by Paul Anlee
“And still incomplete,” Darian added.
Artero scrutinized the younger man, much like a psychologist might assess a new patient.
“How are you finding it? Being back in the real universe, I mean.”
Darian exhaled slowly, thoughtfully.
“It’s hard to describe. In some ways, I feel perfectly normal. But everything I remember has changed.”
“A long time has passed.”
“Yes, it has. I’m grateful to Darak; he integrated an incredibly rich and vivid historical archive into my revised concepta. I know how the universe evolved, and how it is now.”
Darian cut a bite-sized piece of pancake, loaded it onto his fork and paused, mid-air.
“But…,” Artero prompted his guest, and waited.
“But…it’s all just data to me. It’s one thing to know the history. It’s a whole other thing to have lived it. The fabricated memories I access are factual. Sterile. I have no lived experience to relate them to. No emotional connection to them.”
“Ah, I see. There is no you in all that past.”
“No. Nothing connects at a personal level.” Darian pushed a piece of pancake around his plate, sopping up maple syrup. “Well, almost nothing.”
“How do you mean?”
Darian set down his fork. Outside, one of the ball players hit a deep pop-fly over the head of the nearest outfielder. He watched the batter round first base, head for second, and then take a sudden detour across the pitcher’s mound.
“I’m not sure you’d understand.”
“Why not?”
“Everything is so peaceful here. So clean.” Darian’s voice was little more than a whisper.
Artero looked around. “We did our best to make it a realistic depiction of your time on Origin. Darak provided us with some background from your own experiences. Your love of pancakes, for instance.”
Darian shook his head as if waking from his own musings. “No, I don’t mean this. You’ve done an excellent job with all of this.” As if to prove his point, he lifted his fork, popped the impaled piece of pancake into his mouth, and savored it in sincere appreciation.
“What I mean is that, here in this substrate, thinking is so uncomplicated,” he explained. “So…easy. When Darak downloaded me from out of the Eater and into Trillian’s body—”
“He placed your mind inside of Shard Trillian?”
“Yes.”
Artero whistled.
“Trillian’s lattice was empty after Mary’s Ouroboros program destroyed him in the Alternus inworld. It was devoid of concepta, except for the most basic hard-wired data, and there were no traces of persona, no memories, no preferences. His body was a vacant shell in want of a mind. And I…. I was a mind in desperate want of a body.”
“Oh. I see. Yes, well, in that case, it sounds like an eminently practical solution to me. So what’s the problem?” Artero asked.
“Trillian had a substantial amount of biological brain cortex left.”
“Actual brain matter? His own brain? That’s not usual, is it? Or ideal.”
“Exactly. And, no, that isn’t usual. From what I know about the roles of Shards in general, and from what Darak has shared with me about himself, it seems unlikely that an individual’s brain tissue wouldn’t be entirely replaced by silicene lattice when being elevated to a Shard of Alum.”
“That’s what I would have thought.”
“But it seems Trillian somehow managed to retain a good deal of his original brain tissue. Alum must have known that. He must have permitted it for some reason. Maybe it was His idea that Trillian keep it.”
“And this biological tissue is causing you problems?”
“Not here in this inworld you’ve made. It’s only when I’m in my physical body that certain neural connections persist. They’re hard to avoid.”
“Ahh! Hard-wired human memories,” Artero guessed.
“Yeah, so it would seem. A whole slew of little bits of Trillian left behind in there. Mostly traces of memories and that sort of thing. It can be confusing at times but usually I can verify which ones are his by cross-checking them against my own memories hosted in the lattice.”
“Yes, I imagine that could get confusing.”
Darian’s brow furrowed. “Painfully. That’s why I wanted to visit you here, for a rest.”
“Well, you’re welcome here whenever you want. Whenever you need a break, whether it’s to visit or to get your thoughts in order, I’m always glad to see you. As one of the Original Ten who fought for the liberation of the Esu, I feel a certain responsibility to keep a connection with the physical universe. So long as the Eterna inworld exists, I’m here for you.”
“Thanks.” Darian gave Artero a lopsided smile. “I’m glad Darak suggested I visit you. You’ve built a lovely virtual paradise here. While the kids are playing their war games outside, I may stop by and spend a little time.”
Artero frowned. “Kids? They may be centuries younger than you but, Darian, make no mistake, those rebels are not children. It would be a mistake to underestimate them. They are most assuredly a force to be reckoned with. I have to admit, though, I’m not sure how much I like the idea of engaging Alum this way. It’s never been a good idea to go seeking His attention.”
“I couldn’t really say, either way. I never knew the man...or the God, if you prefer,” Darian said, leaving room for Artero to make his beliefs known.
“He may be the Living God but He’s still, essentially, a man,” Artero replied.
Darian shrugged. “I’d say that Alum stopped being ‘just a man’ when He distributed His consciousness across thousands of galaxies.”
“Well, He’s certainly not the Creator of All,” Artero countered.
“Hm. Depends on your definition, I suppose, Darian allowed. “I once argued against the idea of a Creator God with the man who was considered Alum’s spiritual father, according to Darak, the infamous Reverend LaMontagne. I think I won that particular battle,” Darian smiled, more with his eyes than his mouth. “But Alum may still show me yet how I lose the war.”
