Peripheral Visions: Practice Makes Pointless

Peripheral Visions: They coalesce in the soft blur of darkest shadows and take shape in the corner of your eye. But you won't see them coming... until it's too late.

Practice Makes Pointless

Eleuterio didn't seem like his usual cheerful self. He had been sullen and troubled that day at school, and he didn't even seem to want to hang out with Branko at lunch time. Walking home after classes had let out for the day, cutting across a small park, Branko spotted Eleuterio sitting on a bench looking glum.

"Dude, what's up with you?" Branko asked, slinging his rucksack to the ground and dropping onto the park bench next to him with such suddenness that Eleuterio jumped in surprise. "That's the most energetic I've seen you today," Branko laughed.

Eleuterio settled back on the bench, folded his arms, and stared straight ahead.

"Dude, it's like you don't even know me all of a sudden."

Branko hadn't meant that as a joke, but Eleuterio laughed. Then, looking at Branko with a mixture of amusement and anger, he said, "Oh, but I do know you."

"Yeah, I would think so." The two had been best friends since kindergarten. "And I know you. And you're not right. So, what's going on? That guy Sam break your heart or something?"

Eleuterio shook his head. "No, Sam didn't break my heart."

"Well, why don't you give him a chance, and maybe he will?" Branko smiled. "Look, I know you worry that people will give you a hard time if they find out you're gay. But it's cool with me, isn't it? Things are different now. I mean, I wouldn't tell your parents or any of the teachers, but... some of the kids will be cool with it. Sam's a good guy. People know about him... well, kind of know... but they don't bother him about it. You could learn a lot from him. And if you're worried that you'd just break up with him in the end anyway, well, you probably would."

Eleuterio gave Branko a sidelong look of deep exasperation.

"I mean, come on. Everyone breaks up after a couple months. We're that age." Branko smiled at him. "It might suck once you got to that part, but you'd be happy until then."

Eleuterio looked away again, shaking his head.

"Or maybe just get over him already," Branko said, his irritation breaking through, "but please don't spend another month pining over him from a distance."

Once again, Eleuterio looked askance at Branko.

"Just talk to him," Branko said. "Flirt. I bet he'd be into you."

Eleuterio rolled his eyes.

"I was the same way about Maria, remember? She didn't even know I existed... or that's what I thought, anyway, but the minute I started chatting her up..."

"God!" Eleuterio sighed. "How many more times do we have to go through this?"

"Um... I dunno... are you planning on being weird tomorrow, too?"

Eleuterio laughed at that. "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow... how does it go?"

"Are you quoting a movie or something?"

"Yeah. 'Or something.' Don't you know this shit? It's Shakespeare: Petty pace, last syllable, recorded time." Eleuterio sighed again and ran a hand over his face. "Time. Fuck."

Branko was increasingly confused. "You need to be somewhere?"

"No. I just need..." Branko shook his head and grinned in a dark, fatalistic way. "You know what? It doesn't even matter."

"So, in that case, tell me what's wrong."

"Yeah. Okay, I will. But, you see, here's the thing... I already have. A bunch of times."

"You did?" Branko shook his head, trying to think. Had Eleuterio made a remark, a gesture... given a sign that he was upset? When? Nothing came to mind. He'd been his same old self for as long as Branko could remember. Until, that is, today.

"Yeah. But the thing is... you wouldn't remember. It's all new to you. Lucky you. This original moment, this is singular and fleeting and will never come again. You don't have to do this a million fucking times."

"Do what?"

"This. This day. This conversation."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know those movies where the girl, or the guy, or whoever, keeps repeating the same day over and over again?"

"Uh... no." Branko said. What movies? American movies? It sounded like the sort of thing Americans would come up with. Americans, or that Argentinian writer, Luis Borges. Branko's dad liked reading Borges' stuff.

"Well... you will. There's a lot of them. And that's what's going on right now, for me. Except it takes years. It takes fucking decades."

"You're repeating your life?" Branko asked.

"You always say it that way. Like you're not even surprised."

"Well, I mean..." Branko shrugged. "I feel that way too, sometimes. But it's not like it's really happening that way."

