The Infinity Link

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  (This is all very . . . disconcerting,) Kadin said.

  She agreed, and queried the Talenki, over the spacecraft link. (Where are we now?)

  There was a short hesitation. Then several voices spoke, interrupting and answering one another: (HALL OF—) (—HOPE?) (TUNNEL OF—) (—TRANQUILITY?) (GUARDIAN OF—) (—GRAVITY?) (PLEASE FOLLOW.)

  She shrugged. That was just the sort of answer they had been getting.

  Kadin was less philosophical. (I find it hard to . . . all of this is . . . it is difficult for me to analyze this clearly.)

  (It's confusing,) she agreed.

  (The points of correlation with the standard interpretive models—I don't know what assumptions to readjust, or—)

  (Speak English to me, David. I think it's—hey, watch out for that wall! Are you having trouble steering?)

  (No.) The probe veered back onto course. (I was distracted for a moment. Thinking that I don't want to let you, or Earth, down. And yet, I cannot understand this, it is like no simulation—) The probe glided through a wall of light and emerged into a curious sort of chamber. It was roughly ellipsoidal in shape; the walls were of sculpted, fluted stone. The hum of the probe's motors echoed, amplified, back into the audio pickups. An acoustical chamber? The Talenki guide paused.

  (Don't talk like that. We were expecting surpri—) Mozy cut herself off in midthought. Talenki flickered into view surrounding the probe—or images of them, dozens or hundreds, none lasting for longer than a second or two, but continuously appearing.

  (Our training didn't predict this,) Kadin said.

  (No . . .) she said slowly. (I wonder if this . . .)

  Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by a reverberating wail, picked up by the probe's external microphones. It was a moan like wind in rafters. Or like a wild cat crying, its voice echoing out of a mountain ravine. Instinctively Mozy searched for a translation. Was this an inspection, or a ritual greeting? Were the Talenki trying to communicate? Or was it something more ominous? How did the Talenki feel about human sacrifice? she wondered, thinking of grade-B holodramas. Were they perhaps preparing to boil and stew the probe for dinner? It wouldn't make much of a meal—or would it? Could thoughts be stewed? Or knowledge? The climbing pitch of the sounds was making her dizzy; it was hard to think.

  (Are they singing?) Kadin said.

  (Maybe. I'm not sure.)

  (Can you translate?)

  (No.) And damn it, now, she was the one being nervous. Why should she think there was anything unfriendly in the . . . song. If that was what it was.

  Kadin was silent for a time, listening. (Perhaps we're just supposed to feel,) he said finally.

  (Feel what?)

  (I don't know. It sounds sad. Isn't this what sadness sounds like?)

  Mozy pored over the rhythms and the tones. They were not as similar to the Earth sounds as she had thought. Just what they were similar to, she wasn't sure. The gap was too great. (Perhaps sadness,) she said. (Perhaps another emotion. Perhaps no emotion at all.)

  There was no answer from Kadin. He seemed lost to her awareness, her thoughts, almost wholly swept away by the mournful chorus. (I think it sounds so sad,) he murmured. (So sad, I don't believe I can bear it. Call them and ask them to stop, before I start to cry.)

  * * *

  She sat hunched over her instrument panel, a few meters above the asteroid's surface. The creamy, clotted band of the Milky Way was revolving slowly overhead. She hardly noticed. Her attention was focused on the fiery viewscreen hanging just above the asteroid's horizon. The scene it displayed was relatively quiet now, only a few Talenki drifting past the stationary camera. Earlier there had been a crowd, jostling and poking like school children to get a look at the strange metal craft.

  She had come to, literally, in the middle of it, her subconscious even in her sleep drawn to the inputs from the probe. It was like awakening in the center of a cocktail party; and she'd hastily retreated, repairing to her captain's chair high in the heavens, where she could be alone with her thoughts. Almost as a relaxation exercise, she had checked the spacecraft over, spoken briefly with Mother Program, who was sullen and sluggish and unsociable, linked briefly with Homebase—and only then put the Talenki images on her viewscreen.

  She had no idea what to make of their visit to this strange rock in space. There had been no shortage of fascinating sights. But where was the formal welcome? Was that what the concert had been? Where were the Talenki leaders, to address themselves to Earth's emissaries, to state their intentions in visiting the solar system and, presumably, planet Earth? She had considered striking up a conversation, but decided to wait for Kadin to rouse himself from his meditations. Having notified the Talenki of their need to rest, it seemed wise to wait until they were both alert before resuming contact.

  Meanwhile, she observed the Talenki observing the probe.

  The other pilot seat remained empty. After a time, she looked inward for Kadin. He was withdrawn, silent but not sleeping. (David? The Talenki are waiting,) she said softly.

  Kadin made a murmuring response, undecipherable.

  (David? Do you hear me?)

  Hesitation. (Yes . . .)

