There was one elegant solution to both seeming impossibilities, but what it implied about the nature of reality, and the Elders’ mastery of it, was the stuff of nightmares.
If every “model” was a copy of a universe that actually existed somewhere, then Virtua didn’t have to process all its data, just read and manipulate select parts. Still, it was staggering to imagine any system able to even compass the dataset for a whole other universe.
Riordan froze. Wait, a whole other universe? That was one of many parallel universes? Like the theory of the same name? Is that why Laaglenz had wondered, “What if a branching incident in a temporal stream—that very moment where a symmetry split occurs spontaneously—could be induced, even controlled?” Was Virtua some unthinkably powerful mechanism capable of forcing splits in a timeline? Did it—could anything?—make whole alternate universes?
But wait, maybe it wasn’t necessary to “make” new universes at all. If one followed the many-worlds theory to its logical conclusion, all things that could happen would happen, in some parallel universe. So maybe Virtua wasn’t creating anything. Maybe it simply located and accessed those already-extant other worlds. If that was true, then each new “model” was just a data tap into an alternate world that had branched in precisely the same way and due to the same causes, that the model’s “designers” had chosen to study. Which would mean that Virtua didn’t really process or manipulate data at all; it was more like a multiverse switchboard. But if so, then Riordan was faced with an ethical imperative upon which he had to act, no matter how surreal it seemed.
Caine forced himself back into the moment. “I need assurances that you will not destroy the world I just left.”
Kutkh looked surprised by Caine’s change in demeanor. “Why?”
“Because I owe that to the…the simulacra I am leaving behind.” Even as he said it, Riordan tried to imagine that Pip’s smiles and Becca’s laughter had been nothing more than convincing simulations.
The Dornaani’s face was blank for a moment, then disbelieving comprehension reanimated it. “Human, these are not real beings.”
“Your description of them indicates otherwise. To use your own terms, they are ‘actual minds.’”
Kutkh’s eyes closed. “You are being maddeningly obtuse. These consciousnesses do not derive from protean sources. They are activated within a machine and may be turned off along with it. Can you not see the implicit distinction?”
Riordan shook his head. “What I see is a lack of distinction. If both worlds are populated by independent intelligences descended from those of the original model, how is turning off the Virtual world different from destroying the actual one?” When Kutkh’s only response was a bored sideways stare into Limbo, Riordan discovered that he didn’t merely dislike her: he hated her. “Whatever you might do to other worlds in other models, I insist you leave this one alone.”
Kutkh’s expression became one of canny assessment. “I refuse.” Her tone was firm, but more in the way of setting the ground for a negotiation, rather than making a declaration.
Riordan considered, and hated, the words he had to utter next. “I’ll trade for it.”
“And what do you have that I could possibly want?” Her tone was one that Riordan imagined a spider would use to invite a fly into her web.
Caine swallowed. “You tell me.”
Kutkh paused. Her mouth twisted. Not wry; cruel. “What I want from you is you. A full patterning. Well, as full as this system can manage.”
“You mean…me, in this machine? Forever?”
“Correct.”
Riordan had to remember to breathe. To comply didn’t cost him anything, but it might create an eternal hell for a Virtual iteration of himself. “And will my Virtual self keep my memories from this world and from the model?”
“Yes.” It was a surprisingly frank reply. “As I understand it, a complete duplicate must be an unedited and total consciousness or it will not work.”
Well, that’s reassuring. If it’s true. “My agreement is contingent upon three guarantees. First, that you insert my virtual self back into Virtua as soon as we finish here. No long delays or interruptions.”
“Very well.”
No surprise that she had agreed to that demand “Second, you will not adjust the world to help or hinder me or my friends in any way.”
Kutkh let the fingers of one hand roll languidly. “That does not guarantee safety, you realize.”
“No one’s safety is guaranteed in the real world, either. I just don’t want virtual-me to have crosshairs on his back.”
“And your third request?”
“My third demand is that I may return here, whenever I wish, to verify that you’ve kept your word.”
