Some of the material can be transported. Unknown. The planet’s designation is Castor’s World.
I cock my head at the Core’s answers. “Castor’s World? You know its name. That means it must have come from the last universal cycle, correct? How could it have survived the collapse?”
Yes . . . Unknown . . . Unknown.
I sigh, get up from the chair again, and begin pacing a circle around it. “You said we can transport some of the unidentified quantum structure. Is it safe?”
Unknown.
The link between Qod’s disappearance and the appearance of something completely alien on a planet that has somehow survived the heat death of the universe cannot be a coincidence. Nevertheless, the urge to investigate is overpowering.
“Please transport the quantum anomaly here, directly to the Observation Sphere. But be ready to transport it back immediately if there is a threat.”
Processing.
A few seconds pass as the Control Core makes its calculations. I am always stunned by the Soul Consortium’s ability to transport items out of the universe. It is very rarely done because the Soul Consortium is self-sufficient and can usually analyze from afar, but the science has always baffled me—extraction should not be possible. Even observation should not be possible, because there is no quantum connection between the Soul Consortium and the universe. We escaped those constraints. But what baffles me even more now is why I have always settled for bafflement. Why have I never sought to understand?
Directly in front of me, a disc-like platform is generated for the transportation, and the space above it warps like a turbulent underwater current. A crackle of energy electrifies the air, and then something appears on the disc, something so disturbing I stagger back with a sudden cry of shock and fall awkwardly into my chair.
TWO
Whatever it is, it is no longer alive. But I am certain it must have been alive once. And by the look of its twisted, grotesque form, I believe it must have suffered greatly before its expiration.
I cough and wipe a hand over my mouth and nose to stifle an impulse to gag. “Control, did something go wrong with the transport?”
No.
“Then this . . . thing lived on Castor’s World?”
Yes.
“And this is just one of many?”
Yes.
Pity is not something the real me has felt for a long time. I usually only experience it when living another’s life, but I feel it now. This poor mummified monstrosity on the transportation disc is little more than the clay trimmed from Nature’s mold, beaten into a mockery of the human form. Naked, much of its skin is split where a mass underneath has burst through in clusters of blackened polyps; the untorn patches are red and glistening with sores or clumps of wiry black hair. Both legs are bent at the knee in the lotus position, but one of them is at least twice the length of the other, and the foot is more like a hand; it has recognizable fingers and a thumb, but they are locked into a grasping claw shape, disproportionally long, with too many knuckles. The shorter leg could be mistaken for a tail if not for the five flattened toes at its end. A confusion of angry red flesh fills the pelvic cavity; there is no recognizable genitalia. The contorted, armless torso is shaped by a spine split into three distinct but twisted backbones, each of them meeting again at the base of the head, which is an openmouthed portrayal of agony. It is hard to maintain composure, and I find I cannot observe it any longer, so I direct my gaze elsewhere.
“So, this body is composed of an unknown quantum structure. Control, are there any similarities to normal quantum structures at all?”
Evidence of demi-praxons vibrating at lower wavelengths. No electrons or nucleonic structure. Organizational parameters indicate a triple-string-state helix.
“Is it matter? How is it solid?”
Solidity is illusion. Organization of proto-particulate architecture is stable.
“I see.” I don’t. “It may be pointless for me to ask you this, but how can this thing possibly exist, especially in humanoid form? And what is it doing on a planet that should have been destroyed billions of years ago?”
Unknown . . . Unknown.
I dare to look at it again, hoping that some sort of clue might be revealed as to its origins, but the more I look at it, the more it disturbs me.
“Control, please remove it. Place it in storage somewhere.”
It is a relief when it vanishes from the transportation disc, but the image of its suffering, the ugly fantasy of it writhing and screaming while it was still alive, perhaps with a host of others in an orgy of pain, persists, and I feel like I need to wash my mind.
I collapse back into my seat, and then a wild thought comes to me.
“Control, considering that this was vaguely human in form, could it have had a memory? Would it have been recorded in the Soul Consortium Archives?”
Unknown. Subject identity unknown. Therefore impossible to determine if a file exists.
I nod, still thinking. “Very well. What about that—what did you call it—proto-particulate architecture? Can you run a surface scan of the files or the codex to see if you can find a match?”
Yes . . . Yes.
“How long will it take?”
Approximately nine hours.
“Then do it. And while I wait, show me Castor’s World. I want to see this impossible planet for myself.”
The vast panoramic windows of the Observation Sphere shift as the imagers zoom in and focus on the mysterious world, and I feel a kick in the back of my mind—an endorphin release rewarding me for following this path of investigation. I want to think that it is because I have taken a step closer to Qod’s recovery, but I sense it is something else, something deeper, as if it is a response to subconscious stimulus. The thought irks me, and as the ravaged ball of rock and lava that is Castor’s World is brought into perfect clarity, I take a moment to dig through my mind. I regret it instantly. Like fingertips dipped in boiling water, my mind recoils at the attempt. Was that pain? It is something I only ever experience when living ancient lives, but the memory of that sensation is comparable.
