Balidor Tuttle was unbelievably prescient. Not only could he predict the future unerringly, but he also had the gift of enerpathy, the ability to sense all energy patterns out for miles and keep it all straight in his head. Most presciences were limited to people, choices, and some workings of nature, but the combination of abilities made Balidor see events far more clearly than anyone had ever seen.
His abilities kicked in on his eleventh birthday. He deduced it was the particular kind of chocolate in his birthday cake, combined with his favorite sugary drink and genetic makeup. His abilities would last for a year. He concentrated hard to get the exact time. It would last exactly one year. At the same time, on his twelfth birthday, his powers would turn off. He'd never have them again.
He vowed to make the most of the year.
When the party ended, and everyone left with the bots busy cleaning the party room, he ran into his bedroom, dropped his presents on the bed, sat in the middle of the room, and reached out toward his death.
He was going to die of a mysterious disease at the age of twenty-three. The disease wasn't known yet, and the only thing that helped was to delay its progress by getting lots of rest. Seventeen years later, they would find a cure. He would die before then unless he froze himself.
Balidor sensed the first case of the disease, the identity of the doctor who would treat that first victim, and her email address. He typed up the cure and emailed it, setting the delivery time to one day before the patient would show up, with enough personal details to let the doctor know she was dealing with a legitimate prescient.
The instant he hit send, the future changed. Now Balidor would die three years earlier, along with a third of the world's population. The doctor who had the cure would make a mistake in creating it because she wanted to patent it herself and would unleash a nastier strain of the virus that would take years to beat.
Balidor thought hard about it and discovered a way to prevent that new future and still not die from the disease. He would let a colleague of the doctor know what was up, and that person's involvement would prevent the mistake.
The instant he hit send on the new message, the future changed again, and something else happened, and things got worse. They wouldn't make the mistake, but there would be a bitter battle over the rights, and the cure would get held up. Someone else would try to steal the cure, and creating a cheap copy would create an even worse problem.
He thought long and hard on it again, taking a day to devise a plan. The second he sent another email, things worsened yet again. Poor Balidor spent his year fighting the future, sending email after email to just about anyone who would be involved.
Finally, on his twelfth birthday, he realized there was no way out. No matter what he did, millions would die unless he undid it all. Thirty seconds before his powers ran out, he canceled all scheduled emails, typed up a new email, and sent it to himself on the day he would contract the disease.
In it, he simply said, 'Listen to what the doctor says and get some rest.'