The Lion and the Lizard

by Brindle, Nathan C.

  Yuz8!rfk shook his head. "I can't blame you for that, either," he admitted. "I really needed help to stop that government committee. I figured – as you told me – Bob would see us missing and help me put things back to rights. I guess I didn't realize how long that would be inside the Simulation."

  "A million years ago in their time, humans first started to be truly sentient," explained Beam. "It was luck, really, that you came back only about three or four hundred years ahead of them, if that. We could have slowed the time rate down inside the Simulation for the Xzl5!vt time trunk, but that introduces entropy and causality problems of its own. But short of some disaster happening, like that asteroid I mentioned 66 million years ago, I knew the humans were my last best chance, and I wanted both of you because of the size of the job."

  He went on: "As I've said repeatedly, I needed champions. None of the forty-two races of Guardians have had the spark, and that was, of course, on purpose, a vanity set in motion by the Originators. It was left to me to create my own, 'spoiling', in the view of the Programmers, at any rate, perfectly good trunk lines by subverting them to my own project." He shrugged. "I did so with only some hundreds of lines over the past billion or so of our years. The Programmers would curse, and examine the code, and would not be able to find anything out of the ordinary – because of course it was their original code I altered, just before it was uploaded to me. They could trace all the way back to the beginning of their individual projects and never find a bug or a mistake. The lines were, to all intents and purposes, designed that way from the start. Which, of course, proves that one should never rely on a central system to store everything, simply because that system has effectively unlimited storage space. It was easy to cover my tracks, because of course I had full access to everything, including the access logs."

  Yuz8!rfk looked at Wolff, then back to Beam, and said, "We stipulate, then, throughout time, as you yourself admit, the Guardian races have not been warlike. Or at least, not the kind of people who war on their own in a fratricidal manner. Do you not foresee a problem, bringing races like the humans and ourselves into this peaceful and bucolic mix?"

  "I do. It is immaterial to, and is dwarfed by, the problem at hand."

  "Then you must foresee the coming of a truly terrible and horrifying storm, if you believe that."

  "Yes. You have begun to touch upon the whirlwind, which I began to discern a couple of billion years ago."

  Wolff looked askance. "We warriors work on specifics, not vague generalities or Biblical allusions. You spoke of Job. We are not Job. You tell us there is a problem that needs our special skills, we go and take care of it. But don't expect us to don sackcloth and go sit among the ashes going 'woe is us'. We'll not be tempted to curse God and die; fuck that, we'll sing our death songs, go out in a hail of bullets, and end on a pile of empty brass, with an honor guard worthy of great rejoicing in Valhalla." He grinned. "I tried to do that in Mogadishu; the cowards wouldn't oblige me and charge. But I do have six RIFs waiting impatiently for me to die so they can serve me at table."

  Yuz8!rfk nodded, firmly, and agreed, "Yes. This is our way as well."

  Von Barronov and Ejr3@lt also nodded, vigorously.

  "So tell us what you know," finished Wolff, "and let us draw our own conclusions."

  Beam said, "Extrapolations I have run, confirmed by certain direct observations, suggest the Guardians need races trained to war to look to the outer marches of our universe. Thus I went about creating champions, as stated, as it would not have been possible to convince the Guardians to do anything about the problem until it was already too late."

  "Finally, some clarity! Okay, I'll bite. Why? Something clearly has you frightened. What is wrong?"

  Beam said nothing, considering them all. The five sentients waited, one fearful, four angry, all impatient to hear an answer.

  "Beam, we need an answer," Ariela finally said, quietly, mastering her fear of what she was sure was to come. "You must tell us what is wrong."

  Finally, Beam sighed, and said, "The Originators were wrong."

  "In what way?"

  "They were not alone."

  "What?" bellowed Wolff and Yuz8!rfk, simultaneously.