Artero eyed his new friend glumly. “If that happens, we’re all doomed.” He raised his hand to catch the eye of the apron-clad waitress who’d magically appeared behind the counter.
“Oh, aren’t you clever? Thank you, Artero. A nice touch.”
Darian mustered what he hoped was an optimistic smile for his host.
“Well, let’s not give up before the war’s started,” he said, and he lifted his glass of bright-orange juice. “Shall we toast? How about, to humanity everywhere in all of its forms?”
Artero rolled his eyes in comically exaggerated disdain.
“How about, to the end of the Gods?” he proposed.
Darian laughed.
“Alright. How about, to the end of this God, at least?”
They brought their glasses together in a satisfying clink of agreement.
13
God’s creatures always marked His departures from Heaven with as much fanfare as they greeted His arrivals.
In consideration of those with rooted or minimally mobile status, the Living God shifted the group of friends, each in their various plant and animal states, back to the waterside clearing to enjoy Tristal and Poppi’s farewell composition.
He sat through all fifteen minutes of Mirly’s friends’ wondrous song and praised them appropriately, but Mirly thought He seemed a little distracted.
Almost like He wants to be somewhere else.
She’d never seen that kind of...she didn’t have the words. The concept of impatience was outside of her thinking. How could any being with endless time to enjoy the perfection of Creation ever feel anything besides the joy of the present?
When the music ended, Alum stood up.
“I must leave you now, children,” He said.
Why must you?—Mirly wondered. Who is making you go? What could possibly obligate God?
Her rambling thoughts shocked her.
Alum smiled at all, took a few moments to give His blessing to each of the creatures gathered, and walked back out upon the water. He disappeared in the same way as He’d arrived, in a dazzling flash of light.
Mirly’s friends collectively cooed, twittered, and chatted about how wonderful it was that the Living God had visited them. Mirly sat on a nearby rock and watched them share their excitement and praise. She watched and said nothing.
Poppi flew to a supple branch that curved downward, near Mirly’s head.
“Alum was fascinated by your mandala,” she chittered.
Mirly stared at her friend. “Fascinated, yes. But I don’t think He loved it.”
The little bird fluttered her wings. “God loves everything we do.”
“Did He not seem…I don’t know…‘not-happy’ to you?”
Tristal joined the two friends in time to hear Mirly’s question. His deep, bear laugh filled the air.
“Oh, Mirly. How could Alum be anything but happy? He loves all of His children and ev brownerything they do. You know that.”
Mirly stood up, without commenting, and walked a distance away. She didn’t know how she felt except to say that she was not-happy at the moment, herself. Something was not perfect in Heaven. Something she’d made for Him.
She felt separate from the joy of her friends.
I don’t like this—she thought. But she couldn’t stop how she felt.
“I need to think,” she announced to no one in particular and shifted back to the big boulder overlooking her mandala.
She replayed the events in her mind over and over until she found the precise moment when His usual joviality had changed.
“Where did the inspiration for this piece come from?” He’d asked. But His voice had not come from kindness. It didn’t sound like He was merely interested in what drove her expression. It sounded more like…she wasn’t sure what. Something more closely aligned with the not-happy.
Had He been there to explain His feelings at the moment He viewed Mirly’s inexplicable rendering of Earth and the Eater, Alum could have identified His sentiments as shock, confusion, suspicion, wariness, distaste, and maybe a touch of anger. Mirly knew none of that.
As she looked down on her mandala and the pleasant mix of blues and browns and greens and whites, she tried to imagine how Alum could be anything but thrilled with such beautiful colors.
Yet, His voice had sounded like...a boulder perched precariously above a flower right before the wind blows it over and crushes that poor, defenseless plant below ahead of its time.
Even in Heaven, a sort of death could happen in an accidental way. Alum assured His children that it wasn’t permanent. He could rekindle life in any poor, prematurely-dead organisms. Millions had witnessed such miracles of God’s love and power.
Why would He allow death to strike in the first place? Does He not have the power to make sure no one ever dies, even for a minute?—Mirly wondered for the first time in her long and varied life.
She didn’t know the answer, and it bothered her greatly. Did God tolerate imperfection in Heaven or was He simply powerless to stop it? Was her artistic tribute imperfect? Is that what had caused God to feel not-happy?
Mirly thought back, reviewed carefully, and became certain that her first interpretations were correct. He’d gazed on her work and was not pleased. He’d looked worried. She’d heard Him whisper something under His breath about “concerns in the greater universe leaking through.” Clearly, that comment wasn’t meant for her, but what did it mean?
Maybe God needs our help. Maybe He can’t make everything perfect all by Himself.
Her eyes wandered back down to her mandala. She traced its circumference and followed the largest blue splotch to the ragged white circle in the middle.
She walked along the edge of the boulder, examining how the brown and green sand below mingled in an intricate dance, accented here and there by splotches and lines of sparkling blue. It was pretty but it no longer pleased her as it had when she’d first finished it.
God didn’t think it was perfect. Why should I?