"But it is," Eleuterio said, turning to look Branko straight in the eyes. "It's happening exactly that way. And I know what you're gonna say next – that life isn't a movie, that I should get real. But this is real, Branko. And listen, I know you and I are friends, but I have to tell you: As of eight o'clock this morning, your old friend Eleuterio got suppressed."

"What? Did the cops do something to you? Or one of the gangs?" Even though Brazil was changing and people said Brazil would get better – they said democracy was coming; Branko's dad was skeptical – things hadn't gotten better yet. Both cops and gangs targeted people for intimidation and shakedowns.

"No, man," Eleuterio said. "Not in this neighborhood."

He had a point, Branko thought. Not in this neighborhood, where people like them, families with money and political clout, lived.

"Though I have seen how things unfold over the next half a century... and it's not pretty," Eleuterio added. "Things do get rough, and worse than rough, even in good neighborhoods like this. But we're not there yet."

"Wait, you see the future?" Branko laughed. "I thought you were living the same day over and over again."

"Not the same day. The same forty-seven years. 1985 to 2032."

"...okay..." Branko frowned at Eleuterio. He wasn't laughing, but neither did he seem delirious. Eleuterio wasn't the flighty sort, and he didn't go in for science fiction or fantasy. It wasn't like him to be talking about living days or decades over again.

Eleuterio sighed. "You want to hear this?"

Branko nodded. "Sure," he said.

"The story is stranger that you think. Forty-seven years from now we come here, to your planet..."

"Oh, you're an alien now," Branko scoffed.

Eleuterio looked at him with such a bleak and somber gaze that Branko felt a sudden, cold intimation. "Are you actually telling the truth?" Branko asked, worried, before chiding himself: As if this could be real.

And yet – no, Eleuterio did not seem like himself. Holy mother, Branko found himself thinking. Could he really be an alien from the future?

"There's that look," Eleuterio said. "The look you give me when, sooner or later, you figure out that I'm serious. This is real. There are aliens, and I'm one of them. And we did travel through time – or, at least, project our minds through time. And we did occupy the bodies of people in this time period."

"Okay," Branko said, thinking he would go along with it. If Eleuterio was on drugs or suffering a mental break of some sort, the story he had to tell might include useful information about his state of mind or whatever trauma had pushed him over the edge.

"And now you've entered the 'supportive friend listening to the crazy story' phase of this little chat." Eleuterio blew out a breath and shook his head as if castigating himself... or else questioning the universe.

Branko frowned. This really didn't sound like Eleuterio at all. It sounded like some kind self-serious radio drama. "So, why don't you tell me what's going on," he suggested. "Start from the start."

"Yeah. Okay. Like I said, the beginning of all this is forty-seven years from now, when my people arrive here. We thought... I mean, we will think... that Earth is easy pickings."

" 'Easy pickings?' For an alien, you're pretty good with everyday Portuguese," Branko said.

"Dude, I've done this six times now," Eleuterio told him. "Or, I mean, this will be my sixth time. And this is the third time we've had this conversation."

"And how does it end up? Do you vaporize me with your ray gun?"

"No, of course not. We didn't bring technology back with us. Just our minds, our technical expertise, our schemes... and they never work out," Branko said. "You never really believe me, and it's weird between us for a few weeks, and then you get fed up and start ignoring me. Which, believe me, I'm cool with."

"Wait," Branko said. "What schemes?"

Eleuterio laughed. "Our schemes to conquer you people. It takes a long time, but it starts now. I mean, it doesn't' start here right away... it's going to be a few years, but once democracy really is established, we'll get to work in Brazil. But we're already working in America. And we'll be working away in Europe, in Central America, in Africa, even in Russia a few years from now, after communism ends."

"Russia?"

"Oh, my god, man! Russia is our best asset! Them, and later on Iran and China... willing henchmen bent over their computers, manipulating whole countries through social media. It's beautiful."

"Manipulating... through what?"

