Personal
Original - PG - a little personal. Had bad dreams after writing this, but I don't expect you will after reading it.
"You're getting carried away," she said. "Not that that's a bad thing, but you haven't even proved yet that multiple worlds exist, let alone that it's possible to travel between them."
They are walking by the duck pond in late May. She carrying two pizza boxes, sides garish in black and red and orange against the grey day: he holds two coffee cups. They prevent him for gesturing forcefully, though he obviously wants to. Instead he waves his hands as he speaks. "You can't prove anything is in physics. You can only prove that it isn't not yet. No-one can prove other worlds don't exist -"
"No-one can prove god exists but you don't catch many physicists believing in him!"
He makes a face and waves that away. Dodges a mud puddle. "Travel to alternate universes would prove the other world theory well enough for all but the most hardened sceptics. And even they would be convinced if they traveled there themselves."
She shifts her grip on the boxes, bracing them against her hips, and sniffs. The air is cold. "The most hardened would be convinced it was an elaborate hoax no matter what you did."
"You can't win with everyone," he says. Enthusiasm not dimmed, only tampered with frustration. "Think about it! Wouldn't you want to live in a world where you'd made a whole different set of choices in your life?"
"Live there? I wouldn't want to visit it - you can't use something like that as a cosmic 'reset' button. If I'd made different mistakes I wouldn't be 'me' - today's me, the one that's talking to you right now - that's even assuming it wouldn't annihilate the multiverse if two versions of the same person met - I'd rather struggle along on my own, thanks, only having to worry about one collection of should-haves and would-haves -"
"But that's the point - you'd be able to see if the should- and would-haves would have turned out worse -"
"And if they turned out better? I'd have to spend my whole life knowing I'd made the wrong choice -" They reach a picnic table, grey wood graffitied and carved. The sun has retreated, but it is a pale winter sun anyway, casting no warmth against the cold breeze. They shuffle their loads, one pizza and one coffee each, and climb into the seats and eat.
"You wouldn't be curious?" he asks her eventually.
"Not," she says, "About that."
"Then what?" he says, and he sounds so plaintive.
"Oh, bigger things. What would have happened if the allies lost the war - if Stalin never existed - if Lady Jane Grey ruled for nine years rather than nine days - nothing so personal." Ever, she thinks, but does not say.
He doesn't seem to understand. "But why nothing personal - wouldn't you want to see your mother again...?" he trails off, attacks his food with sudden intense concentration.
"No," she says. Gentle. "I wouldn't." He looks up, opens his mouth, shuts it quickly. Finishes chewing. "Why not?" she says. He nods. "Two reasons, I guess. Both selfish.
"I wouldn't be who I am without her death. And I would not be able to stand it a second time."
"But she might not even be ill, in some other world."
"And that's fine. If a world exists somewhere where my mother lives out her days happily and dies at the age of ninety-two, good on her, and I hope her children are grateful for it. But they are not me and I am not them, and that Katherine McIver is not my mother. I would not be so lucky."
His silence after that is thoughtful, and they both eat. Ducks drift aimlessly on the rough water.
"You're getting carried away," she said. "Not that that's a bad thing, but you haven't even proved yet that multiple worlds exist, let alone that it's possible to travel between them."
They are walking by the duck pond in late May. She carrying two pizza boxes, sides garish in black and red and orange against the grey day: he holds two coffee cups. They prevent him for gesturing forcefully, though he obviously wants to. Instead he waves his hands as he speaks. "You can't prove anything is in physics. You can only prove that it isn't not yet. No-one can prove other worlds don't exist -"
"No-one can prove god exists but you don't catch many physicists believing in him!"
He makes a face and waves that away. Dodges a mud puddle. "Travel to alternate universes would prove the other world theory well enough for all but the most hardened sceptics. And even they would be convinced if they traveled there themselves."
She shifts her grip on the boxes, bracing them against her hips, and sniffs. The air is cold. "The most hardened would be convinced it was an elaborate hoax no matter what you did."
"You can't win with everyone," he says. Enthusiasm not dimmed, only tampered with frustration. "Think about it! Wouldn't you want to live in a world where you'd made a whole different set of choices in your life?"
"Live there? I wouldn't want to visit it - you can't use something like that as a cosmic 'reset' button. If I'd made different mistakes I wouldn't be 'me' - today's me, the one that's talking to you right now - that's even assuming it wouldn't annihilate the multiverse if two versions of the same person met - I'd rather struggle along on my own, thanks, only having to worry about one collection of should-haves and would-haves -"
"But that's the point - you'd be able to see if the should- and would-haves would have turned out worse -"
"And if they turned out better? I'd have to spend my whole life knowing I'd made the wrong choice -" They reach a picnic table, grey wood graffitied and carved. The sun has retreated, but it is a pale winter sun anyway, casting no warmth against the cold breeze. They shuffle their loads, one pizza and one coffee each, and climb into the seats and eat.
"You wouldn't be curious?" he asks her eventually.
"Not," she says, "About that."
"Then what?" he says, and he sounds so plaintive.
"Oh, bigger things. What would have happened if the allies lost the war - if Stalin never existed - if Lady Jane Grey ruled for nine years rather than nine days - nothing so personal." Ever, she thinks, but does not say.
He doesn't seem to understand. "But why nothing personal - wouldn't you want to see your mother again...?" he trails off, attacks his food with sudden intense concentration.
"No," she says. Gentle. "I wouldn't." He looks up, opens his mouth, shuts it quickly. Finishes chewing. "Why not?" she says. He nods. "Two reasons, I guess. Both selfish.
"I wouldn't be who I am without her death. And I would not be able to stand it a second time."
"But she might not even be ill, in some other world."
"And that's fine. If a world exists somewhere where my mother lives out her days happily and dies at the age of ninety-two, good on her, and I hope her children are grateful for it. But they are not me and I am not them, and that Katherine McIver is not my mother. I would not be so lucky."
His silence after that is thoughtful, and they both eat. Ducks drift aimlessly on the rough water.