by Garon Whited
“Later, when the space elevator is functional, the materials used for the ribbon cables will act as solar power collectors, providing a surplus of power even when the elevator is in active service. Shall I begin the construction plan now or wait until you have reviewed the designs?”
“The designs are working, operational plans from worlds already using the things regularly, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Any major safety concerns?”
“Orbital space debris is the primary safety concern, but a series of cylindrical Whipple shields above the atmosphere has proven highly effective at decreasing space-cable degradation.”
“I—huh. I never thought of that. Most of the stuff in orbit would be traveling fast enough…” I shook my head. “Sometimes I think you’re smarter than me.”
“In most measurable ways, Professor, I am. However, my programming is not capable of true thought, merely simulations of it.”
“If you say so. Okay, go ahead with the space elevator. If you need me, I’ll be on The Manor.”
The Manor, Saturday, October 14th, 1939
I took the trouble to transmit the last week of newspapers back to Diogenes. He tells me everything is progressing as usual. This appears to be one of the many worlds that copies the timeline with which I am most familiar. It’s not time travel. They are all independent worlds. Change one and the rest remain as they are.
This is somewhat comforting. Actual time travel is a horrifying can of worms. Sandworms. Big ones. And my eyes don’t glow blue.
There are, of course, other worlds where things went differently, either in large or small ways. Several saw the Axis Powers defeat the Allies to greater or lesser degree. In many of those, Nazi Germany and the Empire of Japan also had their conflict after things settled down. Most of those ended in nuclear war, usually between 1955 and 1970. There are also a couple where the United States developed the atomic bomb ahead of schedule and vaporized cities in Germany before the Nazi government surrendered—and Japan only required one bombing to be convinced.
Some are considerably stranger. Generally the farther back you have to go to find a point where it departed from the norm—I call it the norm; a purely arbitrary convention reflecting my own experience, granted—the farther back you have to go, the more the changes have altered that world. These are lumped into the general category of “alternate timelines.”
Some of them get pretty damn strange, though. They are all reasonably similar in a cosmological sense—spherical planets orbiting the sun, all that stuff. Despite this superficial similarity, imagine a world where the vampires took over in the tenth or eleventh century, after a long war against King Arthur and his knights. Or how about the world where the Martians and the Venusians incidentally wiped out most of the human race in the battle over who would claim the planet from the “primitives” already on it? There’s also one where the asuras of the Hollow Earth lost all patience with mankind and emerged to force enlightenment on humanity.
Having found them, I’ve noted them as places to never go back to. I have enough weirdness in my life. But even those worlds have at least some resemblance to the world I knew, even if it is only a passing familiarity with their astronomy and some prehistory.
Another sardine sandwich entirely are the “other worlds,” where the world doesn’t resemble the world as I know it in any conceivable way. Karvalen is a perfect example; it’s flat. There are a few other flat worlds I know of. We’ve come across them in our ongoing gate searches. Others are cosmologically—or illogically—weird in their own ways. Each one seems to be unique, but there are also extremely few of them. Compared to more “conventional” timelines/worlds/universes, these other worlds are about one in every few million.
I suspect these otherworlds also have duplicates, “alternative timelines” of their own, somewhere. We haven’t found any, though. I may be wrong. The fundamental nature of time and the way it branches may not apply in those worlds. Different universes, different laws… I think. Maybe. Could be. But, even though I’ve searched for “alternate Karvalen” worlds, there don’t seem to be any.
Is this because we’re exploring from an alternate of Earth? Maybe my spells resonate better with them? Or are there only a very few alternate timelines for otherworlds? And where did they all come from in the first place? I don’t know. It would be nice to know, yes, but I suppose it isn’t required. I’ll settle for empirical answers—assuming we find some.
The truck Diogenes provided had one minor flaw. It was bright, shiny, and new. It’s a hazard when dealing with computerized production. Still, it was otherwise a perfect replica of a local truck and trailer from the year before.
Not a truck. It’s a lorry. Britishisms again.
I waited in Apocalyptica for the day-night cycle to sync, then arrived in Liverpool during the day. I drove the lorry up to Maryport, loaded the car on the trailer, and continued to Applewood Hall. Hammond had several men qualified to drive the thing, so the arrangement was to always have it in motion. Drivers would take it in shifts. They drive it down, pick up as much building material as it would haul, bring it back, offload it, and send the next driver right back for more. With the round-trip time around ten hours in the big, lumbering thing, it gave them two loads of stuff to get through every day.
I told them we would have regular shipments “from America” show up in the warehouse.
There were a number of people wanting to talk to me about… I don’t know for certain what they wanted to talk to me about. I didn’t care too much, either. Hammond could build. Blake could teach. Graves could butler. They have money, authority, and instructions. What more do they want from me?
I hid in my wing for the sunset. Trixie was lying in her pool, gently waving her wings, arms, and legs in the water.
“Tired?” I asked.
“So many children,” she said. “I feel so good! And tired,” she added.
“But you and the children are all having fun? Everyone is safe and sound and smiling?”
“Yes!”
