The room was unfamiliar, but the circumstances were. The door looked metallic and sturdy, the walls were a dark grey that signified their impenetrability, and the bed was merely an immovable mattress on the floor. The washroom was clean, but as minimalist and unsympathetic as the rest of the tiny room. I was entirely at the mercy of Lennox, and whoever else was in charge. If he wanted to end me, he could certainly do it with the same effort that he might spend on an ant. My opinion wouldn’t matter at all. But what really bothered me was just how long it was taking for whatever that was going to happen to happen.

  I had woken up in this room a few days ago. Unlike the first time I had been held in captivity, I was entirely devoid of the panic and dread. The idea that I was capitulating offended me, but really, any form of protest would be a waste of energy. If these were my last days, then I’d rather be peaceful. There was no other path than to accept the reality of the situation that I was in. The simple reality that really, the only thing I had was Lennox’s word, which was nothing at all. If what Lennox and Mariam told me was true, then perhaps there was some sort of guarantee that I would survive. But that was only as true to me as I was willing to believe their words. And of course it doesn’t rule out the possibility that they could order a savage beating of me as retribution for causing trouble. So maybe I would live, but whether I did so with functioning kneecaps was another thing entirely.

  The daily regime was familiar. Three meals a day. A ham sandwich, a couple of sausages and an apple. In between those isolated events, there was a vacuum. Just my thoughts and I with my back on the grey mattress.

  It had occurred to me that perhaps the conspiracy ran much deeper than I had imagined. Now that I was aware of the Receiverists’ willingness to manipulate, could it be that they had a hand in pushing me towards the inciting incident? I had only accepted the initial research proposition from a place of desperation. Had I not been desperate, I would have never even given it a second glance. Could it be that the Receiverists sowed that desperation within me by somehow getting my papers and grant applications rejected? If that was true, then that would imply a terrifying depth to their infiltrations of the surface world. If they could infiltrate academia, then they could certainly also infiltrate governments and militaries. No institution would be impenetrable. This thought brought me great unease. It meant that even if they were letting me go, I would still be in their grasp. If they didn’t want me to have a career in academia, then that would become reality. Even if they would let me go, they could change their mind one day and I would disappear without a trace, like I had never even existed. I would need to look behind my back for the rest of my life. I would never be truly free.

  But freedom was a word that lost its meaning. If knowledge of the future could be passed backwards through time, then it meant that my life story was penned before I had ever been born. Every choice I would make would be done so under the coercion of an invisible force infinitely more oppressive than gravity. Every experience that happened to me was a stage play by a draconian theatre director. Destiny was the enemy that outclassed famine and disease, war and climate apocalypse. Perhaps the only freedom from being enslaved to the tyranny of time was death. But all this was only the case if what they were telling me was true. And given their penchant for lying to me before, I was certain that I shouldn’t take their words at face value. Even if they believed what they were saying, that didn’t mean that their version of reality was correct. They could still be manipulated the way I was by them. I wasn’t sure what the truth was. I wasn’t sure whether I could ever reach it.

  My thoughts occasionally wandered to my own role in all of this. I still blamed myself for falling for the deceit, but it was now clear that whatever all of this was, it was far larger than me. The currents that had led me here were both invisible and persuasive.

  More often than not, I would find my thoughts drifting to her. Like a moth drawn to a flame, it burned me to do so. I tried not to think of her, but I couldn’t. And so when the door opened and she stood there, it felt like I was engulfed in a conflagration. I had to look away.

  Irene regarded me for a moment, before walking across the tiny room and sitting on the bedside table. The door closed by itself. The abrasive noise that accompanied the motion made me recoil. Yet, it was the silence that came after that cut the deepest. She set down a small black case. The only sounds in the room were our breaths. Minutes had gone by, until I saw from the edge of my periphery that Irene turned to look at me. She sighed

  “Hey,” she said quietly, almost whispering.

  “Hey,” I uttered back.

  “You’ve been okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “As okay as I can be in this situation, I guess.”

  Irene chuckled mirthlessly. “Not that it matters anymore, but if everything went the way I’d hoped it would, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “But shouldn’t you know exactly what would happen?” I asked.

  “It’s not that simple,” Irene said as she slowly shook her head. “Everything might be predetermined, but I don’t know all the details.”

  The silence returned. Irene slumped against the wall of the room. A part of me wished that there was at least an analogue clock around, so the quietness would be populated by metronomic ticking rather than her breaths that I couldn’t help but focus on. It was hard enough not to think about Irene when she wasn’t here, and now she was the only detail in this empty cell. Something told me that this would be the last time I would see her. I sat up from the mattress and sat on it with my back against the wall. I could feel her eyes on me as I did. I turned my gaze to her and saw grey pearls full of pity. The knife in my chest stung.

  “I feel betrayed,” I said. “I feel used by everyone. Like I was the butt of a sick joke that everyone was in on except me.”

  “I know,” Irene said.

  “But worst of all, I feel betrayed by you.”

  “I know,” she repeated.

  “I’m so stupid,” I said with a sad chuckle. “I know I shouldn’t feel this way, because you had told me upfront that you were in this for a promotion. It was just business for you. So that’s on me.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “I cared,” Irene said.

  “Then why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I asked. There was no accusation in my voice. Just defeat.

  “Because it’s complicated,” she said. “I know that’s an unsatisfying answer, but that’s the truth. There are just things I can’t tell you even if I wanted to, because if I did it would have terrible consequences.”

  “But in the end, does it even matter?” I asked rhetorically. “I could’ve learnt everything I know now, but without the betrayal. Without this awful feeling inside me.”

