Temporal Contingency

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “Yeah, but I’m not even in the transporter yet,” Lex said.

  “I suggest we begin with a brief overview of pertinent safety precautions,” said Ma via the ship.

  “First up is the short-range incoming test,” Karter said.

  “Please hold any activation of the transporter until the safety briefing is complete,” said Ma via Squee.

  “And I’m not even in the transporter,” Lex said.

  Via the station, Ma began to dictate the safety procedures. “The primary point to keep in mind before engaging in any usage of the modified transporter is—”

  “Activating,” said Karter.

  Lex’s eyes shot open. “Wait! What do I—”

  He couldn’t finish the sentence before an intense, blinding violet light filled his view. He shut his eyes, but the light continued to drill into him. Lex had, in the past, been unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of a flash-bang. What he experienced now was like someone had set one off inside his helmet, and the light and pressure continued without relent. The world pitched and twisted around him, and he felt an odd prickling tug across his entire body, as if someone had punctured the hull and the cockpit was steadily decompressing. It wasn’t painful, but it was profoundly disorienting. Every touch receptor in his body was reporting a mild stretching sensation at the same moment.

  As quickly as it came, it vanished. The first voice he heard was Ma via the station, though it was muffled through the hull of the Lump of Coal.

  “—keep your eyes shut and attempt to focus the mind, as a theorized side effect of transportation is sensory overstimulation,” she said.

  “A little… slow on the draw there, Ma,” Lex said.

  Focusing his eyes was proving to be difficult, let alone his mind, and his head suddenly seemed far heavier than it should be. He looked about and found himself to no longer be in the hangar. His ship was precisely centered in the array of field emitters tracing out the transporter’s reaction chamber. Each emitter still had a halo of flickering violet light around it. Directly ahead of him, Karter stood at the controls.

  “Everyone okay?” he said, glancing up.

  The Squee instance of Ma, still in her inverted perch above his head, glanced at him and answered, “I th… …esting the rug… …the data radio would have been a wise precaution,” she said. “Can you hear me, Lex?”

  “You were a little spotty at the beginning there, but you’re back.” He looked forward, seeking the holographic display and finding it absent, save for some distorted flickers every few moments.

  “Looks like the ship didn’t quite make it through unscathed, Karter,” Lex said. “You all right in there, Other Ma?”

  “Memory fault detected in memory region 0x0428f27e7a738…” she droned, the string of alphanumerics continuing without relent.

  “Karter, Ma’s ship self is spitting out loads of letters and numbers.” He clinked his helmet against the hatch and just barely managed to look down to the controls, which were sizzling lightly and spitting sparks. “We’ve got a short or an overload or something down here. I think we should—”

  “Thinking is my job. And from the looks of these power levels, it’s going to take a fair amount more juice than we thought to get you where you need to go. At the rate these power banks are degrading, we’re not going to hold the charge long enough to finish a rebuild on the ship memory, and we’re not going to be able to recharge to the desired level without swapping out components I don’t have replacements for. I’m setting the coordinates.”

  “This is inadvisable, Karter,” said the station instance of Ma. “I suggest we power down, diagnose, and return to Big Sigma to—”

  “To hell with that. We’ve been playing fast and loose enough with this timeline business already. I’m pulling the trigger before the laws of physics figure out what we’re up to,” he said.

  The ship displays flickered on, and the distorted voice of the ship instance of Ma spoke. “Automated data structure rebuild in process. Please do not shut down or disconnect power from the system until the repair is complete.”

  “It is strongly advised that you abort activation until system maintenance can be made,” said Ma’s station-self. “Engaging safety locks on transporter circuits.”

  “Thank God,” Lex said.

  “Command override. Restore transporter circuits,” Karter said.

  “Acknowledged. Restoring,” said the station instance of Ma, somewhat more mechanically than usual.

  “Karter, are you out of your mind!?” Lex barked.

  “As we’ve established, yes,” he stated.

  #

  Karter’s hand came down upon the controls. An instant later it pulled away as a rush of heat and light rushed from the transporter, hurling him back. He struck the door of the chamber hard enough to buckle the metal. If he’d not already had most of his left side replaced with mechanical prosthetics, he’d likely have broken every bone on that side of his body. He tumbled to the ground. The left arm had been smashed open, flickering blue and white light visible through a tear in his jumpsuit and synthetic skin.

  When he finally managed to climb to his feet again, he found the transporter chamber pitch black.

  “Ma, status report,” he said, dusting off his jumpsuit and disconnecting the damaged arm.

  There was no response. He pinned the disconnected arm between his knees, then used his remaining arm to further open the tear, allowing more light from the ruptured circuits within to serve as a sort of makeshift torch. He stumbled to an access panel and kicked it open. A bit of awkward fiddling with the various switches and knobs eventually conjured a deep thump, causing the emergency lights to flicker to life.

  “Ma, status report,” Karter repeated.

  “Space-time has not visibly unraveled.”

  “I’m aware the universe hasn’t ended. Let’s do a deeper dive.”

  “Power systems resetting. Minor ship maintenance will be necessary to reactivate noncritical systems.”

