The Chaos Chronicles

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  ——

  The datastream changed, and most of it diverted away, while a single, bright connection remained.

  /Are you saying that you deliberately—/

  >> I didn't say that. >>

  /—drew me in—?/

  >> I didn't say that, exactly. >>

  /But you knew a lot about me already, and you sure as hell opened the ground under my feet!/

  >> Well . . . yes . . . >>

  /So you knew I was coming?/

  >> I sensed . . . yes . . . when I am in the translator, it enables me a certain degree of . . . what you would probably call telepathic scanning. It is nothing like the intimate contact that we have now. It is more like a . . . radar sweep. >>

  /Radar sweep? And are you still doing this? Are you probing the other people here?/

  >> I can't, not outside of the translator. Except in a limited way, when you physically touch someone, or something. >>

  Bandicut remembered Napoleon. /Like the robot, you mean?/

  >> Yes. >>

  Bandicut was silent for a time, trying to absorb all that the quarx had told him. /Charlie,/ he said finally, /are you trying to say that you spend your life traveling around the galaxy trying to bail civilizations out of trouble? Because that's what it sounds like . . ./

  >> Well, yes—I mean, no! Not always whole civilizations . . . >>

  Bandicut blinked. /Good God, but you mean it's true? Is that what you do? It sounds like . . . I mean, don't you . . . have a life of your own to live?/ He swallowed, and realized that a shadow of grief seemed to have come across Charlie with his words. /I'm sorry, look, I didn't mean . . . if I said something . . ./

  The quarx spoke, but as though from a great distance.

  >> It's not . . . so bad, really. It has its own rewards, you know. >>

  /Charlie—/ He hesitated, and after a moment, the quarx drew back toward him, speaking softly.

  >> It is true that I am on a . . . journey, John Bandicut. And that I don't always know where I am going, or for what purpose. Or whether I will ever return to my own kind. Or even if they are— >>

  The quarx paused. /What?/ Bandicut asked. /Alive, or something?/

  >> Yes. >>

  /Jesus . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—/

  >> It's been a long journey, John. I've seen more than one civilization fall, and I've seen some saved, and the latter way is better. I'd like to help save yours, if I can. >>

  Bandicut was silent. They had to save the Earth, the quarx had said. And he wanted Bandicut's help. /You want to, uh, tell me a little more about that?/ he asked at last.

  >> I'll try. Let's start with a question. How much do you know about chaos? >>

  /How do you mean? Randomness, disorder, entropy?/

  >> No, I mean the science of chaos. >>

  /Oh. Not too much. What should I know about it?/

  ——

  The explanation came in streams and waves, curling around him like breakers rolling in upon a shore . . .

  The dynamical theories of chaos were the only practical means of describing many kinds of natural events, of illuminating past and present patterns, and of predicting future patterns of similar events. Among the subjects described by chaos theory were fluid turbulence, atmospheric weather patterns, the movements of particles, of individual lives, of planetary bodies in orbit . . . and even the social forces that swirled through crisis upon crisis in the history of any civilization, including Earth's. It was the last two of these subjects that had drawn the sharpest attention of the translator.

  It was the study of the chaotic patterns of orbital resonance in the solar system that made the translator suspect, long ago, that the Earth might one day be in trouble.

  How's that? whispered Bandicut.

  Let the stream carry you, and just try to follow, murmured the quarx.

  The human science of chaos was far too immature, even in its second century of organized existence, to adequately analyze the appropriate data; and even the translator, with its vastly more powerful chaos-calculator, was still working furiously, refining and analyzing, drawing together vague and shadowy possibilities into a picture that soon would make clear exactly what would go wrong, and where . . . and what must be done . . .

  Charlie . . . ? I'm not . . .

