by Dima Zales
While I process that, Fio sits down, mirroring Phoe’s cross-legged posture. “Other options involve lesser worlds,” he continues, “but they’re not any less interesting. We have game-like virtual worlds, where physics and mathematics work differently. We also have ancestor simulations. Those are whole virtual universes populated by minds that include beings that preceded Matrioshka citizens, AIs as you’ve always imagined them, early human-AI hybrids, and all the way down to a universe with mere human-level minds—a place I suspect many former Haven denizens will choose to live in when we get around to offering them the same choices. I know that you, Theo, won’t want to join this particular set of universes, because Phoe won’t be allowed to join you.”
The implications of these choices overwhelm my mind. He’s saying there are many realities we can live in, each one sounding more wondrous than the next. He’s also saying everyone who’s currently in Limbo will get a choice, which is good.
I notice that Phoe and Fio are looking at me expectantly, so I say, “You’re right. I go where Phoe goes, so yeah, purely human universes aren’t for me.”
“Unless I choose to downgrade myself to human-level intelligence,” Phoe says. “It’s not impossible, is it?”
“No, it can be done, and some of us have even tried it. But let’s not dwell on this one example. That human-level universe is but one of the choices you have. The other possibilities are truly endless. One of your options can be this.” He spreads his arms to indicate the world we created. “We can provide you with all the computational resources required to build a universe of your own, based on the world you began. You can resurrect everyone from Oasis, allow them to run as fast as you do, let them have offspring—”
“Do we have to choose one option?” Phoe asks. “Theo and I are just data. Can’t you make an exact copy of us and give us more than one outcome?”
“We can, if that’s what you want,” Fio says. “We can make exact copies of you. In our world, we do this to ourselves all the time.”
“Well then, can’t you make a bunch of us and allow those copies to populate every universe you have available, as well as let us stay here and build our own world, as well as live in your Matrioshka world, and so on and so forth? In other words, can we choose all of the above?”
I sit down next to them, my mind hurting as I try to imagine that.
Fio smiles widely—a smile that’s so much like Phoe’s. “This is a rare point in our conversation where my mother wasn’t sure if you’d come up with this solution yourself. If not, I was to propose it.”
“So that’s a yes?” Phoe asks and scoots next to me. “We don’t really have to choose?”
“You can have whatever you wish,” Fio says. “This ‘all of the above’ scenario is definitely a great option for a being of your stature. This way, every world will get to meet the two of you, something that would make many entities very happy. Once I was considered to be of legal age, I did what you just described. There are copies of me running in many universes—copies I don’t have any access to. If you ever meet them—oh, what conversations they might have with you…” Fio’s gaze drifts off as he loses himself in that fantasy.
“Okay. Theo and I will have to think about this, obviously,” Phoe says and gently massages the back of my head. “But you already know which way I’m leaning.”
“Yes,” Fio says. “I also know which way Theo is leaning.”
I nod. “It boggles my mind, but I also want to be everywhere and experience everything that your world has to offer.” I put my hand on Phoe’s thigh. “As long as I’m with Phoe, I’m leaning toward the ‘all of the above’ option.”
“Indeed,” Fio whispers and gives us a knowing smile. “According to what my parents told me to expect at this point, I think I should give you two some privacy. On behalf of everyone out there, I want to say, ‘Welcome.’ We’re honored to meet you.”
With that, Fio is gone. Not even his butt print remains on the sand where he was sitting.
I turn to face Phoe and whisper, “Wow.”
She turns to me, her lips almost brushing against mine. “Yeah.”
“Was everything he said true?” I ask, though deep down I’m convinced it was.
“It must be,” Phoe whispers. “That option he mentioned, the one about turning this place into our own universe, he already made it possible. When he disappeared, my resources grew by an unimaginable exponent. We can even build multiple universes with all this computorium. It’s incredible.”
“And you’re sure we should do all the other options?” I pull her closer to me. “Let them copy us and allow those copies to roam in so many different places?”
“Of course,” she whispers. “We’ll be together. It’s an opportunity that I couldn’t even dream of.”
“I know you’ll accuse me of being corny again, but I can face anything if I’m with you.” I look into her bottomless blue eyes and find the courage to finally say what I feel. “I love you, Phoe. Not as a friend, but in a way that the ancients meant it.”
She moves impossibly closer to me, her lips curving in a smile. “You’re right. That was super corny, but I’ll let it slide, just this once, because I feel the same way about you. I thought it was obvious, but I guess it needed to be stated explicitly.”
I close the millimeter gap between our lips, and after a long kiss, we fall backward onto the sand. I’m definitely glad our strange new family member gave us the privacy we needed.