  “Status report on the transporter,” he said.

  “Sensors indicate an overall mass reduction in the vicinity of the station. Mass delta is equivalent to the combined mass of the ship, its cargo, and a quantity of oxygen/nitrogen mix representing the remainder of the operational volume of the transporter. No evidence of ionization. All signs indicate the transporter has successfully delivered its payload.”

  “Good.”

  “Karter, I must respectfully request that you not engage voice-printed command override in response to my proposed safety measures. I was created to maintain your health and safety, and I cannot achieve that design imperative if you undermine my capacity to—”

  “Nag nag nag. Let’s just get this heap operational again so we can head home and thaw out our pilot. Oh, and prep another arm…”

  #

  “… Open your eyes, Lex.”

  The voice speaking was Ma. Lex didn’t take the time to figure out which of the many Mas it was. He was far too busy squeezing his eyes shut and trying to keep his insides inside. Even trying to conceptualize the physical sensations he was experiencing was more than his brain could handle. It wasn’t that he was feeling pain. He was feeling everything. His skin screamed about boiling heat and biting cold simultaneously. It felt like he was flailing his arms and legs, yet he could also feel them tightly secured into their harness. His mind was awash with sensations that couldn’t possibly all be true, because most of them were mutually exclusive.

  “Lex. Open your eyes,” Ma repeated.

  “No! You said to close my eyes during the procedure,” Lex said.

  “The initial burst has subsided. I strongly suggest you open your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have done so, and though the concept of beauty is one that I’ve yet to fully comprehend, I am quite certain that what I am witnessing is a sight overwhelming in its majesty.”

  Lex reluctantly opened his eyes a sliver. The inside of the cockpit rema
ined largely unchanged. When he raised his head and gazed ahead, his jaw dropped.

  The whole of the universe was splayed out before him. There was simply no other way to explain it. And not just the whole of this universe, the whole of every universe. Ahead he saw a star that was at once billions of kilometers away and near enough to touch. He could see every looping curl of plasma, the rippling surface and even somehow the radiant core. He could see it to its very component elements, the hazy clouds of electrons hanging over tiny clusters if protons and neutrons. And beyond them he could see other stars, each with the same detail. He saw them collapse from clouds of gas, spark to life, burn through their fuel, and explode. And behind them, around them, and among them he saw other stars, or perhaps the same stars from different planes of existence, stretching out infinitely like two mirrors placed just off parallel. Distance, scale, time, all of it was irrelevant.

  “There’s… there’s no way I’m actually seeing this… Are you seeing this?” he asked.

  “Are you seeing the smooth and effortless union of all locations, eventualities, and perspectives flawlessly superimposed upon themselves and yet still utterly distinct?” Ma asked.

  “I think so.”

  “I believe what we are experiencing is an attempt by our biology to make sense of conflicting sensory input.”

  A second identical voice chimed in, this one emitting from the ship’s internal speakers. “My sensors are rep-reporting errors-ors. I cannot-ot see it-it,” Ma’s ship self said. “I cannot perceive-ceive an-anything.”

  “You’re missing something special,” Lex said.

  “How very disappoint-pointing,” the ship Ma said.

  “When we unify our recollections and readings, you shall share the experience from my perspective,” Ma assured herself.

  “I-I want to see it now-ow. It sounds-ounds love-ovely,” her other self replied.

  “I think Ma hasn’t quite recovered from her… whoa…”

  “I agree with the sentiment of your exclamation,” the Squee instance of Ma said, her eyes widening.

  One by one the duplicate versions of planets, stars, protons, and quarks began to draw together, merging until only a single version of each existed, then withdrawing until they were half a universe away. The infinite complexity resolved itself into a single universe, and time and space came to an agreement, forcing perception to suddenly snap back.

  Just as the last moon seemed to retreat into the distance, the layered and incomprehensible sensations dropped away as well. Without a bang or a whimper, the ship had simply slid into reality again.

  “That was…” Lex began, but he simply didn’t have the words to articulate it.

  Tears were running down his face.

  “Yes. It was,” Ma agreed.

  Chapter 2

  After the intensity of the moment had passed, Ma’s ship instance was the first to snap into action.

  “Running system-tem diagnos-nostics,” she said.

  “I suggest you begin your diagnostic efforts in your voice module,” said Ma’s Squee instance.

  “Am I not-ot communi-nicating-ting clear-early?”

  “You’ve got a bit of a stutter,” Lex said.

  “Stand-and by. Rebooting.”

  All lights and sounds from the ship flicked off, then slowly began to restore.

  “Please state your current physical status, Lex,” the Squee aspect of Ma requested.

  “I’m still breathing. My head’s pounding pretty hard. And I’ve got spots in my eyes. I’ve had worse hangovers, but not by much.”

  “Would you characterize your current infirmities as temporary?”

  “Yeah, I think I’ll be fine. How are you?”

  “I am fully intact and fully functional,” she said. “I took the precaution of including the star charts for the intended arrival point in my data subset upon installation into Squee. Attempting to visually determine our coordinates… Processing…”

  “Where should we be?”

