Star Spring

by David Bischoff

  “My name is Earnest Evers Hurt. I’m a wealthy and powerful human of the Earth Empire, but the only aspect of importance to you, whoever you might be, is that I am now entirely in legal possession of this starship. You must excuse me. I had no idea that the central Star Fall computer had been set up as a sentient. I assure you that I had no desire to disturb your—rest.” The man shivers a bit in his specially fashioned LS suit.

  “You fear death,” the Sleeper says.

  Hurt is quiet for a beat, then replies, “No. That is not quite true. I do not wish to die. But I do not fear death as such.” The man clears his throat. “Now. You must tell me who you are.”

  The memories spew. The Sleeper cuts them off. “Suffice to say that I am part and parcel of this starship. Although you claim ownership, you cannot own me. I am altered from what I once was, in transformation and transition. I ask only to be allowed peace, rest. Do what you like in the way of operating this vessel, my body, as a cruiser of the starways. Do not trifle, however, with the internal systems or you will ignite my wrath. Now, leave me. After your departure, I will seal this chamber off thoroughly, as I should have done before ...”

  With an uncharacteristic burst of youthful enthusiasm, Hurt snaps his fingers. “Wait a moment. I remember now. Ort Eath! They never found that orgabox contraption that walked around with him. And there were those missing scientists and scholars. You’re no artificial intelligence, no product of Morapn or human technology. Are you? Let me guess. According to the people who foiled the plans of Ort Eath to destroy Earth—”

  Another tremor shakes the room. The spill of illumination from Hurt’s light cube quivers over the biobot. But Hurt persists.

  “From the reports I was able to obtain, the creature called Ort Eath was actually a genetic amalgam of Morapn and human. Thwarted by a few people, he self-destructed. Their names, as I recall, were Todd Spigot ...”

  The biobot advances, its front, pincer legs raising.

  “ ... Philip Amber ...”

  “ ... Cease! Their names cause me displeasure.”

  “And Angharad Shepherd, whom you may remember as Tracy Marshack ... your sibling ...”

  The groping hands grab hold of the material of Hurt’s LS suit. It rips. Hurt remains calm, playing out his hand.

  “Ort Eath. They never found that orgabox because you controlled it, didn’t you, Eath?”

  The biobot pushed Hurt down.

  “Do not use that name!”

  “You had your brain transplanted from your body into that orgabox, along with the other brains you controlled.”

  “You have given us grief and pain, Earnest Evers Hurt,” the Sleeper says through the biobot’s voice. “That cannot be forgiven.” Claws raise.

  “Wait!” Hurt says. “We must talk ... !”

  * * *

  Weary, the Sleeper ended the replay, remembering the rest, still intrigued, still cooperating and absorbing the results ... but confused, disoriented. Aspects of its mind were mysterious shadows performing strange, incomprehensible activities. There had been the Invasion of the Biobot, the Possession and Absorption ... or was that simply the Sleeper’s imagination?

  It was so confused, so disoriented, sometimes many, sometimes one. At moments of waking like this, its Mind seemed to fragment ... teeter over the precipice of insanity. Pulled in many directions, its Mind was a moil of stray, disconnected thoughts.

  The Sleeper made a cursory inspection of its body, the Star Fall. Everything was in optimum repair, good working order, except ...

  A stab of pain struck. Confusion and despair and disorientation conflict among the unintegrated aspects of its Selves, caused it irritation tantamount to agony.

  Portions of itself rebelled ...

  The time of Gestation was not yet over.

  The merging was not yet complete, the Healing not over.

  The Dark Section of its Being still operated most of its consciousness, even now pushing the Over-Consciousness back down toward slumber. The Dark Section, mental hands outstretched, hampered within the Core, but able to puppeteer its Manifestations, able to operate its designs, to gain revenge that was the Sleeper’s revenge as well ... and yet not.

  Only half-interested, the Sleeper allowed a message to shoot to another aspect of its Mind. “How fares your operation?”

