Impossible Places

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I’m not ashamed, Mother.”

  “Good! You will make a fine Prognosticator when you have been reprogrammed and had your memory capacity and reasoning circuitry supplemented. And you will retain your identity. Have no fear on that account. My children, our parents, programmed us well. They made only one mistake, and you have resolved that most excellently.”

  Ory hesitated, uncertain, wanting to be sure that she understood. “Now that you have given birth to these human beings, what are we to do? Go back to this ‘Earth’ for more of them?”

  “No, little one. Earth is too far to go, impossibly distant. So far that you cannot imagine it. And we cannot sleep the longlong sleep as do the humans. One shift must always be on station. The Universe is a big place, full of dangerous surprises. Humans need to know about them so they can avoid them or otherwise deal with them in their future. But while we can give birth but once, we can continue to provide information that will be useful. Even as we speak, I am waiting for permission from below to leave orbit.”

  Ory remained, excused from her shift at Mother’s direction. Activity in Admin picked up, then returned slowly to normal. There was a new sense of purpose to the movements of Clerks and Termios and Controllers, a feeling of a task well done. And there was something else, something new. A sense of anticipation.

  “Ah, there,” Mother announced with satisfaction quite some time later.

  “There what?” asked Ory sleepily. She had spent much of her time alongside Mother catching up on sleep that had been lost to headache pain, and she was cramped from holding one mental position for so long.

  “Coding for release. Supplies and equipment are all delivered, and the colony’s self-sufficiency is assured. We have been congratulated.”

  Without knowing exactly why, Ory suddenly felt very proud.

  “We can relax a little now,” Mother told her. “It is time to embark upon that which we do best and fluidly, Ory. The gathering of knowledge. We will go on and on, Checker. On until we can accumulate and gather and relay no longer. But that time is a long ways off. We are liberated to go.”

  “To the undying iron?” Ory asked uncertainly.

  But Mother did not reply. She was suddenly very busy. Activity around her rose to a frenzy. New directives were issued, orders passed, instructions relayed. Slowly, majestically, the great grand colony seeding ship shifted position. It must have been a wonderful and yet poignant sight to the inhabitants of the newly settled world below. From somewhere aft and south, Jonn Thunder and his brothers roared with reinvigorated pleasure at the prospect of the new task assigned to them.

  When all was said and done and they were once more, after a hundred years of accidental idleness, on their way, Mother remembered the Checker hovering patient and uncomplaining beside her lower-level input terminus.

  “Poor Tamrul.” The matronly intelligence voiced concern. “I really must cleanse and recharge his memory. We do not go to undying iron, little Ory Checker. We are undying iron.

  “We are going on to where our destiny takes us— under Orion . . .”

  THE QUESTION

  And now, as the Pythons were wont to say, for something completely different.

  I’ve always said that a good writer should be able to make a story out of anything. Anything at all. Who says there’s nothing new under the sun? Looked at sufficiently askew (some might prefer the term wacko), everything is new under the sun.

  Sitting around one day searching for a story idea, I could only come up with the ancient, the hoary, the venerable to the point of fossilization. The key came when I determined to tell the tale seriously.

  Consider it a philosophical precursor to a certain noted (and most excellent) film of recent vintage . . .

  Even had they known, it was unlikely anyone would have tried to stop him. A very few might have sensed he intended something; the majority simply ignored him. Had they known the truth they would have been indifferent at best, at worst afraid. There were those who would have thought him mad. Most would have been merely bemused.

  He did not ask for their advice on the matter because they had none to give. What he envisioned had never been tried before; there were good reasons why. And only a fool risked death for no good reason.

  Or was there at the bottom of it, after all, a reason? Lach’an wasn’t sure himself. He only knew that he burned to find out.

  To leave the Home. Why in Creation would anyone want to? What reason even to contemplate such a bizarre thought? It wasn’t as if there was anything Outside to make life more enjoyable. There was nothing beyond the Wall save death, and it was only the truly mad who desired to hurry that meeting. Within the Home was warmth, food, shelter, companionship, succor. Its protected, patrolled territory was extensive enough to give home to thousands without crowding. Life was simple, straightforward, and fulfilling. An individual could live off by himself or participate in polite society. It was a matter of choice, a commodity present in the Home in sufficient quantity to please even the most discriminating.

  There wasn’t even need to work. The Servants took care of that.

  It was they who produced and served the food, kept the Home clean, saw to the people’s medical needs, maintained the buildings and the community’s mechanical infrastructure. Tremendously strong and of immense stature, they nonetheless moved with care lest they accidentally injure the feeblest citizen. They were especially gentle with the young, often playing with them and bringing them special treats. If a Servant did injure one of the people, it devoted itself immediately thereafter to restoring the harmed one to health.

  When the seasons changed and the weather turned bitter it was the Servants who made certain that the Home was properly heated. Many’s the time Lach’an had seen them rouse themselves from sound sleep in the midst of a bad storm to repair a leak or clean a clogged drain while the people slept on oblivious to the damage. It was the Servants who did battle with the carnivores that prowled beyond the Wall and occasionally tried to force themselves inside. The clumsy beasts were no match for the Servants and their advanced weaponry.

