The Deplosion Saga

by Paul Anlee

  No one had ever possessed the considerable processing and memory space available to someone with a lattice. Then again, no one had ever tried to host two complete personas before, let alone attempt to integrate them into one new person. He hoped his lattice was up for the challenge.

  Time to get on with it.

  He drew a long breath in, and let it out slowly as he closed his eyes. He adjusted his cross-legged position, propped pillows beneath his knees, and made himself comfortable. He knew that was irrelevant. He could be standing, sitting, or lying anywhere, doing anything, to begin. He found the meditation position calming. If nothing else, it provided some level of reassurance in light of the strong probability that he was about to lose conscious muscle control.

  Greg dropped his barriers to the outside world, deactivated his filters and virus scans, and let his mind wander. If there was anything out there that might resonate with internal fragments of Darian, he would just let it happen.

  At first, there was no real change. I’m still me—he thought. It was as if the memory fragments on the internet became calm once the barrier that resisted them was removed.

  Memories started trickling in, strange pieces of associations. A fork with a few spaghetti strands, the smell of garlic, a smile, a laugh, a Partial differential equation, a droning voice, equations in Hilbert space. The trickle became a steady stream, and then a torrent.

  His dendy lattice was flooded with odd associations, smashing into his own concepta in no particular order, demanding to be connected into a coherent whole.

  Memories of a baseball game at Fenway clashed with a cricket match by a teahouse on the north end of Mumbai. That’s my memory, one from the original me—he declared.

  A summer day at the beach overlapped with a spiritual cleansing in the Ganges.

  He remembered his father’s last breath in an Oakland hospital—No, Darian’s father. My dad is still alive.

  He recalled the voice of his Uncle Nick—no, Darian’s Uncle Nick—the first time he reverently told him—no, Darian— about his mom’s research.

  He saw himself programming an optico-chemical DNA synthesizer to produce the modified genome of some virus. An entire degree’s worth of synthetic biology slammed into place in Greg’s brain, followed by classified files on methods for growing dendy lattices in insects and animals.

  He relived Darian’s fury at being told his entire PhD Thesis had been classified Top Secret. He heard his dad arguing angrily with his Uncle David when he learned how Sharon’s shares in Neuro Nano had been diluted to almost nothing.

  He remembered his father’s shame—no, both of their fathers’ shame—at being unable to provide a financially secure future for their sons.

  As Darian’s life reassembled itself from the fragments that had been scattered across the web, Greg felt a schism developing. He worked feverishly to assign memories to Greg or to Darian, to keep the two separate. He fought to compartmentalize the two unique individuals within his one body. Greg’s. Darian’s. Darian’s. Greg’s.

  This isn’t going to work—he realized. At best, I’ll be non-functional; at worst, completely and certifiably insane.

  Keeping the two personalities separate was not the answer. I need to stop fighting him. Recognition was as good as acceptance. The barrier between himself and Darian weakened. What Darian knew, what Greg knew, what each remembered of the lives they had lived, merged.

  He saw only his dads, plural. His degrees, his home towns, his many and varied researches, his ideas. All of it was his. A memory of Kathy’s face floated before him. It was a proud day when he interviewed her for the postdoctoral fellowship. Together with Greg and Larry, they were going to be a great team. It was odd to feel like some paternal mentor toward three scientists who were all older than him.

  No!—the part of his persona that was still uniquely Greg intervened. I will not lose this—he declared.

  Kathy was not some protégé; she was the love of his life. If that part of Darian needed to be discarded outright so he could hold onto that love, he would prune back Darian’s memory, the feeling of mentorship, ruthlessly.

  Maybe there was another way.

  He strengthened his own memory of the attraction he felt the day he first met Kathy into outright love at first sight. He tossed aside the small sexual attraction Darian had experienced and replaced it with a fantasy he constructed of Darian’s matchmaking. He imagined fondly remembering how Darian arranged for him and Kathy to be together at every opportunity.

  Before long, he could no longer discern what had been true from the edited construction. Greg loved Kathy and she loved him, and Darian loved that he had helped bring the two of them together; it was one of his finest projects ever.

  Greg/Darian smiled and breathed easily. He remembered everything, all of the biology, physics, politics, and business. It was all there. He remembered his triumph when he’d first activated his own internal RAF generator, validating his theories. He’d have to make sure to grow one of those in this new body.

  Maybe he would make some other useful adjustments while he was at it. Kathy would appreciate a moderately more athletic appearance, perhaps with less facial hair.

  He thought back to the night when he’d first generated a simple, sputtering microverse. He was so excited to tell Kathy and Greg that he’d forgotten all about his investigations into the peculiar relationship between Larry and Pratt. He’d forgotten about the inexplicably tight security in the main system of the Yeshua’s True Guard Church.

  He remembered racing to the lab and finding Larry already there, ahead of him. He recalled feeling surprised and confused at seeing that Larry already had the device working.

  He remembered being trapped inside a shrinking gray microverse while an ever-larger Larry laughed and ranted about the injustices he’d suffered. He remembered struggling to understand what was happening and trying frantically to reverse it. He remembered accepting that he was going to die, and pouring the contents of his lattice, his mind, into the internet so that something of his work might remain.

