Through the Singularity

by L. Frank Wadsworth

  She feels Achi rouse when the dawn comes. He is no doubt used to rising with the sun. She disentangles herself from him, and stands to stretch out her muscles. It has been a long, awkward night. He'd tossed and turned for at least half of it before settling into a deeper, almost comatose slumber. She'd been unable to find a comfortable position, or get used to his sour smell, but didn't want to release him for fear he would lose too much body heat. It has delayed her healing. Achi looks bad. He’s lost a lot of blood, and is slipping into shock. He is semi-alert, and talkative, though she can't understand anything he is asking her. As she'd surmised, even the collective hasn't learned much about their local languages.

  She gives him the rest of the water, but knows she will have to get more, and find nourishment for them both. She looks down at him as he is wrapping what is left of his garments around himself, trying to fight off the cold and shock. She builds up the fire with the remains of the wood she'd gathered last night; she’ll need to gather more before her cohort arrives. He says something to her, using her name, but she doesn't understand any of it. His voice is getting weak. Not knowing what else to do to communicate to him, she holds up the water skin for him to see, smiles at him, and heads down to the stream.

  She find a secluded spot to relieve herself behind some rocks, before she walks to the stream bank and drinks deeply. The water tastes wonderful, probably enhanced by her need for fluids. It is mostly snow melt, with some blend of compounds from the local soils and plant life. She could enjoy a world such as this, if there weren't more pressing concerns. She isn't in any danger of dehydration, but her symbiots work much more efficiently with plentiful raw materials. She probably should find something to eat, but with the looming arrival of the cohort, she decides against taste-testing the local flora—perhaps the water should be her last culinary remembrance of this planet. Best to end on a positive note, no matter how minor.

  She refills the water skin and brings it back to Achi. He says something that appears thankful and starts to sip at it, watching her the whole time. She begins picking up pieces of wood and is surprised when she sees him dig out his supply pouch and eats some of the dried strips of flesh in it. He even offers some to Zaleria, who involuntarily turns away to hide her disgust and shakes her head. He looks puzzled but seems to understand her gesture. She is again struck by the similarities between their people. The galanen must share a common ancestor, but how? Even the collective holds no answers. Another mystery that will need further work.

  The galanen send a dozen ships into the system when they arrive. They are too evolved to feel fear or anger, but righteous indignation? That is another matter. Some sentient race, perhaps the Mar'gah'thor, have interfered in their affairs and with a primitive sentient species. The former could be forgiven, but not the latter. A squad comes to investigate, gather data, retrieve her and the damaged waverider from the planet, and remove all other evidence of the galanen having been there. There is only one complication, and he is called “Achi.”

  Zaleria shares with her cohort leaders everything Achi has done. “He took on a kel'taite with primitive weapons, and even managed to significantly injure it. He distracted it long enough to allow me time to recover and kill it. It would have destroyed me otherwise. He had no reason to do so but innate selflessness. I failed to recognize the potential for danger, and I failed to react. He should not be forced to suffer for my mistakes.”

  Beltare, her cohort leader, thinks on this for a moment before sharing, “It would have been better if he'd not involved himself, but that is not his fault, and it is to his credit. You feel tremendous shame. Don't. You experienced unanticipated adversity and adjusted well. Yes, you could have done better, but it could have also been much worse. You have learned much from the experience, have you not? You return with your knowledge, and that is enough. There are deeper mysteries here that we will need to explore. Who interfered and why? Why do the natives appear so similar to us? That is quite different from our last survey and is somehow outside our collective knowledge. Our work is just beginning. As to the primitive Achi, exposure at this point does little damage. They cannot fathom the nature of creation at this stage and cannot retain any knowledge of this event in any meaningful way. We will ensure he is restored well enough to return to his limited existence, though he will live for but a moment, as is normal for his kind. That is as it should be. Your exposure will not impact their long-term development overall. But,” she flashes a moment of sternness, “Do not think to make a best practice of contacting primitives when told not to.”

  ∞∞∞

  Achi watches Zaleria as she moves about the camp. He is dying, he can feel it. He wants to talk with her, but her inability to say anything other than his name is a severe frustration. He offered her some of his meat, but she turned away disgusted. How odd. Surely, she must be hungry? Perhaps she feels sick in her stomach? She doesn't seem ill, but who knows. She has amazing strength. He isn't sure if he'd be able to tell otherwise. He, however, will likely not need what he has for much longer.

  A little while after sunrise, she turns her head and looks to the sky. Achi, following her gaze, sees four bright lights coming down from heaven. He would stand if he could—they must be gods! The lights land no more than an arrow shot away, spaced evenly around them. Zaleria looks at him, obviously relieved but also a little nervous, and says his name. She holds out her hand, and he takes it. She gently squeezes it and gestures for him to remain where he is. There isn’t much else he could do anyway. He sees several other beings looking similar to Zaleria, both male and female, some dark skinned, some fair—all different and beautiful—come out of the balls of light and approach. They stand in a small group, appearing to commune with each other without saying anything.