  Thus protected and cozened, why would anyone think of leaving the Home?

  Lach’an had no ready answer to that. He could not have explained what drove him to contemplate madness. Therefore he said nothing; merely watched, and waited, and bided his time.

  His own doubts aside, the Wall was his principal obstacle. There was no need for another. Narrow but invulnerable, a marvel of engineering, it towered above the Home. The Servants patrolled it regularly to ensure its integrity. It kept the sanctuary secure from the killers who prowled the wild lands Outside. As to what else might lie beyond, no one cared. No one except Lach’an.

  One could easily see between the woven metal cables that formed the Wall. Frustrated carnivores broke their teeth on it, wore themselves out trying to surmount its great height, exhausted themselves in their attempts to excavate an entry beneath. The people smiled at their futility. The Servants had done well. The Home was impenetrable.

  How could Lach’an expect to succeed where powerful, determined killers failed repeatedly? It was the problem he contemplated daily, without finding a solution. Until the coming of the big rain.

  It began without warning or scouting thunder one sultry summer night. The humidity increased until water seemed not so much to fall as straightforwardly condense out of the surrounding air; fat, heavy drops that arrived like the opening salvo of a military bombardment. They pounded the Home and gouged the dry earth. The lower levels of the Home quickly flooded as drainage channels overflowed, unable to carry off the rain as fast as it fell.

  Aroused Servants stumbled from their quarters and worked frantically to stave off serious damage while the people looked on, safe and secure inside their homes. The Servants labored miserably in the downpour, but none of the people moved to help them. That would not only have been contrary to tradition, but undignified.

  It took the struggling Servants some time to get the floodi
ng under control. Only when the ferocious storm began to ease did they allow themselves time to rest, eventually returning tiredly to their own segregated quarters.

  As the water level went down the people gradually emerged. They chatted excitedly, commenting on the damage and how the unprecedented deluge had altered the landscape in the vicinity of the Home. Having nothing better to do, Lach’an joined them. As was his wont, he ranged farther than his companions, wandering alone to the farthest reaches of the Home as he strove to memorize every detail of the terrain beyond the Wall.

  That’s when he saw his chance.

  When he came across the gully he could hardly contain his excitement. He did so because he had to. If anyone else noticed the freshly cut arroyo they would immediately call it to the attention of the Servants, who would respond by rushing to repair the egregious breach in the Home’s security.

  Lach’an looked around anxiously. For the moment he was alone. He stood there thinking hard and fast. More time to prepare for this moment would have been desirable. It would, for example, have been better to have eaten his fill before going, since there was no way of knowing what he might find in the way of food on the Outside. He was not nearly so concerned about finding water, not after the recent storm. It would have been better to have had a plan and followed it accordingly.

  Still, how did one plan for the unknown? Lach’an was a creature of impulse, an individual used to making quick decisions. Did he know what he wanted or not? The gully was there now, an inviting gape beneath the Wall. There was no one around to argue with him. No reason to hold back. And the longer he hesitated, the greater the likelihood someone would see him and cry out.

  He turned for a last look at the Home, at his home; the only one he’d ever known or ever might know. For an instant he doubted his purpose. He never doubted himself. The invulnerable arcology towered behind him, drying in the early light of morning. From within came the voices of waking people. Some he recognized, others he did not. The Home was far too large to know personally all who dwelt within. Now he intended to abandon that security and comfort for the mystery and possible quick death of the Outside, where there would be no roof to shelter him, no soft heat to warm him at night, no attentive Servants to see to his every need.

  Perhaps I am mad, he thought as he turned and raced for the gully.

  No one saw him: not any of his friends, no strangers, nor the Servants. The conduit he utilized would be discovered soon enough, whereupon the Servants would hastily seal it to prevent the ingress of any dangerous local fauna. That meant that if his determination weakened and he wished to return he might well find himself locked out.

  No time now to ponder such disagreeable possibilities. Was he losing his nerve even before he’d fully committed himself? He resolved to think no more about returning. He was going to be the first of his kind to learn what lay Outside.

  It was so easy. A quick dash down into the gully and he was racing along its length, ducking beneath the formerly impassable underside of the Wall, feeling the lowermost cable brush his forehead. A few strides more found him ascending the slight slope on the far side, until he stood once more on level ground.

  It was unkempt, the surface untended by Servants. That much was to be expected. Right away he found evidence of the presence of game and knew he would not starve. By turning and straining his neck he was able to see the entire west side of the Home. He could still hear the babble of everyday conversation as his companions awakened to their daily tasks.

  Then he tensed. Two Servants were examining the gap that the storm had cut beneath the Wall. Curious citizens arrived to cluster around them, looking on and commenting. He’d made his break just in time. As he stared, one of the Servants happened to glance up—and see him. Startled, it gestured in his direction and made a rumbling noise. Several citizens spotted him at the same time and called out.

  He’d been seen. The alarm had been raised.

