiation tools between the United Nations and the leaders of Eurasia.

He remembered what afflicted him in this world, as the memories snapped back into his consciousness.

Eurasia, stricken by famine and disease, had been violating the worldwide fossil fuel ban for the better part of the last two decades. They produced energy, arms, and food, while also selling items and commodities to other rogue nations who wanted to upend Western ideology. As a result, the UN, particularly the department that Paul heads, eliminated aid to the region—aid that consisted mainly of vaccines and food supplies, and sanctioned Eurasia from accessing automated manufacturing technology, given that they had a history of using both human labour and automation, decades ago, to increase their growth.

Paul's mind journeyed back to the meeting with his Eurasian counterparts. He could smell the smog produced by the nearby coal-powered factory. The room resided in an old former, and now occupied, Soviet Union headquarters, and was decorated with every shade of green, minus the faux wood that topped the metal desks and cabinets. Most of the aides that accompanied Paul and his counterpart, Nikola, likely didn't dabble in twentieth century history in their spare time enough to appreciate what occurred here centuries ago.

"We would like you to end your fossil fuel program. The economy you built around it is not sustainable. Earth just doesn't have the resources necessary for you to carry on this way," Paul told Nikola.

He explained that the United Nations would lift sanctions and restore aid. However, Eurasia needed to dismantle their fossil fuel program.

"Also, population control," Paul added. "More people require more resources. We'll give you everything you need, but you won't be able to carry out births for a generation—15 years."

Nikola was not amused with the latter proposal, which came not only as a complete shock, but as an insult.

"You're going to have a hard enough time sustaining resources even under that term—you're going to have to ration calories and keep food waste under three percent for the revised population projections," Paul reasoned.

"This guarantees Western Nations, and their ideas, are the ideas for the world for decades to come," Nikola replied in his heavy smoker's accent. His face was more weathered than Paul's, despite being only a few years older. "You believe we enjoy living this way—like we have some sort of choice?"

Nikola insisted they tour the nearby coal-fired plant in order to understand the impact sanctions had on their nation.

Miles of slums preceded the plant. 3D printed fibreglass shelters acted as homes to what Paul estimated to be 12,000 inhabitants. The tops of the shelters were stained brown from the smog of the nearby smokestacks. Tanks of water lined the gravel streets. Most residents were outside, cooking over briquette stoves, while some were on foot heading toward the plant, their faces colourless. The SUV Paul was riding in swiftly turned down a path that led through the shelters and toward the plant. Paul could smell shit, as an aide explained, "There's no plumbing in the slums."

There were people in the ditches, dead. Paul could hear crying and shouting. A boy, about twelve, wearing a forest-green canvas coat, face smeared with black, knelt before a body. The vehicle stopped and rolled down its windows.

The boy yelled. Paul's muscles tensed. Nikola's intentions baffled him. Admittedly, he had been briefed on the conditions of these camps, but he never visited them.

"Father," the driver muttered.

Paul looked at his two aides, one older and one younger than him, to get a sense of their composure.

"That's what he's yelling," Nikola said. "The boy—that's what he's saying in their language."

The driver again muttered to Nikola, this time inaudibly.

"Ah, now he's asking him to wake up," Nikola explained, gazing out the window. "Paul," he said, without breaking his gaze, "our people are hopeless. They blame you. They blame the sanctions for leaving them sick and hungry. Now you want them to no longer have the hope that their toil will make it better for the next generation?"

The boy continued screaming for his father to wake up, increasing the tension to every muscle in Paul's body.

"Dad … Dad!" Henry yelled.

Paul came back to his bedroom, the briefcase open in his lap.

"Are you okay?"

"Sorry—I was just thinking about work."

The two took to the living room before dinner to look at Henry's schoolwork, and to the dining room after. Henry was studying twenty-first century history, namely how the information boom, the climate crisis, and the fall of capitalism were interconnected for most of the early part of the twenty-first century. The kid hung onto every word.

After Henry went to bed, Paul and Claire sat in the living room drinking tea, saying little to each other. Claire was grading assignments, and Paul picked up a book off the shelf that he had written about global progressive policy, titled, "The Weed or the Flower: Sustainable Human Policies." He saw a slightly younger version of himself on the back cover, one that looked much more confident than what he now saw in the mirror.

He looked at Claire, her body at ease, her eyes on the papers littered in front of her. "Would you like to go to the symphony Saturday night?" he asked. "I hear they're playing compositions of twentieth century films."

"Really? You've never seemed interested in that sort of thing."

"I never was. I never paid much attention to it, actually. But I heard it's enjoyable. Maybe it's worth checking out, maybe not. I thought it's a chance for us to spend time together—just us."

Claire saw the remnants of the old Paul come back.

"Okay."

"Okay," Paul affirmed, with a gentle smile.

She went to bed seemingly more content than the night before, but Paul watched the red light from the alarm clock on his side table glow "11:43 p.m.". He tried to keep his eyes open, scared of what he'd see if he closed them for too long.

In a blink, he was in cold water, his heart racing. The Professor opened the hatch, lent his hand, and pulled Paul out of the tank.

