Analog SFF, January-February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Prashan could imagine no way the mosaics could function as they did without being hooked directly into the light-network's control center itself. Indeed, what in the Reticulum was not? All the complicated apparatus was there, wherever there might be. Here, where the mosaics were fed light from many distant parts of the galaxy, the lightflow was likely all relatively simple plumbing. Lesson number one, his first instructor had growled at him. If light can flow in one direction along an entanglement field, it can flow in the other. The three main things you need to remember in this job are lightflow, lightflow, and lightflow.

  Prashan had forgotten the dictum just once during his apprenticeship. He had redirected light from a research station in the far reaches of the galactic halo and destroyed a full square light-minute of gossamers.

  Gossamers were extremely fragile. Enormous in two dimensions, they hardly spanned the breadth of a moderately complex polymer in the third. The gentle pressure of the light they gathered kept them fully bloomed and stabilized. The concentrated force of that same light regurgitating through the bottleneck of the pump effectively disintegrated them.

  Prashan swore a mighty oath. One of the monks looked up at him, frowned, and looked away again.

  Prashan left the carrel. He still had some odd minutes before middlenight, and he surmised that the kind old Thurkmhen archivist—now sleeping noisily at his desk—would let him remain until whoever had the carrel reserved for the next day showed up. But Prashan doubted he would return.

  He made his way down now darkened hallways and spiral stairs to the Great Library's east portico. It too now reposed in darkness, but darkness that made the gleaming swirls of landmass, ocean, and ice of the Taffonetta world-mosaics blaze with light that was mirrored dimly in the polished marble walls. The entire staircase glowed and thrummed quietly like the Reticulum itself, a vast machinery of pulsing life and commerce. In the faint light that filled the portico Prashan could just make out dark access panels in the walls below the stairs. Up close the panels appeared old and long unused. They gave more easily than he would have dreamed.

  After another hour, Prashan found what he was looking for.

  It was not true that there was one poem that had been written by any number of people. There was only this person writing a poem and that person writing a poem. The “poem itself” was an abstraction. And it was just the same with phenotypes. The only thing that gave the phenotype any meaning whatsoever was that human beings had worn it, lived it, laid it down on the altar of hope, ambition, or love. Prashan defined the meaning of his phenotype as surely as he lived: every choice did not matter less; it mattered more. Perhaps that was what it meant to be human—to be faced with the awesome responsibility of creating at every moment the truth of what one was. Choice mattered. Chance and circumstance mattered also. They were the grist of choice, the sea upon which the little bark of the self bounced, drifted, foundered, and followed its star.

  It was the same with the quality of being human, no matter what the Reticulum said. It was not whether or not people achieved a global political identity. It was about whether a people faced the responsibility of creating at every moment the truth of what they were. Earth had been denied that responsibility, that choice. Or rather, individuals had been denied that responsibility in the name of their collective good. Ironically, they were protected from the consequences of their failure to achieve political unity in the name of their collective good. What was the collective identity of the Earth? The Earth did not suffer. People suffered. The Earth did not evince humanity; people did—if they were allowed to.

  Prashan's choices were unlike those of any other of his many avatars—not necessarily in the particulars, but by virtue of being his here now. And yet in the particulars also. Prashan knew that by a single act he might restore to the people of Earth their choice to be or fail to be a human world; he had only to tell them that they had a choice. And he knew that the act in question might lie within his power. Prashan could prove to the people of Earth that the Reticulum existed. Or rather he could give them a sign. It would then be up to them to interpret it. But he would have to return to the Earth in order to give them his testimony. Prashan sighed mightily. He had never wanted to be a prophet.

