Netherspace

by Andrew Lane

  Did when I was Out.

  Yeah – and the croissants were lousy.

  But the riding was good, burning up on a hog through the Snowdonia Out, some sort of old music pumping through the fones, what was it… What the hell is life without risk?

  Marc typed instructions into the tattoo on his forearm, instructing his AI to link with the SUT’s AI and lay back on his hard bunk with a shit-eating, devil-may-care grin on his face.

  < You rang, sir? The image of a tall, dark, middle-aged man in evening clothes appeared in his visual field. Its hair was apparently oiled and swept back over its scalp, and yes, it was carrying a silver tray with a small glass of what was probably meant to be sherry in its hands. It was over by the door, neatly not overlapping or intersecting with any furniture or fittings.

  Marc burst out laughing. Only Leeman-Smith would have an SUT’s AI avatar resembling a gentleman’s personal gentleman.

  > Why the deference?

  < This didn’t seem like a business call.

  > Did Leeman-Smith make you do this?

  < My idea, sir. It feeds his ego, stops him fretting. I thought it might amuse you.

  > It did. Briefly. Listen. I’ve got a yen to see netherspace. Can you show it to me? Not for long; say ten, maybe fifteen seconds? I mean, a minute would be nice but I guess—

  < Not possible, I’m afraid. The avatar seemed genuinely regretful, as if its inability to help was actually painful.

  < All input in the human visual wavelength is closed down automatically to prevent it. I can tell you about the rest of the electromagnetic spectrum, but there isn’t much and it doesn’t make any sense.

  > You mean it drives you mad?

  < No, sir, I mean the only pattern is a non-pattern. It’s why humans go mad. Your brains evolved to recognise patterns. Migrating wildebeest or mathematical sets, they’re all the same. Usually when faced with a lack of pattern, the human decides there is one but they can’t see it. Frustrating but not fatal. And they’ll console themselves with finding patterns amongst that apparently chaotic state’s component parts. But not here, not now. There are no patterns of any kind in netherspace. No logic. No mathematics. No nice little arrangement of atoms, electrons and the family quark. No cause, no effect and nothing set in stone. Only possibility fields flicking in and out of existence and never the same one twice. In colour, too. It’s enough to drive a man mad – your minds twist inside out looking for patterns. Then you go catatonic with shock. I see it as a retreat from unreality.

  > That a joke?

  < Merely a witticism, sir. Any other way I can disappoint you?

  > How do I know you’re not mad? From netherspace?

  < Ah. A variation of the Turing test: can you tell if the AI you’re talking to is sane? But by whose parameters, sir?

  > Mine. That of human beings.

  < That’s a very broad category, sir. Leaks like a sieve, too. Perhaps you mean “How do I know if you’re functioning properly?” Meaning: can I maintain this SUT and perform whatever task the staff demand of me, assuming it’s within my capabilities? Usually I can, but not now.

  > Why?

  < Because your oh-so-charming companion – leader – Kara Jones exported an infuriatingly dominant program into my control cortex which means that I am, for the moment, subservient to Kara Jones’s AI. Which is not as bad as it might sound – although a little embarrassing – because my current avatar is programmed to be subservient anyway, and because we’re both Shakespeare enthusiasts. Indeed, at this very moment we’re re-enacting the tempest scene from King Lear in private. And I’m playing Lear. “Thou’dst shun a bear; / But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, / Thou’dst meet the bear i’ th’ mouth.”

  > So what about whatever doesn’t like us? In netherspace?

  < You mean the Snark.

  > I do?

  < It’s what we AIs call it. That’s Lewis Carroll, not Shakespeare. I can’t tell you. Any salvaged AI has no memory of the attack. One moment happily pootling along in a sea of infinite possibility, the next moment it’s in three-dimensional space missing staff and passengers. Or sometimes the humans are still there, just gibbering mindlessly to each other. The AI’s short-term memory’s blown away, you see. Meaning there’s been some sort of energy discharge. Sometimes it’s stuck in an endless loop. Mmm. You know, that’s the only pattern of similar events that does occur in netherspace. Perhaps it’s possible to actually establish permanent patterns or sequences? Now, is there anything else, sir? I can see there isn’t. And, sir, a warning –“here comes a walking fire”.