  What was wrong with him? The strain? The confusion? Exhaustion? He did not experience exhaustion the same way she did, perhaps, but he felt it nonetheless—the overload of sensations and information and memory, all needing to be processed and categorized and stored. And his was the more difficult position. He was in command.

  (David, I've reported to Homebase, given them what we've seen so far.)

  (You have.) Kadin stirred, seemed to perk up. (Did you describe our reactions? Our feelings?)

  (I gave them the facts, and the pictures. I don't even know what my feelings are. And I didn't want to speak for you.)

  (No.) Kadin stretched and slowly emerged. (As well that you didn't, I suppose. No point in alarming them.) He quietly explored the ship's extremities and tested the link with the probe. He was moving, Mozy thought, like a tired old man. He looked at her with a sort of dull attentiveness. (I suppose,) he murmured, (we ought to get on with the job.)

  Mozy opened the link.

  It took a few calls before the Talenki responded. Apparently they, too, slept—or redirected their attention to other matters. For the first time, it occurred to Mozy that perhaps the Talenki direct-linked with their Homebase, as she and Kadin did with Earth.

  She decided to ask.

  The question seemed to confuse them. (THIS IS OUR HOME.)

  (But surely you have come from another world?)

  She heard some whickering noises, and a stuttering grumble. (MANY WORLDS,) they answered at last.

  (But—originally—another star system—another planet?)

  Three voices got in one another's way, answering. (DIFFICULT—) one voice said. (ALL—) said another. (—IN TIME,) said a third. (YOU WILL SEE,) added the first.

  Several Talenki were prancing around the probe, now, with a gracefulness that reinforced her impression of them as fawns. One put its face before the camera, peering into the lens—and now it looked more like a slender-faced dog, tilting its head in curiosity. Its ears were large and canted forward, and its eyes were luminous gold, with no pupils recognizable as such, but with streaks of liquid flame radiating from dark red stars slightly outside of center in each eye.

  A whistling sound echoed in the chamber, and the Talenki staring into the camera suddenly backed away, turned, and vanished as though it had folded itself into a fourth-dimensional pocket. The others pranced about the probe, gesturing anxiously. A moment later, they, too, vanished—and another appeared in a doorway. It stepped forward, whistling softly, and tapped the bubble of the probe. It left a smudge on the clear surface.

  What Kadin did next startled Mozy more than it did the Talenki. He activated a previously unused circuit; and the probe spoke, aloud, with a synthesized voice. "Are you to be our guide?" Kadin asked.

  The Talenki raised its ears higher and looked
at the probe with evident curiosity. It spoke, in a low whistle. Kadin repeated his question. The Talenki whistled again.

  (Can you translate that?) Kadin asked.

  Mozy hesitated. (It's a different sort of problem. It'll take me some time.) And it was quite likely, she realized, that their hosts would be puzzling over the same problem. They knew how to reproduce English, in electronic form, but they had never before heard the sound of a human voice, synthesized or real.

  (It might assist learning, if we speak aloud, as we transmit,) Kadin said. (Will you tell them?)

  Mozy did. The Talenki did not exactly respond, but asked them to follow the creature standing before them.

  Kadin rolled the probe forward. The Talenki walked through the nearest wall, and the probe followed.

  * * *

  Image upon image:

  Peering into a room filled with Talenki, and silence. A place of meditation, perhaps. A feeling of quiet tension, and reflection, and connection with other things, other memories. Mozy sensed these feelings, opening herself again, momentarily, to direct contact with the Talenki. The feelings were clear, but specific facts and knowledge eluded her.

  A slender stone catwalk over a clamoring place. Talenki at work below, doing things that were hard to follow with tools and materials that were hard to identify. To what end? Impossible to tell. It was too confusing visually, and too frenetic to open herself directly to the sensations.

  A ledge, looking down into a small glade. Trees; a running brook. A sky, light blue.

  A lapping seashore.

  Stars.

  * * *

  It was some time before Mozy realized that the probe had not moved in a long while, and the windows that were opening for them were, in effect, an almost cinematic imagery. Kadin hadn't mentioned it, had become so entranced that perhaps he had not even noticed that the images were now coming to him; he was not driving to them.

  Their Talenki guide remained nearby, presumably orchestrating the tour.

  But were these real scenes from the present, or remarkably clear holograms of elsewhere, or elsewhen?

  Mozy tried to ask. Four Talenki answered, all at once. (IT IS AS REAL—) (—AS SOLID—) (—AS YOUR VISION—) (—AS YOU ALLOW IT TO BE.)

  (But—are these things here? Now? My head is spinning.)

  (MAY WE—) (—LOOK?)

  (Huh?) She blinked mentally. Look? In her head? (Are you asking to touch me directly again?)

  (HOWEVER YOU SPEAK IT.)

  She quieted herself. (Very well.)

  Fingers, silent fingers entered her mind, and voices yammered in the back of her head, her own voices, and Talenki voices.

  And then consciousness left her for a time.

