“To keep the sentient beings in line,” Pandavas answered.
“Or else...?”
“Or else they might somehow reveal the truth to the Urgrund, which in turn would threaten the Artifact’s control. I see you still aren’t convinced. But it happens occasionally. In Brahmanism, we recognize these revelatory periods as the ending of a great cycle. Shiva awakens, as in the story of Arjuna – and the slate is wiped clean. Only to have the cycle repeated when Brahma slips back into forgetfulness and another Artifact emerges to install a new brand of enslavement. Until the next awakening. Metaphors, of course, for the true mechanism, the actual physics of this destruction and creation. Immense paroxysms are involved. What we are witnessing now, in the context of history as we all misperceive it, are dysfunctions that would be expected at the end of such a cycle. But a final great conflagration is still required ― a shock to the underlying fabric of existence.”
“Do you have proof of any of this?” Lyköan asked.
Pandavas seemed happy to oblige. “There’s proof in the symmetry between the macrocosmos: the ever-expanding physical universe – and the microcosmos: the human mind.
“On the surface we have the familiar universe, the spurious projected reality. Haven’t you ever suspected as much? Beneath it, however, lies the authentic universe ― or more correctly…” Pandavas paused. “Universes. Unfortunately, human beings rarely achieve the penetrative insight required to perceive this genuine substratum.
“The human mind is simply too limited an instrument, our little egos too brief and transitory, unable to perceive that behind the projected veil dwells an absolute. But if that veil is penetrated, the authentic reality ― with which it is inexorably linked ― can be revealed.
“That doesn’t sound like a proof to me,” Lyköan broke in. “Am I missing something? How about an example?”
“I’ll give you two: Zoroaster and the Buddha. In the past, the linkage has always been limited to spiritual inspiration. But scientific inquiry can just as surely obtain the desired end. Using the very clues left by the Urgrund itself ― clearly espoused in the elemental building blocks of our creation ― we can pierce the veil and expose that true and more authentic reality.”
“Don’t include me in your little nightmare, champ. I don’t buy it. How does an annihilative pandemic serve the interests of creation?”
“Whether you care to be involved or not, you’ve already been integral to the anamnesis.”
“The what?”
“Anamnesis, literally ‘the loss of forgetfulness’. The Overmind being jogged into remembering its own identity. Transcendent revelation, by disinhibiting certain synaptic and metabolic pathways through precise stimulation from an external source. In the proper setting, an irreversible neural process can be set in motion and the veil of false reality drawn away.
“This search for personal anamnesis is not without precedent. Giordano Bruno, the fourteenth century Italian philosopher and alchemist, spent his entire life plumbing human DNA gene pool memory with some success. Much of our work with Hypothecated Modeling has confirmed his postulations. But he was never able to take the most critical next step because he didn’t possess the necessary tools ― the biologic and technical instruments required. Although he had discovered a key, unlocked one door, there were literally thousands of other doors that needed similar keys before full anamnesis could even be hypothesized. But where he fell short, we have succeeded.”
Lyköan was dumbstruck. That ain’t the deep end you’ve fallen into, Doc, it’s the abyss!
“There is one more important point to consider,” Pandavas added after a few well-deserved breaths. “In adjusting existence at the end of each age, these periods of universal anamnesis, everything is altered ― the whole of creation.
“Don’t look so incredulous, Lyköan. The concept isn’t limited to Eastern religions. You have Noah’s flood in the Old Testament. Christ’s Second Coming in the New. The sheep separated from the goats. Slightly more surgical I’ll admit, but conflagratory nonetheless. Each ending sets the stage for the Rebirth of Order, after the slate has been wiped completely clean.”
