by Apex Authors
"On the morning of November 7, 1940, four months after the bridge opened, the wind was blowing at exactly 42 miles an hour. This wind hit the solid girders of the bridge deck and caused the deck to vibrate back and forth just as it had been doing every morning since the bridge opened for traffic, so at first no one thought anything of it. But then Gertie began twisting and undulating like a piece of soft taffy in a pull before it completely collapsed.
"The wind caused the bridge to vibrate at its natural frequency and create a torsional wave that helped the bridge achieve resonance in two orientations: one over the length of the bridge, causing the undulating movement, the other from side to side, causing the twisting motion. The damn thing was toast once that happened. Resonance occurs when the frequency of a wave achieves a standing vibrational wave with maximum amplitude and—"
"Calm down, you're losing me again."
I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. “I asked Derek to give it to me in the simplest terms possible."
"Simple would be good,” said Claire. “I like simple. It gets me hot.” She tried to smile at her joke but didn't make it.
"There's a lot of evidence to back up the theory that everything in nature is held together by sound waves. Don't ask me how, but somewhere out there tonight is a little boy—a very hurt, angry, and probably lonely little boy—who's been given the power to alter both the physical and the physiological by manipulating those waves."
She stared into my eyes for a moment, then said: “He can change or destroy something with sound just by looking at it?"
"He can change or destroy everything just by willing it."
She began shaking. “How do you know?"
I nodded toward my computer desk where I'd placed the sheet of paper I'd found in the book. “While I was talking to Derek, I went over to my desk to look at the page. Go see for yourself."
She looked at my desk, then back at me. “I'm really starting to freak out here, Patrick. I don't want to look. You tell me. You tell me and I'll believe it."
"Will you help me put on my back brace? We need to get dressed and get out of here."
"But what about—?"
"The one page has now become five, and it's all in Vincent's handwriting, and it's probably the first genuine record of extraterrestrial contact ever written, and no one will believe a word of it because the race who contacted us—who contacted Vincent—no longer exists ... except in Vincent himself."
"How do you even know where to begin looking for him? Jesus, the news said that there must be a hundred people in a bunch of different search parties out looking for him. How can we hope to—?"
"Because Vincent told us where he is."
"The tower of boxes...?"
"The tower of boxes near a bridge."
It only took her a few seconds to figure it out. “Oh, my God—the recycling plant."
I nodded. “From the freeway you can see that enormous pile of boxes they let stack up during the week."
"And the 21st Street Bridge is the only way to get there until they finish with the roadwork."
I pulled her toward me and kissed her. “I knew you were the girl for me."
A tear slipped from her eye. “Oh, Patrick—that poor kid. Can you imagine the way he's been treated all his life, to want to ... to...?"
"Don't finish that thought,” I said, struggling to my feet. “We need to get out of here."
"Right beside you all the way."
"You do know that I've been a little bit in love with you for a long time now, don't you?"
She smiled. “So I guess it's only fair you should know I've been a little bit in love with you since this afternoon. I hope we get a chance to enjoy it."
"Your lips to God's ear."
* * * *
I can tell you now what I didn't know then; I can tell you about the conversation that was taking place between C'haill-ol-i, who was now the Device he'd created (and would be that way forever) and the part of the device that was now its own Absolute Unitary Being. I can tell you about what was perhaps the most important conversation in the history of the multiverse; Vincent listened as C'haill-ol-i/Device had a conversation with himself, as God has been talking to Himself since the beginning, pretending that He's us:
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000 COMMUNICATION ... WITH ... THIS ... RACE ... MUST ... EMPLOY ... THE ... ELECTROMAGNETIC ... SPECTRUM ... AND ... MOST ... LIKELY ... THE ... RADIO ... WAVE ... LEVEL ... OF ... THE ... SPECTRUM ... OR ... NEUTRINOS ... OR ... TACHYONS [001]
* * * *
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002 BUT ... WHATEVER ... THE ... CHANNEL ... IT ... WILL ... REQUIRE ... MACHINES ... THAT ... ARE ... A ... PERFECT ... FUSION ... BETWEEN ... THE ... MECHANICAL ... AND ... THE ... ORGANIC ... COMPUTER ... ACTUATED ... MACHINES ... WITH ... ABILITIES ... THAT ... APPROACH ... IF ... NOT ... EQUAL ... THE ... HIGHEST ... FORM ... OF ... INTELLIGENCE [003]