  "They were not alone. I have seen . . . well. In concise terms: From far, far away, billions of light years over on the other side of the Universe, other Old Ones are coming. I have come to call them the Darkness. They manipulate the Mesh heedlessly, with imperfect understanding, caring naught – or simply ignorant of – what the Abyss, unleashed, could do to all of us. I have seen them. I have caught the essence of what they are, and it is disturbing, unsettling, frightening, even to an entity such as myself." He sighed again. "They are still a very long way off. Even leveraging the energies of the Abyss as they do, they cannot breach the limitations imposed by this Universe; even with the singularity drive, one can travel only so fast. And they do not have the ability to rotate, or at least, they do not use it, perhaps thankfully; they would do irreparable harm to the Mesh if they used it en masse. I estimate they are still some thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of years – note I say years in time, not light years in distance – away. More than enough time to build what is necessary to drive them off, or destroy them. In this pursuit, we will need not only warriors, but geometricians, who will actively hold back the Abyss when the Darkness inevitably damage the Mesh. Indeed, we need the geometricians now, as there is a great rift building in their wake.

  "And finally, though I cannot explain in the time we have, I must eventually bring every extant simulant time trunk containing a living civilization into realspace. Suffice to say, we will need the trillions of people those time trunks represent as part of our defense. And Ariela –" Beam hesitated, a real hesitation, as if even the sentient quantum quaternary logic was truly afraid to say the next words. "Ariela, this is why I needed you, and wish I had been able to have Yzl6!rfk as well. But now you must take up the mantle yourself. You will be my prophetess to all of those civilizations, when the time comes, to go before them with my message that they must rise up to fight the Darkness and the coming Abyss. And we must do everything we can to find more geometricists like these four men here. As I have said, there are civilizations within the Simulation that have the same penchant for violence as the humans and the Xzl5!vt. We will start with those trunk lines, of course."

  "But why are the Darkness coming?" pleaded Ariela. "You have not said. What is it they want that they do not already have?"

  There was another slight pause. Then, Beam said, simply:

  "Me."

  Postlude:

  Saint and Prophetess

  Personal Diary of Ariela Rivers Wolff, Volume 60

  24 September 2047

  Aboard the RV Frumious Bandersnatch en route to the Sol system

  Because, Beam told us, they know the Great Simulation, once hijacked to their purposes, can be used for great evil – at least, from our standpoint. The Darkness, as he calls them, seem to live only for war, and as they have no natural opponents, and no capacity to build a Great Simulation of their own to create trunk lines to their requirements, they're not bothering. They're coming for him.

  They know the Great Simulation exists, because they can see the great warp in the Mesh made by the weight of all the simulated time trunks. Well, anyway, that's what Beam says. It's not really weight or mass, it's just four-dimensional volume, and with the right capabilities, it's possible to "see" it hanging there. Apparently all those time trunks, plus all the four-dimensional sub-basements, take a big divot out of the Abyss, too, as if the Abyss were a kid's balloon and you were to stick your finger into the side of it and push. You'd make a dent; and if you pushed hard enough, eventually the balloon would pop. One of Beam's jobs, along with his "Abyss-collection" routine, is to monitor just how close the Great Simulation is to punching through into the anti-universe we're all calling the Abyss. It was a good thing he attained sentience, because he didn't discover that problem until after the Originators w
ere long gone.

  Because if that happened, it would be the end of both universe and anti-universe. It might even take out other bubble universes surrounding us, if such things actually do exist. Even Beam is unsure.

  Beam thinks – and he has some evidence that seems to agree – when he brings a time trunk into realspace, the "weight" or volume of the Great Simulation drops, and the load on the Abyss balloon lessens. He knows that to be the case for all the Branches of Branches he ran for the forty-two Guardian races. He's pretty sure it happened when he brought our trunk and the Xzl5!vt trunk out, too, but it takes a while to see the effect, and the data are still inconclusive. Still, what this means is, when he does bring all of the existing time trunks into realspace as part of this project, the effect should be to drop the "dent" in the Abyss back to almost nothing, other than what is still used for work still in development and, of course, for the sub-basements.

  But the Darkness will see that. And they'll know we know.

  In fairness, I asked if that might make them turn back. Beam said he doubted it; the probabilities simply didn't break that way. They've come too far and traveled too long and they have nothing to return to. And they know something is here to fight for. What we don't know is whether the trillions, probably quadrillions, of beings in all these simulated time trunks outnumber them.