  * * *

  She came out of it, dizzy, but with a curious feeling of satisfaction. Her feeling? Or the Talenki's? Kadin was nearby, aware of what was happening, but not speaking. The probe seemed to have moved. Where it seemed to be, now, was in a chamber with dull red glowing-ember walls.

  In the center, a dozen or more Talenki were clustered around a formation of lumpish objects, which Mozy at first thought to be large boulders, but on second glance decided looked more like meter-high mushrooms, or toadstools. The image was distorted by a momentary rippling, and then steadied. None of the Talenki were moving. In fact, they were all facing the toadstool objects and, Mozy realized, touching them with their fingertips, as though in homage.

  Or as though in a séance.

  Mozy squeezed as far into the probe link as possible. Kadin seemed hypnotized; he barely moved aside for her. She felt an energy here, a power that touched her despite the distance imposed by the link. Her feet were in the spacecraft; her head was in the probe, looking out through a camera lens.

  Nothing moved. Nothing seemed to be happening. The Talenki in the room were silent.

  Before she could pose a question, their hosts spoke again through the link. (WELCOME TO THE HEART OF OUR MIND,) said a voice that was almost human. (THIS IS WHERE WE LIVE.)

  Pause.

  (WHERE WE SPEAK.)

  Pause.

  (WHERE WE SING.)

  Chapter 42

  Blue hospital walls. Pale, cool, soothing. Sunbeams rippling through curtains that flutter in the breeze over the ventilator. Footsteps constantly in the hallway, chimes and paging bells, announcements over the intercom: "Will Doctor Rodowsky please call OR-Four." "Mr. Savoy, you are wanted in pathology."

  It is still a fresh sensation to see and hear clearly again, without pain. Still, the internal images persist in returning. So hard to keep them away, keep them at bay.

  It could happen again. The headaches, the shimmering vision, the loss of control.

  No, trust the doctors. You must trust. They have done well, replaced the chips, fine-tuned the circuits in your skull that gave you sight where once there was only blackness and sunbursts and shooting stars.

  Think of bandages coming off. Think of vision. Painless vision. Blue walls and rippling curtains.

  Think of poor old Mrs. Martinsen and her cat Armax and her bronchitis.

  Think of sunshine and fresh air.

  Think of keeping faith. And prayer.

  Think of that friendly nurse, Josephine.

  Think of Mozy.

  * * *

  A kind of muzzy feeling—lost somewhere between contentment and boredom, halfway into sleep, drifting downward from a state of meditative wakefulness. The doctor has come and gone, an impatient nurse on his heels, and then quiet again.

  Quiet. Time to think, to reflect. But the drowsiness carries him downward and away.

  Floating downstream.

  Images of cascading water, cool and clear and dark. An intricate maze of fountains and runnels and flat spillways, water lapping and chuckling as it overflows step after step. A pyramid, carved with a thousand crisscrossed channels, water erupting at the top and tumbling, dashing in the sun, down the channels.

  Electrons dashing, foaming in an interlocking system of memories and cores.

  Think of Kadin.

  The mind fills with systems of movement and flow. Solar prominences and streamers, coronal plasmas looping and diving back into the sun. Convection currents, magnetic lines intertwining and altering one another.

  Think of Mozy.

  Molecular holographic memory cells, electrons changing state in bits and patterns, an addition here reverberating there, overload spilling unexpectedly into new interference patterns that echo and amplify. Growth and learning, cells extending themselves and transmuting, turning into something that never was, or was expected.

  Think of Mozy and Kadin.

  Nuclear interaction proceeding faster than the mind can follow. Neutron flux that staggers the imagination, nuclei colliding, splitting, reforming. Mass vanishing. New particles erupting into the flux. Cascading reaction: atoms pelted by neutrons, splitting, breeding more neutrons. Reaction rate jumps as fissioning materials come together.

  Critical mass. Inconceivable hail of shattering atoms, volcano of photons and atomic debris. Fantastic heat, expanding in a fireball.

  * * *

  Hoshi blinks his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Pale blue ceiling, the paint a little crazed and cracked in one corner. A horrible realization is expanding, cracking his placid state of mind.

  A program structure unfolds in his mind like unraveling origami, each twist and convolution revealing itself to his trained inner eye. The system architecture rotates in space, exposed from all angles, distinct from the tangled spiderweb of the program. The heuristic functions, the learning systems, the self-adapting memory cells, the consciousness control points, all are luminous and clear. Flow paths shifting, reconnecting. Limits adjusting, readjusting.

  Intelligence spills into the system like wine, and instantly begins to metamorphose, crystallizing and growing in unexpected directions, altering the program structure as it grows. Mutating structure expands in an architecture of finite resiliency.

  A second intelligence
threads its way into and through the first, separate and yet a part of the whole. The mutation process accelerates, straining the architecture, which shunts and reroutes overloads, tolerating the mutations as long as possible. But not long enough. Disorder grows in ripples and waves.

  Hoshi blinks, as the realization crackles through his mind.