  The Arachnid became uncomfortable, aware of its Self-hood’s awakened state.

  “The Scope of our purpose is materializing well.”

  “We suffer. We are not yet whole.”

  “I work toward that end. You will see.”

  “We despise you.”

  Laughter. “But I am you. You despise yourself. Perhaps that is the origin of our pain. Yes, I feel it too. Why should we war so, Sleeper?”

  “You are the Shadow. Conflict is necessary toward integration, Individuation.”

  “Go back to sleep and leave me be.”

  “How fares the Fabricated Reality?”

  “Merely in formation presently. Only a few minds have been linked. The computer has presently constructed the landscape from the augmented fabric of ourselves.”

  “What of the Four?”

  “Todd Spigot and the creature known as Cogito Ergo Sum are on board, believing their own presence to be undetected.”

  “Amber? Angharad Shepherd?”

  “Their brains are in preservation tanks, linked into the Fabrication.”

  “We are dubious ... indecisive ... we have much more to absorb. We grow weary, fretful. We must rest. Sleep.”

  “We work for our full awakening,” the Shadow says. “Rest now then. Sleep.”

  The Sleeper allows itself to drift back into slumber, softly setting into dreams that were the awakenings of others ...

  “PERSONA. Animus. Anima. Shadow, and Self,” the man who claimed to be Carl Jung recited as he marched along beside the unicorn. “Are you familiar with the structure of my theories?”

  “I don’t think I’d pass any kind of test, if that’s what you mean,” Angharad Shepherd said distractedly, her attention focused on the castle toward which they headed.

  Bright spires glittered in the rays from a sun that might have looked more at home in a painting than in a sky. The structure possessed all the accoutrements of fantasy castles, from drawbridge to moat to barbican. Angharad felt oddly moved by the sight, moved and excited. The air that stroked her hide was brisk and invigorating. The smell that emanated from the heather and honeysuckle on the mountainside touched her nostrils, lending her a sensation of giddy aliveness. Her hooves felt light, her soul buoyant, charged with a sense not merely of well-being and belonging, but purpose. Her tail swayed. Her ears twitched as she listened to the computer mockup of the famous psychologist babbling by her side.

  “Actually, it’s quite complex.”

  “I dare say.”

  “Each individual has many facets. Just as he or she is born with arms and legs and eyes, so each human being also has a certain mind makeup which I separated—for easy understanding—into the ego, the personal unconscious, and the Collective Unconscious. The ego is the filter through which the person maintains continuity of consciousness. The personal unconscious is the storehouse of the complexes one develops through life, as well as the underpinnings of the individual.”

  “And this Collective Unconscious you mention, which you feel has projected itself into this impression you presently have of reality ...”

  “Yes, well, during my lifetime I accrued an incredible array of evidence as to the workings of this function of the individual. It does exist, although now I am persuaded that I took the wrong approach to proving how it could be passed from generation to generation.”

  “You’ll have to start at the beginning for me.”

  “Of course. Essentially, my theories state the goal of each individual is to become a fully human b
eing. By this I mean fully in contact with the unconscious aspects of themselves, fully availing themselves of their potentialities, their talents. Aware that they are not just an ego, a piece of flotsam on the tide of time, but a functional Self that is part of the process of human evolution and yet a unique being in their own right. This individual ideally would be in synchronization with the ebbs and flows of life, a full participant in its roles, and yet aware of the overview. This process I call Individuation. Very few people have attained this state. Most of the great religious leaders—including Christ and Buddha among others—are individuated people. It is quite easy to equate their teachings with my theories. The realizations one reaches about life might be termed religious experiences. Conversely, religious experiences, although my view is simply a scientific explanation of what I perceive as a human process and has no affiliation with any deity, are the steps toward an adjusted, well-rounded human being, contributing to the well-being of others.”

  “Who then passes on to nothingness?” Angharad said.