  “Then things would’ve ended differently and you probably wouldn’t know the things you know now.” A moment passed, before she said, “I’m sorry you feel this way.”

  “What do you mean you’re sorry I feel this way?” I said. I felt genuine anger. “You mean you’re sorry for my feelings of being betrayed and lied to and used? My feelings of being responsible for a discovery that’s more terrifying than anything I can imagine? Why can’t you feel sorry for the things that happened instead?”

  “Because I’m not, and I don’t want to lie to you about that,” Irene said. “There’s nothing we can do about the things that happen. And the things that will happen, really. But I’m sorry that you feel about them the way that you do. I hope that eventually, your feelings will change and you’ll see them differently.”

  Irene got up from the bedside table and sat next to me on the mattress. Only the small black case remained.

  “For one, you’re not responsible for backechoes,” she continued. “You didn’t invent that. That’s a concept that already existed and only needed someone to discover the idea. If anything, it invented itself using you as a vessel.”

  “That’s terrifying to think about,” I said.

  “If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else,” Irene said. “You’re just unlucky.”

  I chuckled. “Does luck really exist, then?”

  Irene shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  “And how should I think about being used and misled in the way that I was?” I asked.

  She sighed. “You feel used by me, don’t you?”

  I looked away.

  “Yes, I knew that getting closer to you would be pragmatic,” Irene said. “It would help ground you and keep you here long enough. And so it was necessary. That’s just the reality that we found ourselves in. But I like you. I like you a lot. And this reality, the sequence of events that happened, was the only place where I could be with you. Even if for a short time. And within that, I felt joy, and I like to think you did too. Don’t you see, Alex? I can’t be sorry about that. Things happened the way they were supposed to, but you can steal away joy and meaning and keep it all for yourself. That’s what the determinism principle really is.”

  The silence that followed felt heavy. I did my best to will the wetness away from my eyes. “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand that,” I said weakly.

  “Give yourself more credit,” Irene said. “I think that in time, you will. That it’ll be something we can share.”

  I sighed. It came out pitifully.

  Irene reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the black case.

  “Why did you run?” I asked. “That day when I tried to confront you about the truth in my apartment.”

  Irene laughed, before lowering her voice to a whisper. “Losing my prospects for a promotion.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I don’t think I’ll get it, after what happened,” she said quietly as she leaned in a little closer.

  “Did I do that?” I asked. I couldn’t help but feel guilty. A part of me had wanted her to lose the promotion she worked for, but now I felt concerned.

  “Not really, no,” Irene said. “It’s more about what I did.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, it doesn’t take complicated algorithms or messages from the future to figure out what you were going to do,” Irene said with a smile. “That you were going to be a reckless idiot and demand answers from Lenny. Most likely with that gun of yours. So I quickly made a situation assessment to Lenny and recommended letting you go.”

  I swallowed. “You did that?” I asked as I looked into her grey eyes.

  Irene nodded.

  “I—God. Thank you,” I swallowed a sob. “But why would that make you lose your promotion? You’ve told me that the outcome doesn’t matter.”

  “No it doesn’t,” Irene whispered. “But the intent and method do.” She sighed. “Not everything in that assessment I gave was true. They’ll find out sooner or later. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

  My eyes widened. “You lied?”

  Irene shifted so she kneeled. “I included in the assessment that the forecasted probability of you killing Lenny was essentially zero,” she said quietly as she leaned closely. “I only ran the numbers afterwards.”

  “What was it?” I whispered anxiously.

  “Not zero.”

  “What does probability even mean if everything is predetermined?” I asked. “How can I kill Lennox one in ten times if ‘times’ doesn’t make sense?”

  “Think Bayesianism.”

  I pondered for a moment. “Degrees of belief?”

  Irene nodded. “Lennox and the Reception Division don’t know every detail about the future. They’re kept in a need-to-know basis by the future. And I’m kept on a need-to-know basis by them. The only thing I know is that your work is necessary to the discovery of backechoes. But I don’t know what you’ll do outside of that.”

  “Like shooting Lennox,” I said.

  “Exactly. So I needed to act with the imperfect information that I have. And instead of acting to protect Lennox, I protected you instead. I don’t think my superiors in Special Operations will appreciate that very much.” Irene chuckled.

  “But if the future is predetermined, you didn’t have a choice. You were a slave to time. To fate.”

  “But I didn’t know what would happen. And so my actions were a reflection of who I am. I am who I am, Alex. Determinism can’t rob me of that.”

  I felt an admiration for Irene wash through me. Her strength. Her certainty.

  What was the difference between the illusion of free will—a simulation of free will—and free will itself?

  Irene unzipped the black case. In it was a single syringe and a small vial of a translucent liquid. She removed the cap from the syringe and extracted a small amount. I knew what it meant. The inevitability of it all. I watched her as she prepared. I wanted to commit as much of Irene to memory as possible. There was a futility in asking, in suggesting that there was an alternative to the unwavering, singular path ahead that was shaped by the forces beyond. But I asked anyway. Because in that futility was reverie. In that reverie was humanity.

  “Will I ever see you again?”

  Irene paused in her motions. She looked at me. Her grey eyes tracing the contours of my face. Of my soul. In that moment, there was something exchanged between us. An understanding that was free from regret and sorrow. An infinite and infinitesimal instance where time stood still. We existed outside of it in a paradise we stole. The culmination of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t yet. And then, as all moments did, it passed.

  Irene smiled and kissed my forehead for the last time.