“I phrased it poorly. Say, if there are other Fleep, there must be something special to call you to distinguish you.”
“Call me Nik,” the other said.
“Okay, Nik. What are those pinpoints of fire ahead? And the huge dark masses about them?”
“Those are my people, performing an experiment. I've been moving us at a very high velocity.”
“I've noticed that the hole covers a lot more of the sky now. What sort of experiment?”
“Those great dark masses are the remnants of tens of thousands of suns and planets we've transported here. You only see the ones in space proper. We pull them out as we need them. We're shooting them into the hole.”
“Why?”
“To increase its rate of rotation.”
“Uh—To what end?”
“The creation of closed timelike curves.”
“You've got me on that one.”
“Time loops. To permit us to run backward through the past.”
“Any successes so far?”
“Yes. A few.”
“Have you got anything that might permit me to get back to the Raven before the explosion?”
“That's pushing it. But it's one of the things I wanted to check.”
They matched velocities with the flickering congregation, and Nik took him into the vicinity of the largest of these beings. The conversation that followed resembled heat lightning.
“Vik says there's one that might do it,” Nik told him after a time.
“Let me use it. Please.”
“You should also have strength of mind sufficient to alter your velocity by thought alone,” Nik said. “Come this way.”
Jeremy followed him by willing it until, abruptly, he faced a mass of lines which resembled a computer design suddenly generated in free space.
“I did that just to make you conscious of it,” Nik said. “Enter the trapezoid to your left.”
“If this works I may not see you again. I'd better say thanks now.”
“Noted with pleasure, though I'd like to have kept you longer, for full conversations. I understand your state of mind, however. Go.”
Jeremy entered the trapezoid.
In an instant, everything changed. He was back aboard the Raven, standing wearing his suit, helmet in hand. Immediately, he rushed toward the control station, donning his helmet as he went. He felt the familiar drop into space proper. The tidal forces took hold of the Raven, and it began to groan and creak.
He could see the switches for the Warton-Purg drive and he extended his arm, reaching. Then the ship came apart and he was drawn away from the controls. He glimpsed a jumpsuited human form, turning and turning.
Later, drifting, he met a Nik who did not recall him but who quickly understood his explanation as to what had occurred.
“Am I still in the closed timelike curve?” Jeremy asked.
“Oh, yes. I know of no way of departing a CTC till it's run its course,” Nik replied. “In fact, theoretically, if you could do it you'd wind up inside the black hole.”
“Guess things get to run their course then. But listen, this time around it was a little different than the first time.”
“Yes. Your classical physics is deterministic, but this isn't classical physics.”
“I actually got close to the Raven's controls. I wonder.…”
“What?”
“You've installed a form of telepathy in my mind. Could you also teach me something—telekinetic, perhaps—that would give me the ability to hold a bubble of air around my head for a minute or two. I'm convinced that slowing to put on the helmet was what kept me from reaching the controls.”
“We'll see what we can do. Take a nap.”
When Jeremy awoke he had the ability to move small objects with his mind. He tested this by removing units from his tool kit, having them orbit his arms, his legs, his head, and returning them without touching them physically.
“I think I've got it, Nik. Thanks.”
“You're an interesting study, Jeremy.”
This time when he entered the trapezoid he had his mind flexed, and he gathered the bubble of air to him as he rushed toward the control station.
He waited, his hand hovering above the appropriate bank of lights, for the Warton-Purg drive to drop the Raven into space proper. The lights went out. Immediately, he ran his hand across the row, illuminating them again.
Simultaneous with the clutch of the tidal forces, he felt the explosion from the rear of the vessel. The manual had been right. Reactivating the drive immediately following shutdown was hazardous to the health. He pulled on his helmet as a sheet of flame flashed toward him. The suit's insulation protected him from the heat as the Raven came apart. This time he did not see the jumpsuited figure.
Again, he drifted.
When Nik rescued him, he told him the story.