Kutkh’s eyes bulged. “Unacceptable. I shall not compromise the privacy of my own—wait!”
Riordan had envisioned walking out of Limbo. As he did, everything faded to charcoal gray. He remained hovering at the cusp of departure. “Yes?”
“What you ask is impossible. There is no way to prove that events involving simulacra are natural outgrowths of the virtual weave, rather than a result of operator manipulation.”
“You make recordings of the simulations, don’t you?”
Kutkh blinked once, involuntarily. “I…we can. But recording of the entire event stream is not only extremely data intensive, but is diffic—”
“Bullshit. Virtua was designed to study the progression of star-spanning events. Logically, it had to record every detail for researchers to examine. So, you’re to keep a full recording of the 3C world. And if I return and suspect you manipulated events, I’ll alert Senior Arbiters and former Custodial leaders about your abuse of this node.”
Kutkh tried to maintain an expression of impatient indifference.
Riordan smiled. “Of course, if you can’t agree to my three conditions, we can just skip all this and I’ll start contacting—”
“No. I agree to your terms.”
“Excellent.” Caine drew a deep breath. Or at least felt as though he did. “I’m ready to join Elena now.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
JULY 2124
LELTLOSU-SHAI (UR VIRTUA), BD+75 403A
Caine waited. There was no change in the featureless, soundless gray around him. “Kutkh, you promised—”
“Patience, human. She cannot be contacted immediately. We must wait.”
“For what?”
“For your mate to sleep. You are a conscious mind, still within Virtua. Your mate is an unconscious mind in a different model—the original model, which we call Ur Virtua. Establishing a conduit between the two can be challenging.”
“You mean I can’t even see Elena in Virtua? Can’t hold her hand while I talk to her?”
“It would probably kill her. And it would surely kill you to try. Only a complete mind may enter Ur Virtua. To do so would leave your body brain-dead.”
“So how did Elena get into it?”
“She was not registering any higher brain function when she was inserted.”
“Was she in a coma, or—?”
Kutkh interrupted, annoyed. “These are particularities of which I was not apprised, in which I have no competence, and about which I have no interest. Her caretakers were possibly careless with her medical maintenance. Again, I lack that information. Whatever the cause of her condition, they obviously knew that Ur Virtua, which is exponentially more detailed than its other expressions, might reach her remaining cognitive and reactive functions and spark them back into activity. I did not believe such a process could work.”
“So why would my appearance in Ur Virtua kill her?”
Kutkh replied through an exasperated gill-sigh. “We do not know the circumstances of how she first became aware within Ur Virtua. She may have awoken into it. She may have been living in it as one passes through a convincing dream: uncritical and untroubled by any contradictions with her real life because she never recollected it, or has not thought of it in
years. Your appearance in that world could inflict a fatal cognitive shock.”
“She’s so frail that she could die of surprise?”
Kutkh’s eyelids half closed. “She is probably in a state of both mental and bodily semisuspension. The more shock your appearance incurs, the more likely that a cascade of cognitive dissonance will convince her that her world is an illusion and throw her out of Ur Virtua. Once conscious, her first reflex will be to use various voluntary muscles. That will cause her autonomic nervous system to reactivate.
“This would be catastrophic. She remains alive because her body’s activity is precariously balanced between minimal autonomic functions and cryogenic suspension. If she regains consciousness, that balance cannot be sustained. She would die in minutes. Seconds, given the extreme cryoshock.”
Riordan nodded. “So the only safe alternative is to put me in one of her dreams.”
“Yes.”
“I’m ready.”
“So is she. You may proceed.”
“Not with you here.”
After a pause, Kutkh said, “That may not be wise. You have no experience in—”
“I won’t take any undue risks.” And I don’t trust you.
“As you wish. I shall return when the link is broken. Either one of you may do so at any time. But remember, her conscious mind is only partially active. She may be too sluggish to protect the coherence of her world, to close the link before damage can be done.”
“I understand. Leave. Now.”
