The Orthogonal Galaxy

by Michael L. Lewis

  “We’re experiencing acceleration on the paddle, inducing a velocity greater than desired. 750 km/hr… 925 km/hr.”

  “GUIDO,” Zimmer blurted quickly, “please put full reverse thrust possible to slow deceleration. We need to maintain constant velocity in order to maximize our depth and data collection.”

  “Roger that, FLIGHT, full reverse thrusters engaged, but please note that reverse thrust will only provide one tenth of the acceleration force capable with the forward direction. Acceleration continuing. 1260 km/hr. We’re losing ground, FLIGHT. Please advise.”

  “GUIDANCE, we need to turn the paddle around, face it upstream and then apply full forward thrust to counter the force of acceleration. We need to rotate such that the plane of the paddle is parallel to the flow.”

  “FLIGHT, we’re starting to notice a new vector of direction. It looks like the paddle is starting to take on a corkscrew trajectory. It will be difficult to coordinate a full parallel rotation.”

  “Negative, GUIDANCE. I also see the corkscrew rotation, but this is accompanied by a paddle roll that is coordinated with the rotation. Look. The face of the paddle is constantly facing the center. Apparently, the corkscrew is because particle impact has started to roll the paddle counter-clockwise. We absolutely must rotate now… as parallel as possible please.”

  “Working on it, FLIGHT. Discontinuing reverse thrust and commencing rotation.”

  After a grueling period of waiting and watching the trajectory continue to accelerate, the communication signal to reverse the direction of the paddle upstream was received. “1850 km/hr at commence of rotation. 35 degree rotation, 2300 km/hr. 55 degrees, 3200 km/hr. FLIGHT, without any thrust, we’re accelerating more rapidly now. 4800 km/hr, 78 degrees. FLIGHT, we are corkscrewing at a rate of one spiral per 17 minutes with downrange velocity of 7500 km/hr, engaging full forward thrust. It appears as if full forward thrust is doing little to decrease the rate of acceleration. Velocity still increasing to 9800 km/hr. 11,650 km.”

  In nearly perfect synchrony, the voice of the GUIDANCE officer ceased with the communication of paddle twelve as the image and data on the wall monitor went perfectly black.

  …

  The clock in the conference room ticked loudly against the quiet and dejected mood present. The time showed that it was 0610 hours. Three heads hung low with as much disappointment as fatigue when the door opened slowly to allow the entrance of the quickly-aging Carlton Zimmer. He took a seat at the table, and his team of pale-faced research students awaited his instruction.

  “In less than twelve hours, Team, we’ve managed to burn through twelve paddles, and are we any closer to solving this mystery than before?”

  Heads shook in defeat.

  “Do you mean to tell me that all three of you missed the most important discovery of the century—perhaps the millennium?” A smile grew on his face while he studied his students. Reyd leaned forward with opened mouth. Kath brushed her long hair aside and cocked her head as if to hear better. Then, the smile grew more serious, as he looked towards Joram, who blushed slightly and tried to avoid eye contact with all of his team members.

  “I’m not exactly sure what’s troubling you, Joram, but if it is nearly as difficult as what is troubling me about this, then I sympathize with your situation deeply.”

  Zimmer walked slowly to the other side of the table, hands clasped behind his back, and head lowered slightly. Pacing the length of the table two or three times, he weighed the exact words that he should use to explain his theory.

  “You see—” he started slowly, still pacing, still looking down, “I’m just not sure how I’m going to be able to convince the world—” A deep, raspy sigh emerged as he stopped, leaned towards the three concerned graduate students, and placed his hands on the table.

  “—that we have just discovered the tail of the first superluminal comet—the only celestial body ever observed in the history of man to travel faster than the speed of light.”

  Chapter

  17

  The prison bars echoed throughout the hall as they slammed shut behind the newest inmate at the U.S. Penitentiary in Atlanta. Paol Joonter shuddered at the noise, which resounded with finality, as if they couldn’t be more sealed had they been welded in place. It was fitting for someone who truly believed that the judicial system had let him down harshly, had ruined his life. He had no reason to believe anymore that it would see justice through in the end. In the last few weeks, he had become calloused and bitter at having been thrown on death row as a first time criminal, convicted of a crime he did not commit! And what about his family? They were suffering even more than he. Their sobs for justice were callously denied by a flawed judicial system which has locked up an innocent man, and ceased investigating the real perpetrator of the crime.

