Through the Reality Warp

by Donald J. Pfeil

  “The computations we’ve made show that our universe, in relation to theirs, is only a matter of a few feet across. They’ve obviously developed some way of handling it, of holding it in one spot, so as to channel the energy they want from our universe into theirs. Whoever goes will have to use that same machinery to get our universe far away from them. Maybe he can send it out into space, and then keep it far away from them for a few hundred years—say, by putting it on an open-end orbit into extragalactic space. If they’ve got to work on an encapsulated universe, let them find another one and leave ours alone.”

  “A rather chauvinistic attitude,” Billiard interjected.

  “A survival attitude.”

  The pilot looked around him at the other men in the room: four men who were not able to meet his eyes. “So even if I succeed in the mission, it’s still a suicide mission?”

  “If you don’t succeed,” the guild general said, looking up at Billiard, “it’s death for every living being in our universe.”

  “Okay. When do we start?”

  IV

  The space seed was buffeted, pulled, torn, twisted, and spun about in an insane hell where neither time nor space had any meaning. Gravitational repulsion held the seed in irresistible bonds, then threw it out from the spiderwebbed center of the “white hole,” where ghostlike gravitational fields wound about a home in the glaring incoming fountain of energy. Through the warp in reality, a flood of degenerate matter and energy raced on a one-way path, nothing ever going back, everything falling in, and had taken with it the seed—locked in its silver stasis field—through a magnetic field so strong as to have almost material properties.

  The gravitational gradient pushed at the stasis field, one million gravities of repulsion at the nose of the seed, a million and a quarter at the tail, putting such a stress on the field that even time was distorted in eddies over the seed’s silver skin, electrons running backward in their orbits while material a millionth of an inch below the field greedily sucked up photons, emitting a glare of antilight.

  Space infinitely crushed gave way to an infinity of time, each becoming less than infinite, ebbing until the seed flashed across the event horizon, its speed undiminished even though the threshold where photons again moved below the local speed of light had been passed. Rainbow-hued stress patterns washed across the seed as the stasis field flexed to protect the infinite mass inside from interacting with the near-infinite mass of its surroundings. Fighting that strain, the field-controlling computer did not notice the infinitesimally small addition as a variety of weapons tried to destroy the seed.

  Though still spanning parsecs with each passing second, the seed gradually slowed. Hundreds of light-years sped by while the colors slowly faded and the tremendous energy potential was sucked back into the engines. Finally, after hours of deceleration, the skin of the seed suddenly lost its silvery sheen, becoming instead a pale blue, accepting photons and reflecting them back instead of swallowing them whole, shining in the starlight which was now moving through space faster than the seed.

  In many places, the smooth shell of the seed was now suddenly broken as hatches and tubes and waveguide acceptors opened, an array of antennas and detectors sprouting from the otherwise clean surface of the egg-shaped vehicle. Radiation was recorded and analyzed. Inside, a computer flashed nanosecond comparisons against stored standards; then the nose of the seed turned, dipped, lining up on an almost insignificant yellow star so far away as to be lost to sight, had anyone been looking, against the scattered diamonds of the surrounding starfield.

  Drive forces again warped space behind the seed, velocity built; then an explosion of awesome power sent the ship past the local speed of light. The silver shield of its stasis field again enveloped the seed, protecting the universe from the potential energy stored inside—enough energy to destroy a good part of whatever galaxy it was in, should it be unleashed.

  Days passed and the yellow star grew steadily larger ahead of the seed.

  The computer now transferred three electrons from this orbit to that orbit, decided that the proper amount of time had passed, and the seed again dropped below the speed of light. Scanning instruments probed, locating, measuring, cataloging the fourteen planets circling the yellow sun. The seed paused, searched; then decided, and moved. Hours later it settled into the dusty heart of a comet on its way into the system, and the computer tied into the scanning library and began its prime task. Picking up signals passing through space on hundreds of different wavelengths, scanning and correlating, accepting and rejecting, the computer became a teacher for the single human being it carried as cargo. Locked in his cryogenic tank in death-like sleep, Latham Billiard began to become less an Earth-human and more an inhabitant of this new universe on the other side of the reality warp.

  TWO

  I

  Outside the dome, on the barren plain that was a typical feature of Zemaros, a barely habitable outpost planet in the Lori System, the temperature was over a hundred degrees below the freezing point of water. Furthermore, ammonia and methane clouds ensured that no man without a portable environment unit was going to wander around.

  Possibly because of these conditions, which Billiard had passed through only hours before on his way from the shuttle field to the dome, it seemed even warmer inside than the 25 degrees Centigrade which the colonists who had built the dome considered optimum.

  Even though windows were completely useless in a necessarily enclosed, controlled environment, Billiard’s room was equipped with a pair of them; they were cast from delite, the material used in spaceship port construction, and were at least three-quarters of an inch thick. Local law required that each building inside the dome be environmentally self-contained, in case of dome failure, and only delite was adequate for windows, in case of explosive decompression. It was expensive to rent a suite with such old-fashioned windows—and there were consequently few apartments that had them—but Billiard was willing pay for it: he had a role that had to be played, and that role required that he accept nothing but the very best.