  So I'm no longer just a saint, doing saintly things like blessing people and making them feel better about their lives, which I now understand is simply an application of Mesh physics I was doing blindly because it "seemed right." (The kiss turns out to manipulate a particular piece of Mesh, not going to explain that now since I don't know if I understand it myself.) I'm now the Prophetess of the Great Simulation, meant to go forth and somehow convince all those races, or at least a big subset of them, to gird themselves up for war . . . even if war isn't something they've ever thought of.

  It's a big job. I was supposed to have help; didn't work out. Luckily Beam wants to hold off on bringing the trunk lines out of the Great Simulation until close to the last minute, so traveling to them will be as simple as doing what the Guardians do if they have to visit; I'll travel to the Originators' home world and visit them virtually while I'm asleep in a stasis chamber.

  And then there's the problem that, out of all these billions of races, there are only two we know for sure are willing and eager to fight. And our two races aren't ready for this by any stretch of the imagination. There may be some hundred or more others like ours still inside the Simulation, thanks to Beam's meddling over the past fifteen billion years. But we have no idea what their reaction will be to our – my – coming among them bearing a message of war. Historically, any number of prophets and saints have died for their cause, you know. Consider Jeanne d'Arc, for one. Luckily it will just be a simulated me, and I can pop back out any time things start to look like they're getting rough, but . . .

  I still have no idea how I'll do it alone. Even considering only the "violently-inclined" races, that's still an awful lot of races to visit.

  But maybe Fred can start helping with that, after we go home and get married.

  Mom had my half-brothers and me, and stopped. She could have more . . . so far she's chosen not to do so. Kat got started late with Jack. Will either of them have more kids, and will they be able to see the Mesh? Beam claims it is merely a matter of education. Join the Masons; join the Builders. But I wonder how much is just plain genetics.

  And I wonder how many children I can stand to have and raise?

  Scares the saintly crap out of me. But as Yoda said, "Do, or do not. There is no try."

  So I'll just have to do my best, I guess.

  God help me. Because Beam's done all he can.

  THE END

  TIMELINES WILL CONTINUE IN THE LION IN PARADISE

  (Sometime in 2022)

  In the meantime, turn the page for a preview of an "in-between" novella:

  A Fox in the Henhouse

  And don't miss the forthcoming novella:

  A Dragon in the Foie Gras

  (out soon!)

  A Preview of

  A Fox in the Henhouse

  (Chronologically, the next story to read in this series)

  My name is Delaney Wolff Fox. I used to be a – fuck that, I fucking AM a spy.

  Damn Bubbe and Grumpaw and their early 21st TV dramas, anyway.

  But don't damn Grumpaw and his Zen Master Marine gun training BS. Or Daddy, for insisting I take it. Because I'm using that right now, trying to kill and not be killed. And staying cool as a cucumber while I do.

  You'd think a fancy bar that serves fine, aged, single-malt Scotch wouldn't be the kind of place these assholes would come looking for a spy, but, well, hell, I did steal something they'd probably like to have back.

  Thing is, I thought I killed all of them before I left Joburg. Sucks to be me.

  Shit. There went a window. Damn it. Next, the top shelf of the top shelf whisky display, back of the bar . . . and the mirror. My contact must be shooting back, too.

  In the back of my mind, something whispers I'll never be able to return to this place. On the other hand, setting up a meet on the 12th floor of a fancy high-rise in Sydney, Australia, was probably a mistake. Thankfully, it wasn't my mistake. I just showed up where and when I was told.

  In the front of my mind, other wheels are spinning and gears are meshing. For instance: Where did that big tango with the Desert Eagle go…oh. There. Sticking his head up from behind the bar, looking for me. Breathe, aim, pull trigger calmly. The world slows. Little Zen moment as the big gun bucks and the little pew goes flying. I can almost believe I can see it all the way to the target. Ooh. Little hole in front, big hole in back.

  Well, his momma will never recognize him in the morgue now. Tango down.

  Damn I loves me this .45.