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004 STOP ... REPEATING ... YOURSELF ... I ... UNDERSTAND ... NOW ... YOU ... MUST ... REALIZE ... THE ... NUMBER ... OF ... ADVANCED ... CIVILIZATIONS ... IN ... THE ... LAYERSPACE ... MULTIVERSE ... HAD ... BEGUN ... LONG ... BEFORE ... THE ... FIRST ... AMOEBA ... WRIGGLED ... TO ... LIFE ... NOT ... AWARE ... THAT ... BEFORE ... IT ... BILLIONS ... OF ... YEARS ... OF ... EVOLUTIONARY ... TIME ... AND ... TRIAL ... AND ... ERROR ... WERE ... AVAILABLE ... FOR ... THE ... PRECISE ... SEQUENCE ... OF ... EVENTS ... THAT ... ARE ... TAKING ... PLACE ... HERE ... FROM ... THE ... EXTINCTION ... OF ... THE ... DINOSAURS ... TO ... THE ... RECESSION ... OF ... THE ... PLIOCENE ... AND ... PLEISTOCENE ... FORESTS ... HAVE ... NOT ... OCCURRED ... IN ... EXACTLY ... THE ... SAME ... MANNER ... ANYWHERE ... ELSE ... IN ... THE ... LAYERSPACE ... MULTIVERSE [005]
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006 AND ... THAT ... IS ... WHAT ... MAKES ... THIS ... PLACE ... AND ... ITS ... INHABITANTS ... UNIQUE ... IN ... EVOLUTIONARY ... HISTORY ... PARTICULARLY ... THE ... SECRETS ... CONTAINED ... IN ... FOSSILIZED ... ENDOCASTS ... DEMONSTRATES ... A ... PROGRESSIVE ... TENDENCY ... THAT ... COMES ... FROM ... INTELLIGENCE ... BUT ... WE ... MUST ... REMEMBER ... TO ... BE ... CAREFUL ... TO ... BE ... PRECISE ... WHEN ... THE ... TIME ... TO ... LIFT ... THE ... VEIL ... ARRIVES ... AGAIN ... FOR ... ONCE ... INTELLIGENT ... BEINGS ... NO ... MATTER ... HOW ... HIGH ... OR ... ADMIRABLE ... THEIR ... GOALS ... ACHIEVE ... TECHNOLOGY ... AND ... THE ... CAPACITY ... FOR ... SELF-DESTRUCTION ... OF ... THEIR ... SPECIES ... THE ... SELECTIVE ... ADVANTAGE ... OF ... THEIR ... INTELLIGENCE ... BECOMES ... MORE ... UNCERTAIN [007]
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008 I ... UNDERSTAND [009]
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014 I ... AM ... NOT ... SURE ... IT ... WILL ... WORK ... [015]
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...
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018 I ... DO ... BUT ... IF ... THE ... CALCULATIONS ... ARE ... EVEN ... SLIGHTLY ... INCORRECT ... [019]
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020 YOU ... MAKE ... A ... STRONG ... ARGUMENT [021]
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* * * *
I know this conversation well. Vincent made me understand.
Vincent made me a lot of things.
Vincent made me more than I was.
Vincent made me.
Made us.
#
By the time Claire and I reached the 21st Street Bridge, it was all over the news; all of the children and teachers who had been witness to the fight between Eugene Oberfield and Vincent on the playground were now hospitalized and under heavy sedation because of auditory and visual hallucinations that had terrified them and sent many into fits of violence.
"Entrainment?” asked Claire.
I nodded my head. “Vincent is testing his power. He's lashing out at everyone he thinks has wronged him. Except instead of hitting them with his fists, he's attacking them on the physiological level. If he can m
aintain this, then he'll figure out pretty soon that he can do more damage."
Claire put her hand on my leg. “I'm sorry that neither one of us had the nerve to act on our feelings before now."
"You and me both."
"Do you think he'll ... do you think Vincent will listen to us? That he can still be reasoned with?"
"Look at me, Claire. I've got this goddamned Spanish Inquisition torture device strapped to my back and I stumble around on two metal canes. The kid's going to take one look at me and know I haven't had the best of times, either. The trick is going to be how long I can hold his sympathy once I've gotten it."
We took the 21st Street exit and drove across the bridge toward the entrance to the recycling plant. The plant had gotten a lot of criticism in the last several months because it dumped all cardboard items—especially the numerous boxes—from both residential and business clients into one large pile that it took care of once a week in order to save energy. Some weeks, the pile of boxes was so high it towered over the fence surrounding the plant.
Once over the bridge, Claire and I could see the top of the “box tower.” It rose easily twenty-five feet above the ground.
Claire covered her ears with her hands and winced. “Oh God—can you hear that?"
I'd slammed on the brakes and covered my ears, as well. All I could do was nod my head and look in the rear-view mirror. Claire did the same, and a few seconds later we both turned to look out the back window.
The 21st Street Bridge was twisting and rolling and collapsing in on itself, its metal girders and concrete braces becoming rubber, the entire structure undulating exactly like a piece of soft taffy in a pull.
It took less than forty seconds for the entire structure to crumple and give way, crashing down in a burst of dust and debris.