Eleuterio seemed relaxed and almost happy now. He gave a lazy wave. "You'll find out. The point is, in 2032, when we arrive, the people of Earth stand up together and destroy our fleet. That strands us here. We can't go home... we couldn't go home even with our ships intact, because we were sent on a one-way mission: Succeed, or die. But we have a fallback plan, and that's to send our brain patterns back into time, take over human bodies, and start pulling your societies apart so that when we arrive again... in the future... you'll be so crazy as a species, so politically divided and socially at odds, that you can't mount a defense." Eleuterio laughed.

"Okay," Branko said.

"It's brilliant," Eleuterio told him, sounding like he was enjoying himself. Then his mood shifted back to his earlier glumness. "Only... it never works out. You still kick the shit out of us. And we come back through time and put our minds back in these bodies all over again, because we have to. Because the aliens arriving in ships in your skies in 2032 are not us anymore. Not after almost fifty years. We stand there looking up at the sky right along with the rest of you, with no way to warn ourselves... ourselves who have just arrived, who don't know what's about to happen... we have no way to warn them that we're in for a thrashing. Once the ships are destroyed and our ground forces are fighting human insurgents, a few of us do get through to our commanders and identify ourselves. We try to warn the commanders that our fallback plan won't work. But you know what happens? The commanders just send us back through time again. We're valuable assets, you see. We know what strategies we have used that didn't work, and we can come up with new tactics, new plans. Sooner or later, the commanders reason, we will succeed. I mean, we have to, right? But we never do. We try over and over again, but no matter how we adjust our plan of attack, it's still the same basic strategy, and... and I don't know what the fundamental flaw is, but it's a bad strategy. It never works."

"Okay, so..." Branko frowned, trying to sort out what Eleuterio was telling him. "So, you're caught in some kind of loop?"

"Now you're getting it," Eleuterio told him.

"And you're depressed? You want to it to end? You want to... to die?" Branko was really worried now, worried that Eleuterio's delusions were making him suicidal.

"Hah!" Eleuterio laughed. "No! I don't fucking want to die. That's the problem, asshole!"

"Okay," Brankoi said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "But I don't really understand the problem. Why don't you just enjoy being here while you can? Or tell your future commanders to call the whole thing off?"

"We can't contact the fleet from here, can we? We can't tell them not to attack in forty-seven years. The ships are already on their way. All of us – us invaders – we're in suspended animation, in a long and senseless sleep from star to star. And even if we weren't, there's no technology on Earth we can use to send the sort of signal our ships would pick up. Believe me: We've tried. We even advanced your technology, given you leaps and bounds in materials and physics and computer science in order to try to build a quantum computer to contact the AI driving our ships. But forty-seven years just isn't enough time, not when we're starting with what you scientific illiterates have in the way of technology. It can't be done in only forty-seven years, not using stones knives and bearskins."

"Now, that's a quote I understand," Branko said. "Star Trek!"

Eleuterio grinned at him. "It's a stupid show, but you know, after almost three centuries I've really gotten to like it."

"Three – oh. Because you keep living the same forty-seven years over and over again and it's been... five or six times, you said?"

Eleuterio clicked his tongue and made a finger pointing motion at Branko.

"Okay, well, you know... I don't believe you, as a matter of fact," Branko said. "But I won't just turn my back on you either."

"That's nice," Eleuterio told him. "Though, I mean, you will. Mostly because I turn my back on you."

Branko looked hurt.

"Come on, kid. I'm a grown-ass adult... I mean, more than an adult. I'm an old man. And I'm a hostile alien." Eleuterio smiled at him, and – strangely, given what he was saying – the smile looked sincere. "You're... what... you're seventeen. How are we gonna stay friends? Not to mention, I'm here to subjugate your people and steal your land."

"But it doesn't work," Branko said.

Eleuterio cast his eyes down. "No, it doesn't."

"So why not enjoy it?" Branko asked. "You've got eternal life. You can mix it up, do something different every time. To hell with the plans. Do your own thing."