Whether Lyköan believed any of this ominous diatribe was immaterial. Pandavas obviously believed all of it. Believed it enough to excuse and commit murder on a global scale. Logic rarely complements faith. And self-proclaimed avatars always seem to find apostles, folks out in the world at large, some of them quite intelligent, who did or would or at least could believe just about anything. Pandavas’s lunacy wasn’t much different than the Jim Jones Kool-Aid drinkers or those Hale-Bopp comet wackos. Except in scope. Pandavas wasn’t any more insane, just billions of times more dangerous.
“That’s all well and good,” Lyköan felt forced to argue. “But it’s still only an argument, not a proof. Isn’t there just the wee tiniest chance these nano-whatever alterations you’ve made in the brains of your little band of Shiva age-enders might have fucked up your thinking ― that while you actually believe what you’re doing is part of some grand design, just maybe it’s not in the best interests of my universe?”
“There are plenty of others.”
“Other what?”
“Other universes,” Pandavas beamed matter-of-factly.
“Oh,” Lyköan replied with a slow nod of his head. Remember, you’re arguing with a madman.
“Call them universes, dimensions, or membranes ― whatever you’d like.”
Sure, whatever floats your boat, Lyköan thought.
“You want proof?” Pandavas offered. “I can give you as much concrete proof – mathematical and metaphysical certitude ― as you could ever handle.”
“Proof of what? And what proof?”
“Of everything I’ve been saying. That the real universe is not limited to the four dimensions. Or even the additional seven dimensions required of string theory ― or the ten thousand dimensions recognized in the Bhagavad-Gītā. No, my friend, the actual fullness of creation is composed of an infinite number of dimensions. I prefer the term uchronia, but the name is immaterial. Taken together, they form a multiverse of sublime expanse and complexity.”
Pandavas looked quite happy with himself. “Like laying an infinite number of Landsat photographic films on a map of the city of London, each of them slightly different. As you move away, in the membranous stack, from our present reality, the position of some mailboxes, for instance, will shift, then the facades of some buildings.
“Let’s say this is our present reality,” Pandavas indicated, slicing the air with an open palm, serving as his divisor. Then, placing his other palm against the first, he slowly drew it away horizontally, continuing, “As we move farther and farther from our starting point, each new membrane ― sheet of film in our example ― becomes progressively different from the reality with which we are familiar – and the alterations more dramatic.
“At the same time, the cascading interactivity of lives shift... Alternate realities as far as the mind of man can imagine and the Artifact can control ― virtually without end ― and because of every chance change available within every passing second, ever expanding.
“For instance, in a uchronion not yet very far removed from our own, the twin towers never collapsed and the Platte River nuclear plot was thwarted without the loss of a single life.”
“Yeah, right,” Lyköan muttered, thinking: If only. Where was the data from this alleged research? Would love to see that. Whatever proof did exist, it apparently had been enough to convince Pandavas. For a lunatic, that probably didn’t take much.
Ignoring Lyköan’s sarcasm, Pandavas continued. “Most differences, however, are much more subtle ― would be entirely unnoticed by the casual observer. If you were to walk the streets of London, let’s say, in a closely proximate uchronion, it would only be after a considerable amount of time or by careful investigation, that you could ever distinguish any difference at all. But let me assure you, the millions of minute variations do change the direction of individual
futures, dividing and redividing them into multiple, ever expanding could-have-beens ― creating actual weres. Move far enough away, however, and the changes become startling ― completely divergent from our present reality ― until they bear little resemblance to the reality we find so familiar and take for granted.”
“With the help of clues embedded in the analyzed Fibonacci-refracted DNA, we were able to tap across the vast expanse of infinite realities – all of these uchronia packed closer together than the atoms comprising what science considers the limits of the physical universe. Though, to paraphrase Hamlet, my dear Lyköan, there is much more to the structure of existence than was ever dreamed of in anyone’s philosophy.”