Not wishing to provoke another pang, I return my attention to the world before me. I do not want to slow down the Control Core’s calculations, so I mentally access the data files myself and run a search for any standard historical files relating to Castor’s World. It was, or perhaps still is, the residence of an isolated colony of monks. Other than its unexpected presence, there is nothing particularly unusual about it, except that it was the closest habitable world to survive the Great Cataclysm after the Promethean Singularity collapsed at the center of the universe. There is nothing in the files that could explain how it could possibly have survived the expiration of the universe. With its uniquely designed Slipstream drive, only the Soul Consortium could escape that. There is no other such endeavor on record.
I spend the next few hours searching, sifting, and filtering data, hunting for anything that might provide a clue that could unravel this mystery, but it is only when the Control Core provides me with an answer to my query that I have a lead.
There are six hundred twenty-four files in the Soul Consortium Archives containing a match to the proto-particulate architecture found in the subjects on Castor’s World.
“Good. Can I access them?”
Access is available only by means of the WOOM.
“You mean I actually have to live as one of these things to find out what I need to know?”
Correct.
I go cold at the thought. It has been a long time since I have experienced suffering of any kind—a very long time—but the poor wretch that has now been sent to storage was illustration enough of what I would have to endure. I don’t know if I can go through with it, but even as I resist the idea, the subtle thrill of exploration tweaks the pleasure center of my brain, confirming I must. If I did live as one of these abominations, how could I be sure that I could glean anything from the experience? Was it capable of rational thought? Co
uld something like that even live for very long?
“Control, what is the average lifespan of these lives?”
Of six hundred and twenty-three of them, the average lifespan is three days. One survived for two hundred and seventy-seven years.
I groan. Three days is not enough time to learn anything, especially as the subject was unlikely to have any semblance of understanding or rational thought. It’s doubtful it even had any fully functioning senses. But two hundred and seventy-seven years? That is a long time to suffer. Nevertheless, the fact that one of them somehow managed to survive for so long when the others did not has to be significant. It seems I have little choice but to live out this poor soul’s memory.
Reluctantly I ask, “In which sphere will I find this life?”
The Sub-human Sphere.
“The what? I have not heard of that before. Explain.”
The Sub-human Sphere was never intended for immersion. None of the subject files stored in the Sub-human Sphere have been designated as Homo sapiens or Homo superior.
Of course. The oldest question. What does it mean to be human? The debate had raged and abated, corrupted and blessed, appalled and fascinated every sentient mind throughout mankind’s long and diverse history. Multitudes fluttered around that blurred line separating human from nonhuman. At what stage does a fetus become human? How damaged must a brain be to rule out self-awareness? And what about the interbreeding of different species? Some people even believed that AIs could be considered part of mankind’s spectrum—an extension of the human ego—with sentience of their own. I am the last human, but who was the first? Intellect, morality, and reason progressed in unnoticeable incremental changes as evolution drove the primates on, but somewhere in the Soul Consortium algorithms, an unsympathetic decision was made to discriminate between ape and human. And similar decisions were made for all the other cases that challenged our comfortable notion that true boundaries exist.
The Sub-human Sphere must be the resting place for every rejected specimen, every genetic failure, every aborted zygote, any unclassified entity with the capacity to remember its own existence, but tantalizingly close to the philosophical shape of man to raise doubt to a casual observer.
I begin to wonder if my own life will end up there.
I have lived so many lives that most of my own life is not, in fact, my own. Have I been diluted into the pool of civilization to such an extent that I no longer have a unique identity? Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I stare at the one remaining empty slot in the Soul Consortium Archives and try to imagine which sphere I will eventually be filed in. I do not know, and perhaps it is better that I do not. I have not even decided if I want to die yet.
Do you wish to visit the Sub-human Sphere?
“Hmm?” I break from my introspection and suddenly remember why I had taken that line of thinking. “Oh, the anomaly. Yes. Yes, I do want to go there. I think I have to live the life of the sub-human that lived the longest.”
It is not recomm—
“No! Don’t try to talk me out of it. I’ll yield without a second thought, and I can’t afford that. I’m not sure why, but I believe I may find answers by living that life, however terrible it may be.”
It is not recomm—
“Quiet! And don’t try that again. Set up the immersion. I have to go now before I change my mind.”
THREE
En route to the new sphere, the Control Core provides me with more disturbing facts about this mysterious strain of sub-humans. According to the summary data associated with their files, they were only stored in the sphere because of the human DNA that was blended with the unknown quantum structure. Originating near a place called Babylon amidst one of mankind’s earliest civilizations, they were hybrids spawned by a single human mother and fathered by something akin to the mummified husk I viewed earlier. Most were not equipped to survive, but one did.
I am about to become acquainted with Diabolis Evomere.
The fact that my subject is so named tells me he is far more than a surviving freak of nature. A name implies identity, of course, but the name is not Babylonian; it is Latin, etymologically of later origin. It is a mystery indeed, but one that I am not looking forward to solving. If the expression of agony and sadness I witnessed on the fossilized face of that unfortunate creature I saw earlier is any indication of what I am about to experience, I am not encouraged. Two hundred and seventy-seven years of torture. Is that what I should expect when I live his life?