“…So, either way I lose,” he concluded.
“So it would seem,” Nik said.
When the CTC ran its course and Nik went off to report the results of the latest trip to Vik, Jeremy looked toward the event horizon with his enhanced senses.
He was aware of his antigrav field now, could even manipulate it with his mind. He was certain that he could control it sufficiently to keep himself unstretched or unsquashed at least between here and the layer beneath the violet band.
“What the hell,” he said.
He wondered what sort of final image he would leave for eternity.
II.
He descended quickly toward the devouring sphere, and soon it was as if he fled among the curtains of an Aurora Borealis. At one point it seemed that Nik might have called after him, but he could not be certain. Not that it mattered. What had he left of life even with the kindly Fleep? His suit's oxygen, water, and nutrients would dwindle toward an unpleasant end and there was no chance of anyone coming to his rescue. Best to pass in this blaze of glory seeing what no man had seen before, leaving his small signature upon the universe.
As the waves rose to embrace him, the colors darkened, darkened, were gone. He was alone in a black place and without sensation. Had he actually penetrated the black hole and survived, or was this but his final, drawn-out thought in a time-distorting field?
“The former,” Nik said from a place that seemed nearby.
“Nik! You're here with me!”
“Indeed. I decided to follow you and give what assistance I could.”
“As you entered did you see the image I left behind on the event horizon?”
“Sorry, I didn't look.”
“Are we into the singularity?”
“Perhaps. I don't know. I've never been this way before. The process may be one of infinite infall.”
“But I thought that all information was destroyed once it entered a black hole.”
“Well, there is more than one school of thought on that. Information is necessarily bound up with energy, and one notion is that it might remain coherent in here but simply become totally inaccessible to the outside world. The information cannot exist independently from the energy, and this way of considering it has the advantage of preserving energy conservation.”
“Then it must be so.”
“On the other hand, when your body was destroyed as we entered here I was able to run you quickly through the process by which I became an immortal energy being. Thought you might appreciate it.”
“Immortal? You mean I might be an infinitely infalling consciousness here for the effective life of the universe? I don't think I could bear it.”
“Oh, you'd go mad before too long and it wouldn't make any difference.”
“Shit!” Jeremy said.
There was a long silence, then a chuckle from Nik.
“I remember what that is,” he finally said.
“And we're in it without paddles,” Jeremy noted.
III.
“There is another factor in our case,” Nik said after an eternity or a few minutes, whichever came first.
> “What is that?” Jeremy asked.
“When I talked to Vik he mentioned that we've messed so much with this black hole and its rotation that we might have provoked an unusual situation.”
“What's that?”
“It's theoretically possible for a black hole to explode. He thought that this one was about to. Seeing it happen is sort of a once-in-a-lifetime affair.”
“What goes on when it blows?”
“I'm not sure and neither was Vik. The cornucopion hypothesis would seem most in keeping with our present situation, though.”
“Better tell me about it so it won't come as a complete surprise.”
“It holds that when it blows it leaves behind a horn-shaped remnant smaller than an atom, weighing about a hundred-thousandth of a gram. Its volume would be unlimited, though, and it would contain all of the information that ever fell into the black hole. That, of course, would include us.”
“Would it be any easier to get out of a cornucopion than out of a black hole?”
“Not here it wouldn't be. Once our information leaves our universe it stays gone.”
“What do you mean ‘not here’? Is there a loophole if it gets moved someplace else?”
“Well, if it could be bounced past the Big Crunch and the next Big Bang and wind up in our successor universe its contents might be accessible. We only know for sure that they're barred from release in this universe.”
“Sounds like a long wait.”
“You never know what time will be doing in a place like that, though. Or this.”
“It's been interesting knowing you, Nik. I'll give you that.”
“You, too, Jeremy. Now I don't know whether to tell you to open your sensory channels to the fullest or to shut them down as far as you can.”
“Why? Or why not?”
“I can feel the explosion coming on.”