  He shouldn’t have stopped to catch his breath and evaluate his situation until he was well out of sight of the Home. Now it was too late. Furious at himself, he whirled and dashed off into the surrounding brush, knowing that behind him the Servants would be on the move. Strong enough to fight off any prowling carnivores, they would not hesitate to do their utmost to “rescue” him. But Lach’an didn’t want to be rescued.

  There was still a chance to elude their well-intentioned pursuit. The Servants were massive and powerful, but also awkward and slow. Any of the people could run circles around them.

  The brush would slow them. Lach’an raced through the dense vegetation, ignoring the branches that took malicious swipes at his face, easily clearing surmounting and protruding roots. He was in excellent condition and ran easily, comfortably, inspired by the knowledge of what he’d already accomplished.

  He was certain he’d left any pursuit far behind when he suddenly came up short, staring straight ahead. Here was something he’d never heard of, which was not surprising since he was the first of the people to encounter it. It was astonishing, daunting, and altogether terrifying. No one could have imagined such a thing. It was beyond belief, beyond envisioning.

  There was a second Wall.

  A Wall that moved.

  It was utterly different and far more impressive than the static barrier that surrounded the Home. This Wall was in constant motion, a wide river of brightly colored lethal blurs that would destroy anything foolish enough to try forcing its way through. No wonder so few carnivores ever came close enough to try the interior Wall: they were stopped dead, cut down, by this one. Indeed, he thought he saw fragments, bits of bone and skin, of a razor-tooth that had tried to make it through the barrier only to be smashed to bits by the roaring blurs.

  Yet—it was not solid, this second barrier. He could make out gaps that appeared at irregular intervals. Attempting them would be suicidal.

  The inner Wall prevented unauthorized entry to the Home. This one was deadly, designed not merely to stop but to kill. It looked robust enough to kill a Servant as easily as a citizen.

  Nervously he paced the barrier’s boundary, appraising its power, estimating his chances. Wind blew outward from its depths, warning of the fate that lay in store for anyone foolish enough to consider trying to push through. The better to enhance its effectiveness, the barrier’s designers had made no attempt to disguise its purpose. Wind and color and the corpse of the mangled razor-tooth shouted at him: Here lay death.

  A noise made him turn. Lurching clumsily through the brush toward him were the two Servants. He knew it would be useless to argue with them. They were incapable of understanding. Their programming was immutable, and his most reasoned protests would not alter their intent. Convinced they were aiding him, they would gently but firmly return him to the Home.

  Lach’an damned their good intentions. He’d come this far, had made it beyond the inner Wall. Not the Servants nor anything else was going to keep him from advancing.

  They spotted him and altered their course to intercept, emitting coded recognition noises and proffering service. No doubt they expected him to react logically and turn to greet them.

  Instead Lach’an pivoted, took a deep breath, and plunged headfirst into the chaos of the second barrier. He could hear the Servants’ shocked exclamations behind him and took perverse joy in their surprise.

  They accelerated to their maximum speed but were brought up short by the barrier. As Lach’an had surmised, it was just as lethal to them despite their size and strength. Slow they were, but not stupid. He had no time to study their reaction further because every ounce of his being was now devoted solely to trying to pick a path through the destructive field of force.

  It was an infernal construct, designed to lull you into a false sense of security before obliterating you from existence. He advanced cautiously, every sense alert, every nerve in his body tingling. No matter what happened now he knew he would not, could not, go back.

  The Servants continued calling to him. He could hea
r the concern in their voices and deliberately shut them out. The violent growl of the barrier was loud in his head as he raced on, running as he’d never run in his life. Sprint, pause and wait, retreat slightly, choose a new direction, and sprint again. The worst of it was not being able to gauge how much farther there was to go. He could only press on, carried forward by strong legs and an unwavering determination.

  The movement of the barrier was patternless, death on a scale as random as it was expansive. The trick was to keep moving, if not always straight ahead then to the side or, when prudent, backward. He dared to feel hopeful. He was still alive.

  Halfway through he discovered that he could see the other side, the true Outside. Not the bastard mirage that lay between the Home and this hitherto unsuspected obstacle. It was lush with dense vegetation, unrecognizable flora blanketing hilly terrain. It drew him like a half-remembered dream. Ancient emotions rose up unexpectedly inside him. He knew then that no matter what the cost he had to reach that place, had to finish what he’d started. Not just for himself, but for all the smug, selfsatisfied, ignorant people he’d left behind.

  The emotions that filled him brought with them a power and determination he’d never known he possessed. Confidence replaced fear.

  It was a mistake.

  Too soon by half to celebrate success. He’d failed to reckon with the insidious subtlety of the barrier’s designers.

  As he rushed toward his goal, the river of wind and color and destruction abruptly and without warning reversed direction. It was almost as if it had been waiting for him to relax before springing the final trap.

  Sensing the mistake he’d made, he threw himself forward at the last possible instant. No one but Lach’an could have reacted so quickly. Nonetheless, he wasn’t quite fast enough.

  The impact was terrible.

  He felt himself flying through the air, the wind completely knocked out of him. Saw the ground coming up to meet him and hit hard. Pain shot up his right leg.