  Take an example, murmured the quarx. Motions of particles in a cloud of smoke—or in the rings around a planet, a planet such as Neptune, or Saturn. All the particles followed known physical laws of motion. But the motions were too hopelessly complex, viewed from a perspective of close detail, for predictions of any individual particle's motion to be useful. The tiniest perturbation of an orbit in one place could cause a drastic change in a particle's path elsewere; and every particle exerted some degree of force on every other particle, so if you were trying to predict a particle's path with any precision, taking into account the millions of moving bodies and fluctuating conditions . . .

  It was impossible—unless you employed truly advanced chaos dynamics, such as the calculations used by the translator. And even then, working out general patterns of orbital resonance and the stability and instability of orbits was one thing, but the raw-data requirement for tracking where one individual particle might get flung out of its orbit like a bullet was truly staggering, and best represented this way:

  An image flicked into existence, showing a series of hollow, transparent, concentric tori, colored various shades of green, blue, orange, and red. Waves of distortion began rippling through the donuts, and then kinks appeared as resonant instabilities, and then the tori opened up like onion shells and twisted like bizarre Möbius strips, and shredded into four-dimensional ferns . . .

  I am not following this, not at all—

  ——

  The image vanished, and Bandicut let out a long breath. /Now, that sure was helpful./ He sensed frustration coming from the quarx.

  >> I don't expect you to follow the actual math, John. But I was trying to let you see the general outline of the problem, and the solution process. The translator, to put it very simply, is making n-dimensional phase-space analyses of the movements of objects in your solar system . . . >>

  /That's putting it simply—?/ Bandicut asked, but the quarx continued without missing a beat.

  >> . . . including those at the outer periphery, not just in the Kuiper Belt, but in what you call the Oort Cloud . . . >>

  /Kuiper Belt? Oort Cloud? There's nothing but empty space there, and a few zillion comets./

  >> Precisely. Plus some dark planets which you haven't discovered yet. Your science is not yet tracking the large-scale movements of those bodies, or their gravitational effects on each other. Nevertheless, the translator is mapping the resonant attractor patterns that emerge over time, in an effort to mark the probable locations of future events. And now it needs the specific transient identifiers to locate— >>

  /Would you explain this in English, please?/

  >> I'm trying, I really am. It's a question in one sense of identifying the largest-scale meta-attractions, and then using that as a focusing device to scale down to— >>

  /Fucking A, Charlie, if you can't explain it, can you just cut to the conclusion?/

  >> I . . . yes, if you wish. The conclusion is that something's very likely to hit the Earth, something big, and I'm not sure yet what it is, and I need your help to find out. >>

  Bandicut remained silent and puzzled for a little while. /Oh. That's more or less what you said in the first place, isn't it? But listen, then . . . why insist upon secrecy?/

  There was a sigh, before the quarx answered.

  >> That's another part of the chaos analysis: the sociopolitical attractors. The translator says that time is too short, and if we go public, we'll set up turbulences that may delay our acting until it's too late. >>

  Bandicut frowned. Before he could think of a reply, the quarx whispered one more thing.

  >> I'm putting a pretty heavy burde
n on you, I know. But there's one more thing here that you ought to know, too. >>

  /Which is—?/

  >> Uh—well, you see . . . there's a good possibility that I might not live long enough to see this to its proper—oh, hell's bells! NOW what's happening—? >>

  He was interrupted by a hash of static.

  Chapter 6

  Neurolink

  /WHAT? CHARLIE!/

  ——

  >

  >>

  >>>

  >>>>

  >>>>>——>>>>

  >>

  He couldn't hear the quarx over the static. There was some sort of jostling going on, but he couldn't tell if it was within the data-connection, or on the outside.

  The static faded, but there was still some sort of scratchy interference, like a malfunctioning neurolink junction, or an audio speaker distorting a human voice. For a moment, he felt a rush of panic. Was this going to be another devastating breakdown, only without the neuro? It had seemed safe enough . . . but now the data-connection was disintegrating, and all of Charlie's explanatory images had turned to snow. The interference persisted a moment longer, before

  >>

  >>>>

  >>>>>——>>>>

  >>>

  >>

  >

  was followed by a stunning silence. The silence was broken only by the jangling of his nerves and the slow return of his external senses.

