by Tara Basi
Chapter Six – Science
I am shepherded, like a needle through a buttonhole, back to the Odd door. For the first time since I began this odyssey, there is a lightness in my step and the shadow of a smile on my face. Surely, I am now qualified to begin my appeal, and, hopefully, Zero himself will be awaiting me in the cave, rather than another of his variable-height messengers.
The Odd door is firmly pushed aside, and I stride confidently onwards. In front of the door to my workhouse, I find only a little-larger Zero emissary. My legs are suddenly heavy, my breathing stops and then races away, accompanied by my faint smile. The courier is still a head shorter than myself. The buttons on its Encounter gown have multiplied and it fits a little better. The sleeves are ruffled up to allow the gloves to loosely enclose its hands, one of which is holding another dreadful blue envelope. Despite my efforts to be strong, my lips are weak and they tremble timidly.
“For pity’s sake,” I say, “end this charade. Fetch Zero. I demand useful intelligence. This befuddlement is unbearable. Do you know what I have endured? The slanders? The humiliation?”
“Heavy, Ma, really heavy.”
“How dare you address me in that way? It is unseemly and distasteful. I am by no means overweight. Where is Zero?”
“Chill, Ma. I’m Zero.”
I cannot bear it. “You have the voice of a child. You have the stature of a child. You have the manner of a child. Childishness cannot save me. It must be put aside and Zero himself summoned!”
I snatch the blue envelope from the messenger’s hand and enter my workhouse, slamming the door behind me. At once, I regret my rudeness. The adolescent is, no doubt, unable to comprehend his or my situation. I shall be positive and assume the growing stature of Zero’s messengers indicates that Zero himself will shortly be making an appearance.
I must get on. It’s already thirty past ten. I study the contents of the latest blue envelope.
Your existence must be proven for an appeal to proceed. An appointment has been made for ten past eleven this very morning.
Zero
I stamp my feet as if my sandals are on fire. My hand tightens into a fist, crushing the small note into a crumpled ball that I throw at the wall of my workhouse. I fling open the workhouse door and charge outside, take hold of the messenger by the shoulders and, with what little strength I have, give the creature a good shake.
“Zero’s behaviour is outrageous. What is this nonsense?”
He does not resist and does not answer. Gently, he takes my hands from his shoulders and holds them tight. “Chill, Ma, I’m getting there, really. A little patience, Ma.”
His hands are gentle and warm. The feeling chases away the knotting in my muscles to be replaced with an impotent limpness.
“Why do you not know more?”
“Ma, I was, like, only born yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Remember, Ma? That really spooky dream with the snake and the cool lotus?”
I do recall the strange but pleasant dream that replaced the Terror. I can only nod.
“Me too. Isn’t that awesome?”
“I do not understand.”
“Karma coma, Ma, karma coma.”
“You were in a coma? When?”
“No, Ma, you’re on a path of a … like, you know, self-discovery. Right?”
My jaw tightens. “Where is the meaning in anything you say?”
“Look, Ma, time’s a ticking. Can’t be late.”
In this, he is right.
Tick.
I shall go outside and find the light. There are no answers here.
“Ma, I think you should maybe listen to what people have to say.”
My blood bubbles and I feel the skin across my forehead tighten. “It matters not what these people say. They will be insane; they will denigrate me; they will present me with Judgements; they will demand the return of the Terrors; their explanation of my circumstances will prove unintelligible. These are the people I should listen to?”
I turn my back on the youngster and march away without looking back. Immediately, I am ashamed of my outburst. The poor wretch is probably as lost as I am.
The path of light is waiting for me as I exit the Odd door and leads me, after some minutes, to a giant cube of polished steel. These incongruous structures no longer surprise me. It would be a surprise if something ordinary, such as a bunk-bed-tower, should present itself.
I am directed to a door, which looks tiny in the otherwise bare expanse of the shiny metal mountain. Though I am some minutes early for my appointment, the door is unlocked, so I enter.