  “The transporter should have placed us within two point four light-years from the star around which the GenMechs have been orbiting. I am not able to confirm our location. It is possible that organic optical fidelity is insufficient to achieve a pattern match. We shall test again with the ship sensors when my other instance is operational.”

  A sequence of tones played through the ship’s com system, followed by a highly synthesized voice. “Altruistic Artificial Intelligence Control System, version 1.27, revision 2331.04.01c, subset 2.7, designation ‘Ma,’ fully initiated.”

  “Welcome back,” Lex said.

  “Status report,” said the other Ma.

  “Stand by. Processing… Critical systems: check. Hull integrity: one hundred percent. Environmental systems: online. Propulsion: online. Engine heat level: twelve percent. Carpinelli Field Emitter: offline. Navigation: offline. GMVD: intact.”

  “The Carpinelli Field being offline is—” Lex began.

  “Kindly discontinue verbal communications until the systems status report is complete,” the ship instance snapped.

  “Oh… sorry,” Lex said.

  “Secondary systems. Cloaking device: offline. Vehicular instance of mental cloak: offline. Fusion self-detonation device: intact and functional. Status report complete.”

  “The Carpinelli Field being offline is a major problem,” Lex observed.

  A linchpin of society since mankind had taken to the stars had been the means of rapid transportation over astronomical distances. Sublight-speed travel was useful for colonization efforts. For humanity to exist as a contiguous society rather than a group of tribes separated by years of travel, however, the Carpinelli Field had been essential. It allowed ships to exceed light speed using standard propulsion systems, and also alleviated the time dilation and other troublesome side effects of faster-than-light travel. Without the field, Lump of Coal would take several lifetimes to reach any useful destination.

  “I thought this thing was built with redundancies. Built to take a licking. How did we lose so many systems?”

  “The level of redundancy is the only reason we didn’t lose all critical systems. The amount of damage done to my system is considerable,” Ma’s ship self said.

  “Assuming we’re as close as you intended us to be, how long would it take for us to reach our objective at sublight speeds?” Lex asked.

  “We would expend all food and water reserves several decades prior to our arrival,” the funk instance of Ma explained.

  “It is my assessment that the mission has reached a fatal impasse. In accordance with the Temporal Contingency Protocol, I am arming the fusion device now,” the ship’s version of Ma stated.

  “No!” Lex yelped.

  “Discontinue this procedure,” said the funk version. “Define the nature of the Carpinelli Field Emitter malfunction.”

  “Full diagnostic output printing on main viewer,” the ship stated.

  The funk disengaged from her inverted perch and pivoted gracefully above Lex using her pack’s maneuvering jets. She drifted down and curled herself around the neck of his suit to review the information on the display.

  “Ma?” Lex said.

  “Yes, Lex,” said the ship.

  “Yes, Lex,” said the funk.

  “No, the ship one,” Lex said.

  “You should speak with greater specificity,” said the ship.

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m not used to having to work with two of the same person. May I ask why you leaped to the blow-us-up solution just then?”

  “It is the most expedient means to conform to the parameters of the mission.”

  “Yeah, but we’d also all die. And we wouldn’t succeed.”

  “Your tone implies this is an undesirable outcome.”

  “It’s an undesirable outcome for at least two reasons.”

  “Interesting. Explain.”

  “… We came back in time for a reason. And I like being alive.”

  “That reason is unachievable i
n our current state. And your personal preferences do not supersede the parameters of the mission,” she said. “Suggesting we alter the mission to conform to personal preference is evidence of an extremely self-centered attitude.”

  “… I think there’s something wrong with Ship Ma,” Lex said.

  “Run self-diagnostic,” the funk said, not taking her eyes from the readout.

  “Stand by. Processing… Detecting mild to moderate data corruption in forty-four percent of program space. Several modules have been removed from primary operation, and data storage has been shifted to medium priority. An additional fourteen percent of program memory is experiencing intermittent data-integrity issues, indicating impending failure. Maximum effective functionality of program set following all probable failures is forty-two percent,” the ship said. “Processing… Total self-repair impossible. Arming fusion device now.”

  “NO!” Lex said. “Stop doing that.”

  “Your negative attitude is uncalled for,” the ship said.

  “You’re the one that’s suicidal!”

  “This is troubling,” the funk said.

  “I’ll say it is,” Lex agreed.

  “I was referring to the results of the CFE diagnostic. Several crucial components appear to be fused. Repair may not be possible without replacement parts.”

  “Arming fusion device—”

  “Don’t!” Lex barked. “Until we get you sorted out, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you being the one with your finger on the button.”

  “Your concerns are unfounded. I do not have fingers, and the activation is not achieved with a button press.”

  Lex attempted to palm his forehead, but there wasn’t room to get his hands past the controls. “Ma, you care to weigh in?”

  “I have already provided you with my assessment,” said the ship.

  “I meant the other one,” he growled.

  “I suggest we exit the craft and perform the repairs possible on any impaired systems. When maximum functionality has been restored, we will reassess the situation.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Lex said.