"Some of us," Eleuterio sighed, "some of us have started doing that. And, you know, I think you're right. I think I'm done fighting. I think maybe this time I should just try to live. Of course, the hard-core guys, they'll execute us if they find us slacking, but... We arrived here in random people the first time. We found each other; we worked in cells. There's no real master list of who's who, or where they are. A lot of us can probably say fuck the plan, live our whole lives, and not have to worry about being punished as deserters."

"And then you get to do it all over again," Branko said.

Eleuterio took in a weary breath and let it go. "No, kid, that's where you're wrong. You heard me say I've got almost three hundred years of this behind me? Well, all of that... all of that memory... gets projected back in time every time I take over this body."

"Right. So that you can try new tactics." Branko grinned at him. "See – I understand. I've been paying attention."

"And you still don't get it," Eleuterio snapped. "How much memory do you think a human brain can hold? I mean... a lot of the repetitious, trivial shit gets forgotten; that's an energy-saving adaptation our technology automatically uses as part of the memory scan before the projection happens. But we still bring a shit-ton more memory back with us each time than we brought back the time before. And sooner or later... sooner, I'm afraid, at this point... it's just not gonna work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your poor friend Eleuterio is gonna be on his way to school, and he's gonna sit down on this bench, where I woke up this morning, and he's suddenly gonna be a catatonic vegetable because the memory projection from the future will destroy his brain. Not flood it with a new identity and new memories and new skill sets... but destroy it. Too much memory, all at once. Not enough memory storage. Too great of a shock."

"But your commanders in the future won't..."

"Our commanders in the future think of us as expendable. Think of themselves as expendable. I should know; I'm one of them. I've sent myself back six times now. You think I'm gonna listen to me? I'm not – because the me that gets here half a century from now won't be the same me that's been cycling though this same half-century over and over again. He'll be the OG."

"The what?"

"Never mind. More vernacular, but not until a few years from now. I just mean, that future version of me will never be anyone other than who he is. He won't add to his memory or his understanding. He'll be the same rigid disciplinarian, the same pre-programmed follow-the-protocols officer he's always been, because each time I encounter him is the first and only time – from his point of view, that is."

"I don't get it," Branko said.

"Yeah. Because you have never traveled in time, you've never confronted the paradoxes that inevitably come up. But believe me, there's no changing it. I've got another forty-seven years, maybe more. Maybe. Maybe next time I'll squeeze through okay and have to do this all over again. You and me, eh? Right back here? But probably not. The next time is probably gonna be the end of it. And actually, I'm kind glad. At least it'll finally be fucking done. So, yeah, you're right; I'm sick of it. But also, I know I'm doomed, and it makes me fucking sick. It's so useless. We're all doomed. The whole fucking plan is a goddamn train wreck, it was a bad idea from the start, and our fallback plan just made it worse – so much worse. So much worse!"

Eleuterio fell silent and sat there in a palpable rage, audibly grinding his teeth.

"You know the worst part?" he resumed. "Realizing I can't change anything. I live out different lives, take on different careers, whisper in different ears, come up with one brilliant plan after the next to suborn your democracies and sow distrust between your people... and I accomplish all those things, because frankly it's not very hard; you people are gullible as hell... and it still never makes a bit of difference. We fail all over again. It's like falling down a well in slow motion. That circle of light up there, it just gets smaller and dimmer all the time, and I know there's dark water waiting for me at the end. I just know it."

Branko could see his friend was suffering. His story was bullshit... a fever dream, a mental collapse... but Eleuterio believed it, and it was eating at him. Branko put a hand on his shoulder.

Eleuterio shrugged it away.

But then Eleuterio learned over, grabbed Branko, and pulled him into a clumsy sideways hug. "You know something?" he murmured to Branko. "We're your goddamn enemy. We don't even see you as... as human, if you want to put it that way. We see you as animals who are destroying their own planet, and who don't deserve the beautiful world you've got. But you... you're the closest thing I've ever had to a friend. The only friend I've ever had. The only person I've told the truth, and the only one who ever cared for me. Even though," Eleuterio laughed, "even though you think I'm someone else. You don't realize that I really am an alien intelligence that's supplanted your friend. The real Eleuterio is suppressed, buried in his own brain... buried under all the extra memory I've brought. And I'm starting to get buried right along with him."