  Paol turned to look out of the cell. It would be his only view for most of the day. Nonetheless, he needed to see it now, as the prison guards retreated down the long corridor, leaving him alone to his new surroundings.

  “Well, I say,” a voice said behind him. “You ‘da most odd character I ever seen in this cell, and I seen some doozies, let me tell ya’.”

  Paol didn’t know how to respond, or who to respond to for that matter. Gazing around, he finally spotted an inmate similarly attired as himself in a very unfashionable orange and green jumpsuit sitting in a back corner of the cell with a rather large book in his lap. He was a thin black man with a very long face, and very short spiky hair. Paol would’ve guessed his age at around 35, but that was because he would have failed to factor in the decade of aging that occurred to his new acquaintance on “the streets.”

  “Fo’ ‘xample,” the voice continued to reminisce, “there was Hans Van Kemp, the Strangla’. He never did like it when I suggested that his first name shoulda been Hands instead of Hans.” He made himself laugh heartily, baring a full set of yellow teeth, which contrasted vastly against his skin. The joke was lost on Paol, who was certainly in the least humorous attitude of his life. “Then, there’s Luke ‘Skeleton’ Stilton. Tall and skinny, but when he stared at you with those gray eyes, why you’da thought they’d start to burn a hole right through you.”

  “But that Rall McHerd character…” At this, Paol’s cellmate shivered. “Just thinkin’ of that dude is frightful. He was 6-5, weighed 350 pounds in the least. And hairy? Why he looked more gorilla than man with all that long, mangy hair runnin’ down his face and body. He sent couple inmates to the hospital with who knows how many broken bones each. I’s glad that it wasn’t me, and that they moved him off to solitary real quick like after the second attack. They should’a done it sooner, ‘xcept there was no room in the schoo’.”

  At the pause, Paol asked, “Schoo?”

  “Schoo’, or S-C-U, Special Confinement Unit,” offered his chatty companion. “That’s the joint where they have them padded 6- by 9-foot boxes they use to keep the really nutso jobs from hurtin’ others and themselves.”

  With a low whisper, as if he were divulging a secret that Paol should never reveal, he leaned towards Paol and continued describing the SCU. “I hear that when ya’ go to one of them boxes, ya’ never come out the same. And fo’ the good of society, ya’ done better not be let loose ever ‘gain.

  “Of course, I never knew nobody to be released that ever spent any time in solitary,” stated the inmate as he returned to his previous posture and demeanor.

  At this point, the man placed his book on the cot he was seated next to and stood to reveal a tall and lanky frame. At six feet, three inches tall, he weighed no more that 190 pounds. It’s no wonder he was afraid of McHerd. Judging by the description offered, the violent character could’ve snapped this jail bird in half.

  As he created images of McHerd and the damage he could have done to himself, Paol inquired, “So, this McHerd character was your cellmate, and he never touched you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How long did you two spend together?”

  “I reckoned
‘bout sixteen days.”

  “And in those sixteen days, he thrashed two different inmates?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But not you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Even though he had more access to you, I trust, then he did to anybody else—what being your cellmate and all?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then, educate me.” Paol got to the point. “What do you do around here to preserve your—um—health?”

  “Well, sir…” the inmate started, but was interrupted by Paol.

  “By the way, the name’s Paol, Paol Joonter—not sir. Judging by the way you and I are dressed, I suspect we’re pretty much equal around here, so I think formal titles can be dismissed.”

  “Blade Slater,” Blade introduced himself by extending his hand.

  Paol received his hand and was surprised at the strength of the grip for such a scrawny frame. “Well, Blade, I’m glad to meet you. I think if you can avoid the McHerd treatment, you can certainly teach me a thing or two about self-preservation here.”