There followed an intense sensation of white light which seemed to go on and on and on until Jeremy felt himself slipping away. He struggled to retain his coherency, hoped he was succeeding.
Slowly, he became aware that he inhabited a vast library, bookshelves sweeping off in either direction, periodically pierced by cross-corridors.
“Where are we?” he finally asked.
“I was able to create a compelling metaphor, allowing you to coordinate your situation,” Nik replied. “This is the cornucopion within which all of the information is stored. We inhabit a bookshelf ourselves. I gave you a nice blue leather cover, embossed, hubbed spine.”
“Thanks. What do we do now, to pass the time?”
“I think we should be able to establish contact with the others. We can start reading them.”
“I'll try. I hope they're interesting. How do we know whether we've made it into the next universe and freedom?”
“Hopefully, somebody will stop by to check us out.”
Jeremy extended his consciousness to a smart red volume across the way.
“Hello,” he said. “You are…?”
“History,” the other stated. “And yourself?”
“Autobiography,” Jeremy replied. “You know, we're going to need a catalogue, so we can leave a Recommended Reading List on top.”
“What's that?”
“I'll write it myself,” he said. “Let's get acquainted.”
Evolution
NANCY KRESS
Nancy Kress is one of the leading SF writers to become prominent in the last decade. She began, as did Patricia McKillip, by writing fantasy novels (The Prince of Morning Bells, 1981) but also wrote distinguished science fiction short stories, many collected in Trinity (1985). Then in 1988, with An Alien Light, Kress turned entirely to SF and began to publish the SF novels and stories for which she is famous today, most prominently the Hugo and Nebula award-winning “Beggars in Spain,” from which has grown a trilogy of novels. In her hard SF mode she is most often interested in the biological sciences and their moral and social impact on individual human lives. A number of her stories are about medicine and medical practice, for instance, “Evolution,” which appeared in Asimov's SF, a magazine which had a particularly strong year in 1995.
Somebody shot and killed Dr. Bennett behind the Food Mart on April Street!” Ceci Moore says breathlessly as I take the washing off the line.
I stand with a pair of Jack's boxer shorts in my hand and stare at her. I don't like Ceci. Her smirking pushiness, her need to shove her scrawny body into the middle of every situation, even ones she'd be better off leaving alone. She's been that way since high school. But we're neighbors; we're stuck with each other. Dr. Bennett delivered both Sean and Jackie. Slowly I fold the boxer shorts and lay them in my clothesbasket.
“Well, Betty, aren't you even going to say anything?”
“Have the police arrested anybody?”
“Janie Brunelli says there's no suspects.” Tom Brunelli is one of Emerton's police officers. There are only five of them. He has trouble keeping his mouth shut. “Honestly, Betty, you look like there's a murder in this town every day!”
“Was it in the parking lot?” I'm in that parking lot behind the Food Mart every week. It's unpaved, just hardpacked rocky dirt sloping down to a low concrete wall by the river. I take Jackie's sheets off the line. Belle, Ariel, and Princess Jasmine all smile through fields of flowers.
“Yes, in the parking lot,” Ceci says. “Near the Dumpsters. There must have been a silencer on the rifle, nobody heard anything. Tom found two .22 250 semi-automatic cartridges.” Ceci knows about guns. Her house is full of them. “Betty, why don't you put all this wash in your dryer and save yourself the trouble of hanging it all out?”
“I like the way it smells line-dried. And I can hear Jackie through the window.”
Instantly Ceci's face changes. “Jackie's home from school? Why?”
“She has a cold.”
“Are you sure it's just a cold?”
“I'm sure.” I take the clothespins off Sean's T-shirt. The front says SEE DICK DRINK. SEE DICK DRIVE. SEE DICK DIE. “Ceci, Jackie is not on any antibiotics.”
“Good thing,” Ceci says, and for a moment she studies her fingernails, very casual. “They say Dr. Bennett prescribed endozine again last week. For the youngest Nordstrum boy. Without sending him to the hospital.”