  /Charlie? Are you still there?/

  The quarx stirred.

  /// I'm here, but so is someone else!

  Open your eyes, John!

  Open your eyes! ///

  What the hell was Charlie talking about? Was someone else trying to get access to his thoughts? Suddenly he realized that the quarx was speaking literally. His eyelids flicked open, and in the gloom of his bunk, he saw the privacy-curtain dimpling inward with rhythmic beats. Someone was whacking on it from the outside. He heard a muffled voice. "Bandie! You in there? Hey, Bandie!"

  /// Who is it? ///

  Bandicut groaned. /I think I know. I'd better answer./

  /// Don't tell them about me! ///

  /Gimme a break, will you?/ He opened the curtain a few inches and peered out into the glare of the room light. "What d'ya want, Krackey?" he grunted.

  His roommate, Gordon Kracking, was pacing back and forth in front of their stacked bunks, waving his arms in obvious distress. Bandicut sighed. Krackey was arguably one of the brightest individuals in the entire Triton operation—and also one of the most ungainly, with angular bones and an owlish haircut; and whenever he was really worked up about something, all of that mental power somehow transformed him into a sight that reminded Bandicut of a crippled duck trying to fly.

  /// Who is this? ///

  the quarx asked.

  /My friend,/ Bandicut sighed. /Don't mind him, he's a bit of a goak./

  /// Goak—? ///

  "Bandie!" Kracking cried. "I knew you were in there!"

  "Yeah, Krackey, you got me on that one. Now make a little room, will you?" Bandicut pushed the curtain open and swung his feet out over the edge of the bunk. At the same time, he sat up, banging his head on the bunk above him. "Ow!" He cursed quietly. Three months in this place and he was still banging his goddamn head on that goddamn bunk.

  Krackey greeted him like a long-lost brother. "Bandie! What happened out there, man? We were afraid you were a goner!"

  Bandicut squinted back at him from the bunk. His head was still foggy with the things Charlie had been saying, and he was trying to remember what it was they had been talking about at the very end, before the interruption. He felt as if he had awakened from a dream, and the threads of it were slipping away, even as he tried to fix them in his memory. But it was too late; they were gone. "What are you talking about?" he rasped finally.

  Krackey cocked his head, eyes blazing. He had one blue and one green eye, like a cat. "Bandie, everyone knows about it—how you fried your buggy and would be frozen stiff out there if Genghis hadn't come along and gotten you running again. What were you doing in the laser area anyway?"

  Bandicut let out an annoyed breath. "Who said I was in the laser area?"

  "That's what I heard," said Krackey. "I don't know who said it first."

  "What else did they say—that I went into orbit? Look, I didn't fry anything—and it wasn't Genghis, it was Napoleon. And he didn't fix it, he just hopped a ride back to save his lazy, robot ass the walk home."

  Krackey was shaking his head. "Bandie, that's not the way people are saying it. Look, man—I trust you, you know that. If you want me to set the record straight for you—"

  Bandicut sighed as he slid down from his bunk. "All right, Krackey. Yeah, I guess I can tell you. What really happened is that I met an alien out there, and was lucky to get back without being dissected alive."

  /// What are you doing!!! ///

  Krackey looked hurt as Bandicut walked past him. "Come on, John—I'll keep it quiet if you want me to. But what really happened? I heard Jackson was fit to be tied."

  "I just told you."

  /// John, you PROMISED! ///

  He ignored the quarx. "Look, Jackson should be put out of his misery, for all of our sakes. I didn't do anything that—" He sighed. "Ah, never mind. You wouldn't believe me anyway. No one else does." He traipsed into the lav, with Krackey following. /Don't worry, Charlie. You don't think he'd actually believe me, do you?/

  "Come on, Bandie!" Krackey wailed.