The unexpected pressure that had jammed its way into our ears and skulls subsided at once. Our heart rates returned to normal. We could see clearly again. And the sudden internal heat we'd felt in our chests evaporated.
"He knows we're coming,” I said.
"Do you think he wants to hurt us?"
I shook my head. “No. If he wanted to hurt us, he would have destroyed the bridge while we were on it. This is a kid who's learned how to fold time, space, and all the matter that exists within and without. You can't sneak up on someone like that.” I was almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. “He destroyed the bridge because he wants us to have some privacy. It's his way of saying, ‘Come on in.’”
Claire pulled me to her and kissed me once again. “I hope you're right."
I put the car in gear and continued toward the recycling plant. It didn't surprise me to find that the entrance gate had been twisted inward and everything lying between the car and the tower of boxes had been parted like the Red Sea. We were able to drive right up to the tower.
Claire got out first, then came around to my side and helped me get out and to my feet. Instead of the canes, this time I'd brought the metal arm-crutches that braced around my forearms. I did not want to fall or stumble.
We started toward the tower of boxes, and as we neared, it began to re-shape itself; boxes that had been broken down and flattened were made square and firm again; others that had been soaked with rain or sewage crackled as they dried; and as every box was re-made, the shape of the pile became more and more tower-like, with windows at various points around its circumference and even gables at the top. Claire and I entered through a set of tall swinging doors and found ourselves looking at a great winding staircase leading up to the top.
It was no longer a tower of cardboard; it was now solid stone.
"There's no way I can climb those stairs,” I said.
"You don't have to,” said a voice from behind us.
I turned around and saw a small shape standing in the shadows.
"Patrick,” whispered Claire, grabbing my arm. "Look."
She was pointing toward one of the windows. We were at least a hundred feet above the ground. A sudden wave of vertigo caused me to grab onto her to keep my balance as I looked down and saw the seemingly endless staircase winding down, down, down.
"Hello, Vincent,” said Claire.
"Hi,” said a child's voice as Vincent stepped into the light.
I had never seen such old eyes in a child's face; in them were memories of loneliness and sadness more profound than any adult ever knows by the age of fifty. His clothes were dirty and old, not hand-me-downs but the type of clothes people bought at our store, people too poor to afford even the basics. He walked in a heavy heel-to-toe fashion as if he feared the ground might open up and swallow him before his next step. One look at him and my heart broke in a thousand places but didn't make a sound; the heart never does when its cracks.
"We came to help you, Vincent,” I managed to get out. “And C'haill-ol-i, too."
"He told me you'd be coming,” said Vincent. “He said you'd be my friends."
I moved closer to him. “He was right."
"I know."
I glanced around the bare room.
"You're looking for the Device, aren't you?” said Vincent.
"Yes. You wrote so well about it, I ... I wanted to see it."
Vincent unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open to reveal the longest, ugliest wound I'd ever seen running down the center of his chest. It was pink and moist, still fresh, but in the light it also looked slightly metallic, as if the surgical site had been soldered closed instead of stitched.
"C'haill-ol-i told me it has to be like this,” said this broken and frightened little boy. “He said that my ... my flesh had to be re-made. Hey—I got something to show you, Patrick."
Before I could ask what, he tore off his shirt and lifted his arms as a pair of wide, luminous wings unfurled behind him, wings that were both flesh and machine, and shone with an incandescence that seemed almost holy.
My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment I was six years old again, lying flat on my back, looking up at the guardian angel I had drawn with glow-in-the-dark chalk, the guardian angel whose home was my blackboard sky.
"Do you like it?” he asked. “I thought this was the way you drew me."
I felt a single tear burst from one of my eyes and run slowly down my cheek. “It's perfect,” I said to him. “You got it just right. Thank you, Vincent."
"You're welcome."
He turned his head toward the window as a sound in the distance began to come closer; the sound of dozens of angry voices.
"My story didn't have a good ending,” he said, folding back his impossible wings and walking toward the window. “It ends like that Frankenstein movie with Boris Karloff. All the villagers come with torches and burn the castle to the ground."
In the distance I could see the bright flickers of dozens, maybe hundreds of torches, the flames snapping against the night.
"I think I'll make them all crumple up like a piece of paper."
"Please don't,” said Claire.
He stared at her, his face expressionless. “Why not? C'haill-ol-i and the Device showed me how. I can turn them into anything I want. I can make them nothing. Nobody was ever nice to me. Only my dad, and he killed himself because he was so sad all the time and the doctors couldn't do anything to help him."
"We'll be nice to you,” I said. “Just give us the chance, okay?"
Vincent looked at my crutches and the way I was standing, stooped over and shaking.
"I'll bet people made fun of you, didn't they?"
"A lot of them still do,” I replied. “But I don't let it hurt me anymore."