  Billiard stood looking out one of the windows, down at the central park area, wondering if he had made the right choice. It had taken him almost six months to get a handle on the society of the Lorian Empire. Six months of posing, first as a Merutian trader from halfway across this galaxy, then as a Lorian who happened to be raised in Goromi territory and who was just now returning to the stars of his ancestors.

  These poses had been necessary. Even though the computers in the space seed had been able to pick up, catalog, and then sleep-teach him the Lorian language, in the beginning he discovered that his attempts to melt into Lorian society, even on an outpost planet such as Zemaros, would be doomed to failure. There was just too much about the culture he didn’t know. The computer could teach him everything it could pick up from Lorian broadcasts, but the incredible number of details that are never mentioned—simply because there was no need for a Lorian to even think about them—constantly caused Billiard to stumble when he tried to pose as a native. Fortunately, he never stumbled in the presence of a Redhat. But after a few short days of attempting to integrate himself into the culture he realized this was impossible, and so he set up his first cover, that of a Merutian.

  His computer, in analyzing the Lorian social structure, had made several predictions regarding Billiard’s mission. It was, the computer told him, 87 percent certain that the work on his own captive universe was being done by scientists under the control of the Red-hats—the Lorian secret service, political police, and shock troops, all rolled up into one unit. The remaining 13 percent chance was broken up into an 8 percent possibility that the work was a straight government project not under Redhat control, and 5 percent that it was a civilian affair.

  Billiard had gone with the 87 percent chance, instructed the computer of that decision, and then followed the course outlined by the computer. Now, as he stood looking out one of the windows, he began to have doubts. And today he would be com
mitted to a course of action…

  The computer had instructed him to look for a classified advertisement in the Lorian news media, and now he wondered if he had answered the right ad—in the right way. He wondered, too, if the plan he had picked—from the three the computer had prepared—was the right one, the one that would give him entry into the upper circles of the Lorian government. That was the only place from which he would be able to affect the progress of the encapsulation-probe experiments.

  He took a drink from the glass in his hand, grimaced as the slightly flavored grain alcohol burned his throat, wondered about introducing the concept of whiskey to this universe, then started and turned as the com-unit on the wall buzzed for his attention.

  When Billiard flipped the switch, the screen remained pearl-gray even though the unit’s green light glowed, indicating a completed circuit.

  “Mr. Loo?” a voice asked.

  Loo was the name Billiard had used for the past three months, polishing his pose as a returned member of Lorian society. Loo was, of course, the name he had used when he’d answered the ad. He had agreed, later, to a meeting on the basis of his computer’s analysis of the answer he had received from the people who’d placed the ad.

  “That’s right,” he answered. “Why no vision?”

  He stood in front of the unit, still holding his drink, unconcerned that his image was being transmitted to an unknown location, being seen by unknown people. At this point he didn’t really have too much to fear from the various police agencies that would soon be searching a large chunk of space for him.

  “Because it is necessary,” the faceless voice answered. “Again, is this Mr. Loo?”

  “Mr. Loo was called away tomorrow,” Billiard said dryly, “but will be here yesterday. Now, does that satisfy your little game?”

  “Please, Mr. Loo,” the voice said with a certain degree of petulance in its tone, “this is not a game. May I come up?”

  “Of course. Unless you want to call the whole thing off before we even get started,” Billiard said with a laugh.

  Again, he had a role to play, one which he could not afford to forget for a minute. He was a stranger in this society, despite the in-flight training he had received from his computer, and despite the three months he had spent moving quietly—as a Merutian trader—through the society. Only by developing a comprehensive personality profile which fit the society and the part he was aiming to play in it, and sticking to that profile every minute of the day and night, could he hope to succeed.

  Minutes later, a soft bell rang. Billiard set his drink on the small table next to his bed, walked across the room, and pressed the button to open the door. As it slid into its recess, he quickly stepped to one side. Keeping the bulk of his body out of the door frame, he reached through the opening and grabbed the man who stood there.

  Caught off balance, the visitor fell forward, following the pull on his forearm, into the room. Billiard pivoted around behind him, and before the stranger could catch his balance Billiard had thoroughly frisked him, removing a small bubbler from a bicep holster.

  Slowly, making sure his intentions were fully understood, the man turned to face Billiard. At first glance he appeared more like an accountant or minor bureaucrat than an advance agent for a revolutionary army. About 175 centimeters tall, massing only about 70 kilos, his spare frame was encased in an ultraconservative-cut business jock and old-fashioned short-sleeve shrug, leaving the area between his nipples and navel bare and showing a slightly incongruous tan. One would have supposed that a person with his conservative dress would be slug-white and flabby, but just the opposite seemed true. Here was a man to be wary of, Billiard thought.