  /// Will he? ///

  /Not a chance./ Peering into the sink mirror at his angular, unshaven face and his copper-green eyes, he thought, Do I look possessed? Are you in there, Charlie, in those eyes? Sighing, he shook his head and glanced back at his friend. "Krack, if you don't want to believe me, you can read all about it on the board newsies. They won't have it right, either—but at least it'll be official."

  "Bandicoot, give me a break! Why'd they demote you to mining ops? Something must have happened!" Krackey couldn't bear mysteries like this, and he was staring at Bandicut imploringly. Suddenly his eyes widened and understanding seemed to dawn. "Bandie!" He lowered his voice. "You didn't have one of those damn fugues, did you?"

  Bandicut nearly froze, but forced himself to bend to wash his hands and face. He dried himself and said in a low voice, through the towel, "Now, Krackey—if that's what had happened, they'd have me in the funny room already, wouldn't they?" He peered up at his friend and was greeted with a sober gaze. He had had a fugue, Krackey was realizing. "Look," Bandicut said quietly, "I'd appreciate it if we could drop the subject for a while. You can just tell people that it was all blown out of proportion. Really—I had a malfie, but I fixed it, and nothing happened. Okay?"

  Krackey nodded slowly. "Okay, Bandie." He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "But listen—let me know if it happens again, will you? You can't let this keep happening. If it does, like it or not, you're going to have to see the docs."

  Bandicut snorted.

  "I mean it, Bandie."

  "Yeah," Bandicut sighed. "I will. Okay?" He waited until Krackey nodded, then he returned to zip up his bunk curtain, and he left the dorm without another word.

  *

  He wasn't going to be able to just waltz around the base pretending nothing had happened, he soon realized. He went to the cafeteria for an early supper, and by the time he'd finished eating, three different people had stopped to ask him what had happened out on the plain—the unspoken gist being, are you still employed here, and are you planning to do anything else that will screw up the works for the rest of us? He answered the questions casually but tersely, and by the third time, he was starting to feel pretty peeved.

  /// You aren't going to tell anyone else

  that you met an alien,

  are you? ///

  Charlie asked worriedly.

  "You haven't heard me tell anyone, have you?" he snapped. Realizing that he had just spoken aloud, he glanced around self-c
onsciously, grateful that the room was mostly empty. Careful! he thought. It was easy enough to direct his thoughts inward, while maintaining outward silence, as long as he thought of it in terms of neuro-connect. The trouble was that that state of mind tended to leave him with a blank and rather stupid expression on his face, and that didn't seem like a very helpful camouflage.

  The quarx persisted.

  /// When you told Krackey before . . . about me.

  Was that a joke? ///

  He shrugged. /Ha ha./

  /// I'm serious! ///

  /Yeah, okay. Yes, it was a joke./ He finished his tempeh-and-tomato sandwich and began picking at the custard dessert.

  /// Well . . . was it a joke on me,

  or on Krackey? ///

  Bandicut stared at the wall, knowing he had a dumb expression on his face, but unable to help it. /I'll leave that for you to figure out,/ he said. /Jeez, Charlie, I thought you said you'd learned all about us by watching TV. You sound like a raw recruit! What kind of an invader are you?/

  /// I'm not any kind of an invader! ///

  /Hah! Gotcha./

  /// Oh.

  That was another joke.

  Like on TV.

  Right? ///

  Before he could think of a response, Bandicut heard a sudden rush of laughter in his mind, like a gust of wind blowing open a door. He almost choked on his custard. /What was that for?/ he grunted in bewilderment.

  /// Laughtrack.

  Isn't that how jokes are answered,

  on TV? ///

  Bandicut shook his head in bewilderment. /What are you talking about? I've never even heard of such a thing./

  /// No? Really? ///

  /I think you're operating with some rather quaint and outmoded ideas, Charlie. Maybe we should sit and watch the holo for a few days, and just let you catch up./ Bandicut rose from the table and hooked a thumb at the busrobot, pointing to his dirty dishes on the table. The robot twitched slightly; he could have sworn that it shrugged and looked away from him. Shaking his head, he loped out of the cafeteria, moving along an empty third-level corridor.