Kutkh vanished. After a long moment, Riordan saw the gray infinity in front of him begin to thin. What began as a translucent oval slowly became transparent, like condensation fading from a window.
Through which he saw Elena, as beautiful as he remembered. Or maybe she wasn’t. He didn’t know because it didn’t matter. It never had. It was Elena. As serene in sleep as she was vivacious in life. He murmured her name.
She stirred. Her face—cheek on pillow, long dark hair flowing over it—filled the aperture like a cameo wreathed in fog.
“Elena,” he repeated, “do you remember my voice?”
Her eyes were still closed. “Hmm? You?”
“My voice. Do you remember my voice?”
“I… Nice voice.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Yes. Maybe? Who are…?” Her lips slipped over the last word. She was falling back into a deeper sleep.
“Elena. Listen to my voice. Listen. It’s me. It’s Caine.”
Her eyes opened; they were blank, focused on nothing. And yet… “I know your face.”
“Yes. I’m Caine.”
“Cain.” A long pause. “Bible?”
“No. We know each other from…from before. We met on the Moon.”
“Man in the Moon. Cain. Blood moon.”
Riordan frowned. In a borderline dream state, Elena’s memory, imagination, and desires were likely to mix, merge, transmogrify. The best he could do was shepherd her toward reliving sensory impressions from her old life, without pushing her so far that she awakened.
Her mumbles were faint but did not stop. “Blood in the moon. In Jakarta. On the streets. On Caine’s back.” She started, her eyes widening but still empty. “You, you’re not Cain. You’re Caine.”
Riordan tried to keep his breath steady, failed dismally, was too relieved and happy to care. “Yes, Elena. It’s me, it’s Caine. Can you see me?”
“No. Wait. Yes. You…you’re a…ghost?”
Riordan swallowed the reflex to shout “No!”; that might jolt her closer to consciousness.
Before he could think of a safe reply, Elena’s tone transitioned from questioning to declarative. “You’re Caine. From my old dreams. Dreams I’ve forgotten.”
Her words pierced him like an impaler’s stake, the weight of his first, brief hopes dragging him down. Fighting to avert a disemboweling slide into despair, he grabbed at a topic likely to awaken the lost memories. “You remember Jakarta. And me. Do you remember what happened?”
“So much blood.” A tear slipped from her eye. “You died.”
“So you do remember.”
She inhaled. “I do. So clear. Like an earlier life.”
What? Elena was not a believer in reincarnation…or was she? “What else do you remember about that other life? Do you remember our times together?”
“Yes. No. Some.” Her lower lip twisted painfully. “You were gone. Mostly.”
Too true. They’d only had a few days on the Moon before overzealous security agents put Riordan into cold sleep. For thirteen years. When he finally regained his lost—stolen?—memories, the brief window of time in which they might have reconnected was nailed shut by two Ktor blades—one in each of their backs.
In the end, almost all of their love, passion, and hope had been spent in the imagination, not the actual experience, of each other. And however powerful such longing might be, it was ultimately intangible, left no physical impress. So he had to focus on more vivid sense memories. But carefully: the more intense or poignant they were, the likelier they’d snap her out of Ur Virtua. “Do you remember Connor?”
Elena’s mouth opened, then buckled as tears filled her eyes. “Oh. Connor. Connor. Where is—?” A choked sob stopped her.
Riordan kept his tone soft, soothing: “Connor is fine. He’s with me. He misses you.” Take a chance. “He wants to see you.”
“I miss him. Connor. I want him…I want…I…” Her hands caressed the air, then settled close to her. As if she were cradling an invisible infant. Tears ran in rivulets down her cheeks.
Caine became aware of his own wet eyes and his tightly constricted throat. He wiped his face, turned back to her…
…and discovered Elena’s blind eyes fixed on his own, wide and wondering. “Connor. He…he looks like you. He’s…”
“Yes, Elena. He’s our son. You remember.”