  Greg’s eyes sprang open. Larry! Larry killed Darian!

  So what happened to Larry? Where did he go? Darian had been investigating a suspicious relationship between Larry and Pratt. Did Larry flee to Pratt’s?

  And how did the gray microverse sphere that trapped Darian change into the Eater?

  Could Darian still be alive in there somewhere? I have to tell Kathy—he thought.

  He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, stood up, and crumpled to the floor. He’d been sitting cross-legged for hours. All feeling in his legs had left long ago.

  Outside, the afternoon sun had given way to darkness. As he lay on the floor, feeling pins and needles while the blood returned to his tingling muscles, he rethought his plan.

  Larry had been gone for months; there was no sign or word of him. His new understanding of the origins of the Eater didn’t bring him any closer to solving the threat it posed.

  If Kathy learns what I’ve done today, she’ll kill me; we made a pact.

  He knew the risks before he began, that he might find his own personality supplanted by Darian’s or locked in permanent battle. He’d risked his life and sanity, and had come that close to forgetting that he loved her. She would not easily forgive that.

  As it was, nothing had really changed. They had their love. They had their jobs. The Eater was still a threat.

  True, he’d be better able to carry out his duties now. Darian’s fractured soul would no longer torture his every thought. He might even be able to figure out a way to help Kathy. Maybe he could hunt down fragments of association on the net and delete them. If he acted carefully, she’d never need to know why the severity and frequency of attacks diminished. Life would just get easier for her. For both of them.

  In the meantime, he’d order a copy of the viral DNA he—as Darian—had used to construct an internal RAF generator. After a year or two, he would order the same for Kathy. Without the need fo
r an external generator, they’d be like gods. They’d be able to change the laws of nature at a whim, and generate different universes with a thought.

  Greg nodded to himself and smiled. That’s what I’ll do.

  20

  The door to the cell opened and a distinguished-looking, older gentleman strolled in.

  He took stock of the narrow, creaky bed, metal sink, toilet, small desk, and one utilitarian chair that vied for floor space.

  The detainee was stretched out atop the thin covers of the bed. One arm draped across his eyes to block out the light streaming through the single high, narrow window. Sensing the visitor’s presence, he straightened his arm, pushed himself upright, and swung his skinny legs over the edge of the iron bed frame. He rested his hands on his knees, and eyed the older man pulling the chair away from the desk and turning it to face the bed.

  The prisoner’s sallow face was tacked in place by two dark, sunken eyes beneath thin eyebrows. Two days of stubble gave contour to a defiant chin. He watched the visitor gingerly lower himself onto the hard, wooden seat.

  He favors his right hip—he noted.

  The old man looked at the prisoner in silence for several seconds, chewing on a number of possible openings. Sizing up the man staring back at him, he settled on his strategy, and let out a sigh.

  “You have not represented us well, Mr. Trillian.”

  John Trillian scoffed. “Do you mean, by getting caught?”

  The visitor laughed. “My, you are a rebellious one, aren’t you?”

  “I have only our Lord Yeshua as an example,” Trillian replied.

  “You see yourself in any way comparable to the Messiah?”

  “No. Although, my actions against the merchants and the money lenders are inspired by Yeshua’s own.”

  “Hmm,” the older man considered the claim, and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So you view yourself as a righteous crusader against the immoral establishment? That seems rather…ordinary, don’t you think?”

  “Very few have struck at its evil heart as effectively as I have.”

  “That is true. You have been a thorn in their side,” the older man conceded. He rubbed his right knee.

  “These places are so cold. Are you comfortable here?”

  Surprised by the change in tone, Trillian sputtered, “I’m comfortable enough.”

  The visitor stood and walked around to the other side of the chair. He grasped the chair’s back and flexed his knee. “It was a long walk down here, and my joints aren’t what they used to be,” he apologized.

  “How deep in trouble am I, sir?” Trillian asked, a hint of contrition seeping into his voice.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir. You are Reverend Alan LaMontagne, Head of Yeshua’s True Guard Church. I’ve listened to all your sermons. ”

  LaMontagne frowned at the prisoner. “Then that should give you some idea of the trouble you’re in.”

  “Not really, sir. Nobody has mentioned any charges yet. I’m not exactly sure what they know.”

  “Oh, they know plenty.” LaMontagne pulled his cell phone from his pocket, put on a pair of reading glasses, and scrolled the screen.

  “Let’s see. Espionage, identity theft, financial theft, cybercrime and, my favorite, access to national secrets…in several nations.” He regarded Trillian over his glasses. “You have been busy, haven’t you?”

  “All of my activities were in keeping with the teachings of our Lord, Yeshua, to expose the ways the rich and powerful have plundered the common people while lying to them out of both sides of their mouths. The meek shall inherit God’s Kingdom on Earth.”

  Trillian’s protest was met by LaMontagne’s stony stare.

