Ten Directions

by Samuel Winburn

  And so we suffer.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Was his decision a mistake?

  The question bubbled up continually within Kalsang’s mind. Had it been rash to follow the dictates of intuition rather than the propositions of logic? Saving the Earth was hardly a personal, spiritual question – billions upon billions of sentient beings’ lives were at stake.

  The bubbles rose with greater immediacy now that he had turned down the oxygen in the cabin atmosphere to maximise his time alive on his suicide mission to Mars. Kalsang gulped in the thin air. After a while he managed to settle his breaths into a steady pant which made his lungs ache.

  He asked his imaginary friends for council. “Am I doing the right thing?”

  The aliens crowded together and conferred. d'Song, as always, spoke for them.

  “Melded One, the last time we did not listen to our hearts and this was what destroyed us.”

  “How so d’Song?”

  “We took the easy way. We learned the secrets of the Channel Between Worlds and we set about building it because of our desire. Our greed made our hearts difficult to see.”

  That didn’t answer his question. Now he was asking hallucinations for advice? Better to doubt everything from such a deluded mind. There was still time to choose another way, wasn’t there?

  The only thing he knew for sure was if he stuck with this plan he would die. Even if everything went right, he would die. Somewhere between Venus and Mars. He would die slowly like this, aching for breath, freezing, hungry, dehydrated. He would die in just this way and he didn’t know if it would make any difference. The radio beacon could malfunction, the Mars crew could fail to recognise the signal and, finally his message, for whatever reason, might be ignored.

  So what, Kalsang wondered, had made him so set on this course?

  A slight change in the angle of his swing by with Uranus would still take him to Jupiter. Every molecule in his body urged him to take that option when the time came, but his heart stayed firm with the decision even while his mind kept repeating this question like a mantra.

  Was he mistaken?

  Oh, the animal he was had a clear answer to his dilemma. The simple choice was self-preservation. Animal instincts always had an easy answer. He was used to ignoring them, but that didn’t mean they went away. If anything, they seemed to grow subtler and more pervasive over time. The Buddha was right. They offered nothing in the way of freedom. Undeniably. And the logic and blessings of his Teacher firmly blocked this choice.

  Still, flying against the force of these instincts was such constant effort. Only a lifetime of experience swimming against this current kept him from going mad. And there was nothing so clear in this case. The Buddha had nothing to say about going to Mars instead of Jupiter. Perhaps there was another way that he could not see yet. Perhaps he could figure out some way of meditatively slowing his metabolism more. Perhaps he could survive.

  Probably not.

  Was he so used to denying himself that he was choosing death over survival just to spite those instincts? There was too much at stake for such selfish considerations.

  “You are thinking too much Melded One. How can you ever solve a problem that way?”

  “d'Song, thinking is the benefit of being human. Animals can’t.”

  “The animals of our world did not build the Channel Between Worlds. That was done by our thoughts, our powerful imaginative minds. There is much wisdom in the animals.”

  She didn’t make sense here. Weren’t animals inhabitants of “lower realms,” inferior intellectually even to ghosts? They were objects mainly of pity and protection, although some could be Buddhas and so should be respected, but d'Song’s challenge gave him a new way of thinking.

  Kalsang’s imagination wandered along this line of reasoning, back to the Earth as he reflected on the hard choices filling the lives of his old friends, the wild animals of the Tibetan Plateau. There they greeted him with a chorus of thousands: the yak’s bellow, the snow leopard’s yowl, and the bray of the wild ass. Numberless hungry eyes stared back at themselves in the mirror that reflected the universe. All these mother beings he was striving to save, their voices joined by the accompaniment of a chorus of the aliens.

  Kalsang listened to their song.

  Alive. Our miracle today alone

  Striving hot against the cooling blood

  Our weary flesh feeds the living world

  Red tooth and claw churned back to mud

  All Time is turned by a billion worms

  We take our stand and face the daily flood

  From the gut we defy easy choices to die

  Beyond our undying need

  what is left within your fading bones?