Claire put her arm around my waist and held on tight.
"Could you maybe show me how to make it not hurt? C'haill-ol-i and the Device, they're inside me now, and they kinda have to do what I want. They showed me everything, told me everything, they gave me powers. It's weird but kinda cool. Kinda scary, too. Hey—did you know that C'haill-ol-i and the Device, that their world is all gone?"
Claire nodded. “Yes.
We read your story."
"Did you like it? Was it a good story?"
"Oh, yes, yes it was. Very exciting, but also very sad."
His face brightened. “You really mean that, don't you, Claire?"
"I do, hon. Really, I do."
I looked outside; the torches and angry voices were even closer, much closer than I thought they'd be.
"I don't have the folding down too good yet,” said Vincent. “Sometimes I make things happen too fast, or at the wrong time. That's how come you kept finding the story getting longer. I'd write it in my head, but then I'd cause things to fold and the words were just ... just there on the paper you had."
"It's a pretty neat trick,” I said. “Will you show me how you do it?"
He smiled. “Sure. Maybe—hey, maybe you can tell me what I'm doing that's not right. C'haill-ol-i and the Device keep trying to tell me, but I don't understand a lot of the words. I will, though. I think I'll understand them when I'm a little older.” He looked out the window once again and glared. “They never been nice to me. Why should I be nice to them?"
"Because I'm asking you to,” I said. “As a favor for me. As a favor for your new friend."
He turned to face Claire and me, holding out his hands. “C'haill-ol-i and the Device said that if you were telling the truth, then you wouldn't be afraid to touch me."
Neither one of us hesitated. It took me a moment to untangle myself from the forearm braces of the crutches, but as soon as I did, I took hold of one of Vincent's hands, Claire took hold of the other, and then she and I joined hands.
As soon as all our hands were joined, the walls within the tower began altering themselves, filling with glowing spheres that shone not any single color, but all colors, one bleeding into the next until it was impossible to tell the difference between gold and red, red and gray, gray and blue, and with each burst of color and combinations of colors there came musical notes. The first was a lone, soft, sustained cry that floated above us on radiant wings, a mournful call that sang of foundered dreams and sorrowful partings and dusty, forgotten myths from ages long gone by, then progressively rose in pitch to strengthen this extraordinary melancholy with tinges of joy, wonder, and hope as the songs of the other spheres and colors joined it, becoming the sound of a million choral voices raised in worship to the gods, becoming music's fullest dimension, richest intention, whispering rest to our weary hearts as the light moved outward in waves and ripples, altering our inner landscapes with every exalted refrain, voices a hundred times fuller than any human being's should ever be, pulsing, swirling, rising, then cascading over our bodies like pure crystal rain; then suddenly the rain, the music, all of it was inside us, assuming physical dimensions, forcing us to become more than we were, more than we'd been, than we'd ever dreamed of becoming. The sound grew without and within us, and we became aware not only of the music and the colors and whirling spheres, but of every living thing that surrounded us outside the tower; every weed, every insect, every glistening drop of dew on every blade of grass and every animal in deepest forest, and as the sounds continued rising in our souls, lavish, magnificent and improbable, we saw the Earth and the Moon as they must have looked to the Device as it moved through the cold, glittering depths of the cosmos and LayerSpace; the dry, pounded surface of the moon, its craters dark and secretive and dead as an old bone. Just beyond was a milky-white radiance that cast liquid-grey shadows across the lunarscape while distant stars winked at us, then a burst of heat and pressure and suddenly we were below the moist, gleaming membrane of the bright blue sky, Earth rising exuberantly into our line of sight. We marveled at the majestic, swirling drifts of white clouds covering and uncovering the half-hidden masses of land and watched the continents themselves in motion, drifting apart on their crustal plates, held afloat by the molten fire beneath, and when the plates had settled and the rivers had carved their paths and the trees had spread their wondrous arms, there came next the People and their races and mysteries through the ages, and in our minds we danced through some of those mysteries, holding hands as we stood atop places with wonderful and odd names, places like Cheops’ pyramid and the Tower of Ra, Zoroaster's temple and the Javanese Borobudur, the Krishna shrine, the Valhalla plateau and Woton's throne, and then we started dancing through King Arthur's castle and Gawain's abyss and Lancelot's point, then Solomon's temple at Moriah, then the Aztec Amphitheatre, Toltec Point, Cardenas Butte, and Alarcon Terrace before stopping at last in front of the great Wall of Skulls at Chicén Itzá. The skulls were awash by a sea of glowing colors, changing shape in the lights from above, their mouths opening as if to speak to us, flesh spreading across bone to form faces and then—and then we were One, all of us, we were the first to find the state of Absolute Unitary Being that C'haill-ol-i's world had perished in pursuit of.