Neverness

by David Zindell

  Were these black bodies pieces of manufactured matter which somehow regulated the flow of information within the Entity? Were they tachyon machines or some other unnatural engine for producing particles travelling faster than light? Or were they perhaps cancerous growths, some type of wild, unstable matter left over from the Entity’s experiments in shaping the universe to Her whims? I did not know. I wondered if the eschatologists were wrong after all; perhaps the Entity’s brain was composed of black bodies much smaller than moons. Could it be that I was looking at the fount of intelligence of a goddess?

  I had no time to explore this fascinating discovery because the intense magnetic field of the star—it was a thousand billion times stronger than that of Icefall’s—was ruining my ship. The star’s densely packed neutrons, probably the core remnants of an ancient supernova, were spinning rapidly, and they had conserved the magnetic field of the original star. I had to make an instant mapping, but at least I escaped being crushed and pulled apart like a seashell. I fell at random into the manifold, and I was lucky I did not fall into an infinite decision tree.

  There were other dangers and escapes I will not mention. And wonders, too. I discovered the first of the Entity’s brain lobes in a region of the nebula where the underlying manifold was rich with tunnels and point–sources winding through and connecting with every other part. There was a star pumping out light in measured, intense bursts every nine–tenths of a second. It was a little pulsar which reminded me of the beacon atop Mount Attakel warning the windjammers away from its dark, frozen rocks. But it was much, much brighter. In time with the beating of my heart, it pulsed with the energy of a thousand suns. With every pulse, it illuminated the silver moon orbiting it half a billion miles away. I saw this through my ship’s telescopes, which were my ears and eyes. I watched the fabled moon–brain of the Solid State Entity as it absorbed energy and spun on its axis and thought its unfathomable, infinite thoughts, or whatever it was that a goddess did to fulfil her existence.

  Of course, it was a mystery what the Entity did with all this energy. I saw that She used energy faster than a starving hibakusha could swallow a bowl of milk. And, as long as I am speaking of my ignorance, I should mention that I did not really know if the Entity’s brain was solid state or if it was put together of some bizarre type of manufactured matter. (I thought of the black bodies I had seen near the neutron star, and I wondered.) Certainly Her brain was not solid state in the sense that it was composed of silicon crystals or germanium or other such semiconductors. Long ago, during the lordship of Tisander the Wary, the eschatologists had found a single, dead mainbrain out near the stars of the Aud Binary. When they dissected the moon–brain—it was really only the size of a large asteroid—they discovered billions of layers of ultra–thin organic crystals, a vast latticework of interconnecting proteins which jumped to the touch of an electric current. The latticework was much like the neurologics that the tinkers grow inside the lightships—but infinitely more complex. It was so complex that the programmers had never decoded a single one of the mainbrain’s programs, not even the simple survival programs which must have been hardwired into the protein circuits. They had remained as ignorant of the mainbrain’s purpose (and cause of death) as I was of the living brain orbiting the pulsar.

  I found a point–to–point mapping and fell to within half a million miles of the moon. Though I made such analyses and tests as I could, I discovered little about its composition. That it really was a brain and not a natural moon I did not doubt. I had never seen a natural moon so featureless and uncratered. Its surface was as smooth and satiny as the skin of a Jacarandan whore. And as I have said, the manifold nearby was distorted in ways explicable only by the presence of a huge intelligence. But what was the nature of this intelligence? However desperately I wanted to know, I could not seriously consider landing on the moon’s surface to drill a core sample for analysis. It would have been a crude, barbaric thing to do, and futile, like drilling into the pink brain of an autist in an attempt to map his inner world of fantasy. And it would have been dangerous beyond thinking. Already, I knew, I had been lucky to survive the dangers of the manifold. If I were stupid enough to perturb the Entity, as She perturbed the manifold by Her mere presence, I did not think I would be lucky much longer.