The interior of the enormous cube of metal is a single open space. The vast floor is littered with a chaotic collection of giant beakers sitting on head-height iron stands over monstrous flames spouting from brass tubes. The containers are interconnected by a bewildering array of glass pipes and bright red tubes. Each oversized vessel is partially filled with florescent liquids of different colours that bubble gently. Strange figures in white Encounter gowns stumble around on unfeasibly long poles, tending to the monstrous apparatus. They top up the glassware or minister to the pipework. Others, at ground level, run about adjusting the flames. Their work looks exceedingly perilous. I am assaulted by a cacophony of plops and pops from the distressed liquid and the thunder of the flames. My nose wrinkles up and my eyes rain down. The many pungent odours that waft and weave through the burning air are most unpleasant. I surmise that this place must be a form of workhouse, a truly awful and dangerous workhouse.
In the distance, a figure has emerged from behind a brass funnel that is spitting fire and approaches. As it draws closer, I can see that it is bedecked in a white Encounter gown that has been repeatedly patched. From the many scorch marks, I would surmise that the occupant has often strayed too close to a naked flame or brushed against the heated glass when walking about on the tall poles. It is obviously a clumsy and incompetent worker. Its gown is embroidered with the label Prof. Prof has stopped a little way off and is shouting into a small metal object.
“Experiment Seven at Two Past Five, private voice notes, part one. Is that really her? The babe of my dreams? She looks very stuck-up in her oh-so-immaculate Encounter gown. Some of us have to work. The guys say she’s something of a sizzling mama. So, she’ll be stupid. She won’t understand. She’ll start crying. That could work out, though. I need a DNA sample, she’ll need comforting and, who knows, maybe we can, sort of, organise an exchange. I bet she’s got really hot lingerie on under her stupid tent. I read that somewhere, that they have to compensate or something by being really crazy sexy underneath. End of notes, part one.”
It’s the same jabber and nonsense mixed with idiocy I have come to expect. It would be no surprise to find Prof thinks that I cannot hear him over the roar of the burners.
Prof beckons me to follow and leads me through the forest of flames and between the towers of iron supporting the giant glassware. The level of noise rises with the heat. I am surrounded by simmering liquids that rumble like drowsing volcanoes throwing off multi-coloured gases.
Past the next grove of flaming brass towers, Prof stops in front of a metal cube. It is identical in its external appearance to the one I am in, only much smaller. I would estimate that each of its sides is roughly twice my own length. Prof passes through a door in its face. I follow and Prof closes it behind me.
Inside, the interior is most stupidly presented. Save for an empty border, the floor is covered in a miniature model of the scene outside. It is exact in every detail, as far as I can tell, except that the flames are static representations, as are the liquids in the beakers and the attendant figures. There is no heat and no noise. At its highest point, the model just reaches my knees. Curiously, I observe that, at the centre of the miniature, there is a small metal cube and two figures stand outside, about to enter. From their Encounter gowns, they look somewhat like me and Prof. For unfathomable reasons, though, the Encounter gown on my model has
lost its hoops and, instead, clings tightly to a voluptuous body that is obviously not mine. Prof has moved around the model and is standing with his back to a wall and motions me to join him.
Once we are standing side by side, he asks, “What do you think?” tilting his head towards the model.
The first opinion that comes to mind is probably not what Prof wants to hear, and I am loath to risk antagonising my qualifier before I am qualified. “It is very … agreeable.”
“It’s a kind of joke about folded dimensions and nested realities. Funny, right?”
It is absolutely not, in any way, remotely amusing. I nod in a manner which I hope suggests that, under my hood, I am smiling broadly. The opposite is very much the case.
Prof returns my affirmation of jollity and depresses something on his oblong box. Surprisingly, the model rises from the floor to reveal a staircase. Once the model is above head height, Prof descends and I follow. A noise makes me turn and look back. The miniature is returning to its previous position, sealing the exit behind me. I feel a little cold.