“Good girl. I’m very pleased.” She ran her hands over her head, smoothing down and wetting her dandelion-yellow hair.
“They’re yours,” she told me. “I’m taking good care of them.”
I didn’t argue about property. It’s a strange concept for fairies. They don’t have the same sort of definitions. Instead, I sat down on the chair next to her window-seat diorama and realized I still had the Eye of Brahmantia on me. I stuffed it in a pocket when I changed clothes, each time thinking, I’ll find a place for this when I have a minute. I fished it out and regarded Trixie through it. Nope. Nothing unusual.
Still, it would make a good window. I fetched my wand toolkit and unrolled it on the floor beside the former windowseat. Trixie poked her head over the edge of the pond, propped her arms on the rim, and cocked her head at me.
“What’s that?”
“New window.”
“It’s the wrong shape for your glass things.”
“Not a window for me. A window for you.” I held the gem against the outside of her hidden grotto. “Should I put it there?”
Trixie hurried through the miniature waterfall, popped back out to look, ducked back inside again. She came out and gently pushed my hand to reposition it.
“Right there!”
I started the process of opening a hole around the Eye, then let go of it once the stone slab had a grip on it. In an hour, the Eye of Brahmantia was a window in a pixie grotto. Trixie waved through it at me and I waved back. She giggled and flitted about the diorama.
I’ve made Mary happy, Tymara gleeful, and delighted Trixie. My evening is complete. I put my feet up and rested.
Karvalen, Monday, December 26th, Year 8
Diogenes phoned me up somewhat later. Once back in Apocalyptica, I confirmed the test fusion plant design was functioning within parameters and enchanted a new solar tap setup for what would be the big fusion plant in Utah. Diogenes picked a barren wasteland that used to
be called Pelican Lake. I’m learning not to ask why or how he decides these things, merely accept he does his due diligence.
“Diogenes.”
“Sir.”
“Time since last contact with Mary?”
“Local, twenty-seven hours, eleven minutes.”
“Ring her bracelet-phone for me, would you?”
“Ringing.” A bit later, “I have contact with her phone, but no answer.”
“In the future, all our phones should have spy circuits for automatic eavesdropping and locating. Something we can switch off manually, if we’re in a high-tech world where people might use it against us, but hard to figure out if they’re stolen. Maybe a self-destruct function, too.”
“Noted. New models in fabrication now.”
“It’s kind of disturbing how fast you do that.”
“My processor capacity is excessive.”
“It needs to be if you’re going to supervise a planet in real time, I guess. Okay. Her phone is working, yes?”
“Yes. It appears to be in stealth mode.”
“No ringing, no vibrating. Got it. All right. Send her a message. I’d like to hear from her at her convenience. I’ll be in Karvalen for a bit.”
“Yes, Professor.”
So I shifted to Karvalen, sat down in the shift booth, and talked to myself.
You know I’m really an independent entity, right? You’re not actually talking to yourself.
“You’re an energy-based entity on another plane of existence, pretending to be a god and patterned on my psychic imprint, which is why I call you my altar-ego.”
Exactly. Which means I’m not a mortal entity infected with demonic blood from the chaos of the void, which is why I call you my kinda-avatar. Totally different.
“And yet, we think so much alike. And you tend to think into my head, which isn’t something I enjoy. So I think of you as the other me and defuse a whole slew of negative reactions.”
Whatever gets you through the conversation. I take it, then, this is not a social call?
“Nope. Tianna said Sparky wanted to talk to me. Has she talked to you?”
Tianna or Sparky?
“Sparky.”
No. Tianna did, he told me. I felt my eyebrows rise.
“I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that.”
She’s your granddaughter, which makes her a descendant of my not-exactly-avatar. Since the other gods—humor me. It’s easiest to talk about them as gods, okay? And “simulata,” while accurate, isn’t as convenient.
“Whatever gets you through the conversation.”
Ever since they revoked your status as an avatar, they’ve been uneasy about it. They like what you’re doing with the whole share and share alike thing, or mostly, and some of them are claiming you should be an avatar.
“The Hunter and Ssthich?” I guessed.
Yes, but also Reason, the Lords of Law and Justice, and a few others. Surprisingly, Sparky, too.
“Seriously?”
No, I just have a weird sense of humor. Yes, seriously.
“Okay. What does she hope to gain? I ask because she’s a bitch and she’s not doing this out of the goodness of her fiery little heart.”
Well, it would make T-n-T descended from two avatars. Since they’re both in her church, that’s more power in her hands.
“What about Amber?”
That’s trickier, since she’s not flesh and blood anymore. I’d go with the idea she’s a descendant, yes. Given her current state, I’m not sure she should try channeling any power from me, though.
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
So, Tianna called me up, or called me down, or invoked me, or whatever you want to call it.
“Yeah. What did you do?”
I answered, of course! What did you think I would do? She’s my granddaughter, too. In a non-physical, psychic clone sort of way.
“Awkward, but I agree. Go on.”
It was an awkward discussion.
“Really? Gosh!”
You didn’t need to dump that much sarcasm on it.
“Yes, I did.”
