“Certainly not!” exclaimed Corina. “Above all else, there’s one critical thing you have to understand: once a teleportee arrives at his or her destination, the source ceases to exist. Comms privileges are transferred from guest to host. The moment Joel Byram emerged from the San José Hospital TC in Costa Rica, you, Joel Byram in New York City, no longer had an identity. Therein lies our problem.”
If reading these sentences feels ridiculous to you, amplify that effect by a trillion, and maybe you’ll be scratching the surface of my out-of-fucking-body experience at the time. Her words had gone into my brain and detonated like a nuclear warhead. But it’s amazing how pragmatic we can be, even at the worst points in life. “My problem, you mean,” I heard myself state in as calm a voice as I could muster. “So, what happens now?”
Corina was obviously prepared for the question. “Joel, this is new territory for me, and for all of us here at International Transport. There is one element that strikes me as more significant than all the legal ramifications, though.” She took a measured breath. “Right now Sylvia doesn’t know that you, New York Joel, are still alive. She’s with Costa Rica Joel—who, in the eyes of the law, this company, and your wife—is currently the only Joel Byram. It’s important you understand this, because at this moment, we can still right the ship.”
“What ship?”
Taraval, clearly pissed that a man of his stature had to endure explaining anything to a plebeian like myself, made a sweeping motion with his hand. A vid stream projected over the conference table. “This was recorded a few minutes ago, Mr. Byram,” he said.
The stream was from a hospital security camera. A large high-end RV was parked out front. A woman and a man were walking out of the lobby. The man was moving uncomfortably, the woman aiding his progress. As the stream zoomed in on the couple, it became clear that the two people were me and Sylvia. My wife was ushering me into an RV in Costa Rica.
Anxiety. Colors in the room turned pastel, then grayscale. Time became a snail. The cold lead in my guts, poison. Keep your shit together.
But I couldn’t find the horizon. The room was spinning out of control. It took every ounce of restraint to keep my hands behind me because I really needed to hold on to something. Various vital organs argued over which would give out first. I felt bile tickling my uvula.
Oh fuck.
My stomach finally threw in the towel, and I threw up my guts. The vomit went straight through the holographic stream, splashing onto the nice wood conference table.
Taraval attempted to jump backward, but his chair had a firm, ergonomic grip on his buttocks. My puke went right into his lap.
“Disgusting!” he shouted, attempting to shake the sick off him.
I felt mildly better. I had also managed to keep up the charade of having my hands held behind my back throughout my body’s brief revolt.
“Room, please clean up this mess,” Pema said.
“Happy to, Miss Jigme,” the room chimed.
In an instant, the mess was digested by an invisible horde of ravenous, self-replicating robots. The smell on Taraval’s clothes, unfortunately, remained.
Pema edged away from her soiled coworker. “Joel, there are alternatives,” she said. “But each would likely be more devastating than what Corina is proposing.”
“No, Pema.” The CEO quickly shut her down. “There are no alternatives. Not really.” She gave me her best, most grandmotherly twinkle. “Joel, think of what happens to poor Sylvia when she learns of this. Do you fancy she’ll simply settle into a happy, polygamous marriage with two Joels? No. If this comes out, Sylvia will go to prison. You will be a pariah. We’ve run the models, imagined every possible outcome, and not one of them came up roses. Not one! There’s over a ninety-percent chance that one or both of you die—most likely by suicide. In thirty-four percent of the sims, widespread knowledge of your existence triggers a political domino effect that leads to revolution, deterioration of society, and chaos. Armageddon, Joel. Believe me, I have seen the data. I’ve spoken to the scientists and double-checked their findings. Every permutation of this scenario indicates that the best possible resolution for everyone, including yourself, is to get you cleared as soon as possible.”
Holy shit, they really do want to kill me. Or clear me. Isn’t it the same thing, especially when there’s already a “me” walking around? I can’t deal with this. It’s too much.
Focus on Sylvia.
“The Gehinnomites are right,” I muttered, still in disbelief. “You guys are evil.”
“They’re not right; they’re Luddites,” Taraval said, taking care not to get too close lest I vomit again. “Nobody wants to kill anyone. When you teleport, it is you who comes out the other side. The thing in the foyer isn’t a person anymore; it’s just leftover biomass, waste material. Does the butterfly keep its chrysalis? Think about it reasonably, boy: How many times have you teleported in your life? Do you really believe we killed you each time?”
Good question. How many times have I teleported? Surely over one hundred. Have I copied and killed myself a hundred times?
My anxiety and confusion were being replaced by a steady flow of simmering rage. I didn’t know if I was sick of being sick, or if I’d just had enough and wanted to get this over with. “Oh yeah? If I’m just waste materials—detritus—then why haven’t you killed me already?”
“Good question,” he said. “Corina?”
“We’re not murderers, Joel,” the CEO said soothingly, shooting a brief death stare at Taraval. “This is your call. Yours alone. I’m happy to make any of International Transport’s resources available to you in making your decision, but I assure you, whether we sit here mulling this over for a minute or a year, there can only be one logical conclusion for the betterment of everyone’s lives. Think of Sylvia. Even if we were to magically establish some dual identity for you, do you expect she would accept that she now has two husbands? Which one would she choose to be with? If not for the rest of humanity, then at least consider your wife’s well-being. Consider making a small sacrifice for her, and for the rest of us.”
“A small sacrifice. But it’s my choice, huh?” I said. Then why are my hands still ostensibly tied behind my back?
They weren’t going to release me. Not knowing what I knew. The kidnappers had taken their masks off. We would sit in that room for as long as it took for me to decide to kill myself, that much had become clear. Maybe, given enough time, especially with the benefit of hindsight, I might have even broken down and agreed.
Keep it simple, stupid. Do you want to die?
I didn’t even have to think about it. The answer was no. There might be some guy down in Costa Rica who looked like me, but he wasn’t me. I wanted to live. I wanted to see my wife again. I.
There’s a solution to this problem, but it’s not in this room.
But I couldn’t just tell them to fuck off. Were I to do so, it was obvious they’d just find a less elegant way of “clearing” me. A fake terrorist attack, perhaps, maybe even risk admitting a teleportation “accident.” Trade one giant PR disaster for a smaller one. I found myself opening my mouth.
“Yes, Joel?” said Corina expectantly. “Is there something you’d like to say?”