The Wizard from Tian (The Star Wizards Trilogy Book 3)

by S. J. Ryan

  “Another word for euthanasia.”

  “I realize cloneporting sounds cultish to the uninitiated. We see it as liberation.”

  “Liberation from having to breathe, maybe.”

  “Only temporarily. You see, we archived on Earth, then had the data transmitted here to Tian. Just before the data arrived, we had our bodies de-animated on Earth, so that clones could be legally printed on Tian. Then when the data arrived, it was downloaded into the brains of the clones.”

  “I know what cloneporting is. But still, all you're saying is, your templates committed suicide on Earth so that you, their clones, could live here on Tian. And all cloneporting really is, is imagining that suicide can be a form of interstellar travel.”

  Light laughter rippled through the group.

  “Yes,” the guitarist said agreeably. “That was the public perception on Earth for so long. I can tell by your attitude that you're not ready to accept the reality.”

  They passed around a bottle, a mixture of herbal juices that they called 'haoma.' Each reverently took a swig and passed it on. The person on Matt's right held out the bottle and nodded. Matt accepted the bottle, caught a whiff that sent a cold finger deep into the folds of his cerebrum. Automatically, he passed the bottle to the person on his left.

  Watching, the guitarist continued: “You have to understand the kah. Then it all makes sense.”

  “The kah is like the soul, isn't it?”

  “The kah is the inter-dimensional and transcendental holistic consciousness, the immortal and immaterial entity who interfaces with the organic brain on a quantum level to enjoy sensory experiences in the physical universe. The kah is the essence of personhood. So yeah, what some would call the soul.”

  “I don't believe in souls. I'm an atheist.”

  “So am I. But 'atheism' refers to disbelief in gods, and souls are a different matter. You can disbelieve in gods and still believe that human consciousness is a multidimensional, holistic phenomenon.”

  “I don't believe in the supernatural either.”

  “The 'supernatural' is simply the realm of natural phenomena that our scientific theories don't encompass yet. Even with our limited scientific understanding at present, however, it's a denial of quantum physics to refuse to accept the existence of multiple dimensions and a holographic basis for physical reality.”

  “There's no scientific proof for the soul.”

  “Other way around. There's no scientific proof for the physical universe. It could all be a virtual reality simulation, don't you agree?”

  “Well . . . yeah. Everybody's known that since the turn of the millennium.”

  “The only thing that you truly know to be real is you, because you are you. Your immediate experience of your own consciousness is proof that your kah exists, and the fact of your existence is evidence for the existence of other kahs.”

  Matt laughed joylessly. “That's just circular reasoning.”

  “What are the choices when it comes to reason? Either you reason in a circle, or in a straight line that goes on forever because if it ever does come to an end, then you've reach an axiom, and axioms must be accepted on faith.”

  “Circular reasoning is circular reasoning.”

  The group chuckled, and the guitarist said, “Good one! But the legitimacy of the geometry of reasoning is itself a specious argument – a philosophical construct that is irrelevant to human experience. What matters to human experience is experience, and what we experience most directly is the experience of having a kah.”

  “So it all falls back on tautologies?”

  “Isn't that ultimately the basis of all reasoning? Why does a thing exist? Because it does.”

  Like the guitarist's reasoning, the bottle circled round again. Matt Two reflected upon the rim for a moment, then passed it on.

  “Tell me,” he said. “What do you think happens when you cloneport?”

  “You tell me, and I'll tell you how close you are.”

  “Well, to be blunt, like I said, cloneporting is just a form of suicide. A person on Earth has himself archived, he has a going-away party with his friends and family, then he goes to a euthanasia center and does the deed. His archived brain and body data is transmitted from Sol to Alpha Centauri at the speed of light. A new body is printed on Tian and the archived memories are imprinted on the new brain.”

  “Somewhat accurate. We have the going-away party before the archiving, so that we can remember it.”

  “So here you are, a completely new person, but because you possess the old guy's memories, you delude yourself into believing you're the same person who killed himself on Earth and that you've magically teleported across interstellar space at the speed of light.”

  “And that's what you think happens with cloneporting.”

  “That's what I know happens. I'm living proof. I'm not the Matt Jackson who left Earth, but I have memories of his life and all the time I catch myself thinking that I'm him. But I'm not. I know I'm not. His body is still out there in space, and if we ever catch up with him, we'll find out that he's under the impression that he's himself and I'm the imposter. And how do you argue with that?”

  “From what you're telling me, I wouldn't argue with that.”

  “What's your point?”

  “That your experience of alienation is evidence that your kah is different than his. You see, his kah never was alienated from his body. So when they printed a copy of his body here on Tian, his kah was not waiting to occupy it. His kah was and is still attached to his body floating between the stars. As for you, your kah was a separate identity, detached and available at the time, and chose to occupy the newly printed body. So you may have inherited his memories, but you aren't really him. It's to be expected that you don't feel that you are him when you're not.”

  Matt scowled.