“Ours. Ours! I want…want to remember. But…” Her arms moved restlessly, one hand pawing after the vanished dream-infant, the other reaching, trying to bridge the impossible gulf between them. “I can’t. Can’t remember. Only pictures. Flashes. Like an old dream. A dream.” She sobbed. “Just a dream…”
“It’s not a dream. It’s a…a different world.” Which was probably how and why Elena’s mind had vaguely latched on to the concept of reincarnation. What else could explain such clear, powerful memories of two entirely different lives? “Tell me what you remember about the other world.”
“I remember…but it’s broken. Into pieces. Pieces of a mirror. Showing other times. Other places.” A long, pained sigh. “I miss you. Both of you. Everyone. Places near water. My dad.” She stopped suddenly. “He died. Dad is dead.” Her eyes shone. “The pain. How does it fit? In one dream? One world?”
She paused long enough for new tears to well in her eyes, and for Caine to steer her back toward the most vivid and positive memories. “You never told me: why did you name our son Connor?”
“I…I don’t remember. No…it was someone in your family. And mine. Our grandfathers. Same name. I remember.”
“You see? You do remember.”
But she hadn’t heard, spoke over him. “I remember. Making love. On the Moon. Shouldn’t have. No prophotabs.” A small frown. “Didn’t need. Didn’t want.” Her empty eyes found his again. “I was wrong.”
“And after the Moon?”
“No more. No you. Missing. I hoped. Too long.” The pooled tears overflowed. “Just Connor. All I had. Of us.”
Riordan had to wait a moment before he could speak. “I wanted that, too. More than anything.”
“Hard. So hard. Alone.” She sighed away a final tear. “I want to sleep. Too hard…to remember. To want. No dreams. Just sleep.”
“Soon, Elena. But we have to—”
“No. Please. Too real. Always too real. Then empty. When I wake up. Alone.” Her face pinched again. “Please. Let me sleep. Easier. Than wanting dreams.”
Caine’s throat almost closed. “But Co
nnor and I, we’re not dreams. We’re—”
“Like life.” Her breathing became more rapid. “It mixes. Dreams. And life. All of it. Can happen. They told me. When they called me. To watch. To be the Watcher. Because I dream stories.”
Riordan frowned at her intense, inchoate declarations. “Who told you? What did they say?”
Elena may or may not have heard him. Her tone shifted, as if she were recalling something portentous, even fearsome. “The Watcher exists on the edge of every reality. And at the crossroads of all dreams. Never knowing which is which. Others’ dreams. Or my own. Dreams like you. And Connor. Please. Too much pain. Let me sleep.”
“I can’t lose you again. You can’t just—”
“I must sleep. You and your stories are not…cannot be…real.”
“Elena—”
“No! You…are…not…”
Suddenly, Riordan’s view into Elena’s world widened, became as crisp and clear as normal vision. Elena had straightened from the waist and was upright in bed, her chin still drooping toward her chest, her long raven hair a shining silk curtain that hid most of her face. She was in a small, round room of close-fitted stone. A narrow casemate window admitted a shaft of dim light from a blue-green crescent moon, against which a wheeling bird cut a fleeting, wide-winged shadow.
Elena’s speech was suddenly collected, severe. “Hold and desist. Are you a malign spirit, that you keep me in this dream?”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
JULY 2124
LELTLOSU-SHAI (& UR VIRTUA), BD+75 403A
Riordan blinked at the change in both Elena’s tone and her environment. “Am I a…a spirit? No! I—”
“You are earnest.” Elena may have frowned. “We may have met before. A past life, perhaps. Other worlds, other realities. But I cannot be sure. When one looks beyond the shimmering surface, faces—of the dead, of spirits, of nightmares—may look back.”
“I’m not a spirit. I’m real. Connor’s real. We were—we are—a family.”
“You speak what cannot be. Yet you seem to speak truth. One or both of us are deluded. Or you are a canny spirit. And bold, to tell a such a lie. If lie it is. Do you mean to enter this world?”
Marque of Caine Page 44