I don't answer. The back of Sean's T-shirt says DON'T BE A DICK. Irritated by my silence, Ceci says, “I don't see how you can let your son wear that obscene clothing!”
“It's his choice. Besides, Ceci, it's a health message. About not drinking and driving. Aren't you the one that thinks strong health messages are a good thing?”
Our eyes lock. The silence lengthens. Finally Ceci says, “Well, haven't we gotten serious all of a sudden.”
I say, “Murder is serious.”
“Yes. I'm sure the cops will catch whoever did it. Probably one of those scum that hang around the Rainbow Bar.”
“Dr. Bennett wasn't the type to hang around with scum.”
“Oh, I don't mean he knew them. Some low-life probably killed him for his wallet.” She looks straight into my eyes. “I can't think of any other motive. Can you?”
I look east, toward the river. On the other side, just visible over the tops of houses on its little hill, rise the three stories of Emerton Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Hospital. The bridge over the river was blown up three weeks ago. No injuries, no suspects. Now anybody who wants to go to the hospital has to drive ten miles up West River Road and cross at the interstate. Jack told me that the Department of Transportation says two years to get a new bridge built.
I say, “Dr. Bennett was a good doctor. And a good man.”
“Well, did anybody say he wasn't? Really, Betty, you should use your dryer and save yourself all that bending and stooping. Bad for the back. We're not getting any younger. Ta-ta.” She waves her right hand, just a waggle of fingers, and walks off. Her nails, I notice, are painted the delicate fragile pinky white of freshly unscabbed skin.
“You have no proof,�
�� Jack says. “Just some wild suspicions.”
He has his stubborn face on. He sits with his Michelob at the kitchen table, dog-tired from his factory shift plus three hours overtime, and he doesn't want to hear this. I don't blame him. I don't want to be saying it. In the living room Jackie plays Nintendo frantically, trying to cram in as many electronic explosions as she can before her father claims the TV for Monday night football. Sean has already gone out with his friends, before his stepfather got home.
I sit down across from Jack, a fresh mug of coffee cradled between my palms. For warmth. “I know I don't have any proof, Jack. I'm not some detective.”
“So let the cops handle it. It's their business, not ours. You stay out of it.”
“I am out of it. You know that.” Jack nods. We don't mix with cops, don't serve on any town committees, don't even listen to the news much. We don't get involved with what doesn't concern us. Jack never did. I add, “I'm just telling you what I think. I can do that, can't I?” and hear my voice stuck someplace between pleading and anger.
Jack hears it, too. He scowls, stands with his beer, puts his hand gently on my shoulder. “Sure, Bets. You can say whatever you want to me. But nobody else, you hear? I don't want no trouble, especially to you and the kids. This ain't our problem. Just be grateful we're all healthy, knock on wood.”
He smiles and goes into the living room. Jackie switches off the Nintendo without being yelled at; she's good that way. I look out the kitchen window, but it's too dark to see anything but my own reflection, and anyway the window faces north, not east.
I haven't crossed the river since Jackie was born at Emerton Memorial, seven years ago. And then I was in the hospital less than twenty-four hours before I made Jack take me home. Not because of the infections, of course—all that hadn't started yet. But it has now, and what if next time instead of the youngest Nordstrum boy, it's Jackie who needs endozine? Or Sean?
Once you've been to Emerton Memorial, nobody but your family will go near you. And sometimes not even them. When Mrs. Weimer came home from surgery, her daughter-in-law put her in that back upstairs room and left her food on disposable trays in the doorway and put in a chemical toilet. Didn't even help the old lady crawl out of bed to use it. For a whole month it went on like that—surgical masks, gloves, paper gowns—until Rosie Weimer was positive Mrs. Weimer hadn't picked up any mutated drug-resistant bacteria in Emerton Memorial. And Hal Weimer didn't say a word against his wife.
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