  I should have fled homeward immediately. I had fulfilled my vow to penetrate the Entity, and I had mapped at least a part of Her. I probably should not have tried to communicate with Her. Who is man to talk with a goddess? It was foolish—so I thought—to bombard the moon with information written into laser beams, to bathe her silvery surface with radio waves carrying my inquisitive voice and the coded greeting of the ship−computer. But I did it anyway. Once in a lifetime a man must chance everything to experience something greater than himself.

  The Entity, however, did not seem to be aware of my existence. To Her my laser beams must have been as unfelt and unheeded as is the “ping” of a single photon striking a man’s calloused palm. My radio waves were like drops of water in the ocean of radio waves emitted by the pulsar. I was nothing to Her, I thought, and why should I despair that I was nothing? Was I aware of a single virus tumbling through the capillaries of my brain? Ah, I told myself, but a virus has almost no consciousness, whereas I was a man aware of my own awareness. Shouldn’t a goddess, in some small way, take notice of that awareness? Shouldn’t she be aware of me?

  Of course it was vain of me to think this way, but I have never been a humble man. It is one of my worst flaws. Vain as I was, though, I knew there was nothing I could do to apprehend this fantastic, glistening, alien intelligence. I was in awe of Her—there is no other word. With lasers I measured the diameter of her moon–brain and found that it was a thousand and forty miles from pole to pole. If I could reproduce my brain a trillion times over, I thought, and a billion times again, and glue the sticky, pink mass all together, it would still not be as great as hers. I realized that any bit of her neurologics was a million times faster than my own sluggishly firing neurons, and that within the nebula, around bright stars tens of light–years distant, there floated probably millions of moon–sized brain lobes, each pulsing with intense intelligence, each interconnected in unknown ways with every other across and through the rippling tides of space.

  Because I was curious and as convinced of my own immortality as all young men are, I set off to map the Entity more completely. I fell out around hot red giant stars and discovered many more moon–brains. As many as a hundred moons orbited some of the stars. There the manifold was warped and hideously complex. There I segued into dangerous decision trees and segmented spaces even wilder than the one I had first encountered. It was during this long journey inward through the Entity’s brain that I first felt confident of my pilot’s skills, that I really became a pilot. Sometimes I was overly confident, even cocky. Where was another pilot, I wondered, who had had to learn so much so quickly? Could Tomoth or Lionel—or any other master pilot—have threaded the torison spaces as elegantly as I did?

  I wish I had room here to catalogue all the wonders of that unique nebula, for they would fascinate many, not just our Order’s astronomers. Most wondrous of my discoveries, other than the wonder of the nebula Herself, was the planet I found orbiting a red star named Kamilusa, named not by me but by the people living on the planet. People! How had they come to be there, I wondered? Had they fallen through the manifold as I had? Were they perhaps the descendants of the Tycho and Erendira Ede or other pilots lost in the Entity? I was astonished that people could live inside the brain of a goddess. Somehow it did not seem right. I thought of them as parasites living off the light of their bloody sun, or as driliworms who had somehow chewed their way into the brain of an incomprehensibly greater being.

  After greeting the people by radio, I made planetfall on one of the broad, western beaches of the island continent called Sendai. It was very warm so I opened the pit of my ship. The sun was a hot, red plate above me, and birds resembling snowgulls swooped and
sloshed along the currents of the moist wind, which stank of seaweed and other vegetation. Everything, even the air itself, was too green.