  * * * *

  Gayatri had not had a reason to go on-line for many weeks. The thought of reading and answering her e-mail, which now filled several screens in her inbox, filled her with despair. But life goes on, and she had to do something with hers. The small annuity Chakrapranesh had left her paid the better part of the bills, but she could not live on it indefinitely. There was also the matter of finding a reason to get up in the morning. So she had enrolled at the university, begun with a couple of graduate philosophy courses. She had always loved those discussions in the garden about Nietzsche and Husserl and had even been led to think she might have a talent for abstract thinking. Was that the flattery of a man who adored her almost as much as he did his son? Either because it was not or because her determination that it should not be so had carried her over the top, she was finding out that she could hold her own with the best minds her country had produced. Even the exchange students from Cambridge and the University of Chicago could no longer intimidate her in seminar.

  Now the need to do the assigned research had forced her to revisit her Internet account. As she pondered the best word or phrase to key next into the search engine—the most logical ones having turned up nothing useful—her fingers idly tapped in the word Prashan. She tapped the launch-search key and immediately berated herself for wasting time. She was about to hit the back button when her screen went dark. Gradually a swirl of luminous specks emerged from the darkness and formed a slowly revolving pinwheel. Why was she getting a screensaver? Had she been woolgathering that long? And why this screensaver, one she didn't recognize?

  A message box appeared in the middle of the screen.

  Ah, there you are.

  * * * *

  Prashan could not know for sure what would happen when he redirected lightflow from Polity to Earth. A surge of photons might flow into the gossamer positioned a few light seconds from the planet itself. The results might be spectacular. Possibly electromagnetic transmissions from countless Reticulum communications channels would bombard the planet, if only for a few microseconds. Almost immediately lightflow would cease for a few microseconds more as the system shut down and reconfigured itself to correct the deviation from the master schematic. During those few moments, the gossamer veil might cease to function and a barrage of EM waves beggaring the one before—this time from the galactic center—be unleashed. What would happen, when it would happen, and—more importantly—what Earth would make of it were things Prashan could only guess at.

  * * * *

  Gayatri stared as another message box appeared below the first one, this one blank with a blinking cursor in the top left corner. She tried everything she knew to get back to the search engine, but the screen stubbornly remained. Just as she was about to hit the reset button, another word appeared in the first box.

  Gayatri?

  Her head was spinning. It was some spam advertising trick.

  Are you there?

  Her rage was sudden and swift.

  Who the hell are you? Get off my computer!

  This was absurd. She was talking to spam. She looked frantically for the off button.

  Would you relax? It's me, Atch.

  Atch who?

  Gesundheit!

  Prasha?

  Sine quo non, to coin a phrase. Without whom not.

  I know what it means, thank you! But I thought you—sorry, I needed a moment to question my sanity—I thought you—never mind! You didn't go abroad, then. Where are you?

  I did go abroad. I'm in a galaxy long, long ago and far, far away. Well, technically I'm in the same galaxy, but you'd never know it to go for a walk in the park on Sunday afternoon.

  Prasha, is it really you?

  Who else do you know who makes such bad puns?
r />   I can't believe it. We all thought you were dead. Or as good as.

  I was as good as dead; now I'm as good as alive.

  Where are you really?

  About two thirds of the way to the center of the galaxy and forty-five or so degrees around it in the galactic plane. As the crow flies, that would be about fifty-five thousand light years. You definitely want to bring your toothbrush.

  Her hackles once more.

  Who are you really? How could anyone communicate across a distance like that at all, let alone with no time lag? Shouldn't there be a fifty-five-thousand-year—at least—delay? You're a fraud.

  Let's keep the father of psychoanalysis out of this. The message impulses don't really have to travel all that distance. They have something called light-pump technology that works through the quantum synchronization of fields that are separated physically but stay in tandem, well, quantumtatively.

  Bull shit!

  It's not bull shit, and I'm surprised at your language. Who have you been hanging out with lately?

  It is you.

  Yes. Whoever you is. I'm not feeling myself these days. Could I ask a favor of you? First, tell me what time it is there.

  About four in the morning.

  Is the sky clear?

  Yes. Why?

  Can you see the Milky Way?

  I don't know.

  Well, go look out the window, dimwit!

  It's definitely you, Prasha.

  Go!

  She went.

  Yes, I can see the bloody Milky Way!