At the bottom of the stairs there is a large space, vulgarly furnished. The colour palette might have been chosen by Mary-of-the-Zips. Unnecessarily plump, red leather furniture predominates. Chaise lounges, oversized armchairs and sofas are scattered across the tasteless pink carpeting, which is excessively thick and long-haired. I find the waste of materials and unwarranted comfort offensive. At least the workhouse overhead had an air of purposeful, if pointless, endeavour. This space reeks of self-indulgence and fecklessness.
“There’s no need for Encounter gowns here, if you’d like to make yourself more comfortable?”
It is a horrifying proposal. For a moment, I cannot breathe. Recovering myself, I wrap my arms tightly around my chest and answer decisively, “Protocols are there to be observed. I shall retain my gown.”
“Right. You sound a little older than I’d expected. How old are you exactly?”
“Why is that relevant?”
“Late twenties?”
“I am old, very old. Now, can we proceed apace?”
“Very old? Bastards!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Sorry, not you.”
“What is the purpose of the workhouse above us, and who are the inhabitants toiling away so frenetically?”
“Them? They’re my boys. We’re the academicals, searching for the ultimate truth or as near as we can get.”
“Your sons? What truth?”
“Sons? No, colleagues. We’re looking for the meaning of … everything.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Do you not already have enough meaning? I myself had a perfectly sufficient quantity of meaning. Neither too little nor too much. After a single aberrant night, I am besieged with events and Encounters that appear to have no meaning, and I would rather not discover their meaning unless I must.”
“Never thought about it like that. Guess we’re not satisfied; we want more meaning.”
“What is it exactly that you are searching for?”
“Basically, proof that there’s more than one reality.”
“Multiple realities? In what sense?”
“It’d take too long to explain. It’s basically a multiverse thing. Let’s begin. Did you bring a sample?”
“A button sample?”
“Button? No, not a button. A DNA sample. We’ll test it biologically and at a subatomic level.”
“Just a moment, my boxes are opening up. I see DNA is somewhat akin to a recipe for life. How interesting.”
“Exactly. Everybody’s got their own variations on the standard recipe, and we want to take a look at yours.”
“How is that possible? And why at a subatomic level?”
“Well … never mind. I need a hair, a fingernail clipping, a saliva swab, anything like that, to run the test.”
“What a ridiculous and unsavoury proposition. And how could such things possibly be used to determine my existence?”
“You wouldn’t understand. Just give me some spit and let’s get this over with.”
“I am not dim-witted and I believe that I deserve an explanation of this test.”
“Okay, you asked for it. Take a seat.”
Prof, rather petulantly I think, throws himself into a large puffy armchair and seems to forget he is robed in an Encounter gown. As his hips land on the leather, the Encounter gown hoops lift the fabric clear of his pale body, allowing me the unwelcome sight of his pallid and unclothed form. I avert my eyes as quickly as I can, though I fear the shocking image will not quickly disappear from my memory. While my gown has been insufferably uncomfortable, it is also my armour and my shield. And because those I Encounter are also gowned, I can somehow pretend that these terrible events are really not happening. To be gownless, or face ungowned others, would be unbearably real. Prof’s momentary negligence of gown etiquette is already too shocking.
“For goodness sake, have you no decency? Cover yourself immediately,” I say.
Prof appears equally flustered, perhaps having forgotten his state of undress under the gown. Frantically, Prof wrestles with the hoops, eventually arranging them around his knees in a decorous manner, though his bare ankles are blatantly on display. It is not exactly proper protocol, but it will have to suffice. I am in a hurry and do not want to waste time arguing with the Prof about his attire. I take a seat on the simplest piece of furniture I can find: an over-padded stool. My Encounter gown falls harmoniously and discreetly around my feet. Perhaps Prof might learn something from my deportment.