  “Except for the last of these, your crimes are of little interest to the Church,” LaMontagne admitted. “We do not share your view of the moral superiority of your actions. You may see yourself as some modern day cyber-version of Robin Hood. This Administration regards you as a pest to be swatted down. Nothing more.”

  The old man sat down again. “On the other hand, you have shown rather an unusual talent in hacking into our own branch of the Coordinated National Security Agency.”

  Trillian leaned forward. “Perhaps there’s some way the government could use my talents,” he suggested.

  LaMontagne held up a hand. “This Administration couldn’t possibly sanction the kinds of activities for which you’ve demonstrated a proclivity.”

  The prisoner looked away, allowing disappointment to deflate his posture.

  “Your Church, however, may have a use for your talents…and I am not without influence with the government.”

  Trillian regarded the Reverend suspiciously. “My Faith in Yeshua and His true Church knows no bounds. I pray daily for His guidance and assistance. Naturally, in His name, I will do anything within my capabilities, as you command.” He looked around his cell. “But, as you can see, my capabilities are quite limited here.”

  “The Church will assist you in your present situation…if you can promise to do only what I direct you to do.”

  Trillian grinned, stood and offered his hand. “Agreed.”

  LaMontagne looked at the proffered hand but did not take it. “Do not take this lightly. Should you stray from the path I set you, Yeshua Himself will not be forgiving.”

  Trillian looked sufficiently chastised. “I will do as Yeshua commands, through you.” He extended his hand again, this time, with a proudly determined look in his eyes.

  The Reverend accepted Trillian’s promise and his handshake this time. “Have you heard of Project Vesta?”

  Trillian considered. “You mean the project to colonize the asteroids? I’ve read about it. It looks like another international boondoggle. The rich will find a way to get richer from this scheme as well. They always do.”

  “It might be more than yet another scheme to extract public money to private privilege.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “What if it isn’t simply opening a new frontier? What if it is the only way to save humanity?”

  Trillian snorted with derision before he could stop himself. “My apologies, sir. But that would only be true if some major global catastrophe were approaching, something on a ‘dinosaur killer’ or equivalent level.”

  LaMontagne said nothing, just stared at Trillian, giving nothing away.

  Trillian stared back, calmly and levelly, until the Reverend’s meaning sunk in. “Has someone spotted an asteroid on collision course with Earth? I heard nothing about that.”

  “There’s no asteroid. No, the threat is more home-grown,” answered the Reverend. “And its development is recent.”

  Trillian considered. “Wait, there was an announcement on the web about some kind of impending global disaster originating in Pacifica.”

  “The nature of the threat was unspecified, as I recall.” LaMontagne smiled.

  “As you recall?” Trillian raised one eyebrow. “Or as you said?”

  Now LaMontagne was confused. “What do you mean?”

  Trillian hesitated. “My activities weren’t always limited to financial and government servers, you know.”

  “Is that so?”

  “The man who calls himself Alum, the one who made those predictions, is intriguing. All the more so because he was so secretive about who he is. He went through a lot of trouble to remain untraceable on the web. Almost untraceable, I should say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think we both know what I mean, Reverend,” Trillian replied. “I traced Alum’s messages back to their origin. I know his real identity. And I’m sure you do, as well. Yes?” He cocked his head, nodded, and winked.

  LaMontagne was flabbergasted by the prisoner’s audacity. He actually winked at me!

  Composing himself—it wouldn’t do to let this hacker get the upper hand even for a moment—he considered alternative possibilities.

  “Well, that is an interesting claim. We’ll have to talk mor
e about it once you’re out of here. Clearly, your talents will serve no purpose behind bars.”

  “It would be my honor to better serve Yeshua’s purpose,” said Trillian.

  “I’m sure.” LaMontagne stood, and made his way to the door.

  “What can I do?” Trillian called to his visitor’s back.

  LaMontagne paused at the door to the cell and, before turning around, smiled to himself and reconsidered the detainee. He weighed the possible risks versus rewards, and decided there was more to be gained than lost.

  Maybe he can be of some use. Besides, he and any potential threat he might wield, can be easily eliminated without a trace, should that become necessary.

  “There will be a selection process to pick colonists for the project,” the Reverend began. “The first part of the process will be competitive, based on the applicants’ qualifications. The process will, of necessity, make heavy use of computational algorithms in picking the candidates. The second part will be random, and we’ll have little opportunity to affect the outcome. I would like the Church to have the final say in which of the qualified candidates are selected.”

  “And you,” he jabbed his index finger at Trillian, “will help me gain access to the selection system. It has rather unique security, and I believe your experience could prove useful in this.”

  The Reverend made to leave the cell again. He took one step toward the door and stopped, uncertain for the briefest moment, before retrieving something from his pocket. He walked over to the sink and poured a glass of water.

  “I suspect the systems in question will challenge even someone of your background and considerable skills. Your talents will require some small enhancements if you are to serve the Church in this.”

  He held out his hand so Trillian could see the capsule in the middle of his palm.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you know of Darian Leigh?”

  “Everyone knows about Darian Leigh.” Recognition dawned on him. “I already have the latest version lattice.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “In fact, my lattice isn’t entirely legal.”