Branko rubbed Eleuterio's back. He didn't know what else to do. After a moment, the two boys straightened up.

"Well, so, that's the story," Eleuterio said. "For what it's worth."

Branko suddenly realized that he believed everything Eleuterio was telling him.

"Can he come back?" Branko asked.

"Who? Eleuterio?"

Branko nodded.

Eleuterio sighed. "Yes, sometimes. When I have to sleep. He can emerge then, dazed and physically weary, at least for a while. He can grub his way through some semblance of a life, I guess, though I think he feels as hopeless as I do. He must not be very vital, though, because as far as I can tell he's never tried to disrupt my plans... he probably doesn't even comprehend what's going on. And, I'm not sure, but I think he's diminishing more with every repeat. I feel sorry for him. Only seventeen, and he's... I imagine he's experiencing something like Alzheimer's." Eleuterio shook his head. "Poor guy has it even worse than me. At least I still have my mental faculties – for now; but once his human brain collapses under the projection, under the weight of too much sudden memory..." Eleuterio shrugged, his hands making a gesture of futility.

"Then you'll both be gone," Branko said.

"Yes," Eleuterio said. "Then we'll both be gone."

The boys sat side by side in the afternoon sun. Such monstrous things – aliens, invasions, time loops that turned into lethal traps – seemed utterly unreal and impossible in the golden light.

Eleuterio stood up. "Well, my friend," he said, looking back at Branko and smiling. "Thank you. Next time we meet... well, next time we probably won't meet. I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry about your friend."

Branko shrugged. He felt puzzled; he felt numb. He decided he should probably tell his dad about all this once he got home. His dad would know what to do. He was a doctor with the military. And who knew, if the story of the invasion and the time-traveling aliens really was true, maybe his dad would know what to do about it.

"See you tomorrow," he called to Eleuterio, who turned back one last time.

Grinning, Eleuterio said, "No, you won't. This time... I'm really gonna mix it up. I'm gonna run away and join the circus. Or... or go to Caracas and meet a guy. Or... or I don't know what! Whatever I want. It'll all be a surprise!"

Laughing, Eleuterio turned and walked away.

Branko, still sitting on the park bench, laughed also.

*** *** ***

Cutting across the park on his way to school, Branko breathed in the fresh early morning scent of a new day. He was in a happy mood, but that changed to curiosity and then concern as he realized a crowd had gathered across the way. People seemed to be clustered around one of the benches.

Probably a drunk, he thought, walking over to see.

But as he got closer, Branko realized it wasn't a drunk – or if it was, he wasn't just any drunk. He sped his pace and suddenly felt a man's hands on his chest and back holding him in place.

"You better stay clear," the man told him. "Police are on the way. They will take him to the hospital. Or to the jail, if that's where he should be."

"That's my friend," Branko gasped, twisting away from the man's grasp. He approached the bench. Eleuterio was slumped over, his eyes open and unblinking.

"Let him through," someone said as another man tried to get in Branko's way. "He knows the boy."

"Is that true?"

Branko looked up at a man's concerned face.

"Do you know this boy?"

"Yes," Branko said, looking back at Eleuterio. "He's my best friend. His name is Eleuterio."

"Does he drink? Is he a junkie?"

"No! He's a good guy. He never does stuff like that. Neither of us do." Branko pushed ahead once more, and then knelt by the bench. Leaning toward Eleuterio, scrutinizing his still, slack face, he repeated Eleuterio's name but got no response.

"What happened?" Branko looked up at the man, who was hovering close by. "What happened to him?"

"We don't know," the man said in a soothing voice. "But the police are coming. They'll take care of him. If he's sick, we'll find out."

"He looks dead," Branko said, his voice rising, on the verge of panic.

The man patted his back. "Take it easy; stay calm. You can't help him if you get upset. They'll take care of him, and in time they'll figure out what's wrong."

Yes, Branko thought, making an effort to calm himself down despite his pounding heart and the fear that coursed through him. Yes, it will be all right. They'll find out what's wrong, and they'll know what to do to make things right.