  After a few moments, Zaleria and another woman come to him, so tries to sit up until Zaleria puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. She says, “Achi,” and points to her companion, “Beltare.” He looks at the newcomer and nods in her direction, repeating her name. She looks very different from Zaleria—much shorter, and thinner. She appears to be the same age but feels even more ancient somehow, and Zaleria obviously defers to her. Her hair is very blond, even more so than Achi's, but her eyes are a bright green. She wears her hair in complex twin braids along each side of her head, held in a tight bun at the back, and eyes Achi with a dismissive gaze. He feels like she is humoring Zaleria, as a mother would for a child that discovered a new plaything. He shivers involuntarily from more than just the shock setting in. She pulls out some kind of small device from a pouch at her waist, kneels quickly next to him, and gestures for his hand. He looks at Zaleria, questioning. She nods her head and smiles, gesturing for him to extend his hand, which he does, unsure. Beltare touches the back of his hand with the device. It feels warm. After a few minutes, he suddenly feels very drowsy.

  “Achi… Achi?” He hears his name, but he can't tell where it comes from. “Achi, this is Zaleria. Thank you for trying to protect me. It pains me that you were injured; that beast was not supposed to be here, and we were not supposed to meet. We're going to tend your wounds, so you can return to your life, and then we will leave this place. Do you understand?”

  He understands, but he doesn't know why. “Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want?” he asks. The sound of his own voice makes it even more clear that Zaleria is not speaking to him but communicating in some other way. She looks at him with sympathy. “I'll not permit you to suffer for my errors. That is all you can know. I'm very sorry I put you in danger.” And with that, he falls asleep.

  When he awakens, they are gone. He is in the lean-to, but he has no idea how long he has been here. The worst of his injuries are mended, and those that remain do not trouble him much. He knows he will heal. He has no idea what to make of everything he's experienced over the last few days and decides that he must have been visited by the gods. It is the only explanation. He doesn't know why they came, or why they left, or why they seemed so much like men. But
they are beautiful, and mysterious, and dangerous, and—he belatedly decides—best avoided.

  It appears to be mid-morning, so he decides it is best if he heads home. He doesn't know what he will say when he gets back. No one will believe him. With luck, he'll find some game on the way and everyone will think it was just a long hunting trip. It wouldn't be the first time. He doesn't think anything will be the same after this, but he is determined to try to stick to what he does best and leave the adventures to someone else.

  Chapter Two

  Prey to Your Gods

  Rolle Andersson walks easily along the crowded Denver sidewalk, minding his surroundings with a level of detail and precision any passerby would have thought impossible. Outwardly, he appears to be doing nothing more than a little casual window shopping, perhaps idly wasting some time before an important meeting—for he is important. He is the CEO of Deneb Info Systems (DIS), one of the most successful computing and communication companies in the world, as well as the founder of several philanthropic organizations and a think tank dedicated to promoting ethics in technology development. Although it is unlikely anyone seeing him would know any of this. Despite leading one of the most innovative and lucrative companies in the world, he is not well known. He eschews the limelight and maintains a very low public profile. This is what allows him to travel with relative ease among his fellow citizens. But not today. Today, he is being followed.

  Rolle is keeping an eye on someone who's been shadowing his movements for some time. “There he is again. He has stayed roughly 25 meters back for the last hour. Following me but keeping his distance. He has some skill, he even changed his clothes and his facial hair once, going from hiking gear with a beard to clean shaven in a casual business jacket, but still with the same backpack, corduroys, and hiking shoes. However, he hasn't altered his facial dimensions. Why would he; he has no reason to suspect…” Rolle wonders who he is, or more accurately, who he represents. Who sent him?

  He has felt for a while that someone is trying to stifle his most important endeavors. Not necessarily his advancement of telecommunication technologies, the core money making part of his business ventures. No. The important aspects of his enterprise are the foundations. These he feels have been under increasing attack. It first started as staged attacks via social media, obviously centrally planned and executed once the accounts were examined. It then escalated to occasional protests and nuisance lawsuits. Can it have escalated to the point where his movements are being tracked? To what end, he wonders. He doesn't think it prudent to wait and find out.

  With relaxed ease, he begins to lay a trap. He's been watching his watcher closely for the last 30 minutes, timing him. Measuring out how long he'd let him get out of sight before coming back into view. He is keeping a loose tail, but Rolle thinks he is alone. Confident. Professional. Clueless. Rolle looks at his watch. It is nearing 1700, time to get this over with. He has a dinner engagement he doesn't intend to miss. He increases his speed and heads back towards his hotel, having randomly “wandered around” for the last 30 minutes to ensure the most direct route back would pass through a particular alley he'd noticed two days ago. His tail has given him more room now that he is moving quickly, as he anticipated. Why risk getting too close when you “know” where your target is going? Back to the hotel. Nice and predictable. He enters the narrow alley and is momentarily out of sight of his tail, as he planned. He swings around a dumpster on his right and crouches down with all his senses tuned for the approach of the man following him. If the guy is really a pro, he'll immediately spot the ruse and break engagement. If he thinks he's a pro, he'll come through right, about, now!