Lying on the platform, Paul shook the water from his eyes and looked up. "Tom," he gasped.

"What do I do for a living on the other side?" Tom asked.

"You knew?" Paul coughed.

"Not exactly, but it's common. Probability is key in multiverse travel. You're visiting a world that's quite similar to ours. It doesn't always look that way, but there's literally only a few decisions or actions that set another world in a new direction. So, it's likely a traveler such as you has similar people surrounding themselves."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"What was I?" the Professor asked.

"My psychologist."

"That's rich." The Professor went back to his desk, murmuring, "We'll talk about your decision once you collect yourself. The towel," he said, pointing to its usual place.

Paul dried himself as the memory of the last day he spent on the other side played out through his mind. He put his clothes on, walked down the platform, and took a seat at the Professor's desk.

"As discussed, consciousness transfer can only happen for four events. On the fifth event—voyage to the other side—consciousness merges. If you decide to stay here, your other self will recover. It sounds like he's already seeking therapy, so he'll likely realize that he just went through a bad phase of nightmares. Here, you'll keep your memories of the other world. If you want to travel again, you'll need to come back annually for scanning. Once the memories have faded to a satisfying degree, which usually takes three to four years for those without training, you can take another journey. As discussed, this will not be the same world you visited during this time around."

He paused in case Paul had questions, which never materialized. "If you decide to merge, you will assume the body of your similar self in the other world. You may still struggle with making sense of the transfer—it's up to you to work things out on that end. Of course, we'll never know if you succeed in the other world, but the science says it's likely. I'll cremate your body in this universe upon completion of the merger."

Paul tried to listen, but his mind wandered off, and he thought of the stories the Professor heard of from other worlds out there in the past, the ones studied by The Alliance's Intelligence Bureau's agents. How could the practice not come to better conclusions to fix the world of mass consumption and resource depletion this world faced? He could empathize with the plight of agents who defected—those looking to make changes, but stopped by the bloated bureaucracy of The Alliance. The other world, despite its problems, at least had portions of the world capable of a better future. This world was drowning in a storm of its own making, clinging to political and social ideology as a saving grace, even though it was more like a life raft leaking air.

"I want to go back—now," Paul stated.

"The check-in remains between 22:00-22:15," the Professor reminded him, maintaining his non-existent facial expression. "The machine needs recalibrating. Also, rapid transfer leads to psychosis. Sixteen hours between transfers has been the standard since we made the process feasible. So, go home, then to work, act normal, and come back tonight."

Not another word was said. Paul made his way back home on foot, grinding through the now throbbing pain from his right big toe. With every breath he took of thick, wet, blackened air, he felt relieved that he was one breath closer to fresh.

Upon his return home, he washed his face in the kitchen sink, fashioned another soybean butter sandwich, changed his clothes, and went to work. Paul granted credits to every client that sat before him before his boss called him into his office in a huff.

"I thought we talked about this yesterday?" he bellowed.

"We did," Paul replied.

"That's fine. You want to grant people things? I'm granting you an indefinite suspension. I'm referring your recent behaviour profile to the Intelligence Department. Frankly, it doesn't seem like you have The Alliance's best interests at heart. So, Paul, go home and stay there."

"I will," he responded.

Paul didn't go to his apartment. Instead, he set out to The Watering Hole on foot for a last tour of the grey concrete jungle—a feat that took roughly six hours. He ordered a jug with ice to plant his ailing right foot into, and passed the few hours before his check-in period with the Professor with pints of beer and a last meal, a corn fritter steak and soybean soup.

"I'll keep you company," offered a woman's voice from behind him.

"I'm fine alone," Paul told her, his voice fighting back his nerves.

"Is that why you haven't reported your wife's disappearance?" she hit back, before sitting at the table. "Sorry," she extended her hand, touching his elbow, "I'm officer Claire Johnstone, Alliance Intelligence, and I have to inform you I'm recording this encounter through my ocular device for the protection of both of us."

Paul's stomach nearly dropped to his toes. There she was. Her hair was different, pulled back and blonde, but her face was unmistakably his wife's from the other world.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Paul. Were you expecting someone else?"

He again failed to form words.

"This makes sense. I understand you've been having a rough time as of late. Your wife left, your work performance has plummeted, you're likely facing eviction, given the loss of household income, and you've withdrawn your life savings. There, the story gets mysterious. You haven't spent the money on anything, as far as we can see. You've spent your nights here, drinking alone, in a nearly abandoned location, which, coincidentally, has few surveillance eyes on it. We just see you coming and going, each night. Is that something you can explain?"

"Am I in some sort of trouble?" Paul mustered.

Claire leaned in. "I'm going to help you, Paul. But to answer your question, yes. The Alliance is worried about you, and not just your productivity levels. You haven't been yourself since Kirsten left. Mind you, given that she left to the hands of The Revolt, you likely feel like your options are limited. Which is why you likely sought this man. May I tap in?" Claire gestured her hand to her eye, and Paul's ocular display showed a picture of the Professor.

