The Futility of Warning You by P.A. Cornell
The moment I return from the future, all I want is to talk to you, but so much gets in the way. First the debrief, with endless hours about what I saw, the analysis of the recordings, and the tedious review of my field notes.
When the success of my mission leaks, it gets worse. The media’s all over me with interview requests. The institute allows a few carefully-scripted appearances with reputable journalists, then sequesters me in a secret location to avoid having everything we’ve learned released before the world is ready.
But the world already knows enough. The future looks promising, if we stick to the path outlined by future historians. There’s hope for our species, our planet, and the jubilant feeling that permeates every corner of the Earth becomes palpable.
You try to reach me on many occasions, but they don’t let your calls through. And then, when I’m finally freed, it’s to tour the planet for endless parties, speaking engagements, and photo ops.
During the rare moments that I’m alone, I sneak away to call you, but we always seem to miss each other. I’m growing desperate, because there’s something you must know. Something I never shared with the institute.
When I finally get through to you, there’s so much to say. I’ve missed you, for one, and I get that out first. Hearing your voice feels like coming home. You say you’ve missed me too, then break into animated talk about your current project. You’ve read through my notes, watched the recordings, made notes of your own. I try several times to interject but your words come rapid-fire, tripping over each other in your excitement. In the end, I say I want to meet. It’s better to do this in person.
Time travel works. We got the science right. But there’s so much we don’t understand about the ripples it creates. If we go back in time, we risk altering our present. But if we go forward, there are other concerns.
We nail down a date and time to meet in your office at the institute. I arrive early and you make a joke about time travel, but I can’t bring myself to laugh.
“Why so glum?” you ask. “Good things are coming. You saw it yourself.”
That’s true. But I was sent to explore the future of our whole world, not that of individuals. I should’ve stuck to my mission. Broad strokes only. But I had to know what became of us—of you.
Again you tell me your plans, but I already know all this and more. I know your project’s an excuse to get you there too. You haven’t told the institute. Maybe you haven’t even told yourself the truth. What you want is to do what I did. See it with your eyes. Meet with your future self.
“You have to stop,” I say, unsure how else to begin. “This project, it can’t happen.”
You stare at first in disbelief, then anger crosses your face.
“Why the hell would I stop?”
I tell you.
I explain that the future’s fragile. That you appear in their history books. That the chapters describe how your ambition leads you to go there, but that you don’t like what you find. How you return to our time to make changes. How this leads to the outlawing of time travel technology within the next year.
You listen, but I see doubt in your eyes. You still believe that armed with enough knowledge, you can get it right. Most of all, you still want to see what’s to come for yourself.
“Bullshit!” you yell. “You just want to be the only one. The celebrity’s gone to your head and you don’t want to share the glory.”
“You don’t understand,” I plead. “They’re expecting you. They allowed me to return, because the path they’ve laid out for us helps us all. But you, they see as a problem. I told them I could convince you to stop. They agreed, but said if I don’t, they will.”
You shake your head, refusing to listen, and I can see the look I’ve seen a thousand times before. I know what happens next. You tell me you’ll stop, but you don’t. Your work goes on in secret, despite all that I’ve told you. You travel to the future, and you don’t return.
Then I travel to the past, again and again, to try to change your mind.
My warning going ever unheeded.