  “Well, ya’ just have to find the right balance of avoidin’ confrontation without demonstratin’ weakness. Fo’ ‘xample, don’t get in no ones’ way, and definitely, don’t get in their faces, meanin’ don’t yell at ‘em, don’t call ‘em names, don’t be goin’ insultin’ ‘em or nothin’.”

  “But, what if somebody tries to start something with me?”

  “Happens all the time, especially to new guys.”

  “Like me,” Paol’s voice quavered as he looked towards the ground.

  “No!” exclaimed Blade, calling Paol back to attention with a start. “Mistake number one: weak voice. Mistake number two, lookin’ down. What ya’ just done, man, is exactly what ya’ need to not do. Yer response should’nt’a been, ‘like me.’ It shoulda been ‘LIKE ME!’”

  Paol turned around to see if Blade was starting to draw undesired attention to the conversation with his strong voice, but since their cell was at the corner of a hallway, all he could see was the long hall leading to the exit of the ward and the bars of cells lining that hallway. This gave him comfort as he realized that he wouldn’t have to confront other inmates in conversation of any form while he was in his cell.

  “I follow you,” nodded Paol approvingly of his new education.

  With the pause, Blade accepted an opportunity to change the conversation. “By the way,” Paol asked. “I trust that ‘Blade’ is your nickname?”

  “True ‘nough.” Blade chuckled. “The real name’s Thomas—you know, like from the Bible. Seems like nobody gets Bible names these days, but Momma liked ‘em better than the names we hear now ‘days.”

  “I don’t suppose Blade has reference to the reason you’re in here, does it?”

  Slater chuckled heartily. “Not at all. My Momma caught me playin’ with a knife when I’s three years young. She says I’s pretty good wieldin’ the blade, and didn’t even nick myself. She started callin’ me Blade, and—well—it just stuck I s’ppose.”

  For the first time, Paul lifted the corner of his lip into a smile. There was something heart-warming and genuine about his cellmate that some of the anxiety and tension were starting the melt away.

  “Whatcha in fo’, Paol?” he inquired with an inspectful gaze. “Ya’ don’t look like ya’ belong here.”

  Looking down again, Paol was brought back to the remembrance of his situation. Lowly and bitterly, he spat, “I was convicted of a crime I did not commit.”

  “No!”

  Paol’s head snapped, and he looked deeply into Blade’s eyes to correct his mistake. “I mean,” he scowled, “I was convicted of a crime I did not commit.”

  “That’s better,” Blade encouraged. “What crime d’ya not commit?”

  “Murder.”

  Blade took a step back and furrowed his brow. “Murder? You don’t look like no murderer to me.”

  Paol nodded facetiously. “Great… why weren’t you on my jury?” The quip was received with more robust laughter from the veteran inmate.

  With a deep voice, Blade responded half-seriously, “They don’ let convicted felons serve on juries.”

  Paol actually weighed the irony here. Rubbing his jaw he thought out loud. “You know, they probably should. I mean, who better to spot a criminal than another criminal. If I would’ve had a panel of felons on my jury, I bet they get the case right!”

  “I dunno, Paol… sounds like yer plan has a logical flaw.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s chicken-‘n-eggish, ain’t it? A real Catch-22. I mean, how d’ya ever convict a felon, if ya’ already need twelve of ‘em to judge ‘em by.”

  Paol weighed this for a moment. In a fresher state of mind, he probably would’ve made quick sense of Blade’s logic, but in a few seconds the proverbial light bulb came on. “Oh, right. You’re talking about the very first criminal. In that case, there would be no previous criminals to create a jury out of, since this was first person accused of a crime. That’s downright sensible of you, Blade… very rational.

  “Well, to solve that problem, I suspect you could wait for the first thirteen accused, and then have them sit through thirteen simultaneous trials, each one serving as a defendant in their own, and then as a juror on the other twelve.”

  Blade frowned and shook his head. “Now what’s gonna happen in that case, Paol? They’ll all acquit each other, because they’ve all served as a team of jurors with every other accused criminal. They’re all cronies together, and they’ll all let each other off nice and easy. Then you’re just back to where ‘ya started—with no convicted felons to serve on yer jury. Don’t’cha see?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Paol brushed aside the criticism. “But, what if the judge mandated that at least seven of them—over half—had to be convicted?”