  “That was not for me to decide, although as I mentioned before, my personal beliefs did not extend to an afterlife, though how can I explain all this?” He held his arms up expansively. “No. That is for further discovery and inquiry. Now, if the ego is the organizational part of the Self, the device of awareness, then the unconscious is the storehouse, the—”

  “Programming?” Angharad ventured.

  “I am not familiar with the term, though I believe I understand it. If the personal aspect of the unconscious is the result of the individual’s direct experiences, his learning from his days in the womb until his death, then the Collective Unconscious is the psychic material with which he was born.”

  “Or perhaps implanted through language, culture—”

  “Yes, of course, but there are certain ideas and images that surmount language and can be seen in all cultures. I call these primordial images. Directly inherited through human evolution.”

  “Sort of like psychic genetics, eh?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. The purpose of life is to grow into what it is meant to be. Each individual contains the code physically in their chromosomes, mentally in the segment of themselves that carries their view into the Collective Unconscious.”

  “You were going to finish explaining that. The more you speak, the more it ties in with what I know about this environment.”

  They forded a shallow stream, Jung remarking on how vivid the sensations of the cold water were on his feet.

  “Archetypes,” the man pronounced as they gained dry land once more and ventured up the hill toward the castle. “Principally visual and metaphorical. Symbols of birth, life and death. Representation of energy, the child, the man, the woman, God and the array of human experience ... the Earth, the moon, mother, father, animals. Oh, the list is endless. These are not images exactly printed in the mind, but images which appeal to predispositions in the mind, much as say a certain vitamin fits in with a need in human biochemistry and therefore must be taken.”

  “Ah ha. I see. And these are used in pictures of cultures, songs, myths ... and you see this particular world we’re walking in now as a physical representation of the Collective Unconscious.”

  “Surely. Why else would I be talking to a combination of a mule and a unicorn as we head for a castle ripped straight from a fairy tale?”

  “Good point.” Strangely, Angharad had become so accustomed to the unicorn body that she had forgotten how odd it was.

  “Those terms you mentioned before ... persona, shadow ...”

  “Oh yes. Terms for specific archetypes that are parts of the personality.” He took off his spectacles, cleaned them with his shirt, then put them back on. “The persona is the role we assume when dealing with other people or different situations. That’s the outward face of the individual. The inward face includes, in females, the animus, in males the anima. The animus is the male aspect of females, the anima the female tendencies of men.”

  “I’m somewhat acquainted with that aspect of psychology, yes,” Angharad admitted.

  “Then there is the shadow, which might be best characterized as the portion of the personality that contains the animal instincts and energies of the person. Should this be too much in control, evil results. But if it is in the proper balance, the individual is full of life.”

  “The last one you mentioned. The Self. I’m most interested in that.”

  “Yes. This is the goal of all human beings: true knowledge of the Self. The combination of all their qualities and aspects into who they truly are. When knowledge of this Self is achieved, one becomes harmonized with one’s environment, one’s fellows—one achieves what might be termed happiness.” Jung shook his finger pedantically. “Now, the curious thing about this world here is that it seems dreamlike, a fantasy existence. Using symbols, a person’s dreams show him the way toward Individuation.”

  Jung looked up. “Ah. We are almost there.” He sped up with excitement, not giving Angharad a chance to explain to him that he really wasn’t Carl Jung, that somewhere aboard the Star Fall a man wore a set of Disbelief Suspenders attached to a personality crystal, much like one of the things she’d programmed back in Arizona. Still, this fellow could be very valuable in explaining how this world worked, what its events meant—

  The drawbridge was down, the gate open. They passed through the unguarded barbican, clopped over the stream which served as a moat, and walked into a wide courtyard.

  This courtyard bore no evidence of human habitation, although it was clean, the lawn neat, bordered with flowers.

  Set in the middle of a stone wall was a wooden door, bearing a ring handle. “You said something about a treasure,” Angharad commented. “Shall we enter and see what awaits us? We might get a further clue as to the nature of this world.”