  As Billiard stared at his visitor the stranger was returning the examination. And considering what he was looking for, what he saw in front of him must have been pleasing. Billiard stood over 190 centimeters tall and massed some 105 kilos. A severely rectangular face under jet-black hair was dominated by brooding brown eyes sunk deep in cavernous sockets and a great, hooked beak of a nose. Clad in an almost nonexistent sport jock and torso harness, Billiard’s body clearly showed the amount of time and effort he spent keeping his muscles in top shape.

  “My name is Goldaper. Renri Goldaper. And you are Mr. Loo?”

  “Mr. Loo. Actually, Mr. Billiard. Latham Billiard. Take your pick. I am apparently the man you have been after for quite some time, judging by the ads you’ve been running in the newstabs for the past few months. Sit down.”

  Goldaper nodded, and pulled a solid chair from near the wall, ignoring the relaxer only a few feet away. “You answered our ad, so you must have some understanding of just what we are looking for.”

  “A person with no ties and a taste for adventure. I think that’s the way you worded it. A person with leadership abilities and competence in the direction of exploratory operations. And a person with military field-training experience.”

  “And what sort of person does that sound like to you?” Goldaper asked.

  “On the face of it, you’re looking for a captain willing to ignore treaties and take an interstellar exploration team into Sutet or Goromi territory. But I don’t think that’s what you’re really after.”

  “No? Why not?” Goldaper asked, a slight smile on his face.

  “For one thing, if that’s all you’re after, you wouldn’t have been running the ad for so long. Exploration-team captains—especially those willing to break the law—are rare, but not that rare. And for another, you chose a very interesting array of newstabs to advertise in. None which appear on Lori itself. None which have supported the government or the God in the past. None which are big enough to attract much attention from the Redhats.”

  “So what are we really looking for, Mr. Billiard?”

  “I’ve made some guesses. And one of those guesses tells me that once you get around to telling me what you’re really after, you’ll have quite effectively put your life in my hands. So suppose we stop playing games and you make up your mind whether you’re going to trust me or simply leave,” Billiard suggested, nodding toward the door.

  “I’m going to trust you, of course. I would not have come this far if I didn’t have instructions to take a chance on you,” Goldaper said easily.

  “And if I turn out to be a Redhat?”

  “I’m dead. Before, I might add, you have a chance to question me. We’ve taken that precaution, at least.”

  Again the smile, and this time, behind it, Billiard saw a trace of fear that made his respect for Goldaper rise considerably. He had begun to dislike the man and his supercilious attitude, but for a man to walk into a possible arrest by Redhats, knowing what might happen and accepting it, took courage. Imminent capture by Redhats demanded a quick, self-induced death, preferably taking several of those police along to whatever hell there might be. Anything else was too horrible to contemplate.

  “Your reply to our ad indicated you have had rather extensive military experience—”

  “Yes,” Billiard interjected. “With the Goromi insurgents, and as a Guardian with the Regality of Mannilo.”

  Billiard had prepared his cover carefully. The claim of experience was necessary if he was going to get the position he needed. It was also a claim impossible for Goldaper to check.

  “—and,” Goldaper continued as if he had not been interrupted, “a man with extensive military experience is just what we are looking for. A man to train combat crews, rather than to fight. But a man who, if he so desires, can lead those crews into battle when the day for action comes.”

  “What men? And into battle against whom?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that, Mr. Billiard.”

  “I think I do, too. But suppose you put the cards right out on the table where we can both see them.”

  “Very well. We’re forming a guerrilla force to overthrow the government of Lori, depose the God, and put our own God in the Star Palace. A force which needs training and leadership.”

  Gol
daper sat back, relaxed but ready should Billiard tell him that, now that he had made the proposition, he was under arrest for treason.

  “How many men? What sort of equipment?”

  The Lorian visibly loosened. “Two hundred men at present. More, later, if you feel you need them. You shouldn’t, though. The Redhats are the only real forces the God has. Lori hasn’t needed anything more than a ceremonial army and navy for fifty years—not since the Truce of P’tha ended the Goromi War. As for equipment: Mark-21 combat boats, three Zav-class transports, and an orbital monitor for the final phase of the operation.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Billiard said, taking a chance on increasing Goldaper’s suspicion but anxious to pick up more information on his prime mission, “that the Redhats may be working on some kind of new superweapon. Something that will give them complete control of the end of the galaxy, and will mean a different conclusion to the Goromi affair. If they think this new weapon will make them strong enough to take on the Goromi again, what makes you think they won’t be able to swat your revolutionary forces down like miffi bugs?”

  Goldaper looked startled. “You must have a very good source to pick up rumors like that.”

  “I have,” Billiard said simply, relieved that his computer’s prediction of who would be doing the work on the captive universe appeared to be correct. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

  “Our information, which I can assure you is much more and better founded than mere rumor, says, yes, that the Redhats are working on some sort of super-weapon. Actually, it’s supposed to be a new form of power—or, perhaps, a new power supply—rather than a weapon per se. But our informants also tell us that the whole thing is still in the research stage, and that the revolutionaries have at least five years before they have to worry about it.”