This sounded like a universe even more bizarre than the one Dick Bachman popularized in his fiction, that bestseller about a plague that inadvertently brings human history to a final contest between the archetypal metaphysical powers of good and evil. The tale Pandavas was pushing was about as plausible. And though it was still easier to believe Pandavas had tripped over that famously blurred line between genius and madness, the distance between Lyköan’s outright disregard and possible acceptance was shrinking. By definition there was only one universe and it comprised everything, right? Even if this multitude of universes ― what had he called it? ― this multiverse, actually existed, what impact could that possibly have on this reality?
“In one of those proximate realities,” Pandavas was rambling, “and one not so very far away – your beloved Karen hasn’t died, but you have, my friend. In another, both of you will live on into old age, but estranged.”
“That would never have happened.”
“Hard to believe? Care to take a look?”
“You have it all on video, I suppose.”
“Something even better, my friend. Much better. Proof positive that what I’m saying is true. Why would I go through all this trouble, Lyköan, if I couldn’t produce that much? And with that proof, provide assurance that your deepest desire, one you think utterly impossible, is even now within your grasp.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Edge of the Ledge
Never was there a time when I did not exist, nor you, nor all of these kings; nor in the future shall any of us cease to be.
Bhagavad-Gītā : Text 12
The smell of diesel exhaust, the heat and humidity, the cacophony of urban sounds ― yes, it was definitely a typical midtown Manhattan summer day. Lyköan was sitting on the hard granite steps of the New York Public Library’s Fifth Avenue main entrance, at the paws of one of its great, sculpted Tennessee marble lions. The sun stood high in a cloudless sky, thermal waves shimmering off macadam and concrete.
He was still a bit dazed. In the southern distance the twin glass spires of the World Trade Center gleamed blindingly, reflective geometry piercing the midday sky. It was a dream. It had to be. He’d had similar dreams before. The kind of dreams that could make you lose your bearings. Or wish there was some way to trade places with your dream self. Forever.
Down the crowded sidewalk a compellingly attractive woman, one of the living, breathing throng of lunch-hour revelers, was approaching with an expectant smile beaming on her face. Karen looked stunning; the slight summer breeze blowing wisps of silken amber strands away from her face in picture-perfect, beckoning undulations, exposing that clear, flawless, almost ethereally pale complexion, so vibrant and alive. God, he had forgotten how angelic she had looked, far more beautiful than any indistinct dream display or the fading images from his waking memory ― pulling ever more imperfect details and forming less and less clearly as time had passed.
The scene was playing out in painfully artful slow motion, every arching stride she took turned into an ache as the distance between them dwindled. He felt frozen to the step, paralyzed, and momentarily confused. The noise of the multitude ― electronic music and truck engines, ambient cell phone conversations ― had all disappeared as the woman in the tan summer skirt and white blouse cinematically bounded up the stairs, a breathlessly lilting laughter in her voice.
“I’ve only got about forty minutes, but I just had to come and tell you the good news in person. Oh, Egan, it’s just wonderful!”
Lyköan wondered how many minutes were left. He’d already been sitting on the steps for a few. What had Pandavas warned? No more than twenty minutes for such a ‘slip-stream excursion’ would be permitted. Any longer and certain irreversible conflicts would develop. Before any could occur, he would be snatched away.
With difficulty, he rose on weak and wobbly knees. Karen vaulted the last step and touched him.
“Here, c’mon. Let’s get something to eat ― quick,” she said, grabbing him at the elbow and, leaning close against him, brushed his mouth familiarly with her own warm, deliciously-glossed lips ― as though they had left each other only temporarily, earlier this morning ― rather than forever, five years before. Her familiar fragrance, a mixture of a favored perfume and Karen herself, brought back a flood of memories almost too painful to bear. He tried, but couldn’t speak.
“What’s the matter, silly? Are you alright? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, no, nothing’s wrong.” He didn’t know what to say ― how to deal appropriately with this ghost come back to life in the few minutes that remained. There had been little time to plan for this encounter ―
“I’m certain we can place you in a very appealing uchronion,” Pandavas had guaranteed.
“You keep using that word, what does it mean?”