"You're a smart enough man to know that your options are extremely limited. But this man, Paul—this man is extremely dangerous to The Alliance. Tom Hildebrand, an ex-Alliance intelligence engineer …"

Thoughts crossed Paul's mind like lightning in a vicious storm as Claire spoke. How did they know about the Professor? And if they knew this much, why haven't they captured him? Did he flee? Why hadn't they approached him about Kirsten earlier? Intelligence agents were master manipulators. He needed to be on guard. But this was Claire. He knew her, or at least who she could be.

"… this man is ruining lives, pilfering citizen's savings, and essentially killing them in a dunk-tank, while offering some sort of a fantastic lie of helping them escape through the multiverse to another world. He preys on the vulnerable."

"What do you want from me?" Paul asked.

"If you can help us capture Thomas Hildebrand, we'll give you a new life. A new job, a new city, we'll even give you a sizable sum in a bank account. The crimes of your wife, treason, will not be held against you in any form."

Of course, Paul didn't need to ask what would happen if he disobeyed. One thing he knew about Claire, in this life or any other, she had conviction, and she would squeeze every ounce out of Paul, no matter how he responded, to ensure she caught the Professor.

"A fresh start is what you need. Your psychological report from your employer, from the last couple of weeks—it wasn't good, Paul. Most people on this path end up in a state of delusion and psychosis—"

"I'll help you," he said.

"That's good to hear," Claire said with a warm smile. "I have colleagues in the area. We're going to need to do an ocular eye memory sweep. Agents are standing by in the event you can tell us if, and where, Hildebrand is, especially if he's in the area."

Paul grew uneasy in his seat.

"Listen, let's get you more comfortable. You can eat something more appetizing later—we have some of the best food in The Alliance at Bureau headquarters. Let me pick up the tab for this, it's only 315 credits, but consider it our first payment to you for helping The Alliance on this matter."

Three hundred fifteen credits, again. This surely could not be a coincidence, Paul thought. Or perhaps he was mad, vulnerable, and without this version of Claire, would surely face his death tonight. He had mere moments to sort this out.

"May I use the restroom?" he asked.

"Of course."

Paul gave himself a good look in the restroom's mirror. He scanned his way back to the lab, faced the Professor, and the end of a gun barrel.

"Wait … wait … I wasn't going to …" Paul stuttered.

"The only reason I'm still here is because I was waiting for them to reveal their first move," the Professor reasoned.

"Get me out of here—please," Paul pleaded.

The Professor put the gun down.

"I thought you were going to sell me out, Paul, for a moment. Of course, this isn't the first time they've been a stone's throw from me." The monitors at the desk showed another agent now accompanying Claire.

"Get in the tank. We have little time before they wonder why you're still in the restroom."

"What are you going to do about them?" Paul asked.

"You paid me enough to take care of it. I'm carrying out my contract. You've been honest, so have I. Once you pass to the other side, I'll blow the place. There'll be nothing left."

"What about them?" Paul asked, more urgently, as he hurried into the deprivation tank.

"You can be in the camp that hopes they don't make it into this lab and leave the blast radius once I press the button, or in the camp that hopes they are. It doesn't matter to me. They know what they signed up for, and so do I."

"You'll kill them?" The guilt of killing Claire in this world weighed on him as he placed his hand on the tank's latch. "It will be my fault," he realized.

"Consider it added to the price of admission," the Professor said, as he closed the hatch.

* * *

Paul woke up back in his apartment beside Claire.

He spent the coming days getting better acquainted with her and Henry, along with his job, after perusing the files he had in his home. Saturday evening came, and he escorted Claire to the symphony.

It wasn't necessarily the couple's top choice for entertainment. Claire fell asleep on Paul's shoulder roughly forty minutes into the event. Paul carried on marveling at the building dedicated to such an art—a theatre, dedicated to merely entertainment and culture. There was no value in such a thing in his past world, and it was a shame, despite the dry nature of this event.

As the symphony played, with dinosaurs filling the projections on the walls of the theatre, without warning, a siren hollered and the shade of the light in the theatre turned red. It carried on for moments, yet they seemed like minutes. The only thing that kept theatre-goers in their seats was that they saw the theatre director, who looked exactly like BXD 315, slowly take the stage and move toward a microphone.

"Hello," she said timidly. "I'm here to inform you that missiles, thought to be fired from Eurasia, have been intercepted by United Nations defence efforts. However, the bombardment will soon overwhelm our system. We are asking all of you to calmly exit the building, head home, and take shelter in your building's fallout area."

Claire clutched Paul and whisper-yelled, "Henry."

"He'll know what to do. He's smart," Paul assured her.

People were already leaving their seats as the building felt its first tremor from a missile that broke through the defence system. As Paul and Claire made their way to the street, they looked up to see a neighbouring skyscraper on fire before feeling another rumble. They then witnessed a missile being intercepted in the sky, staining the night sky orange.

THE END

Bio: Andrew George is a High School teacher in the province of Manitoba, Canada. He's also an award-winning filmmaker, having produced short films, documentaries, and corporate videos. He hopes to continue writing about the possible futures his students might face.

E-mail: Andrew George

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