  The guitarist continued: “Cloneporting is best understood from the viewpoint of the kah. When the body dies, the kah is liberated from the constraints of this physical dimension. Time and space no longer have meaning. Every place in the universe is the same place. For the kah, interstellar travel is effortless, instantaneous. It takes four years for the data of the physical body to be transmitted between Sol and Alpha, but the kah is already waiting. When the new body is printed, the kah recognizes it as a copy of the old body and takes residence, in order to resume physical existence. Only now – that physical existence is in another star system.”

  “What you're talking about is a religious viewpoint.”

  “Well, here's the interesting thing. Why do people in modern times reject religion and embrace science? Because religion doesn't work and science does. Yet, the viewpoint that you mislabel as 'scientific' prohibits you from traveling between stars except by proton cannon array, your so-called 'interstellar catapult,' the most cumbersome and expensive means imaginable Whereas cloneporting, the viewpoint that you mislabel as 'religious,' empowers us to travel anywhere in the universe, freely and easily.”

  “If you regard death as liberation, I suppose.”

  “If death is a gateway, then it is liberation.”

  Matt became aware of the bottle in his hands. It had come around again without his noticing.

  “Well,” he said, “I can't argue with numbers. Back when we were terraforming Tian, we thought it would take centuries to reach a population of a single million. Now you cloneporters are migrating a million a year. No question, you've got the votes in the planetary assembly. Tian is yours now.”

  The guitarist smiled. “We're only visiting. There's a whole galaxy waiting to be explored. You can stay here and re-inherit the planet, Matt. But we'll be moving on. We've got the key that opens the door to the whole universe, and even that's only the beginning of where we're going to explore, what we're going to experience.”

  “The exploration gene,” Matt subvocaled, staring at the bottle still in his hands. He shrugged and took a cautious sip.

  They watched and nodded for him to drink deeply.
>
  He immediately got sick and Ivan wanted to stabilize his life signs and ameliorate his nausea, but they told him that it was all part of the experience.

  “There must be destruction,” the guitarist said, “for there to be reconstruction.”

  So Matt endured it all.

  Swirls and swirls . . . .

  He was sipping chamomile tea in his apartment, visually tracing the skyline defined by the mountains and intervening skyscrapers. Ivan announced, “Matt, your father is calling.”

  “A personal call? How many years has it been?”

  “Seven and a half.”

  “Well, I suppose that's my fault too. Patch him in.”

  “Matt,” his father's synthesized voice said. “I wanted to inform you before the news goes public. The Proxima Project telescope has been involved in a survey of the Local Stellar Neighborhood, and – well – they've detected signs of human life on Delta Pavonis Three. Carbon dioxide increase, deforestation, climate modification, albedo changes – it's all checking out.”

  Matt set down his tea.

  John Jackson continued: “You know what this means, don't you? The Solar Council might have excused the unauthorized terraforming of DP3, but if this is true, Roth could face mindwipe.”

  “Are they finally going to bring him to trial?”

  “At the moment, it appears to be at an impasse. They've been trying to serve him a summons ever since the DP3 seeder probe scandal broke, but he won't let the court droid onto his property.”

  “What's the problem? Just go in and arrest him.”

  “It's not that simple, Matt. They still don't have direct evidence of his complicity.”

  “He's been holed up in his house for centuries, Dad. Is anybody still looking for direct evidence?”

  “Now, I have heard that your friend, Synth – remember Synth? – well, rumor is, she's supposedly conducting a personal investigation back on Earth.”

  “What kind of investigation?”

  “I don't know, Matt. I haven't kept track of her. Until I heard the rumor, I thought she was Ascended.”

  “No, she dropped out of the program right after I left Earth.”

  “Anyhow, you might send her a message. I realize it'll take eight years round trip and there's no guarantee she'll answer at all, but – “

  “She could die. Roth could kill her. Athena could kill her.”

  “Athena went off-line well over a century ago, Matt. No one knows where she is.”

  “That's not comforting. If Synth is meddling in their affairs, she could get herself in real trouble.”

  “Well, Matt, there's nothing we can do about it from here.”

  Matt's father continued talking for a time, about sports and weather and what-not. Matt stared blankly into infinity – or at least, four light years of it.

  “. . . And so what do you think, Matt? Do you think they have a chance for the finals . . . Matt? Matt? Hello, Matt? Are you there, Matt?”

  Swirl . . .

  He opened his eyes to bright light. He was sitting in a padded reclining chair. The room looked just like the dendritic archiving rooms at the Star Seed Project on Earth and the one he'd awoken in on Tian, except this time the walls were yellow. The doctor was an android.

  “Hello, Matt,” she said. “Welcome to Earth.”

  “Thanks,” said Matt Three as he accepted the cup full of Ivan.

  Before he could put the cup to his nose, however, the room shuddered. Everything went dark and damp and cold. The cup vanished in his fingers, and then his fingers vanished.

  No, that wasn't quite right. They were still there – touching a rough floor of stone.

  “Ivan!” Matt called out.

  “I am right here, Matt,” Ivan said inside his head.

  “What just happened? Where are we?”

  “We are still in the cell in the jail at the Abbey of Klun. You were experiencing a full-immersion virtual reality simulation file created by Matt Four when I terminated the experience.”

  “It was so real, I forgot who I was for a – Mom. Mom is dead.“

  “Matt, Savora is here.”