  To the naked people lining the dunes of the beach, I must have looked very alien as I stood on the packed, wet sand, sweating in my black boots and kamelaika. My beard had grown out during the long days of my journey, and my body was slightly wasted from too little exercise. When I bowed to the people, my back muscles quivered with the strain. Naturally I had asked to speak to the lord of the planet. But the people had no lord—nor masters, sensei, matriarchs, kings, protectors or anyone else to direct their day–to–day activities. They were anarchists. As I learned, they were probably the descendants of hibakusha who centuries ago had fled the oppressive hierarchies of the Japanese Worlds. However, they seemed to have only the sketchiest memories of their passage through the Entity. No one could tell me how they had once piloted their deep ships and scurfed the windows of the manifold because no one remembered. And no one cared. They had lost the noblest of arts, and most other arts as well. The planet’s few hundred thousand people were barbarians who spent their long days eating, swimming, copulating and roasting their bodies brown in the sun’s red oven. The society of Kamilusa was one of those stale utopias where robots did the work of man’s hands and made more robots to do ever more work. And worse, they had programmed their computers to direct their robots, and worse still, they had let their computers do all their thinking for them. I spent five hundred–hour days there, and not once did I find a woman or man who cared where life had come from or where it was going to. (Though many of the children possessed a natural, soon–to–be–crushed curiosity.) Remarkably, no one—except perhaps the computers—seemed to realize that Kamilusa lay within the brain of a goddess. I record the following conversation because it is representative of others that I had during those stifling, hot nights and days.

  One evening, on the veranda of one of the villas built on the beach dunes, I sat in a plush chair across from an old woman named Takara. I had learned a dialect of New West Japanese just to talk to her. She was a tiny, shrivelled woman with wispy strands of hair growing in patches from her round head. Like everyone else, she was as naked as an animal. When I asked her why no one wanted to know about such wonders as the construction of my ship, she said, “Our computers could design a lightship, if that was our desire.”

  “But could they train pilots?”

  “Hai, I suppose.” She took a drink of a clear blue liquid one of her domestic robots had brought her. “But why should we want to train pilots?”

  “To fall among the stars. There are glories that only pilots —”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she interrupted. “One star is much like any other, isn’t it? Stars give us their warmth, isn’t that enough? And also, as you admit, your travel from star to star is too dangerous.”

  “You can’t live forever.”

  “Hai, but you can live a long time,” she said. “I, myself, have lived...” and here she spoke at one of the computers built into the sandstone veranda. It spoke back, and she said. “I’ve lived five hundred of your Neverness years. I’ve been a young woman, oh, perhaps...” and she spoke to the computer again. “I’ve been young ten times; it’s wonderful to be young. Maybe I’ll be young ten more times. But not if I do dangerous things. Swimming is dangerous enough, and I don’t do that anymore even though the robots keep the sharks away. Hai, I could always take a cramp, you know. It’s well known how the dangers build over the years. There is a word for it, oh...what is it?” When her computer had supplied her with the word, she said, “If there is a certain probability that I will die in any year, then the probability grows greater every year. It multiplies, I think. The tiniest risk becomes riskier as time goes on. In time, if there is the slightest risk of death, then death will occur. And that is why I do not leave my villa. Oh, I used to love to swim, but my fourteenth husband died when a bird dropped a conch shell on his head. Ashira—he was a beautiful man—he used to shave his head. He was bald as a rock. The bird must have thought his head was a rock. The conch shell broke his skull, and he died.”

  As if she were ever wary of bizarre accidents, she looked up into the starry sky to look for birds. She pointed to the robot lasers lining the veranda’s high walls, aimed at the dark sky, and she said, “But I’m not afraid of birds any longer.”

  What she had said was of course true. Life is dangerous. Because of the laws of antichance, pilots—and everyone else in our Order—almost never lived as long as Soli had. Which explains why the younger pilots called him “Soli The Lucky.”

  “It’s a dangerous universe,” I said. “And mysterious, but there are beauties—you admit you’re a student of beauty.”

  “What do you mean by beauty?” she wanted to know as she placed her hand between her breasts, which were brown and withered as old leather bags. She sniffed the air in my direction and wrinkled her tiny nose. Plainly, she did not like the woolly smell of my sweat–stained kamelaika. It was annoying that she looked at me as if I were the barbarian, not she.

  I pointed to the moon shining above us. I told her that the moon was really a huge bio–computer, the brain and substance of a goddess. “It shines like silver, and that’s beautiful,” I said. “But it shares its shining intelligence with a million other moons, and just to imagine the possibilities...that’s a different, higher kind of beauty.”

  She looked at me as a logician looks at a babbling autist and said, “I don’t think the moon is a computer. Why should you lie to me? Computers aren’t beautiful, I don’t think.”