  In their song Kalsang found his answer. He was thinking too much about a future that he had no control over whatsoever. All choices were nearly the same in this respect. His ignorance was as complete as any animal. What did an animal do instead? It lived. It made each decision as the moment arrived and took the consequences as they came. They had a kind of contentment that made them alert to the unseen. They had the wisdom of not second guessing.

  Chapter 23 - Calvin30

  Gudanko cut an unimposing figure, conducting his calculations calmly established in his seat at an understated desk. He was the least noticeable feature of his office. The place was decked out in faux-Kremlin Ancien Regime, perhaps by some long past occupant as the decor completely contradicted Gudanko’s character. The cost of refurbishment meant he had kept it.

  The accountant’s features were interrupted by the umbra of an Orthodox steeple and the cobweb gantries of the Dnipropetrovsk Cosmodrome cast through the mid-morning sun darkened polarised glass. Silhouettes of spider-like robots, casting spasmodic shadows as they crawled about the vast spaceship yards, completed the picture. It said something that the dramatic background failed to recast Gudanko as an antediluvian titan presiding over his fellow denizens of the deep. Instead his presence transposed upon the grandiose scene a pedestrian sheen. No place encompassing him could be that special. This was his unique power.

  Calvin30 had had ample time to assess the man since being motioned dismissively to this seat over half an hour previous. Gudanko’s fingers tapped out a steady cadence on the keys projected through his neuroview on the desktop. Otherwise the only other acoustic was extremely measured breathing. Calvin30 shifted in his lethargy. He reminisced a vision of August to keep cognizant. Master August’s inconstant buzz would keep anyone awake, the opposite of this incessant bore.

  Calvin30 missed his old boss. Missed him missed him missed him. August had sailed away leaving in his absence a wake of grey. Calvin30 could not even savour the memory of dismay on the Great Man’s face as his divine grace collapsed. It was such a shame, the consummation of well-nigh endless toil stolen from him. That miserable misfired missile missing the wormhole and clobbering August’s ship instead, cutting all communications. That bitch had extinguished his climactic moment. And now he had nothing from all of that. No rapture. No options. Just shit. Even the possibility August would survive to strive with eight more lives was divided by near infinity.

  Across the desk Gudanko paused, a sudden metastasis that flipped open Calvin30’s eyes and flicked on his switch.

  “Thank you, Oksana. I will need a few minutes to complete some business and then I will meet the Minister.”

  How did those few minutes before a Minister rate him, Calvin30 wondered?

  “Mr. C30.”

  The prefix affixed to his initials took Calvin30 aback.

  “We have something to discuss regarding the circumstances of the death of our Chief Executive.”

  “Well,” Calvin30 offered, “there is a full accounting in the ComSec report.”

  “Indeed.”

  “As I reported, I was sent to Kaliyuga to confirm what they knew about the wormhole. It was a reconnaissance mission. I often performed such functions for Mr. Bridges.”

  “Was
it wise to reveal details of August’s mission to his sworn enemies?” Gudanko still had not looked up to acknowledge his clone.

  Calvin30 bent to receive the rising gaze halfway. “Sir. I see that you must have read the report. What you say is correct and prearranged. There was a need to corroborate my credentials with what they already knew.”

  Gudanko said nothing so Calvin30 carried on. “I am continually grieved that despite my warnings, inadequate heed was taken, and measures were not in place to shield Mr. Bridges.”

  “No. It was unforgivable.” Calvin30 strained to discern any sign of satisfaction in that colorless pronouncement, but the new CEO’s self-control was impeccable.

  “Yes, well, there is a matter not so well documented in your report. Why is it you were gone so long?”

  “I was detained,” Calvin30 explained.” Tortured.” As if he were a machine that had been tampered with.

  “Tortured?” Gudanko’s composure leaned towards interest. “You have not documented that Kaliyuga has engaged in any direct physical harm to your person.”