  Good. Now, I want you to go outside. Will you do that?

  What for?

  Just do it, Gaya!

  You know, it would be easier to take you seriously if you didn't claim to be on another planet halfway across the galaxy.

  But you knew something of what my father did, no?

  She paused.

  Yes. I knew.

  And you never told me.

  I assumed he told you.

  Now it's my turn to mention farm-animal waste products.

  You know, he raised you for that—to be where you are. Your education put a distance between you and Earth. It made those of us who were close to you reluctant to interfere. We were afraid of revealing something that he didn't want you to know.

  Yes. I've learned quite a bit about Earth since I left it. So much that I've decided to come back.

  After he devoted his life—and ultimately gave his life—

  What?

  You didn't know? He refused treatment because it would have cost too much. You would not have been able to travel to Polity. He did it so that you could have a life beyond this poor ignorant ball of dirt!

  For a long time, there was no message from Prashan, and Gayatri thought he had gone away.

  So you knew that Earth knows nothing of the Reticulum.

  She laughed.

  Oh Prasha! Dear boy. Of course I knew. That's what I'm talking about. If you had had even the most casual exposure to normal Earth culture, you'd know what every other person on the planet knows—that there is no life beyond the Earth. That you could grow up thinking otherwise—and not realize your difference from everyone else in this regard—that is the amazing thing. Now you want to throw it all away. Why? Not for my sake, I hope.

  Stop it, Gayatri. No more of that. You may not care deeply about me, but I know you don't feel coldly toward me. You're not capable of that degree of insincerity. You don't need to protect me from my own desires anymore. I'm coming back—whether you pretend to dislike it or not.

  Whatever for? You've been given a great gift. I can't imagine a greater one.

  That is the reason I'm coming back. Will you help me?

  There was no answer.

  Gayatri?

  There was still no answer.

  * * * *

  Dr. James Ingram woke to a jangling telephone and 4:01 staring at him in orange digits, like the eyes of some demonic winking bird of prey.

  “What is it?”

  “Dr. Ingram? It's me. Ted. I'm sorry to bother you.”

  His graduate freaking student. Working the graveyard shift at the Keck.

  “Jesus Horatio Christ, Mullens. You'd better have a good reason for calling me.”

  “I think I do. Yes, I would say I definitely do.”

  Ingram waited as long as he could stand to—approximately three seconds.

  “Well, what the hell is it, man?”

  “We just recorded something unusual in the visible spectrum. I think you might want to take a look at it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘something unusual'? What could be so unusual that it couldn't wait until the goddamn sun comes up?”

  “Dr. Ingram? Have I ever called you in the middle of the night before?”

  “What's your point, Mr. Mullens?”

  “I think you'd better come have a look, sir.”

  Ingram's hands felt suddenly warm and damp.

  “Is it some SETI thing?”

  “I think you'd better come have a look, sir.”

  Ingram put the phone down. He no longer felt the least bit sleepy.

  * * * *

  Gayatri stood under the stars, her loosely woven shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the moist night air in the meadow behind her flat. The frogs that had ceased their croaking and chirping when she had entered their midst began one at a time to sing their ancient songs again. Her arms, folded tightly under the soft cashmere, were stippled with hard goosebumps. There were flowers hidden in the darkness whose various fragrances evoked images and feelings long forgotten.

  She looked up at the vault of the sky, like a fine dusting of flour on black silk, thicker along the galactic plane—the Milky Way, and sighed heavily. It was quite pleasant, really. She should get outside more often.

  It was over before she had fully registered that it had happened at all.

  * * * *

  The old manservant who had stood by Prashan's father at his death puttered in the west garden of the Chakrapranesh estate. He worked by starlight. It was a few minutes before 4:00 A.M. There were flowers that came out only at night and the old man liked to work when he could see them and see them as they were meant to be seen. There was a new owner, now, and that was another reason the old man preferred to work at odd hours. There were younger servants as well to perform most of his former duties. He was well cared for, but largely ignored. He had become himself a flower that opened only at night.