“Please, Prof, I should very much like to understand how I am to be tested.”
“To confirm your existence absolutely, we require an ontological modal proof. So, for example, your existence in this reality does not prove that you exist in all realities. If you exist in only some realities, then your existence is merely contingent. For reasons which don’t make much sense to me, your existence must be proven to be present in all known realities.”
A tumult of concepts and explanations explodes from my boxes. At first, I am drowning in a complex web of ideas before simple explanations begin to surface. “I believe I would be completely satisfied with a contingent existence. Is it not the case that my appeal is to take place in this reality only and, therefore, a modal proof is not required? Also, the existence of other realties is unproven, as your aimless experimentation clearly demonstrates.”
“Bravo, button lady. But I’ll have you know my multiverse theories are well regarded; therefore, two contingent objects cannot prove each other’s existence in multiple realities.”
“Forgo your patronisation and explain yourself plainly. As an aside, I have already been diagnosed as imaginary. Is that relevant to this assessment?”
“If you are imaginary, then we’ll be testing the multiverse existence of your imaginer.”
“Is it not obvious that I am not imaginary?”
“Subjectively, you probably are real. I’d have definitely imagined a different kind of button babe.”
“I concur in this. You, your academicals and your fiery and repugnant workhouse would not be my delusion of choice. However, if I do not exist, how then can I be judged? Surely, in such circumstances, I can return to my usual routine and be left in peace.”
“Dreams are judged. Bad dreams, good dreams. Real or not, you can’t escape your Judgements and punishments.”
“Very well, you shall prove that I exist forthwith so that I may appeal.”
“Then I need that sample.”
Prof opens a drawer in a nearby cabinet and removes a glass tube containing a white stick topped with cotton. Prof hands it to me. “Take this, wipe the cotton around the inside of your mouth, and then put it back in the tube and bring it to me. There’s a bathroom over there.” Prof points at a door. “I must admit, I thought this bit was going to be more fun. How old did you say you were?”
I ignore Prof and proceed to the door. There, I enter
a space many times larger than my workhouse, which is tiled in white and contains a number of large porcelain objects and what might well be a waterfall. I discover the door can be locked. This security gives me the confidence to remove my gown. How I envy Mary-of-the-Zips at this moment. She would merely have to unzip her mouth, rather than removing her entire gown, as I am forced to do. Standing in my workhouse clothes, I am tempted to wash away the stink of my anxiety, but, outside, I can hear the Prof talking to himself, or to his little box, which it seems to me is the same thing, and I think better of it.
“Experiment Seven at Two Past Five, private voice notes, part two. I wonder if she’s lying about being old. But she does sound old, really old. Maybe she’s a husky babe? No. Everything about her reeks of old. I just want to get this over with. All the guys saw me bringing her to the lair. I bet they’re laughing like hyenas up there. At least she’s not senile. She hasn’t cried and she doesn’t smell. The sooner I get rid of her, the sooner I can get back to looking at the weird brane anomaly. End of notes, part two.”
How rude, to comment on my personal attributes with such disdain. Prof appears to think that my advanced years render me near worthless and seems obsessed with youth, particularly babies. We do agree regarding the need for speed. With some distaste, I pass the cotton bud around the inside of my mouth and return it to the tube. With my Encounter gown back in place, I return to Prof, who is standing outside the door in greater proximity than I think seemly. I hand him the tube of glass. “What exactly will you do with this sample?”
“It’ll be subjected to a biological, organismal and quantum particle, and energy-field analysis then, finally, culinary amplification.”
“Culinary?”
“It’s not strictly necessary. It’s a kind of dare. Someone has to eat it, usually on a toastie of their choice. Why? Did you want it back?”
“I think not.”
Prof removes the cotton swab and inserts it into his box.
“How long will all of these different experiments take to carry out, and then for the results to be collated and analysed before you can present me with your conclusion?”