  “I didn’t see the significance and ComSec did not ask.”

  Calvin30 waved the bait. A verifiable instance of torture would lend credence to attempts to have the Rev officially listed as a terrorist Org with the Indian Gov, who then might be enlisted in the battle against it. Given the lack of a clear confession from the conspirators in August’s assassination, this information could prove useful. Then again, who in the world ever cared what became of a clone?

  “Is there anything you would like to add now?”

  Calvin30 was, for a second, genuinely unhinged by the question. His humiliation felt too imminent for him to manipulate skilfully. By keeping mum and playing dumb he’d hoped to find some freedom from the whole thing.

  “No. Nothing new.”

  Gudanko tapped his fingers with disinterest, “There are details that are missing from the record. This you have already volunteered.”

  “Well, originally I was arrested for offering Comscript to a beggar.”

  “That is a severe accusation,” Gudanko interrupted, pre-empting his clone’s testimony, “doing so would violate the Peace. No Gov could enforce that.”

  Calvin30 encouraged the diversion. “Perhaps I was not literally arrested.”

  “Explain.”

  “It was not an official Gov action. I was judged in a Hub Court by a mob.”

  “A Hub. You were not a member? You must have had some choice in the matter?”

  Calvin30 redirected before Gudanko could intrude any further into stressful territory. “Their leader was an ideologue and I was disclosed as a clone.”

  “And the name of their leader?”

  “Yes. Her name was, I believe, Sri Indira Didi.” Calvin30 mentally removed her as an item from his who-to-do list. This much could not be doubted, that Gudanko would be thorough in securing his Com’s honor.

  “Thank you for answering my questions Mr. C30. Besides espionage, what other services do you perform?”

  “Sir. I am an asset of Mirtopik Com. My series originated there, my copyright papers are clear on that. As an asset I can perform any service not precluded by U.N. Resolution 146731-A on Clone Franchise.”

  Gudanko returned to his neuroview, as if he had forgotten his visitor’s existence. “Technically these days’ clones are free to go, yes?”

  “Go where?” Over the rainbow?

  Gudanko looked casually through an opaque gaze.

  “Anywhere. Go anywhere.”

  “Sir?” Was this hypothetical personal?

  Gudanko scratched his skull, as if confused that his lucid words could be misheard.

  “Mr. C30. We have arranged a severance package that should see you cared for. Oksana will go over the details with you.”

  “What?”

  “This isn’t personal. We have concluded a productivity review and generally clones, perhaps because you take your employment for granted, have not achieved the performance that we want to target.”

  “But a clone has no home other than the Com.” Without any warning the bomb had thumped down leaving no room to drop and cover. Calvin30’s position was completely obliterated, and he began to panic.

  “Your asset value has been mostly depreciated and we can write down the rest.” Gudanko concluded as close to cheerfully as he could. “Enjoy your freedom Mr. C30.”

  Gudanko could have had the decency at least to laugh maniacally as the trapdoor sprung leaving Calvin30 tumbling down the shit shoot. Instead he motioned dismissively towards the door before returning to his work. Lacking other options Calvin30 left the office.

  One door closed, and its customary predecessor declined to crop up. Calvin30 walked over and over around the block until people began to watch. An ill wind from India blew, exposing his suddenly thin skin, allowing him to realise the lack of insulation resulting from his sudden unemployment. A clone without a Com was open game for anyone. He scowled as his thoughts flashed back on his makeshift ‘family’ in Chennai and how low he could cower in order to belong. The recollection of clinging to that dirty girl filled Calvin30 with alarm. A piece of him still looked back on that indecent incident with longing - it gave him the creeps that he could sell himself so cheaply. Just a few weeks on his own and he’d gone off the deep end sleeping with the plebes. Now, with no hope of home, how low would he go?

