The Woman Who Died a Lot

“But you can’t and won’t,” he said with a smile, waving his life summary at us. “According to this I marry your sister and have three children with her. We go on to do great works together—seriously good science—and I become one of the greatest mathematicians of my generation. I don’t die now—I die in my sleep aged ninety-four in 2082.”

“Sure you do,” said Friday. “Good at math are you?”

Gavin frowned. “Actually, no.”

Friday first pointed at the letter, then indicated the pistol. “You’ve got the wrong destiny. You actually turn out to be a murderous thug, a lackey of Goliath and complicit in the destruction of the planet.”

Gavin looked at the summary again. “This isn’t me?”

Friday shook his head.

Gavin’s lower lip trembled as the realization of his impending fate sank in.

“You can’t kill me for something I haven’t yet done!” he said, his voice rising.

“But I will,” replied Friday, his voice now with a mild tremor. “It is my function.”

He spoke to me next, but without taking his eye off Gavin.

“As soon as I pull this trigger, the eventline will change, Mum. The whole future will be remapped. I won’t know why I did this. You won’t know why I did this.”

“But we know why right now,” I said. “Better to have discovered your purpose even for the most fleeting of moments than never having one at all. In an odd kind of way, I’m proud of you. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“You’re better than this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that this is a blunt way to change the eventline. I’m thinking perhaps you can do this better. Somehow where you won’t have the burden of guilt for the rest of your life. Sure you save a planet, but killing someone in cold blood isn’t what your future self would have wanted. And besides . . .”

“Besides what?”

“You’re a Next. And we don’t murder people. Not even for future crimes.”

“Mum, I have to kill him to be certain!”

He was confused now, and I shouldn’t have raised any doubts, but I couldn’t see my son become a murderer. It was too late. We were out of time. I saw a tear well up in Friday’s eye, and as Gavin’s clock clicked over to 14 02 and four seconds, Friday pulled the trigger.

40. Monday: End

When the Asteroid Strike Likelihood Index was solely mathematically derived, there was a 73 percent chance that HR-6984 would strike the earth. Once the six Letters of Destiny were received in 2004 from the now-defunct ChronoGuard, the likelihood dropped to 1.3 percent, where it has remained ever since. Of the sixteen ex-ChronoGuard listed in the summaries, seven survived beyond 2041, some by as much as twenty-six years.

Dr A. Chowdry,

Asteroid Collision Risk Calculation

So there we were, my husband, Landen, and I, sitting in the comfort of a Skyrail car, gliding effortlessly above the North Wessex countryside, heading back from Swindon. We’d just listened to the judge remand Friday into custody, “irrespective of his previous good character and his family’s high standing in the community.” Our lawyer had suggested he might do two years if we could plea the charge down to accidental wounding from grievous bodily harm, plus another six years for firearms offenses. He’d be out in three, with good behavior. It might have been worse. Any gunshot wound is potentially fatal, and if Gavin had died, Friday could have been in for life. He’d take the plea and do the time: After all, three years in the pokey was exactly as Friday’s Letter of Destiny had predicted.

So that’s pretty much how it all turnedout. A week that began with Landen and I taking a trip into Swindon and ended with a pillar of fire cleansing the world of an evil it could well do without, and my daughter Tuesday with a husband and soul mate, and the knowledge they would both live a long and eventful life and have three kids. We also knew from his summary that Gavin remained constant and true despite his tiresomely vulgar demeanor. We’d probably get to like him in our own way, so long as we never invited him to dinner with other people present. Or if we did, we’d make sure they were fully briefed and supplied with earplugs.

“I still don’t know why he came to shoot the other Gavin by mistake,” said Landen, “or even how he knew there was another Gavin.”

“Friday doesn’t know either. A moment of inexplicable madness. So let’s just move on.”

My cell phone rang. It was John Duffy. He spoke a few words, and I thanked him and snapped the mobile shut.