by Paul Anlee
He lay in his private hospital bed, breathing oxygen-enriched air through a tube. An intravenous drip fed hydrating saline water, glucose, and antibiotics into his veins. Daily sponge baths and a catheter permitted him the luxury of never having to leave his bed. Just as well; he no longer had the strength for the fifteen-step walk to the bathroom.
In his eighty-eighth year of life, LaMontagne’s heart was finally giving out. This came as no big surprise to him or anyone else. Surrounded by the people who were most like him in the entire world, he couldn’t help envy their youth and vigor.
John Trillian was the oldest of his guests; then came Greg and Kathy, and finally the young man whom he’d named Alum, his blossoming protégé.
The irony of being among the five smartest people in the world and not being able to pee on his own made LaMontagne chuckle. The laugh turned into a weak cough. He took a slow, measured breath to calm the spasms in his chest. Can’t even muster enough energy for a good hack—he thought.
He’d called them all here to say goodbye and to have them participate in one final experiment.
He’d confessed how he’d been sharing his thoughts and beliefs with Alum since the young man’s early childhood. Not shared in conventional ways through hours of conversation, but by direct lattice-to-lattice communication. If any pair of individuals could be said to be “of one mind,” it was LaMontagne and Alum.
Now in the Reverend’s final hours, the two hoped to use that link to prove the human spirit lives on after the death of its earthly prison. Whatever LaMontagne was about to experience as he died, Alum would share.
LaMontagne had chosen Alum in the hopes of someday, somehow, “immortalizing” himself. All these many years later, he now understood that they shared only thoughts; their souls were separate. When he died, his soul would not magically cross over into Alum’s body. That would be too reminiscent of Satan’s possession of bodies and blasphemous to Yeshua.
Nonetheless, the Reverend hoped Alum might catch a glimpse of Heaven as his adopted father’s soul entered to meet his Lord and Maker.
Greg and Kathy dismissed the Reverend’s ideas as spiritual mumbo-jumbo. Darian Leigh’s arguments over twenty years ago still held sway with them.
There was no room for a “soul particle” in the new Modified Standard Theory of particle physics. There was nothing that could comprise a soul and still interact with the real universe. Even the metaphysical supra-natural theory that arose from the Reality Assertion Field had not convinced them that the Word, as the Reverend called it, was real.
LaMontagne tried all sorts of arguments to change their minds. He even attempted clever analogies using their own RAF research terminology to reach them. “Think of God’s Word—His thoughts, will and intent—as a specific RAF. In the RAFs you’ve experimented with, the configuration of the field affects reality by selecting or favoring particular virtual particle interactions. Through His divine RAF, God creates or engineers a desired outcome, a whole new universe with specific rules. So now, you tell me, why couldn’t God just be He Who Had the First RAF?”
“Well, for starters, how could God exist before the universe of real matter?” Kathy countered.
“Because God is not of the physical,” the Reverend stated with complete confidence.
“Anything matter that doesn’t interact with our universe is outside it and ‘not of the physical.’ Are you saying God is from a different universe?”
“Perhaps. Why not?” LaMontagne said.
“That just pushes back the argument,” Kathy replied. “Did a different ‘God’ in a different universe make the universe that contains our God? That leads to another infinite regression that still doesn’t imply there’s a God outside all possible universes.”
“But God is eternal. He has no need to belong to any one universe.”
“How could an intelligent, willful entity arise in a universe where literally nothing exists? I just don’t get it.”
“I thought the RAF proves how something can arise from nothing,” quipped the Reverend.
“Sure,” Kathy conceded. “Simple particles can arise and evolve over long periods of…let’s call it time, even though we know that’s not precisely correct. Our models show no requirement for intelligence or intention to impose natural laws on those particles. They arise by evolution.”
They’d argued with the Reverend dozens of times, neither side ever able to fully convince the other. In the end Greg and Kathy, being good scientists, had to admit to skeptical agnosticism. As unlikely as it seemed, there was a minuscule chance some intelligence with RAF generating ability might have preceded the existence of the present universe. Maybe of all possible universes.
But when it came to the human soul, Greg and Kathy wouldn’t give an inch.
“We know we can make intelligent, fully self-conscious robots. The space around Vesta, Ceres, and Pallas is proof of that. Many of us regularly talk with our Cybrid twins and, believe me, they pass the Turing Test quite nicely. I bet if you spoke to my DAR, you’d think it were me. Why do you think we need a soul when we understand the basis of intelligence and consciousness so well?” Kathy challenged.
“How do we know they are conscious? Clearly, they are self-aware, as they are capable of fitting concepts of themselves into the conceptual framework of their environment. But is that the same as consciousness?” the Reverend countered.
Kathy shrugged in frustration. “If you proceed down that path, you get to Solipsism: I can only know I exist because I experience my thoughts and no one else’s. I don’t know if you are conscious or even if you exist because I can’t experience your thoughts. However, Alum can feel your thoughts. He knows you exist as much as he’s aware of his own existence.” She raised one eyebrow. “Unless, you don’t think he exists as anything other than a duplicate you?”
She had come uncomfortably close with that question, and LaMontagne had rushed to assure her that his adopted son and heir was an independent person.