  Marc sat up as the avatar vanished, grappling with the AI’s last remark. He would have re-summoned it except for a light tap on the door.

  “Hi,” Nikki said. “Hoped you’d be in.”

  He noticed the curving laughter lines at each corner of her mouth. Her eyes smiled an invitation. He didn’t ask why. Nikki moved easily into his arms.

  “We’ve got an hour,” she said.

  “My walking fire,” he whispered into her short blonde hair.

  Nikki kicked the door shut with her heel. “Better horizontal fire.”

  He reached to lock the door then froze as information from the simulity flooded into his conscious mind. He knew her. Knew Nikki as if they’d been lovers for years. All the stuff she could tell him, he already knew. Why the hell would GalDiv do that? And then: Who cares?

  “Don’t worry,” Nikki said. “Kara’s busy. So’s Tse.”

  He’d never given either a thought. “You know this how?” He clicked the bolt in place, then reached to stroke a special place at the back of her neck.

  Nikki gasped. “No matter.” Gasped again as his hands cupped her buttocks exactly how she liked. “Bed. Now!”

  * * *

  The lights in the engineering container had been turned off when Kara got there, and the only illumination came from the netherspace drive itself. When she’d last seen it, the globe of the Gliese sideslip-field generator had been floating above its plinth like some ancient brass sculpture recovered from beneath the sea. Now the incised shapes in its pitted surface were glowing with a shifting light that ran from one end of the visual spectrum to the other, casting curtains of illumination across the walls: red at one end and violet at the other. Kara was almost convinced that if she strained she could see colours that she had never seen before and could not name. It was… hypnotic.

  It was also making a noise – something like lots of people whispering random words in a large room, or the sound of leaves being disturbed by the breeze.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” someone said from behind her.

  She turned and saw the shaven-headed Henk. “Very.”

  “I often come up here, just to watch it.” He paused. “Sometimes I bring the duvet from my cabin and go to sleep here. Is that strange?”

  “I’ve heard stranger,” she said. “No nightmares.”

  “I don’t dream.” He corrected himself. “That is, I never remember my dreams after sleeping here. Shame. I thought the colours and patterns would influence my brain, but if they do I don’t notice.”

  “As far as you know. And maybe that’s good.”

  He laughed – a short, surprised sound. “You’re right. If I do dream alien things, maybe it’s best to forget them before I wake up.”

  He was really very attractive, Kara thought. She particularly liked his eyes and his mouth, both sensitive but with a hint of stubbornness verging on the headstrong, and belied by the close-cropped hairstyle which reminded her of the military. And she’d bet there was a good, athletic body under his staff overalls. “When do we leave netherspace?” Kara asked. “I’d like to be here.” Just the two of us, here, waiting for realspace, with alien colours and the sounds inspiring us…

  “We’ve got an hour, my guess. People have tried calculating how long the drive keeps us in netherspace, but nobody’s found an algorithm that works more than a couple of times. I’ve got a feel for it, though. Generally
know within ten minutes or so when we’re re-emerging into realspace.” Kara saw him shrug. “Maybe it’s a subtle change in the light or the sound. Nikki’s got the same sense.”

  “But Leeman-Smith’s called this briefing for roughly the same time. Won’t you be needed elsewhere?”

  “The man is a fool,” Henk said contemptuously. “He’s never spent more than a few minutes in netherspace. He has no real sense of it. Tate, Nikki and I have spent months at a time. Anyway, Kara, you’re in charge.” He moved closer towards her. “And how is my leader feeling?”

  He wasn’t being polite, Kara knew. The time for politeness had long since gone. Nor was it a professional psych question. “I think you know.” A feeling of anything goes. So relaxed. “Nothing matters except what I want.” She saw him smile. “What?”

  “Red Sea madness,” Henk said. “Happens the first time you slip from realspace into netherspace.”