  The cell door burst open. Flanked by armed guards, Savora stepped inside. Before Matt could react, she lunged across the cell and touched his neck.

  3.

  It was after dark when General Riston Bivera reached his farm ten kilometers south of Londa. As his security detail dispersed to join the other soldiers guarding the villa, Bivera dismounted from his horse and swung over his shoulder the satchel that carried the day's unfinished paperwork. It seemed to be getting heavier all the time – or was it simply the psychological burden of knowing that he was preparing for war?

  Shander, the aged Britanian who had served as his steward for years, took the horse's reins and said, “Another late day, General. You will appreciate that your wife has held dinner for you.”

  Bivera had actually been hoping to get in some work and go directly to bed, but forced a smile. “And how has your day been, Shander?”

  “We've gathered the last of the harvest, General. Fresh fruit and vegetables for the whole of winter!”

  I hope to live long enough to enjoy it, Bivera grimly thought. He gave a simple nod as acknowledgment

  Elandra, his wife, greeted him at the door with an embrace and a mock-stern inspection. “You look tired, dear. The last time I saw you this weary night after night, Valarion showed up in Londa.”

  “The Britanian insurgency would do well to employ you as a spy.” That smile he didn't have to force.

  “We can make dinner brief, and you can rest. Yet first, the children have something to show you.”

  It was a 'play.' Spiv, his five year old son, was dressed as a Roman soldier with paper helmet and wooden sword. Edra, his eight year old daughter, played a giant in a horned headdress that her mother must have helped her sew. Edra let Spiv win, but not without first giving the good soldier the fight of his life. Her little brother enjoyed it immensely.

  At dinner, Spiv asked, “Are there really giants, Papa?”

  “I have never seen one,” Bivera replied. “But it is a big world, and perhaps there are ones elsewhere.”

  He begged off to the study, where he spread out the contents of the satchel and started to review the administrative paperwork of the province that was his lot since assuming the governorship. The next thing he knew, he awoke with his face pressed against the table. Elandra was placing a cup of tea in the corner. Her practiced eye diplomatically focused on the one item that was not stamped with imperial classification, a tome that he had located in a used book store on Page Street.

  She read aloud the title, “Mythological Tales of Britan. Usually your taste in books runs to whatever supplements your work. I've never known you to do light reading.”

  “To understand a people, you must understand their folklore.”

  She gave a blank expression, which he knew to mean: I know you're concealing, but I'll let it go.

  He followed her to bed, fully intent on love-making. Instead he fell asleep in her arms. He tossed through the night. Most of his dream sequences were replays of the day, but then he found himself in a dimly lit stone chamber. A man was chained to a chair, his face in agony. It was Maldus, Commander of the Imperial Guard, whom Bivera had met only once years ago at a military ceremony in Rome.

  “Why do you torture me?” Maldus croaked in tears.

  “It is not intended as torture,” the voice of a young woman casually replied. “It is experimentation.”

  Bivera awoke with a shudder, his heart racing. He was still in his own bed in his own house, and noises from the kitchen told him that he wife was alive and safe. It was already dawn. He checked on the children but didn't wake them, gathered the unread paperwork and had a light breakfast. He didn't speak to Elandra of the dream, but again her eyes showed concern as they stood at the door.

  “After this campaign,” he said, “I'm resigning. We can return to Rome or work this farm. Whatever you
wish, we will do.”

  “No, dear. Whatever you wish.” She hugged him so tightly that he wondered what her dreams were like.

  In mythology, Bivera had read, the sun is associated with a triangle and a peacock – a bird of great beauty and pride that dwelt on Aereoth. As he rode into Londa that morning, he saw the star of the day only as a blinding eye that forced his face into a squint and dimmed the red of the roofs into a brooding shade matching blood. Beyond shimmered the golden pool of the bay, still relatively vacant. But yesterday's courier birds had foretold of what was to come. Likewise, the expressions of the guards at Government House warned of the presence of the most ominous of all the flying couriers.

  Inoldia, in human form, was waiting in his office. She sat at the table, eating from a plate stacked high with meat, with two already-eaten plates alongside. If she had been slendered for flight that morning, she had since compensated. In fact, to Bivera she seemed heading toward . . . stockiness. He was too cautious to say anything, but she saw the puzzlement in his eyes, swallowed and said, “I must acquire bulk for a mission later today. Speaking of that, I must make a request for soldiers once again. Ten will do.”

  “I'll have you assigned the best we have.”

  “The 'best' are not what I am looking for. I was told you maintain a special file for 'miscreants.'”

  He knew what she meant. He went to the cabinet and returned with a stack of folders. He noted that she wiped her fingers on the napkin before touching the papers, and that she read rapidly. Again, he puzzled over the personality change.

  She focused on arrest records, her finger underscoring the sections on violent altercations. After a silent minute, she met his observing gaze. “Something I can help you with, General?”

  “You were gone for a time, checking on the agents in the west. Did you find them?”

  She tapped her nose. “I located their burial site.”

  He had known one of the men personally, and though he didn't like the fellow, the loss of any soldier in his command always gave him pause. Inoldia, however, wore a bemused expression.