When we’re done, we lie there panting, and the wondrous options lying before of us seem more welcoming and exciting than before. As corny as it might be, choosing “all of the above” means there are about to be countless versions of me who can do what I just did with a myriad versions of Phoe in a multitude of unimaginable worlds, and I find the idea extremely appealing. Trying to fathom all the adventures the two of us will have in those worlds makes my head spin, but in a pleasant way. I picture what building our planet into a whole universe would be like, and it’s easy to imagine, because it would be a lot like the way we spent our recent days, only on a much larger scale. Then I try to picture what meeting our Matrioshka doppelgangers and the rest of that enigmatic society would be like—and fail miserably. With a bit more success, I think about the limited worlds Fio mentioned. I can picture a world with Phoe-level intelligences and even a universe where everyone is twice as smart as Phoe, but eventually, going down this road gets me back to Matrioshka-level beings, and my mind feels like it’s about to explode again.
“We’re ready to give you an answer,” I shout at the sky in case Fio and his people are listening—which I strongly suspect they are.
“We want all of the above, please,” Phoe says, adding her voice to mine. “We’re ready for it, if you are.”
We hold hands, and I close my eyes as I feel a Oneness-like serenity come over me—a feeling I know means I’m being copied and sent to all the different destinations.
When the feeling stops, I stand there with my eyes closed. I know that when I open them, I might see that I’m still on the beach, since that was one of the possibilities included in the “all of the above” option. I might also see whatever it is one sees in a Matrioshka world. I don’t know which option I’m about to experience, but I know every copy of me finds himself in this incredible position, all at the same time as me.
Regardless of where we are, I’m holding Phoe’s hand, and that’s all I need.
Smiling, I open my eyes.
THE END
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And now, please turn the page for excerpts from some of my other works.
EXCERPT FROM THE THOUGHT READERS
Everyone thinks I’m a genius.
Everyone is wrong.
Sure, I finished Harvard at eighteen and now make crazy money at a hedge fund. But that’s not because I’m unusually smart or hard-working.
It’s because I cheat.
You see, I have a unique ability. I can go outside time into my own personal version of reality—the place I call “the Quiet”—where I can explore my surroundings while the rest of the world stands still.
I thought I was the only one who could do this—until I met her.
My name is Darren, and this is how I learned that I’m a Reader.
* * *
Sometimes I think I’m crazy. I’m sitting at a casino table in Atlantic City, and everyone around me is motionless. I call this the Quiet, as though giving it a name makes it seem more real—as though giving it a name changes the fact that all the players around me are frozen like statues, and I’m walking among them, looking at the cards they’ve been dealt.
The problem with the theory of my being crazy is that when I ‘unfreeze’ the world, as I just have, the cards the players turn over are the same ones I just saw in the Quiet. If I were crazy, wouldn’t these cards be different? Unless I’m so far gone that I’m imagining the cards on the table, too.
But then I also win. If that’s a delusion—if the pile of chips on my side of the table is a delusion—then I might as well question everything. Maybe my name isn’t even Darren.
No. I can’t think that way. If I’m really that confused, I don’t want to snap out of it—because if I do, I’ll probably wake up in a mental hospital.
Besides, I love my life, crazy and all.
My shrink thinks the Quiet is an inventive way I describe the ‘inner workings of my genius.’ Now that sounds crazy to me. She also might want me, but that’s beside the point. Suffice it to say, she’s as far as it gets from my datable age range, which is currently right around twenty-four. Still young, still hot, but done with school and pretty much beyond the clubbing phase. I hate clubbing, almost as much as I hated studying. In any case, my shrink’s explanation doesn’t work, as it doesn’t account for the way I know things even a genius wouldn’t know—like the exact value and suit of the other players’ cards.
I watch as the dealer begins a new round. Besides me, there are three players at the table: Grandma, the Cowboy, and the Professional, as I call them. I feel that now almost-imperceptible fear that accompanies the phasing. That’s what I call the process: phasing into the Quiet. Worrying about my sanity has always facilitated phasing; fear seems helpful in this process.
I phase in, and everything gets quiet. Hence the name for this state.
It’s eerie to me, even now. Outside the Quiet, this casino is very loud: drunk people talking, slot machines, ringing of wins, music—the only place louder is a club or a concert. And yet, right at this moment, I could probably hear a pin drop. It’s like I’ve gone deaf to the chaos that surrounds me.
Having so many frozen people around adds to the strangeness of it all. Here is a waitress stopped mid-step, carrying a tray with drinks. There is a woman about to pull a slot machine lever. At my own table, the dealer’s hand is raised, the last card he dealt hanging unnaturally in midair. I walk up to him from the side of the table and reach for it. It’s a king, meant for the Professional. Once I let the card go, it falls on the table rather than continuing to float as before—but I know full well that it will be back in the air, in the exact position it was when I grabbed it, when I phase out.
The Professional looks like someone who makes money playing poker, or at least the way I always imagined someone like that might look. Scruffy, shades on, a little sketchy-looking. He’s been doing an excellent job with the poker face—basically not twitching a single muscle throughout the game. His face is so expressionless that I wonder if he might’ve gotten Botox to help maintain such a stony countenance. His hand is on the table, protectively covering the cards dealt to him.