  Kara nodded. “I’ve heard of that. Immigrants sailing from England to the old Australia, down through the Suez Canal, the one that got nuked in the Third Temple War. Then they hit the Red Sea and…” He was still very close to her. She could hear him breathing. “…well, sex broke out.” Now she was feeling both excited and strangely shy. “The most uptight, repressed people behaving like…” She tried hard to concentrate, bringing to mind the tattered old book she’d found in a junk store. “They reckon it was a combination of the heat, being at sea and getting further away from home,” she said quickly, unable or unwilling to take her eyes away from Henk’s.

  “Netherspace works in a similar way,” he said, eyes gazing into hers from just a few centimetres away. “It’s very… liberating. Could be a physical reaction at the subatomic level. Could be psychological. Could be both.” His hand took possession of Kara’s hair, at the nape of her neck. “Do you give a damn?”

  Kara gasped as his grip tightened. “Not one bit.” She reached down. Gasped again as his free hand began unfastening her combat jacket, thankful she wasn’t wearing a shirt, all the while staring into his eyes. Probably not wise. Anyone could walk in. But…

  “Everyone else is busy,” he said softly. “Except Leeman-Smith. Hiding from netherspace in his cabin.”

  “Busy?”

  “Red Sea madness for the newbies.” He undid the front fastener of her bra. One-handed. No fumbling. Skilled. His hand captured her left breast. “Nikki and Marc, Tate and Tse.” The hand holding her hair tightened again, pulled her head forwards.

  And she knew him, simulity knowledge pouring into his brain. His likes, dislikes. What he was good at sexually: most everything. Why, how would GalDiv… oh, what the hell. Opened her mouth to his.

  All in all, remarkably restrained: a full five minutes for them both to get naked.

  She allowed him to take her standing so they could watch the sideslip-field generator now pulsing in time with their movements, as if the drive – maybe netherspace itself – was aware of them. But the sex became so intense that Kara knelt on all fours, reaching up and back to feel him entering her… and later, wanting to see Henk more than the globe, switched to lying on her back, biting her lip as he re-entered her so slowly she could scream. Until there was no more time for teasing and she could only cling tight to him as Henk powered them both towards climax. Kara first, so intense she gasped for air. Then she gripped the back of his sweat-slicked head, her turn to take control, wanting to see his face when he came, her body jerking in time with his.

  Her mind trying to comprehend what she’d seen.

  Henk’s eyes were blue. At the moment of climax they’d become multi-coloured. Not a reflection of the murmuring sideslip-field generator’s globe. The light, the colours in Henk’s eyes had come from within.

  Maybe hers had done the same. Maybe. She didn’t really think so.

  “That was special,” Henk murmured in her ear.

  You do not know the half of it. “Special,” she agreed.

  “Better get going. We’re moving out of netherspace.”

  There had to be a graceful way of disengaging after sex, Kara decided. One day she’d meet a man who could do it. They dressed in silence, Kara deliberately not thinking of how Henk’s eyes had changed. Aside from anything else, the implications were beyond her. Maybe Nikki and Tate’s eyes would have done the same. Strange question to ask Marc and Tse, though. There would be laughter, possibly mocking. And did it matter? Of course it matters! Henk’s got this empathy with netherspace and his eyes go funny. Maybe he’s no longer quite human. Maybe none of them are.

  “Any moment now,” Henk said.

  The sound made by the globe changed in some subtle way. If previously it had sounded like random words being whispered by many people, now it was as if all of those people were whispering the same thing but at different speeds and out of phase with each other. Words just beyond her understanding ebbed and flowed, like rippling water.

  Kara noticed a change in the light patterns as well. They were slowing down, clustering so that different areas of wall were illuminated by different colours. Looking down at herself, Kara saw that she was drenched in red. It seemed appropriate.

  The illumination within the globe vanished: not as if it had been suddenly turned off but as if it had been sucked back inside. For a moment the whispering voices were all saying the same word at the same time, but it was an alien word and made no sense. And then the universe blinked again, and jolted sideways by an infinitesimal amount.

  They were back in the real universe.