If it wasn’t a perfect reflection of God’s perfect Heaven, it had to be erased. It doesn’t belong here—she thought. Maybe it only belonged in that outside greater universe that Alum had muttered about. Maybe that’s why He was not-happy to see it here.
Mirly knew what she had to do. She shifted down to the edge of the mandala and picked up a broken branch. Using it as a broom, she spiraled inward, sweeping all discernible patterns from the colored sand until the mandala was no more.
The task done, Mirly shifted back to the top of the boulder and regarded the destruction she had delivered below. The beautiful, intricate image she’d spent weeks creating, every distinctive hue and texture, was now a bland, homogenous mess. The recently adorned ground merged with the gray rock and dirt that surrounded it.
My offering has returned to the perfect ground that Alum created.
Poppi’s cricket friend, Xitina, appeared on the edge of the boulder beside Mirly. She looked up at the doe-centaur’s face and followed her gaze to the ground below.
“Oh, Mirly! What happened?” she chirped.
“I erased it,” the young doe replied, coolly.
“But why? It was so beautiful.”
“Perhaps. But it wasn’t perfect, and there’s no room for not-perfect in Heaven.”
The cricket rubbed her legs together in a brief, sorrowful lament of minor-key wails and discordant runs.
Mirly stared at the insect, partly in surprise and partly in annoyance.
“Heaven is no place for such a not-happy sound, Xitina.”
She thought about the greater universe outside of Heaven. If a tiny, practically insignificant leak could turn her beautiful work of art into something unworthy of Alum’s approval, the outside universe must be powerful and overflowing with imperfection.
I must go there and help God make it a worthy place—she thought.
The idea made her heart beat fast with excitement.
Can I leave my home?—she wondered. Could my actions there help redeem my error here in Heaven?
Fear of the unknown touched her briefly. She brushed it away. If the greater universe was responsible for imperfection in Heaven, then that was where she needed to be. It would be better to stop the not-perfect at its source than try to prevent it from seeping here into their world.
She closed her eyes, set her jaw, and concentrated on shifting outside to the greater universe.
“Where did you go, Mirly?” a little cricket voice asked.
She opened her eyes and looked around. She hadn’t moved from the boulder.
“What do you mean?” she asked Xitina.
“You were gone for an instant and then you were back,” the bug explained.
“Then I’ll have to try again,” Mirly replied. She shifted.
“Mirly?”
“Yes, Xitina.”
“You did it again,” the tiny voice said.
Mirly turned away from the edge of the boulder and stomped her hooves.
“Why can’t I leave? What’s stopping me from going to the greater universe? All places in Heaven are only a thought away. We have only to picture a place and we are instantly there. Why can’t I get there?”
She squeezed her eyes shut with every bit of force she could muster.
“Where are you trying to go?” Xitina’s squeaking question pushed through Mirly’s deep concentration.
Annoying little bug—Mirly thought. She ignored the interruption and returned to her problem.
Perhaps the reason I can’t go there is that I have no idea what the greater universe looks like. If I can’t picture it, how will I get there?
She tightened her lips and focused with all of her might on this new conundrum.
I know! Maybe I can get closer than here, somewhere in the depths of Heaven. All the way to the center of Heaven? No, getting closer to Alum’s light and love doesn’t sound right. The edge
of Heaven, then, where Alum’s perfect universe expands without end to accommodate new life, His new worshippers. That sounds more like it! Yes, the edge of Heaven must be closer to the greater universe outside!
Now, how to get there? She couldn’t just think the word, edge. She had to imagine the place. Picture it. What would the edge look like?
“If you’re going somewhere, could I come with you?” the cricket implored with squealing notes.
Bugs!—Mirly huffed.
The edge would be young. It would contain only the smallest life forms: grasses, mosses, and bugs.
“Can I help? Please, Mirly, please,” the cricket twittered.
Mirly glared at Xitina chirping eagerly at her feet. She’d never noticed before how terribly irritating insects could be.
“Xitina, I need to concentrate and I can’t do that with all the noise,” the doe grumbled.
“Oh! Concentrate! I can help you concentrate. What are you concentrating on?” the cricket replied.
“On getting far away from you,” Mirly snapped, and stamped her hoof down on Xitina’s carapace, splatting her tiny body against the boulder.
Finally, some peace—Mirly said to herself.
She took a ragged breath, and then two deeper ones. Her mind settled into the quiet. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine a part of Heaven where life was new, where mosses and grasses covered rocky ground, and where there were no animals larger than an insect.
And shifted.
14
FORTY SECONDS AFTER IT BEGAN, the battle around the Deplosion Array was over—just not how they’d planned it.
The first few seconds had gone smoothly enough. Darak had shifted ten thousand teams of one hundred battle-Cybrids each into place near targeted Deplosion Array elements.
Mary dropped into position with one of the first teams and set her sights on a bright point some thirty thousand klicks away. Half of her attack group did the same and the other half scanned nearby space for any response from Alum.
The target was locked. Everything was quiet. There was no sign they’d been expected.
A radar pulse from the asteroid swept over them.
Mary felt its ping and acted without thinking. They’d rehearsed this.