The Missing Variable

by Steven Mathes

It may seem like an obvious detail, but nobody on our team caught it.  

We planned. We imagined uncertainties about pathogens, toxins, hostile predators, and historical facts of human violence. We knew it would require unspeakable amounts of energy. Therefore, I was armored in something halfway between a suit and a small ship with full life support, exactly like what people mining asteroids would wear.   

Paradoxically, we needed less energy to send me back millions of years, rather than a few seconds. Something about quantum weather. Something about linking to what the technicians called an "isomorphic quantum status."  

"Uh, so what do I do now?" I say.  

"We're working on that. Believe me, I am. We need to calculate your coordinates, then get you back safe," says Bradley.  

"But it worked! Davidson! You rock. You traveled in time!" says Hoffman. "And the fact that we have communication? Amazing, given that bad vector."  

"Successful communication is really hopeful," Bradley says. "We're working on something we call topological tracing. I know it's only been a few hours, but we miss you. I miss you."  

"Yeah," says Hoffman. "Losing you would be bad on so many levels. The Internet is watching."  

"What do you see?" Bradley says. "Can you see anything familiar?"  

"That's my idea," Hoffman says. "Any visual hints would be great. As a time traveler, you didn't move, but everything else did."  

"I didn't move?" I say.  

"Our mistake," Hoffman says. "Time is movement. Everything moved, but you only moved in time, so the solar system moved out from around you." 

"Try to conserve your energy," Bradley says. "I know it's hard."  

"Sorry, but we won't get this worked out anytime soon," Hoffman says.  

I always knew that being a test subject gave me poor odds. Death? We all die. Not getting back? I was ready, but then human attachment interfered. They couldn't identify specific dangers. I was worried about volcanoes, dire wolves, that sort of thing. It ended up so much worse. I filled an empty life by choosing this adventure, but this changed me. The new me opened up, savored other people, and found someone specific. 

"We're working on the video," Bradley says. "It'll be intermittent, but we might glimpse each other."  

"That's not true—it'll be AI faking it," Hoffman says. "But what's the difference? Our brains fake it, too. Even the blink of an eye is microseconds old once it gets to your brain. Reality is fake news."  

"Thanks for that," I say. "Meanwhile, I'm back here trying to change history. At least the part where I take the job as a test subject. I would have asked my coworker for a date a little sooner."  

"Given what we know now, I'd say changing history is not happening," Hoffman says. "That variable might not matter. You either end up traveling in time or in space. That's also why communication flickers."  

"We just want you back," says Bradley. "We've got everyone working on it. I don't know if I should be helping or talking to you."  

"I'd rather hear your voice," I say.  

"What do you see?" Hoffman says.  

"Nothing familiar," I say. "Just your generic interstellar space. Radiation levels are high. That might be what kills me."  

"It's a problem," Hoffman says. "If we could find you, too much information would be exchanged, which opens up a potential paradox. Maybe."  

"If we can just get video working, that'll be half of it," Bradley says. "I'd love to see your face."  

"Bradley's not just getting personal," says Hoffman. "Something about getting a visual feed opens up temporal bandwidth. We can get some serious pairing, some serious numbers. Even if we can't get you back, we need to move this project forward."  

The numbers on my screen meant nothing to me. I might as well have been a dog or a monkey. Whenever my display flickered, I got excited, always hoping for a glimpse of Bradley. Maybe the team promised me mastodons and giant sloths, but not with absolute certainty. They absolutely promised adventure, but not heartbreak, me alone in space.  

We knew there could be no promises, Bradley and I. We agreed about that.  

"You see my face?" says Hoffman.  

"I just got a flicker of it," I say. "Where's Bradley?"  

"Stay with me; don't give up. We're getting good data. I can't leave this console."  

"It hurts my eyes, the flickering, and I only catch glimpses," I say. "Where's Bradley?"  

"No! No! Stay with me," Hoffman says. "We're losing bandwidth. There's a cascade of complications from that one bad vector. Don't worry about Bradley. Worry about your mission. We need those numbers."  

"I just got another flicker of your face," I say. "There's people behind you, but I don't see Bradley."  

"Worry about the mission," says Hoffman. "Flip the black toggle. Extra power. That'll give us a last burst of bandwidth."  

It would drain life support. That was worth it. They picked me because I had education, respect for authority, and no Earthly attachments. But an attachment made me flick that toggle—someone worth dying for.  

"Bradley!" I say.   

"Yes, can you see me?" Bradley says. "I smacked Hoffman on the head with my tablet, so I only have a moment." 

"Yes, and the toggle switch worked," I say.  

"But they're pulling me away," Bradley says. "I love you."  

The screen went to static. I started gasping for air. 

It amazed me how being alone in an interstellar sea of radiation and darkness brought into focus what was important. My years of an empty life in an angry world qualified me. I got the job, which gave me purpose. My having purpose helped attract Bradley. My life became full. I felt myself crying on and off, and discovered that being able to cry in the void of space nourished my soul. So I let myself think of Bradley, and I cried.