  It was getting harder and harder to see in the dark. The old man bent to study a Night-blooming Cereus blossom, ghostly white in the faint light of the stars. The smell was strong and heady and not entirely pleasant, but the strength of its character gave him satisfaction. He thought of the man, his master, whose character matched that of the reclusive flower and who was no more, and of the man's son, whose character had held such promise and who no longer walked under these same heavens.

  The old man straightened his back, hurting from the strain.

  He himself was not far from death, he knew, from blindness that no amount of squinting would penetrate, from the fading of vision of his mind's eye as well. We're all as isolated as the Earth is from the stars, he thought, going our separate lonely ways into oblivion. The old man thought of those he had loved and lost and bent his silvery head. It seemed as good a time as any to grieve.

  Suddenly, the blossom seemed to brighten, as if lightning had flickered overhead. The old man lifted his head and stared in amazement. At first he thought lightning had indeed flashed and frozen in place in a sky as clear as black ice. But then he realized that what he was seeing was much higher than any storm, higher than the atmosphere, higher even than the system of planets that circled indifferently around the sun where height, up, and down had no meaning. From many stars in the heavens overhead—not all, but many—stretched thin bands of light, like threads of steel, to other stars, from star to star, and the whole thing disappearing like a river into the center of the milky way.

 
; The show had ended, but Gayatri was still looking at the sky, still thinking how beautiful it seemed, despite the weird refractions caused by the tears in her eyes. In a little while, she knew, she would need to go inside, to sit down at her computer and answer the question that hung suspended there between two worlds so far apart. But for now she was content to look at the ordinary stars. She wanted to remember them forever just as they were.

  Copyright (c) 2007 J. Timothy Bagwelll

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  * * *

  Novelette: THE MAN IN THE MIRROR

  by GEOFFREY A. LANDIS

  Some of you may think you recognize this problem, but there's an important difference!

  It was pure luck that Lynn Rockross was there. Pure bad luck.

  Or maybe not luck at all. Out in the dark, you made your own luck. If the luck of Lynn Rockross was bad, it was luck he'd forged for himself.

  Ramblin’ Wreck had come out from the inner solar system on a long, constant-thrust interplanetary trajectory. After eight months in space, on their slow approach to Sedna the crew had nearly missed seeing the anomalous landform. It was a perfect circle of pure black. Ramblin’ Wreck's crew wasn't being paid to look for unusual things, and really, a twenty-two-kilometer circle wasn't even that unusual. Across the solar system, circles pockmarked the surface of every body, large or small, circles and networks of circles and chains and doodles of circles, craters of every size.

  But this one was not just a circle, it was a perfect circle. And on a distant iceball, a world covered everywhere with a thick layer of reddish-brown snow, it was perfectly black.

  Who would have expected an alien artifact on Sedna?

  Sedna was one of the largest of the objects in the trans-Neptunian belt, a small world nearly the size of Pluto, but in a wildly eccentric orbit, so far away from the Sun as to be forever frozen.

  It was the topic of discussion on the Ramblin Wreck for about a week as they braked into orbit, between poker games, but the crew chief, Kellerman—a hard-nosed miner with the soul of an accountant—told them that investigating alien enigmas was not the job that the crew of the Ramblin’ Wreck had come all this way to do, and he was not about to take good time away from the paying job to go look at it. They were miners, not scientists. Sedna was a rich source of organics. Organics could be shipped to any of the colony worlds in the inner solar system. If they could find ammonia as well, they'd have pay dirt. Ammonia was a source of nitrogen, valuable nitrogen, far more valuable than gold or platinum in the built worlds where every volatile molecule had to be imported. Prospecting Sedna was an economic gamble; it was so far from the Sun that only a huge strike would make it worth paying the amazing shipping costs to send resources inward. But the built worlds were an ever-expanding market, and if they could show that Sedna had deposits rich enough to justify the travel time, Sedna would be a little money mine for the corporation, a slow but steady source of income.