  “In that case, I can assure you that they won’t convict seven… they’ll convict thirteen, sure enough.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Paol drilled. “That wouldn’t be in their collective best interest. They would need to determine a solution that would let six of them off, while the other seven serve.”

  “Paol, d’ya go to college?”

  “Well, yes,” answered Paol, who was rather interested to see where his colleague would take him with his reasoning.

  “D’ya study math?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, if you’d’a paid attention, ya’ might’a learned ‘bout game theory, boy?” Blade was starting to get rather animated, pacing up and down the cell throwing his hands in the air and shaking his head.

  At this revelation, Paol was rather dumbfounded. He was actually enjoying the logical exchange with his partner, but he assumed that it was his street-smarts that gave him his ability to solve the problem. At this statement, Paol realized that his cellmate actually knew the mathematical branch of logic to which they had been addressing this hypothetical situation they had created.

  “You know about game theory?”

  Ignoring the question, Blade continued with his tirade. “Why in game theory, ya’ see one of the prototypical case studies is the non-zero sum game called the prisoner’s dilemma. In the dilemma, prisoners are given a chance to cooperate with each other, or to defect against each other. They all serve a lighter sentence if they all cooperates together, but the cooperative prisoner who is betrayed by a defectin’ prisoner will receive the harshest penalty, while the back-stabber gets off free and easy.”

  “And if they all defect against each other?” Paol admired as he appraised the problem.

  “Stiff sentences all around.”

  Paol weighed the outcomes out loud. “So the best solution for any prisoner is for him to defect while all others cooperate, because he’ll be able to walk without any jail time, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think you mean, yes, Paol.”

  “Yes, Paol.”

  “So, the solution is simple! You have to join a pact with everyone
to cooperate and make them understand that together, they will serve the lightest combined sentence. Then, in private, you turn against the others and defect, right?”

  “No!”

  “What? Did I look down again?”

  “No,” Blade attempted to clarify. “I didn’t mean ‘No, look up’, I meant ‘No, you’re wrong.’ Ya’ see, every mathematician understands that the best collective solution is fer all to cooperate. But the best individual solution is to defect.”

  “Why?” Paol prodded.

  “Because, ya’ can’t make a collective bargain with a bunch of prisoners and expect them to not turn and stab ya’ in the back, just like you’re doin’ to them. There’s only one state of mathematical equilibrium to the problem… everyone defects, because it’s in everyone’s self-interest.”

  Paol was impressed. “So, tell me. Where did you learn about game theory?”

  “In that seat right over there,” admitted the convict as he motioned to the seat that Paol found him sitting in when he first entered into the life of this enigmatic character.

  Paol cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

  Blade understood the question.

  “Have a seat, Paol.” Blade motioned to another hard wooden chair, sitting by the cot on the opposite wall of the cell. He returned to his seat as well. With the pair of odd-fellows seated, Blade continued.

  “I grew up right here in Atlanta, Geo’gia—on the south side, in the ghetto… or I guess I should say, the ‘inner city.’ Momma raised me and my two sisters and two brothers in a small one-bedroom apartment. I dunno what happened to my Pa… Ma never would tell us kids. I remember wakin’ up in the middle of the night with the sounds of gunshots and sirens. It wasn’t much less rough durin’ the day, while we kids was outside playin’ in the alleys. Ya’ couldn’t make it on yer own. Ya’ needs support, ya’ needs to rely on each other. So, by the time I was ‘leven, I hooked up with a gang. I was pretty small fo’ my age, so I wanted some personal protection too—had my eyes on a long blade I saw in the window of a pawn shop just down the street from where I lived. But I had no money… couldn’t steal it, ‘cuz it was locked up in a glass case. Thought ‘bout breakin’ the case with a rock or somethin’, but I figured I’d never get away, and the ‘ol man in the shop was a big’un who’d give me a bruisin’ fo’ sure.