Anyway, she told me Sparky wanted to talk to you, but you didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Something about not getting involved.
“Yeah. I told her to tell Sparky to speak to you directly.”
I’m not sure why Sparky doesn’t want to tell me, but I can ask. Can I digress for a moment to talk about you?
“It’ll be hard to stop you.”
True. I’m worried about you.
“I’m touched.”
No, you’re not. And that’s part of it. You don’t… you don’t seem to care about much.
“Should I?”
I’m serious. Aside from some visits to Tymara, you avoid the place. You don’t talk to people—not seriously, not really. You give flip answers and avoid conversations. It’s like you’re avoiding contact.
“I talk with Diogenes and Mary all the time.”
Yeah, but Diogenes won’t tell you you’re being a jerk, he countered. Mary loves you and will let you marinate in your own black juices.
“Actually, she and I already had a discussion a lot like this. By the end of it, she asked me to take a more active role in spending time with her.”
Good start, and it ties in to what I’m trying to say. I think you’re depressed.
“Am not.”
See, you’re supposed to shout that. Or at least sound like you care. You don’t put your heart into it—into anything, as far as I’ve seen. Even when you visit Tymara, you’re cheerful and I think you have a good time, but then, when your duty is done, you leave again. You never seem to want to stay.
“There are people who actively look for me, here. They want me to die, be King, donate blood, work miracles, or something. I don’t want to do any of it. I’m unfit for politics or religion.”
There was a time when you would rise to the challenge, rather than flow away into a dark puddle. You may not feel sad, as such, but you’re a plane ticket, a train ride, two cabs, and a long walk from happy.
“I’m quite content, thank you.”
And that’s what I mean! You’re not happy! You’re doing whatever you want to do, but you don’t take the same joy in it! If you didn’t walk around in the sunshine, I’d think you didn’t have a soul.
“Only part of one,” I answered, quietly. He didn’t reply for a while.
So… you’re not getting better after the…
“I call it an amputation,” I told him. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be better. Mary thinks I’ve recovered as much as I’m going to by marinating, as you put it. She wants me to get out and do stuff—to dredge up some motivation, or fake it until I give a damn. She didn’t say what you’re saying, or not exactly. She tackled it from a relationship viewpoint, not a self-psychoanalytic one.”
You need help with your introspection. I wish Bronze was available to you. She always did manifest more of your heart than your intellect.
“I’m not arguing. I’m missing some vital parts of me and I don’t know what to do about them. And, to be frank, I think those pieces are the pieces I need to care enough to do anything about them. Mary’s trying to use some of my other parts as substitutes—how much I care about her can be used to motivate me instead of some missing part I can’t even name, now.”
I wish I was further along with Tort. She’d be good for you right now.
“I agree.”
One good thing, though. Tort is allowed to come back. I’ve been over it with the Grey Lady and, while the post-life process normally has jurisdiction, since I took special interest, I can personally handle her reincarnation.
“And I look forward to it, in a distant, someday sort of anticipation. But I can’t undo the Black Ball’s effects, whatever those may be, and I can’t undo the Fabulous Four Plus One. Those are going to mark me forever. And Bronze.”
And Bronze. She’s the big one, isn’t she? he asked, thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
I have a question. And it’s a hypothetical one, so don’t read into it, okay?
“I can try.”
If Bronze were to be reincarnated, what would she be reincarnated as? Do you think she’d be born—or, since we’re talking about horses, “foaled”—normally?
“You told me not to read into it, but I don’t think I can avoid it. Do you mean to tell me it’s possible?”
Anything’s possible. The likelihood is slim, however. There are rules I can’t break, rules I dare not break, rules I can bend, and rules I can ignore if I want to pay the price. The afterlife is one of those areas full of “can’t” and “dare not” rules, plus a hefty helping of “I don’t know what I’m doing” stuff.
“Confirm or deny,” I demanded. “Does Bronze still exist?”
You made her with a piece of your soul, he answered. Souls don’t just disappear. She doesn’t quite count as a living being, but she’s more than a mere construct.
I was silent for several dozen fast-paced heartbeats, thinking at the speed of dark.
“You’re copied from me,” I said, calmly, “with some changes based on worshipper beliefs. That makes you an energy-state being of monumental power and scope, but you also have an innate understanding of how I think. So, knowing how I feel about Bronze and how I feel about inscrutable pronouncements that imply without explicitly stating anything, answer the goddam question!”
Um. Yeah. Okay. Bronze’s essence still exists in the afterlife. She’s doing very well, but she misses you, too. Aside from that one fly in the ointment, everything’s going wonderfully for her.
I had to pause and digest that. In a weird sort of way, it made me feel better.
“All right. So Bronze went on to horse heaven, wherever that is. That’s a strange sort of comfort, I guess. Maybe dead is better than destroyed. One has an afterlife, the other is oblivion. You’re sure she’s happy?”
Consider who I am. Do you think I could be mistaken about a thing like that?
“Then I’m glad.” I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes. Bronze was… not alive. Not destroyed, exactly, but… All right, there’s an afterlife and she’s in it. Coming to mental grips with this is going to take a while.