I move his limp hand away. It feels normal. Well, in a manner of speaking. The hand is sweaty and hairy, so moving it aside is unpleasant and is admittedly an abnormal thing to do. The normal part is that the hand is warm, rather than cold. When I was a kid, I expected people to feel cold in the Quiet, like stone statues.
With the Professional’s hand moved away, I pick up his cards. Combined with the king that was hanging in the air, he has a nice high pair. Good to know.
I walk over to Grandma. She’s already holding her cards, and she has fanned them nicely for me. I’m able to avoid touching her wrinkled, spotted hands. This is a relief, as I’ve recently become conflicted about touching people—or, more specifically, women—in the Quiet. If I had to, I would rationalize touching Grandma’s hand as harmless, or at least not creepy, but it’s better to avoid it if possible.
In any case, she has a low pair. I feel bad for her. She’s been losing a lot tonight. Her chips are dwindling. Her losses are due, at least partially, to the fact that she has a terrible poker face. Even before looking at her cards, I knew they wouldn’t be good because I could tell she was disappointed as soon as her hand was dealt. I also caught a gleeful gleam in her eyes a few rounds ago when she had a winning three of a kind.
This whole game of poker is, to a large degree, an exercise in reading people—something I really want to get better at. At my job, I’ve been told I’m great at reading people. I’m not, though; I’m just good at using the Quiet to make it seem like I am. I do want to learn how to read people for real, though. It would be nice to know what everyone is thinking.
What I don’t care that much about in this poker game is money. I do well enough financially to not have to depend on hitting it big gambling. I don’t care if I win or lose, though quintupling my money back at the blackjack table was fun. This whole trip has been more about going gambling because I finally can, being twenty-one and all. I was never into fake IDs, so this is an actual milestone for me.
Leaving Grandma alone, I move on to the next player—the Cowboy. I can’t resist taking off his straw hat and trying it on. I wonder if it’s possible for me to get lice this way. Since I’ve never been able to bring back any inanimate objects from the Quiet, nor otherwise affect the real world in any lasting way, I figure I won’t be able to get any living critters to come back with me, either.
Dropping the hat, I look at his cards. He has a pair of aces—a better hand than the Professional. Maybe the Cowboy is a professional, too. He has a good poker face, as far as I can tell. It’ll be interesting to watch those two in this round.
Next, I walk up to the deck and look at the top cards, memorizing them. I’m not leaving anything to chance.
When my task in the Quiet is complete, I walk back to myself. Oh, yes, did I mention that I see myself sitting there, frozen like the rest of them? That’s the weirdest part. It’s like having an out-of-body experience.
Approaching my frozen self, I look at him. I usually avoid doing this, as it’s too unsettling. No amount of looking in the mirror—or seeing videos of yourself on YouTube—can prepare you for viewing your own three-dimensional body up close. It’s not something anyone is meant to experience. Well, aside from identical twins, I guess.
It’s hard to believe that this person is me. He looks more like some random guy. Well, maybe a bit better than that. I do find this guy interesting. He looks cool. He looks smart. I think women would probably consider him good-looking, though I know that’s not a modest thing
to think.
It’s not like I’m an expert at gauging how attractive a guy is, but some things are common sense. I can tell when a dude is ugly, and this frozen me is not. I also know that generally, being good-looking requires a symmetrical face, and the statue of me has that. A strong jaw doesn’t hurt, either. Check. Having broad shoulders is a positive, and being tall really helps. All covered. I have blue eyes—that seems to be a plus. Girls have told me they like my eyes, though right now, on the frozen me, the eyes look creepy—glassy. They look like the eyes of a lifeless wax figure.
Realizing that I’m dwelling on this subject way too long, I shake my head. I can just picture my shrink analyzing this moment. Who would imagine admiring themselves like this as part of their mental illness? I can just picture her scribbling down Narcissist, underlining it for emphasis.
Enough. I need to leave the Quiet. Raising my hand, I touch my frozen self on the forehead, and I hear noise again as I phase out.
Everything is back to normal.
The card that I looked at a moment before—the king that I left on the table—is in the air again, and from there it follows the trajectory it was always meant to, landing near the Professional’s hands. Grandma is still eyeing her fanned cards in disappointment, and the Cowboy has his hat on again, though I took it off him in the Quiet. Everything is exactly as it was.
On some level, my brain never ceases to be surprised at the discontinuity of the experience in the Quiet and outside it. As humans, we’re hardwired to question reality when such things happen. When I was trying to outwit my shrink early on in my therapy, I once read an entire psychology textbook during our session. She, of course, didn’t notice it, as I did it in the Quiet. The book talked about how babies as young as two months old are surprised if they see something out of the ordinary, like gravity appearing to work backwards. It’s no wonder my brain has trouble adapting. Until I was ten, the world behaved normally, but everything has been weird since then, to put it mildly.