“An ‘alternate history’ ― where you and your wife are alive at this very moment ― no guarantees for the outcome of the future from there, you understand. There is absolutely no way to determine the future. While our capabilities are considerable, time remains an insurmountable limitation.”
“Man’s reach should always exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for, right doc?” Lyköan had returned, convinced this was some kind of elaborate hoax. But that had been before he found himself here. That had been years or miles or ― hell, there was no way to quantify these dimensions ― some chiasmic distance ago. In any case, before now.
And Lyköan was breathing in the now, savoring the instant, wishing he could somehow extend, stretch out time itself ― forever exist in this present, immersed in these brief minutes. He put his arm around Karen and drew her close as they walked side-by-side down the steps and onto the crowded sidewalk, heading for a street-corner vendor. Her flesh was warm and soft ― and brutally transient. Tears were welling up in his eyes.
“I’m so glad you could make it down here,” he finally managed to get out.
“Oh, but I just had to see you. The news is fabulous,” she exaggerated, bowing forward in a feigned guffaw. “Scrivener’s has taken an option on my book – movie rights – everything! Egan, I just signed an eight hundred thousand dollar contract. Can you believe it?” She was obviously elated, more ebullient than he could ever remember.
“That’s wonderful,” he announced perhaps a bit too half-heartedly.
She stopped in mid-stride. Passersby swept around and past them on the sidewalk. Looking into his face and seeing the tears, she asked, “There is something wrong, isn’t there?”
Can she sense the change in me? he wondered.
“No, honestly, I’m just so happy for you,” he said, attempting to explain away the tears.
“Don’t give me that. What is it?” she demanded.
“Oh, hard to explain. Something just came over me. Don’t worry about it, just a frightening sense of déjà vu is all. Nothing really. So, tell me all the details,” he said, trying to imbue his words with happy earnestness.
There was no sense in disturbing the idyllic life of this other Egan ― or was it all the same Egan? Was it another soul, or the same, connected in some unfathomable fashion to the him he thought he was? In any case, there wasn’t time to explain the tumultuous waterfall of events and altered peculiarities to this Karen in the few moments they had remaining to this them.
It would serve no useful purpose. If he tried to explain any of it she’d probably think, with some justification and perhaps correctly, that he had lost his mind.
Walking to the corner and stepping off the sidewalk, they stopped at a steaming Nathan’s kiosk, the aroma of hot oils and long forgotten American spices filling the air around the cart. Lyköan looked at the short menu scrawled on a hand-lettered sign hanging from the red and white striped umbrella. He ordered two smothered hotdogs with everything, just as they had done so often oh those long years ago.
“It’s really unbelievable. Sid Freeman, the contemporary fiction editor, just loved it. The publishers were absolutely gah-gah. They’ve scheduled a first run of half a million copies ― that’s almost unheard of for a first novel. Plus, I receive fifty-percent residuals on subsequent printings. And I can still negotiate paperback rights with anyone, though Scrivener’s retains rights of first refusal on any negotiated price. I never imagined this writing business could be so lucrative! It’s like a dream come true.”
And it was. Before her life had been cut short on the tragic journalism assignment to middle America, Karen had spoken more than once about wanting to write a story, the seeds of which had only then been germinating. So this is how that might have turned out ― had turned out ― just somewhere and somewhen else.
“I’m really proud of you, sweetheart. You made it happen,” Lyköan said, happy for this ghost, so full of life that it made him heartsick. “We’ll have to celebrate.” The other Egan would have said something similar, he knew. He was mesmerized; unable to take his eyes off this beautiful Persephone come back from the underworld. He took the wallet out of this other Egan’s back pocket and removed a few bills.
“That’ll be thirteen-fifty, Mac,” the vendor announced in a strangely familiar voice. Startled, Lyköan looked into the man’s face, astonished delirium spiraling in the wake of the last word.
The SONG of SHIVA Page 25