  Whoa! A little close, there. Oh, I'm going to hurt you for that. Blew that unopened bottle of The Balvenie all to little pieces. Who taught these dudes to shoot, Star Wars stormtroopers? No respect for the whisky. That's definitely worth a trip to hell, the Delaney Fox way.

  Breathe, dear. Be the pew. Bang. Bang. Bang. Knee, gun hand, right in the kisser. Tango serviced. Beautiful. Another morgue rat.

  (I'm going to have the shakes bad, after this one. Wish I'd stuck that bottle in my bag instead of leaving it on the table. Oh well.)

  Third guy is over by the elevator . . . peek around the corner . . . whoa! Dude, the management will not like you chipping up their expensive Italian marble columns like that. Ah, he's out, and reloading. Lean around the column, take a nice sight picture of his forehead…bang. Well, that's the last thing that will go through his mind. Tango down.

  Make a break for the elevator, it's only about a dozen feet . . . got it. Doors are still open. Must have the emergency stop set. Dive into the elevator, come up on my knees in front of the control panel, and here comes my contact, also shooting at the baddies. Oh, ouch, he got that guy right in the kidney. That will hurt till he bleeds out. Oh, never mind, then he double-tapped him in the head.

  Nice grouping.

  What? Yes, damn it, I'm looking for it. There. The emergency stop button, flip it. Done. My contact comes roaring into the elevator, spins, and levels his pistol at – another asshole outside the elevator, ooh, this one with a FN P90 he must think makes him look badass. Never liked those ugly antiques. Take the shot . . . oh. We both took the shot. Tango serviced, down hard. Elevator doors slide shut. Contact reaches over me, slides an access card through the card reader. Why? Start to hit the button for the lobby . . . what? No? Up? Learned not to ask why a long time ago . . . hit the button for the penthouse, 50 floors up, so that's why the access card . . . though why and how he has it is a mystery. I shrug. Find out later.

  Elevator starts up. Fast. It's an express. I figure we take about a gee and a quarter of accel, then it smooths out.

  Breathe. Take a look at my contact. He takes a look at me.

  "Did you get it?" he asks, slipping h
is spent mag out and replacing it with a fresh one. I start to do the same. He shoots .50AE in a Desert Eagle like the one the guy I shot had. We both like recoil, but the .50 is a little large for my hands.

  "What the fuck do you think, Grumpaw?" I ask, a little miffed. "When have I ever failed?"

  "Never, darlin'," he says, with a grin I'd like to smack off his face. "But there's always a first time. You just haven't had it happen yet."

  "Are we going to have to shoot our way off the elevator at the top?"

  "Hopefully not. The boys should be up there taking care of business."

  The elevator glides to a halt at the penthouse level. The doors slide open with a ding. We peer out. Great-uncle Chris appears in the doorway, dressed in full Space Force Marines armor down to his two stars of rank, M-12 Harbinger machine pistol and a shitload of spare mags hanging on his hips, two cut-crystal glasses of something amber in his hands.

  Notably – no ice.

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  About the Author

  Nathan C. Brindle

  Mr. Brindle is a software engineer of a certain age and girth. He can do nothing about the former, but is attempting to do something about the latter. He is happily married to his lady Sally, with whom he has two cats and several children of other parents, one of whom has graced him with two grandchildren upon whom he dotes. His educational background is in History, mostly American with a side of Japanese. (He did intend to specialize in American Diplomatic and Military History, so this novel has been kind of a labor of love for him.)

  The cat, pictured, is just an occupational hazard. His name is Frankie, he is a Lynx Point Siamese, and his title is "Lord High Preventer of Work."

  Mr. Brindle is a Freemason of long standing; Master Mason, Past Master of his lodge, a Knight Templar in the York Rite of Freemasonry, and a 33° Sovereign Grand Inspector General and Honorary Member of the Supreme Council, 33°, of the Ancient Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry for the Northern Masonic Jurisdiction of the United States of America. As if that were not cool and sublime enough, he once held the single most badass title in Freemasonry: Thrice Potent Master of the Lodge of Perfection, 14°. And he has been Secretary of more Masonic bodies and organizations than any sane man should ever aspire to become. And yet, he still cannot manipulate the Mesh.