Portals (Into The Galaxy Book 1)

by Ann Christy

  A box of fabric and expensive doo-dads when I was into my fabric crafting phase. Another nearly bursts at the seams with old parts for a robot…or a slew of robotic things. I was convinced I was going to create the A.I. that would eventually take over the world. My mom said that hobby had earning potential at least, so she gave me minimal grief over it. There are more, because yeah, easily enchanted teen here.

  Some of those passions of mine aren’t wrapped in materials. Those aren’t the ones I talk about, because I fear laughter or scorn or just the raised eyebrow she’d give me. She can do an eyebrow raise like no one I’ve ever seen. Also, it can be easily mislabeled or twisted to mean something else. It could have gotten me teased by people at school. The last thing I wanted was ancient-alien GIFs plastered all over my social media posts.

  That special interest of mine is life. Not the act of living, but rather life in general. The concept of life and the way time changes it. Ancient life, future life, extinct life…all life. And I owe that fascination to my grandmother.

  She died when I was ten, but I remember her well. After my grandfather died, she went back to India, but before she went, she spent time with my mom and me. She took me to the museum one day while my mom was at work, allowing me to play hooky and have a day with just the two of us. It was there, during that special day, that my fascination began.

  My grandmother was an interesting person. She was a physicist, but also a devout Hindu. In her day, it was hard for a woman to achieve an advanced education, particularly if she started out poor. Her marriage to my grandfather—an American spending a year in India—changed her life. For them, it was true love at first sight, and they were like honeymooners forever after, much to my mother’s eternal embarrassment. Grandma never made discoveries or wrote important books, but she taught others and she found it very fulfilling.

  I only knew she was a professor, and I was far too young to understand what physics was about. It was only as I grew that I understood how amazing she was, how smart she had to be. But it was her ability to marry physics with her religion that changed my life.

  While we were walking along the hall of extinct life in the museum, I remember being sad because they were gone and I wanted to see them alive. I particularly remember the skeletons of a mammoth and a giant sloth. She sat me down on a nearby bench and told me the story of life, the magic of it. Not real magic, of course, but a miracle nonetheless. Comets with the chemicals that life could be made of, storms and heat, the sun and the forming earth, the way life may have risen more than once before it managed to get a firm hold.

  And then she made it bigger.

  She had me close my eyes and imagine endless planets and endless suns and on each one, the miracle happening in another way, each one creating something just as fantastic as a giant sloth, but different and totally unique. Then she said that each of those things gets their time, each one serves a purpose for all that will come after, and then it fades for the next thing to take its place. But even as it fades, it has changed life for all that will come after them. Our entire universe is one big chain of life, rising and falling and making changes to allow what comes next to exist.

  Without the giant sloth, something today would not exist, maybe many things. Perhaps it changed the plants or the earth it trod upon, or the predators that lived there, or a thousand other things that we can never know. And for that change, we have something equally miraculous and wonderful, and that thing is changing its environment to prepare for the next miracle.

  When I opened my eyes that day in the museum, I felt strange. It was like I had suddenly been connected to everything in a direct chain, each of us doing the work of our link for the other links in that chain. All across the universe, an endless series of links, all of us connected. She’d brushed my hair behind my ear and said that we must be grateful and honor all that came before. We must be thankful for the work they did to create what lives today. We shouldn’t mourn for them, because they did their work, just as we are doing our work for the future.

  She’d said that each thing that ever lived is present in some way inside every living thing today. The mammoth rests inside the mouse and the human, because it paved the way for us by existing.

  In each thing that lives now, every past living thing is carried forward.

  I remember every nuance of that moment. I remember the way her sari brushed against my leg, the rustle and scents of cotton, silk, and jasmine. I can hear the tinkle of her bangles and the way her nose ring sparkled under the can lights of the museum. I can still feel that strange connection between us, as if I weren’t just her grand-daughter, but also a link in her chain.

  I can feel it again. And now, I know it’s true.

  After my grandmother died—she was very sick during that visit, but didn’t tell us—I told my mom how I’d felt after that talk. When we’d gotten up from the museum bench, I’d felt my footsteps, felt the way the building we were in had changed the land, the way the air inside pushed out of the doors and brought air from the outside in. It was almost uncomfortable, yet unforgettable.

  My mother called it an epiphany of sorts, a moment of understanding. She said that grandmother was very good at creating those for others. The feeling faded, but my interest did not. The unique nature of every evolutionary step intrigued me, and like my grandmother, I believed from that day forward that life must exist everywhere.

  I knew in my heart that the miracle wasn’t limited to us, but was a force of nature that was ever-building and ever-changing. It would find a way in any place that left a sliver of space for it to take hold.

  Perhaps that’s why I didn’t fear the portal invasion as much as most people. I think my grandmother would have jumped through a portal too. I inherited more than my dark hair and eyes from her, and I think that’s why I jumped.

  That feeling, that strange feeling of connection and magic and inevitability, happened again while I watched the dinosaur planet.

  Epiphany. Eureka. A-ha.