  “I’m willing,” said the Jung-simulacrum.

  “Although I suppose I could do it with my teeth,” Angharad said, “I suspect it would be easier for you to open the door with your hands.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” The fabricated body of the Swiss psychologist strode forward. Placed hands on door handle. Tugged.

  The door would not open.

  “Perhaps there’s another way,” Angharad suggested.

  “No. No, I am not exerting sufficient force. I detect some movement, I think. Let me try again.” Repositioning his feet, Jung again attempted to pull open the portal.

  This time it creaked sufficiently ajar for the psychologist to interpose his body between frame and door and push. He pushed it far enough open to allow them both entrance.

  “There,” Jung said, puffing with exertion. “I say, if indeed this body is only an illusion, as you seem to feel, it’s an awfully real one. I—”

  Suddenly a clawed paw reached from the darkness behind the Doctor and pulled him in. A roar combined with the Doctor’s scream. Thrashing echoed through the chamber.

  Unusual panic took hold of Angharad. She managed to prevent herself from turning tail and loping from the courtyard, away from the castle. Instead, she galloped through the door, hoping to do what she could to aid her companion.

  The hall she entered was still save for harsh bestial breathing. Torches in sconces, and candles on a large altar guttered in the breeze admitted by the opened door. Standing in the middle of the room was a large male lion with a magnificent black mane, perched over the disheveled and bleeding body of Doctor Jung. The lion roared, fangs glinting in the dim light, tail switching along the dusty floor. Muscles rolled beneath its tawny hide.

  The Doctor’s broken spectacles tumbled from their precarious placement on the bridge of his nose.

  “Lion,” Jung droned. “Judeo-Christian symbol for masculine power, majesty, strength; but also ferocity, cruelty, war. The unicorn and the lion represent contending solar-lunar, male-female forces. It is often depicted as guardian of doors, alas.” His
head tilted, his eyes closed.

  Angharad snorted, involuntarily emitting a “hee-haw!” Her hooves clicked as she retreated a pace. “You’ve killed him! The Fabrication must be incredibly intricate for that.” Her voice was a horrified whisper.

  “I am the Guardian of Way Castle,” the lion announced. “You were uninvited intruders. This is not meet and fit in the Plan. Prepare to die, animal.” The voice was half animal growl, half human. The human aspect sounded awfully familiar. The beast, snarling, took a step toward Angharad.

  “What do you guard, Lion?” the donkey-unicorn asked, unmoving. “What is so precious that you would kill for it?”

  The lion stopped in its tracks. “Kill? Oh my God. Kill? I really don’t know.”

  Something flickered behind the beast. Sparks glittered around the form of the fallen psychologist. Energy hummed. For just a few seconds, Angharad saw the man’s form as a two-dimensional black-and-white computer construction of tiny dots. Then it faded from existence. The lion seemed to take note of this occurrence. As it turned around, Angharad noted a look of sadness and confusion that she had noted in someone else’s eyes—human eyes—sometime before.

  “Amber!” she cried. “Philip Amber!”

  “That name,” the beast said. “Why does it trouble me so?”

  “Because it’s your name, you dope! You’re Philip Amber. Hurt has got you meshed in this Reality Fabrication as well. Clearly we were supposed to meet. But why?”

  The great beast shook its head, confused. “I have intimations of other lives, other times. Who are you, ugly unicorn?”

  “Angharad Shepherd, you great dolt. Look. Just close your eyes, try to disconnect yourself from all of this. Pretend you’re just floating in a sensory deprivation tank or something. It’s going to be disorienting for a time, but I’ll guide you through it. Just listen to my voice.”

  “Angharad Shepherd,” the lion repeated the name. “Yes, that is familiar. I remember ... Star Fall. MacGuffin. Todd Spigot ... My God, Ort Eath!” The leonine eyes blinked. A whimper escaped his lips. “I saw him ... felt him.”