I am left with the irony of impatience as I wait a mere ten minutes for the Control Core to configure the Sub-human Sphere for my immersion. There was no WOOM installed. Why would there be if it was never intended for human visitation? I would be the first human to set foot inside it and the first and only person to walk the mindscape of a being whose thought processes would probably be completely alien to my own.
I stand outside the door, waiting, pacing, worrying. A part of me begs me to leave, to simply wait, because Qod is too powerful and wise to simply die in such a quick and insignificant way and to endure the pains of a creature who is not only genetically different from a human, but atomically different too, is foolhardy. But I have to go. I am compelled to do so, not just because of the sense of urgency that is steadily growing but because of the unpredictability, the sense of mystery, and the lure of the unknown. There is danger in that sphere, and I yearn to embrace it. I long to feel the reality of it, knowing that—although the life itself is mere memory—the risk of exploring it is not a simulation. Most of my life has been a journey of virtual reality, but this . . . this is real danger. I do not know what the long-term results of an immersion like this will be, and Qod is not here to dissuade me.
The door opens.
I am used to seeing the cool aquamarine colors of the Bliss Sphere, but this is very different. The sphere colors usually match the mood—sensory hints about the type of experience awaiting the user. In here the mood is foreboding. The light is subdued. Gray gloom with the faint golden luminescence of a million soul files lining the walls. It reminds me of an overcast sky swollen with storm clouds behind which a bright sun struggles to peek through. I stand in the doorway, torn. A new WOOM levitates at the sphere’s center, waiting like a dark god to unfold its shroud, embrace me, then suffocate me within its greasy folds.
Subject X0.008130E+30: Select.
Subject X0.008130E+30: Subhuman. Possible incompatibility.
Subject X0.008130E+30: Aberration detected.
Subject X0.008130E+30: Override authorized—ID Salem Ben.
Subject X0.008130E+30: Activate. Immersion commences in three minutes.
Instinctively I ready myself to ignore the standard warning speech that accompanies immersion into a life memory, but Qod is not here, and it does not come. For some reason this worries me. It feels like the removal of a safety rail on the edge of a cliff that I always climb down anyway. As if I only now realize that there has always been someone there to catch me should I fall and that the precautionary chatter was more of a reassurance than a warning. I am in completely new territory. For the first time in millions of years, my palms are sweating.
A multitude of black, hair-thin fibers unfurl from the walls, reach for me, then scoop me up. The lips of the WOOM draw back and the mouth opens wide to taste me, preparing to swallow me into the life of Diabolis Evomere. I hold my breath and wait as darkness follows and the icy flow of nanofibers penetrate my brain. Only two hundred and seventy-seven years to endure . . .
diabolis evomere
Have I the eyes of Eternity?
Have I the wisdom to see?
Do the roads of time lay bare for me?
And will there torture be?
ONE
I have transitioned. My world is new, and I have a mother. My eternal consciousness has duplicated many times over to merge with eggs inside her fertile womb. But I am not just a mind that inhabits an embryo: I am substance, form that has made use of the minutiae within the quantum compo
nents of this universe to forge particles uniquely different from the humble atom. My flesh is different, but the properties of the indigo light wielded beyond the wet and opaque purse that has nourished us for these last months have forced it to bond with the molecules of this, my new home. The struggling fetus with which I have spent many days melding suffers because of our blasphemous union. It does not yet have a fully developed brain to understand pain, but I can feel it within our newly developed nervous system, and when its mind blossoms, it will dominate me; only one of us can govern the body. We must each take our turn.
United, my brood brothers wrestle within the pulpy folds of our mother, and now we are forced to rip through her womb and experience the hot Babylonian air. I am the last to silently spill out onto the sand-covered floor. All of the other newborns have been born blind, but I am fully sighted, and my newly formed eyes, fat and jellylike, take in the sight of my siblings as they squirm to seek refuge. Sculpted from the two fused materials of separate realms, we are blotchy, red babes, abominations of bloated heads and ropy, translucent limbs with scarcely the strength to drag our twisted bodies forward. We are out in the open now, exposed and vulnerable, but I have seen the discarded robes of my mother, near the entrance to the antechamber, and manage to slither beneath the hessian folds.
Survival. This is the only reality now. For others there are the illusions of lust, altruism, pleasure, and duty—mere constructs of the mind to serve the everlasting struggle to continue existing—but for me, in these critical moments after birth, survival is all that matters. It is more than the instinct of a newborn. I have knowledge passed to me by the indigo light that saturated my mother’s infested brain before death took her, and more, far more than that. I know from where I have come, and I know who hunts me. He has named himself Keitus Vieta, though he does not know who he truly is. Oh, he has great knowledge, yes, and he understands much about his origins, but the madness of immortality and his obsession with the creation of perfect life warps his mind, and he knows little about his true purpose. Or mine.
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