  Like that day in the museum, the feeling is uncomfortable and too much, but it leaves a permanent mark on my brain as if fades. I’ve got that mark now. Instead of just plain awe, which is in no way plain really, I’ve got an agitated feeling that demands action. Humans are missing their shot. Not all of them, of course, but many.

  Hub explained to me that if it stops the transfers, it will only be ceasing human transfers. Transfer of animals will continue. The humans already transferred will act as our population on the new planet, but there really aren’t enough of them yet. At least, not enough to start living as they did on Earth.

  Once Hub left me alone, my mind kept churning things over, looking for a solution. But I’m a mere human and I can’t compete with a mind that can keep track of thousands of planets and each planet’s inhabitants simultaneously.

  Because the Earth has not yet advanced enough to make indisputable contact with another planet’s species, and has not found widely accepted proof of extraterrestrial life, the Hub cannot make contact.

  I did argue with Hub that the portals were contact. It conceded that point, but also pointed out that more humans felt the portals were of religious origin than thought they were alien. On top of that, there are a significant number who believe the portals are from the future. The logic there is that contacting us with anything other than the portals can bring about paradox, which could be disastrous.

  Unfortunately, that lends credence to the theory that the portals are from our future.

  So yeah, Hub has a point. We’re split on opinions back on Earth when it comes to the portals. And rules are rules…especially considering that the rule is there because it will absolutely change the course of the Earth’s future. That is a no-no, which I can understand now that I’ve seen the dinosaur planet.

  Of course, Hub has no answer when I challenge it that the portals are changing things already, except to say that’s why it may have to stop. The obvious solution is the one that Hub
simply cannot put into place: tell them what’s happening.

  The Hub can’t, but maybe I can. If I can find a way out of here, a way home, then maybe…just maybe…I can.

  After sleeping the whole day away in a funk of despair, I have my doubts about getting back to sleep. A hot shower does more than wash away my own stink. It also clears away a few of the cobwebs my confusion has spun. The clock says I have a couple of hours left before my wake-up call, so I put on some fresh pajamas and climb into bed, deciding I can at least think with my eyes closed and rest some.

  I’m pretty sure that’s my last thought before I fall right to sleep.

  Twenty-Two

  After eating so little yesterday, I wake up starving. I order a big breakfast, tame my hair—or at least make an attempt at it—and brush my teeth. I just took a shower a few hours ago, so I skip that and wait anxiously for the ding that means food.

  When it comes, I yank open the door to find Jack rubbing his eyes on the hall floor, with the cabinet bot on the other side. He looks rumpled and for the first time, less than perfect.

  “Did you sleep here?” I ask.

  He yawns and stretches, then sniffs the air at the smell of my breakfast. “I told you I would be here if you needed me.”

  Stepping over him to the bot, I retrieve my overloaded tray and say, “Well, I didn’t think you meant it literally.”

  He winces when he gets to his feet and follows me—or maybe the smell of my tray—inside. As I unload my tray, he rubs at his hip and the side of his leg.

  “You okay?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head a little and says, “That’s incredibly uncomfortable, but I slept right through it. How is that possible?”

  I shrug and sip my coffee, which is, as always, the perfect temperature. “That’s humans for you.”

  “That really smells good. I’m hungry,” he says. I’m pretty sure there’s a hint in there somewhere.

  “Yeah, but you’re not supposed to eat this stuff yet, are you?” I ask. My tray is loaded with eggs, toast, butter, jam, oatmeal, and hash browns. I think the eggs and butter are fake, but they taste good, so I’m okay with fake.

  Jack makes a face and walks over to my interface, quickly punching in something, then returning to plop down in my other chair. “I’m okay now. I was created from a template with an intolerance to some kinds of food. Gluten and tomatoes specifically. It’s fixed now. I can eat anything.”

  I guess my notion of babies and formula was wrong. I should have guessed, since replacements don’t have that problem, but then again, a replacement would already know what allergies or restrictions the original had. Either way, I’m glad he’s fixed. I have to wonder though, does that mean he got a new body? Is this a replacement?

  And what exactly is a template? Does that mean that he’s wearing a body that belongs to a human somewhere on Earth?

  Shaking my head, I dig into my eggs. “You want to eat some of mine while you wait?”

  He’s still staring at my food, so he wants to say yes, but I know he’s going to say no. To stop him, I push my oatmeal over to him. He grins at me and takes the spoon.

  The oatmeal is almost gone by the time the ding comes, but he hops up to answer the door like he’s still starving. When he comes back, he has two trays and I laugh around a mouth full of hash browns covered in ketchup.

  He has what I have, but more of everything. Basically, he’s ordered everything I’ve ever ordered in my mornings here, plus other stuff. I point to a little pot of dark brown goo and ask, “What’s that?”

  “Some sort of chocolate and nut topping. It’s for spreading on bread,” he says as he digs his knife in.

  When he says that, I know exactly what he’s talking about. I love the stuff, but where did he find out about it? “How did you know to order that?”