That one discussion, months ago, had planted the seed for today’s experiment. If Alum could actually follow LaMontagne’s death and share his glimpse of Heaven as his soul entered, perhaps the doubters would come to know what the Reverend already knew to be true.
His doctors agreed he was unlikely to make it through the night. He could feel his heart struggling for each beat. Soon. Soon.
The small group of witnesses was quiet company, at least outwardly. Communications among them had been non-verbal for quite some time now. Lattice conversations were faster and less subject to misunderstanding.
At first, the nurses had been spooked at the sight of the four of them sitting in concentrated silence, only occasionally raising a finger or gesticulating to emphasize some unheard point.
The last time a nurse had been by was to try to get LaMontagne to eat something. Despite not having any appetite for days, he did his best to choke down some of the tasteless food. After one or two tentative bites from each of the food groups the nurse retreated, leaving him in peace.
It was dark outside, and LaMontagne closed his eyes. Alum took his hand so he wouldn’t fall sleep. They’d discussed this. The Reverend preferred to be as awake and alert as possible when his final moment came. He wanted to die fully conscious, so he could better attend to his protégé’s sharing of the experience.
I know I’ve said this before—Alum sent to the only father he’d ever known—but I just want to repeat how privileged I feel that you chose me to share the most important part of your life with.
You were the perfect son—LaMontagne replied, by which he meant, always obedient and a sponge for information. I was never sure how much independence to allow you. I’m glad I chose to let you grow up as a unique person in the end.
It must have been hard, to deny your own perfect immortality and grant me the freedom to become my own self—Alum acknowledged.
As one gets older one realizes God did not mean for us to live forever, except in the presence of His grace.
A dark thought registered across Alum’s face. Or in the presence of the Adversary—he added.
LaMontagne scowled. The Fires of Eternal Damnation are not for the likes of us. Our good deeds in the Lord’s name assure us a place by His side.
Alum smiled slyly and waited for the Reverend to realize he was being kidded. Yes, Father. I know. Our destiny is to save humanity in Yeshua’s name, that they may receive His infinite love. He spoke in all sincerity.
And fear His infinite power—the Reverend added for good measure.
Yes, how can humanity be guided only with the carrot and not the stick as well?
The Reverend smiled. He had chosen well and taught even better. Alum was wise in the ways of leadership and would make a good steward of the people, bringing them to their salvation in service to the Lord.
The visitors watched him exhale a long and even sigh of contentment. The sounds of rattling trolleys and medical staff being paged drifted in from the hallway.
Alum stood. Trillian, Kathy, and Greg followed suit, the three of them peering intently for a sign from the younger man. LaMontagne’s chest had not risen since the sigh.
Is the moment here? Should I call a nurse or doctor? Remembering the Reverend’s wishes, Alum instead reached out more deeply with his lattice. He remembered what it was like to be deeply connected to the Reverend’s every perception, thought, and memory.
The three visitors waited, alert to his every gesture, as he made a deeper connection to his father’s mind, brain and, he hoped, soul.
After a few minutes, Alum reached over and closed his adopted father’s eyelids. He looked away and found the others searching his face expectantly.
Did you see your father entering Heaven? Did you feel his soul depart? He didn’t need the lattice to read the questions in their eyes.
In many ways, their eyes matched those of Alum’s congregation as they pleaded for good news from their Lord and Savior. Everyone wanted to know the truth. No, they wanted to know The Ultimate Truth.
Alum considered his father’s peaceful face. The man looked more comfortable in death than he’d ever looked in life. He felt love for this man who’d given him a life he’d never have known without him.
He also hated him deeply and passionately. The Reverend had been raping his mind since before he could talk, imposing his fanatical ideals and dreams on Alum’s infant brain.
Alum let the three sets of eyes bore into the back of his head and wait for their answer a little longer. He wondered how long they’d wait before asking.
After a while, he shook his head and said, “No. Nothing at all.”
46
Darya, Mary, and Timothy instantiated inside Vacationland at Darya’s favorite spot, the highest table at the Cloud 49 restaurant, overlooking ten kilometers of the best beach she had ever known.
The restaurant was empty except for Partial waiters automatically setting, clearing, and resetting tables. The place looked like it hadn’t seen any customers for a while.
Vacationland had changed since her last visit. The normally sunny beaches were dark today; thick clouds roiled overhead, threatening rain at any instant. The water was choppy and dirty, washing seaweed and the occasional dead fish or jellyfish ashore.
The huge waves on which surfers had once lined up to test their skills were now devoid of boards. That was no surprise. The waves were higher and more dangerous looking than ever, and something was…off with them. It took a moment before she realized they weren’t all moving shoreward in the usual way, with endless crest after crest in regular procession. The waves were rising randomly and setting out in all directions until they crashed noisily onto the sand and rocks or against the other waves. The resulting chaotic walls of water made it impossible for anyone to ride, even the most talented virtual surfers.
Screams pierced the charged air. Darya looked to the sky, searching for the source. Sharks and piranha had replaced the usual playful dolphins and penguins in the overhead floating pools. The few swimmers left were being viciously attacked. The clear blue bubbles of floating water ran red with the blood of human and aquatic forms alike.