  I said, “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “And what do you mean by goddess?”

  When I had explained to her about higher intelligences and the classifications of the eschatologists, she laughed at me and said, “Oh, there’s God, I suppose. Or there used to be—I can’t remember anymore. But to think the moon thinks, well, that is insane!”

  Suddenly she glared at me with her old, old eyes and shook like a tent in the wind. It must have occurred to her that if I were insane, I might do something risky and was therefore a threat to her longevity. When she looked at me again, I noticed that the robots were pointing their lasers at me. She spoke to her computer and said, “The moon is made of...of elements: carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen.”

  “The elements of protein,” I said. “The neurologics of computers are often made of protein.”

  “Oh, who cares what things are made of? What matters is peace and harmony. And you are dangerous to our harmony, I think.”

  “I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

  In truth, I couldn’t wait to leave that hot, stifling planet.

  “Hai, you must leave. The longer you stay, the more dangerous you become. Please, tomorrow will you leave? And please, do not talk to the children anymore. They would be frightened if they thought the moon was alive.”

  I abandoned the people to their pleasures and their decadent harmonies. In the middle of the long night, I rocketed away and fell again into the manifold. Again I fenestered inward towards the center of the Entity’s brain. I was more determined than ever to seek the nexus of her intelligence, if indeed such a nexus existed. The further I fell, the more moon–brains I discovered. Near one hot, blue giant star, there must have been ten thousand moons clumped together like the cells of an embryo. I had an intense feeling that I was witnessing something I was not meant to see, as if I had caught my mother naked in her morning bath. Were the moons somehow reproducing themselves, I wondered? I could not tell. I could not see into the center of the clump because the space there was as black as a black hole. Even though I knew it would be chancy to fall any further, I was afire with the possibilities of new, godly life, so I made a point–to–point mapping into the center of the gathered moons.

  Immediately, I knew that I had made a simple mistake. My ship did not fall out into the center of the moons. Instead, I segued into a junglelike decision tree. A hundred different path
ways opened before me, dividing and branching into ten thousand others. I was sick with fear because I had only instants to decide upon the correct branching, or I would be lost.

  I reached out with my mind to my ship, and slowtime overcame me. My brain rushed with thoughts, as snowflakes swirl in a cold wind. As my mentations accelerated, time seemed to slow down. I had a long, stretched–out instant in which to prove a particularly difficult mapping theorem. I had to prove it quickly, as quickly as I could think. The computer modelled my thoughts and began infusing my visual cortex with ideoplasts that I summoned up from memory. These crystal–like symbols glittered before my inner eye; they formed and joined and assembled into the proof array of my theorem. Each individual ideoplast was lovely and unique. The representation of the fixed–point theorem, for instance, was like a coiled ruby necklace. As I built my proof, the coil joined with feathery, diamond fibers of the first Lavi mapping lemma. I was thinking furiously, and the ideoplasts froze into place. The intricate emerald glyphs of the statement of invariance, the wedgelike runes of the sentential connectives, and all the other characters—they formed a three–dimensional array ordered by logic and inspiration. The quicker I thought, the quicker the ideoplasts appeared as if from nothingness and found their place in the proof array. This mental manipulation of symbol into proof has a special name: We call it the number storm because the rush of pure mathematical thinking is overwhelming, like a blizzard in midwinter spring.

  With the number storm carrying me along towards the moment of proof, I passed into dreamtime. There was an indescribable perception of orderedness; there was beauty and terror as the manifold opened before me. The number storm intensified, nearly blinding me with the white light of dreamtime. I wondered, as I had always wondered, at the nature of dreamtime and that wonderful mental space we call the manifold. Was the manifold truly deep reality, the reality ordering the shape and texture of the outer universe? Some cantors believe this (my mother is not one of these), and it is their faith that when mathematics is perfectly realized, the universe will be perfectly understood. But they are pure mathematicians, and we pilots are not. In the manifold there is no perfection. There is much that we do not understand.