  He shrugs and says, “Some of the others have ordered it before, so I’m trying different stuff. Last night I ate a hamburger. It wasn’t very good. I didn’t like the texture.”

  Others. I’d forgotten there were other non-transfers here. It’s weird that I haven’t met or mingled with them. “I think all the meat is fake, so maybe that’s why it didn’t taste right. Also, can I meet the others?”

  He gives me a pained look and keeps chewing, which makes me laugh. “Sorry. You can wait to answer. Between friends and family, sometimes people don’t bother to wait, but I’m cool.”

  Jack swallows and drinks some of his milk, then says, “I don’t see how you can talk and eat at the same time. Really. I mean, how do you do it without dropping your food?”

  “Practice,” I say around my eggs.

  His face screws up as he glances at my mouth. “That’s not pretty.”

  I almost spew my food all over the table at that. Laughter and swallowing do not go well together. Jack may be newly human—or not human at all—but he’s learning our humor quickly enough. Then again, I’m probably being species-ist again. If Jack’s species is sentient, who’s to say they don’t have humor? A sense of humor might even be required, now that I think about it.

  That thought makes me wonder once again what he was before he was human, but I really do think it might be considered rude to ask, particularly given the way he reacted before. And he didn’t answer me about the other non-transfers.

  “So, can I meet the other humans here?”

  Putting his glass of milk down, he wipes away an adorable milk mustache and says, “Eventually, yes. After orientation, you can meet whoever you like. As long as they’re also done with orientation, that is.”

  “What if I just go knock on their door?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow at him.

  Based on his expression, I don’t think he ever considered that before. “Why would you do that? I mean, why wouldn’t you want to wait? What if that person is dangerous?”

  “Dangerous?” I hadn’t considered that. But that could happen too. After all, those who jump in are often profiled on the news as mentally unbalanced, or members of cults, or something equally awful.

  “I think some are dangerous, yes.”

  “Wow,” I say, not sure how else to respond. I hope that’s not how those living here got their first impression of humans. That would be embarrassing. Then again, if they can fix me, do they get fixed too? I have to ask. “Do you correct what makes them dangerous?”

  “Sometimes. If it can be corrected, that is. If the problem isn’t genetic, chemical, or based on a physical injury, then there’s really nothing more to be done. That’s just who they are.”

  I remember a piece on the news shortly after the portal invasion began about an inmate in a prison. For some reason no one could figure out, there aren’t very many portals in prisons. There are some, but not as many as one might expect if their appearance was truly random. A religious sect that believed it was the rapture used that as proof that they were right. There was an exception that was noteworthy enough to make the news.

  A lifer in prison for murder jumped into a portal that came for another prisoner, leaving two versions of the original prisoner on our side. There was a lot of talk about whether the replacement should have to stay in prison. After all, even though he was the same person, he had not been convicted. And also, just like the original, he proclaimed he was innocent.

  Now that I understand something about why people are transfers, I wonder. Was that man innocent and would have been shown to be so and therefore, gotten out and done something noteworthy? Maybe had kids?

  And what about the murderer that came through? Should I ask about that? Do I want to know the answer? If I’m honest with myself, I really don’t have time for that right now. I’ve got way too many other things to think about. Considering how amazing Hub is, I have little hope that I can figure out a way to get home that Hub hasn’t already thought of.

  Then again, Hub isn’t human. Hub isn’t alive at all. It doesn’t know how to be as flawed as we are, and that might be to my advantage.

/>   Brushing aside the topic, I do my best to sound convincing. “No problem. I won’t purposefully meet anyone. Of course, if I’m in the hallway when one of them shows up then…”

  Jack laughs and says, “You’re the only one in this hallway, so that isn’t likely.”

  So, they go to the trouble of creating an entire hallway just for one person, but make it seem like there are others by having more doors. Interesting.

  “So, what’s on tap for today? More films about the coolness of my planet?”

  Jack burps and pushes his first plate away. The white surface is as clean as if there had never been food on it. One plate down, one to go. With an embarrassed smile, he says, “Excuse me.”

  “Better out than in,” I say and he laughs. “Today?”

  “No movies today. What we do today is for you to decide. Hub says you’ve got questions and need time to absorb what you know. So, I thought we might take it easy today and talk. Is that okay?”

  “Actually, that sounds perfect to me. I have about a billion questions and I get mixed up and forget them with all the new information.”

  Jack looks dismayed and his chocolatey toast doesn’t quite make it to his mouth. “A billion?”

  With a snort, I get up to retrieve my notebook and pen. “Not literally.” I wave the notebook and say, “Just however many I can write in this book.”

  That doesn’t get rid of the look on his face, so I take pity on him. “I’m kidding! I do have a list, but it’s doable. I promise.”

  With a sigh, he takes a huge bite and leaves two little chocolate smears shaped like horns on the corners of his mouth. I have to look down or laugh, so I flip pages in my book and start reading my questions, adding new ones as they come up. While I do that, Jack somehow manages to cram all that food down his throat. Now, he has two clean plates.