More cries rose from the tropical forest below. Wild animals programmed to shy away from visitors had turned aggressive. Big game hunters panicked as they became the hunted. Those with weapons shot or hacked at the first wave of attackers, but there were too many animals in the jungle to fend off. Birds of prey, snakes, jaguars, and even the mythical dragons cooperated against their human foes.
One of the big cats took down a heavyset hunter dressed in cliché safari garb, grabbing the man’s neck in its powerful jaws and shaking quickly to break it.
Seeing and hearing the mayhem around them, remaining hunters discarded their sportsmanlike bows and arrows in search of more deadly rifles.
From where they stood in the clouds overlooking the beach, Darya could just make out the innocuous service shed standing in the midst of the hotel cabinas. She pointed it out to Mary and Timothy. “Come on, run!” she called to her colleagues.
The wind picked up and rain began to fall as they dashed down the treacherous crystalline staircase. A full-blown tropical storm was descending, making progress all but impossible. They clung to the handrail and to each other to avoid being blown down or, worse, right off the stairs.
Against the howling wind, Mary yelled, “This was a lot easier when teleportation services were available!”
Darya had to laugh in appreciation of her friend’s attempt to lighten the mood. “It looks like Trillian was expecting us,” she replied.
“He seems to be expecting us everywhere we go. No doubt he’ll be showing up any second. How far away is that shed?”
“About a klick, once we reach ground,” Darya answered.
“If we reach ground,” Mary shot back.
The trio fought their way down toward the beach. Driving rain pelted them and the wind tried its best to push them over the edge to certain death below. They moved slowly and cautiously, stair by stair.
Voices, barely audible, drifted toward them on the wind. Wondering who else might be trapped here in the storm with them, Darya looked back up the stairs.
The full wait staff, now all Trillian clones, were struggling against the storm’s might to rush down the stairs in pursuit, and they were closing the gap.
“We have to move faster,” Darya cried to her companions.
As they reached the next landing, another Trillian burst from the sheet of driving rain, screaming and brandishing a huge cleaver stolen from the virtual kitchens.
The Trillian clone brought the cleaver down hard on the polished brass railing she’d been sliding her hand along. The blade slashed her as it sliced downward, cutting a gash into her forearm.
The virtual pain was excruciating but she ignored it. She’d felt pain before; it just made her angry.
Darya released her grip and swung her arm out and away, matching the motion of the knife to minimize its penetration. With her free hand, she gripped the Trillian by his throat, using his own energy to wrench him forward and further off balance. She spun and stepped backward down another stair, adding to the Trillian’s momentum. The clone lost his footing entirely, and he launched out over the rail into the rain. Darya didn’t look to see where he fell.
Timothy and Mary rushed to Darya’s side. She stood huffing in front of them, applying pressure to her right arm.
“You’re hurt!” The fight had lasted only a second or two, not long enough for them to intervene.
Darya gritted her teeth. “Don’t worry about it. If we make it to the shed, it’ll fade into yet another virtual memory. If we don’t…well, I guess it won’t matter anyway.” She glanced back up the stairs. “Come on, they’ve gained on us.”
They continued down the stairs with Darya doing her best to staunch the flow of her still-precious inworld blood while maintaining her grip on the rail.
They landed on the beach ahead of their pursuers. After two breaths to orie
nt themselves, Darya plunged into the deep jungle with Mary and Timothy in tow.
The coconut trees lining the beach were leaning dangerously. Neither the trees nor the few low shrubs offered much protection from flying debris. All around them, the remains of wind-ravaged palapas and beach tents littered their path. The storm was making the way difficult, but it would be equally so for Trillian and his clones.
The three took cover behind one of the denser bushes at the edge of the jungle and looked back to see if their pursuers were keeping up.
The Trillians had done better than keep up. A dozen clones had spread out across a two-hundred meter stretch of beach and were moving systematically forward, checking possible hiding spots as they proceeded inland. She didn’t care for their deliberate pace.
“There’s probably more of them up ahead,” she yelled to Mary and Timothy. “But it’s okay; we don’t want to move too far inland, anyway.”
They stayed low and ran as fast as they could inside the tree line. Pushing through the lush vegetation in gale force winds was wearing them out, and they had to pause every fifty meters or so to catch their breath. The third time they stopped, Mary fell to the ground, panting heavily.
“Just go on without me,” she gasped.
Worry creased Darya’s brow, but it was less on account of Mary’s fatigue than the implications she drew from it. A person’s physical limitations or condition had never been, or was not supposed to be, a concern in Vacationland; that should be irrelevant here.
Darya felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her virtual stomach. “Oh, no. I think the Alternus physics must have seeped in here from the GameRoom.”
Mary took a few more deep breaths. “What do you mean?” she wheezed.
“Look at you,” Darya replied. “Your body style is simply an affectation here. At least, it should be. In Alternus, where it mattered, we all selected lifestyles where it wouldn’t be too much of an issue, nothing too physically strenuous. I didn’t think to change your body to something more efficient before we left; it shouldn’t have mattered!”