Molly Fyde and the Blood of Billions

knew were going to alter events. I’ve wrestled with that, but I don’t see a different outcome. I don’t see anything I could’ve chosen otherwise.”

“Is that why you don’t believe in free will? To protect yourself?”

“No.” The Seer shook her head. “Nothing feels safe about a lack of free will, about being out of control. The reason I don’t believe in free will is because of—because of so many things.” The Seer rubbed the back of her hand, the agitation apparent in the rise of her tone. “Why are people unhappy much of the time? Why would they choose to be miserable if they are truly free? Why do we repeat the same mistakes over and over and wallow in our regret? Why does it feel like my every action is really a reaction, and that I only afterwards rationalize my behavior as having been a conscious decision?”

Cole leaned back, away from the words. They seemed sharp and dangerous, laced with barbs that could wiggle in and never come back out. Not without pain, anyway.

“If there’s no free will,” he said, “then what are we? Automatons? Organisms just responding to environmental cues?” He shook his head. “No thanks. If we aren’t free to choose our paths, we should at the very least pretend.”

The Seer frowned. “We should lie to ourselves. Is that what you’re saying?”

Cole nodded, forgetting for a moment that the woman was blind. “I think that’s what I do. I think I know what you know, but I avoid it.” Cole glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t think I could’ve chosen to not fix that leak. I’m sure of it, actually. The state I was in, what was going on around me, I had already agreed to fix it before you asked. If you could see those things, see inside me, I think you’d know the future.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the Seer said sadly. She looked away, or at least turned her head. “Religions have long wrestled with this, you know. Their best argument is that we are free to choose, but god already knows how we will. He knows us, knows what actions we will perform, long before we do.”

“I’m familiar with the argument,” said Cole.

“Maybe there’s something good about it.” She turned to face him. “Would you ever want to be the kind of person who would refuse to fix the leak?”

“No.”

“Neither would I. And maybe that determines who believes in free will and who doesn’t. Maybe those of us who are ashamed of our actions like to think it doesn’t exist. And those of you who live without regret like to take the credit for yourselves.”

“I have plenty of regrets,” Cole said softly.

“I know. But perhaps not more than your pride.”

The lady looked down at her hands, or at least appeared to. She flexed her fingers and Cole wondered if she could imagine them there as ghost limbs visible in her awareness of where her body was in space. He closed his own eyes and tried to picture his hands in his lap, and then realized there was nothing rude in the gesture. He could lie back with his eyes closed and continue talking, and she would never know. She probably wouldn’t care even if she did. Something about it, about being invisible and making the rest of the world disappear, felt nice.

When he opened his eyes, hers were back to pointing in his general direction. Cole realized, just then, how very much he liked this old woman, even though he knew nothing of her or her intentions.

“Are you human?” he asked, his mouth blurting it out before his brain could filter it.

“Yes.”

“What’s your real name?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“If I did, I’d be naming myself, so I’ll leave it up to you.” She smiled, as if at some private joke, but there was still some sadness in her face. Each flash of happiness contained some hint that it could be her last, like a creature rare and therefore tragic.

“I need you to pass on something to Mortimor for me.”

“Sure.”

“Tell him to get everyone out.”

“Just say that? He’ll know what that means?”

The Seer nodded.

“Out of hyperspace?”

She shrugged.

“Is there a way out?”

“If there is, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. If you try hard enough. Just tell him to leave no one behind.”

“Okay.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Cole thought the woman looked tired all of a sudden, like she needed to lie down and never get back up.

“Is that it, then?”

The Seer nodded. “You’ve been a tremendous help.”

Cole laughed. “It wasn’t so bad a leak,” he said.

“I meant the other. About lying to ourselves. I think you’re right about that…”

The Seer trailed off and Cole waited in silence.

“If we aren’t free,” she finally said, “I think you’re right to pretend we are. Maybe we have to delude ourselves and not feel bad for doing it. Maybe that’s crucial for our sanity.”

“Lying to ourselves?”

“And each other. If not, if we admit that we aren’t free and in control of our own behavior, we won’t hold ourselves responsible for our actions, and that will surely have an effect on them.” The Seer lifted her hands from her lap, holding them out as if for balance, even though the cabin wasn’t swaying at the moment.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s the answer.”

She said it reverently and to herself, almost as if she’d been expecting it to come. Her hands came together, interlocking. They came up and covered her mouth, her eyes glistening with a film of tears. She looked down at the empty space of bed between herself and Cole. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare interrupt whatever was happening.

“Everything we do affects the people around us,” she finally said. “We are a part of each other’s environment. How I ask you to fix the leak has more to do with your decision than you do. Our will isn’t free, but it depends on each other. It—maybe it’s so complex that some kind of randomness is possible. Some emergent quality arises as all the interactions bounce off one another.”

She looked up, her hands returning to her lap, her silence inviting some kind of response.

But Cole was too busy thinking to answer. He saw what she meant, saw the implications. The mass delusion of free will wasn’t just to assuage, the very idea of free will seemed to inject some of it into human behavior. By expecting others to choose the best course—by holding them responsible for their actions afterwards—it made it more likely they would choose best.

“Thank you for coming,” the Bern Seer said. She unfolded her legs from beneath her and swung them over the side of the bed, planting her feet. She held up her arms as if asking for help to stand. Cole scrambled off the bed and reached for her, helping her up.

“It was my pleasure,” he said, honestly meaning it.

The Seer crossed to the door and rested a fragile hand on the knob. “Let me know when you have your goggles on.”

Cole fumbled for them; he pulled them from around his neck and hurriedly wiped the cups with his t-shirt, having learned how important it was to not have to adjust them once outside.

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

“In a way,” she said.

Cole pulled the goggles down over his head, adjusting them until the cups were tight and his world was as black as blindness.

“Thank you again,” the Seer said. “I think you’ve helped me take responsibility for what I’m about to do.”