  The man walks past the dumpster about three paces before he is instantly felled by a sharp blow to the back of the head. Rolle thinks a nasty concussion is a fair price for an advanced lesson in how to properly follow someone. Now to see if he is dumb enough to carry anything telling on his person. He quickly searches his pockets with deft and practiced hands. He finds a billfold with $120 in cash and a Colorado driver’s license. He's sure it's a fake, but he'll run it just the same. He doesn't find any keys or other personal belongings. His watch is a cheap copy of a designer brand, but his left inner coat pocket contains an item of possible interest—a laundry cleaning tag from Capital Cleaners. He probably didn't even know he was carrying it. Rolle doesn't find anything else, so it'll have to do. A razor thin lead, but who knows? If nothing else, the cash will help pay for dinner. He drags the man behind the dumpster and throws a couple bags of trash over him to hide his presence. Rolle smiles at him. “You'll have to clean the suit again anyway, buddy.”

  He heads back the way he came, turning to the left as he exits the alley. He has just enough time to wander around some more and see who else might fall on his tail as he rambles over to the restaurant where his date awaits. He connects with his phone and sends an image of the license and laundry tag to Clive; he can run them down while he dines. Who knows, maybe he'll get lucky. He really wants to find the hidden hand pulling the strings behind the scene. But he is patient; there is no reason to hurry and risk making a mistake. He will just keep systematically working the problem, pulling every string he can until he finds one that leads back to the source.

  ∞∞∞

  He sighs as he lays on his bed. He doesn't know why he keeps trying. He tells himself it is to keep up appearances, but it is much more. He is lonely, desperately so. Narelle was nice enough, a beautiful socialite—golden bronze skin, flawless complexion, engaging smile—and heiress to a sizable amount of money. She was also well-educated, well-read, and no more than a child. He sighs again. It was so hard to pay attention as she tried to be witty and charming. All he could see was the weak attempt at manipulation and some pathetic self-aggrandizement. It really wasn't her fault; he's just seen it all before. He could have any woman he wants, but he hasn't found a proper companion in a very long time, except for loneliness, which is always there for him. He chuckles to himself. Perhaps he should try his hand at writing lyrics for the country music industry. Hell, he has the background for it, and who knows, it might actually earn him some serious cash he could then put to good use. He is enjoying this bout of melancholy; it goes well with his bourbon, but in moderation. If there is one thing he's learned over the years, it is to never over-indulge, especially when it comes to self-pity. Almost anyone would sell their soul to be him. If they only knew…

  Rolle is in the business of driving technological innovation to help humanity communicate and integrate. His goal is to blend technology seamlessly into every aspect of the human experience, so thoughts, ideas, and information can be shared almost instantly, answering just about any question as fast as someone can form a query. Eventually, he wants to link everyone into one ever-enlarging social construct. His company is rapidly driving advancements in human-machine interfaces to allow integration at the speed of thought. They are making great progress. The two keys to their success are miniaturization and advanced computing. But Rolle is no idealist.

  He is intimately familiar with the corrupting nature of man and the very real danger that this technology, like virtually all advancements before, will be misused. This is why he is equally passionate about developing moral and ethical frameworks to ensure his company's developments can enrich all lives, not just the lucky few, and that safeguards are built-in to ensure security and privacy. He knows some people will do anything they can to use his technology for selfish and nefarious purposes, and he is doing what he can to limit those opportunities. It is a constant struggle.

  His efforts have also made him fabulously wealthy, which is admittedly a nice bonus. And while it would be easy to leverage that wealth to promote himself, he prefers to be seen as an eccentric recluse. This serves him well, for he can still get out and do things without everyone recognizing him everywhere he goes, which would seriously cramp his style. For example, right now anyone other than a few close and trusted business associates trying to find him will believe he is cu
rrently at his home in Elk's Grove, Idaho, and not be aware that he is in fact in Denver, visiting one of his subsidiaries and enjoying a pleasant, if unrewarding dinner with an attractive young woman. Sigh… He really doesn't know why he bothers.

  Time to check in with Clive and see if he's turned anything up on his shadow. To no surprise, the license is a fake, but he'd actually gotten a name and address from the laundry tag. He is now running the name—Hakan Fakiri. Interesting. Turkish. One of his favorite parts of the world—and one he's spent a great deal of time in—but almost always a mess. He is too experienced to make conclusions based on so little evidence, though. Mr. Fakiri is probably just a hired hand, so his origin is of little value in advancing his quest to uncover whoever has been interfering in his affairs.

  He hears footsteps outside his hotel door. Not unusual, but these are different, alerting. Someone is trying not to make noise. And failing. Well, well. Perhaps his adversary is getting impatient. He moves silently to the end of the dresser on the wall behind where the door will open. Out of habit, he'd already made a full assessment of defensive positions, and this is his best bet to quickly defeat anyone coming into the room through the door. He's calculating his best options for engaging up to four people, if necessary, even though he's heard only the one. He draws his pistol.