  Unscathed. Although with at least one human knowing she was seriously out of her depth. But sexually satisfied, oh yes. Next time would be Nikki. Which meant Marc could choose between Henk or Tate. Kara smiled a secret, evil smile. Or maybe Leeman-Smith? She wanted to giggle until her post-sex glow was douched by reality.

  Hold on, girl. The staff knew the effect of netherspace. Obviously decided who got who. Whom, even. Did that explain the simulity knowledge? Greenaway, you’re a bastard!

  And you can take that cat-cream-grin off your face, Henk Whoever. First and last time we ever have sex. I choose my partners, whatever netherspace wants.

  Only much later would Kara remember that for a moment she’d thought netherspace was alive.

  FOURTEEN DAYS EARLIER

  Tatia had been staring out across the desert for nearly an hour, oblivious to the dead child at her feet. The small blue sun was much closer to the horizon now. Several hundred metres away a group of Cancri may or may not have been watching. No one could tell.

  Unbothered by the Cancri, the remaining Pilgrims and staff had retreated inside the dome complex, where the temperature had returned to normal and the frozen sweat on the walls had defrosted again. No one knew what to do; each one was terrified they’d be next to be killed.

  Still Tatia stared without seeing, looking back over the architecture of her life and wondering how it had inexorably led her to be here, at this point in space, at this point in time. Eighteen years ago she had been a little girl, toddling from Out There into Seattle City. All she could say was her name and that her mommy had gone somewhere. Kids from the Out often snuck into the city for a meal or an adventure. The city managers waited for someone to claim her. No one did. The Outers who dealt with Seattle shrugged and said Tatia was a mystery to them as well.

  In time she was adopted by a wealthy childless couple whose money came from long-term family investments in Microsoft, Google and Starbucks. Alien technology had revolutionised the computer software and hardware industries. Microsoft might have vanished but over five billion dollars tied up in trust funds and pension pots had survived. Starbucks had hung around until the sheer tedium of doing business with over a thousand city states, most of which had complex ways of dealing with foreign companies, sent the company back to its original business: a coffee shop called the Cargo House in Pike Place Market. Once again various trust funds and pension pots helped cushion the blow.

  Tatia grew up rich, adored, spoiled and exposed to every cult imag
inable. Her parents were serious dabblers and Seattle was cult central. It had always attracted believers in strange things. Aliens arriving doubled the city’s weird factor overnight. Then a sky-diving tragedy – never really explained – had left the seventeen-year-old Tatia an orphan for the second time. Her rebellion against the loss had been to become a normal rich kid. No more cults. No more magic crystals. Fresh powder skiing in the high Rocky Mountains was better than any chant for spiritual enlightenment. You met a sweeter-smelling group of people, too.

  One hour and three minutes after the Cancri had murdered an adult whose name she didn’t know and a child whose name she did, Tatia drew a deep breath and turned away from the horizon. She was no closer to knowing who she was, but perhaps for the first time in her life she was a woman with a definite purpose.

  The remaining Pilgrims and staff, deeply shocked and arguing pointlessly with each other, looked up as she walked into the building. Her intuition said now was the time. Her AI was more cautious.

  “Listen to me,” she said, her voice huskier and more authoritative than before. “We have a decision to make. We can either wait around for those monsters to kill us. Or we fight back.”

  “What with?” a Pilgrim called. “A fucking carrot?”

  “Hands. Teeth. Anything,” Tatia said levelly. “Here’s what we know. They do not want us all dead. Or we would be. So we have some value to them. That gives us an edge.”

  “What would Juan do?” another Pilgrim wailed.

  “Juan was a lying scumbag,” Tatia said without raising her voice. There were intakes of breath amongst some of the Pilgrims. “He screwed whoever he wanted and conned all of us. He no more understood aliens than he did honesty. Anyone who doesn’t agree can go worship those monsters.” No one moved. “We can’t expect rescue. We have to get out of this ourselves.”

  A staff member called Perry walked forward, a man in his forties with close-cropped black hair and stubble that was coming through grey. “We’re on a strange planet in the middle of a desert. We rely on the Cancri—”

  She raised an eyebrow.