  Ducking into his collar, Calvin30 started out toward the most unattended direction and hoped nobody noticed. What an imbecile to believe his own spiel. The only one undone by all his Faustian foolery was his own lonesome. A miniscule shift in coordinates and all his plans had gone to shit. The wormhole was still working whilst August likely wasn’t. Not the scenario he’d been aiming for. All because he’d ordered that Comsec Salvador, that whore, into his own line of fire.

  He walked down into the Ukrainian underground. August might yet persist, but not in any position to redeem nor rescue him. Calvin30 folded his fists up his sleeves to ward off the cold and shivered while he waited for his train. He ought to board any old line now since they all led to nought. Nothing to do now but fiddle until the world was inhaled into a sinkhole in the sky.

  Conceivably what was eating at him was conceding that he had a conscience. The demise of the Earth had been entirely collateral to the demands of Art. The high stakes had seemed to vindicate his artistic vision, but now that that anointed vision had been lost, there didn’t seem to be any point. As if this day wasn’t claustrophobic enough.

  As his train careened to his stop, Calvin30 considered his options. He could flop on the tracks now and be flattened. Why not? Or, could he somehow choose to accentuate the negative? What unique magic was singular to August anyway? Was he missing the transition to his solo act because of this fixation? Putting in a bit of distance, could the hole in the sky be a prize in disguise?

  Calvin30 lipped the reed on his pipe. Was that it then? The hole was the thing. How hadn’t he seen it? August’s insane dreams were only a small piece of the infinitely unfolding futility this thing could release. A global population of pipedreams would be pulled towards that hole-in-one. One had only to flip forward even Gudanko’s timid imaginings to see where things were going. A colossus of hubris - unleashed upon the Earth. The new perspective was majestic, but did he, Calvin30, have the chops to compose a symphony worthy of such a cacophony?

  Minding the gap into an empty car his tune continued as the train groaned, locomotioning down along the tracks, wheel within wheel.

  Later, back home in LA, Calvin30 looked down from the bar stage, but not as usual at the decrepit regulars. His focus today was populated with a disco light display of breaking news from his neuroview. A spinning Pandora’s panorama.

  Gudanko had just proclaimed August’s push into space was misplaced, and that wormholes offered an unparalleled transportation revolution. Why worry over Mars when the Seine could irrigate the Sahara? When highways between the Free Cities could bypass any Syn eco tax? When your cold
goods could be stored in Antarctica?

  The resulting Rev Campaigns came unspooling like stories written on toilet paper pulled by a toddler. Gone were predictably deliberate, strategically selected short lists of campaign actions, the staid invitations for Coms or Govs to negotiate, the steady advance of the Campaign - the call for activists, the 'War Links', the 'What's New On The Front' reports from field commanders, and the neuronet opinion polls reported live into the battle grounds.

  There was a desperate move to lock down the now empowered Coms - strikes, bombs, boycotts, neuro hacks, data scrambles, guns and roses and Holy Moses. The latest GEO convocation was disarray on display. To outlaw wormholes or pilot 'a study of the costs and benefits’. To be or not seemed to be the question of the day. The world was vibrant with a dizzy frenzy.

  The action had never been this fine and sifting through too many prospects was arduous but, at the same time, Calvin30 relished some sublime storylines as if they were fine wine.

  Rocky Mountain preppers issuing a call to arms against the alien wormhole horde staged to infiltrate their obscure rathole cabins. A Parisian selling a device claimed to deflect 'the holes' from passing through the psychic space of your place. The Mayor of Shanghai folding enforcement of trash controls because it would all be dumped into Space forthwith. Some Indonesian armchair conservationist figuring out loud how wormholes might flush out forest fires. The New Yorker suing Mirtopik for damages to his time-space continuum. Villagers in Tunisia filling in their well to prevent infidels from flushing up through it. Adelaide decommissioning desal plants while evaluating drawing water from Darwin. The fashion mnemes promoting conspicuously consuming lots of crap to be coming back as the new black. Real men, it was now proclaimed, shouldn’t have to wait for Space.

  All that with a steady drip drip drip of anger pooling to a level close to over spill. People were just itching, once again, to make a killing.