The Reality Thief (Deplosion Book 1)

by Paul Anlee

  Time was running out. She had to start the self-propelled leg of her brief journey home soon. If she missed the launch window, there would be no way to get back on course without drawing attention. The jet stream from her main drive would be visible for millions of klicks, an emergency flare in the deep darkness of space.

  I’m moving at fifteen thousand two hundred and eighty-one point six three kilometers per hour in a sealed titanium capsule. My manipulators aren’t strong enough to push the hatch open. Even if they were, using them again, when I’m so low on power, is out of the question. My ultra-capacitors are almost dead. When they’re done, so am I–Dar contemplated, calm only as a result of shutting down her emotion modules.

  I can generate matter-antimatter power but if I fire up my rockets in here, there’s no way I could survive the heat or radiation that would build up before the hatch blew open. Viable options?

  In desperation, she set a few subroutines with exceedingly loose parameters running in the background, on the off-chance that she’d miss something she could use. Any solution, however risky or outlandish, would be welcome right now.

  Should I shut down everything except long-term memory and bank on the remote possibility of a recovery in the far future? She’d pulled off that long shot once before, ages ago. But it seemed pointless out here in deep space. Drifting aimlessly, she’d be far more likely to get swallowed up by some star or get picked up by Securitors than to be found by friends.

  She could reset, wipe her memory to protect the others, and terminate her existence voluntarily. Suicide would prevent further risk to other Resistance members, but would bring about her end, the end of the Princess Darya persona, and possibly the end of the Resistance. She couldn’t let all of their many efforts, struggles, and sacrifices come to nothing.

  I can’t risk ending the Resistance. Better to hope for rescue than to end it all here. A long-shot is better than certain failure. Shutdown protocol, it is.

  A subroutine pinged for her attention. Could it have found something? She took a look. That might just work!—she was surprised.

  Dar acted instantly. Activating an internal laser, she ablated some of the antimatter mercury from the frozen block in her propulsion system.

  When aimed at a matching normal-matter stream ablated from a separate block, the antimatter stream normally converted into a brilliant, pure energy. The system served beautifully as the basis for the main propulsion unit but, as it was, lacked the precision and finesse Dar now needed to get out of her escape pod.

  If I activate only the antimatter stream, I should be able to control the direction and intensity of the stream enough to create a crude cutting torch. Unfortunately, it’s also going to generate a high level of radiation as the antimatter reacts with the normal matter of the hatch. Can my shielding withstand the onslaught long enough for me to cut free? I guess we’ll find out.

  Dar decreased the sensitivity in her visual sensors and directed the anti-mercury stream along a narrow seam where the exit hatch was attached to the rest of the shell. After several circumnavigations with the spray penetrating deeper each time, the hatch finally gave way. She was out, with only a second to spare.

  The Cybrid accelerated away from her rocky cell and into the vacuum of space, leaving a small puff of metal vapor trailing behind her. She oriented herself toward Secondus, and fired a two-second engine pulse at full power to intercept her home base, hoping the surviving Securitors were too busy and too disorganized to notice. Her rockets pointed outward at a sharp angle to her initial trajectory. She kept the propulsion exhaust as narrow as possible.

  Provided that no sensors had detected the flash of light when she cut through the escape pod or the radiation from her exhaust, she might make it.

  She didn’t dare use her active sensors to scan for pursuers, but her passive detectors could manage a wide scan with minimal risk. They weren’t as effective but they were low energy and might pick up the telltale signature of a Securitor rocket homing in on her position.

  Luck or destiny was on her side this time. Or maybe it was artfully employed science and technology. In any case, there was no sign of pursuit from any direction. She could only surmise that the debris from the blasted asteroid had covered her energetic bursts.

  For the second time in only a few minutes, Dar almost wished she believed in a real God, so she could thank Him for saving her. Almost. She knew better than to confuse luck with divine intervention. She settled for being satisfied that the probabilities, however slim, had worked out in her favor. Unfortunately for them, the probabilities had not worked out as favorably for the Securitors sent to investigate Tertius.

  I would rather not have destroyed the Securitors along with Tertius—even Securitors are conscious beings—but the Resistance must survive. Someone has to oppose Alum’s mad plan. For now, that means the Princess Darya persona must survive.

  Operating on the lowest possible power, Dar continued her journey to Secondus. With most of her brain shut down for the trip, she was reduced to the simplest and most mindless sense-and-respond machine she could ever imagine being.

  One klick from home, she reactivated her navigational subsystem and fired a blast to reduce her approach velocity. A few gentle pulses from the maneuvering jets brought her precisely to the main entry portal. The door recognized her weak, intermittent signal and opened to receive her. By the time she was able to connect to the solar recharging station, her sensory feed and computational awareness were both flickering in and out erratically.

  Safely home on Secondus base, Dar allowed herself to slip into recharge mode.

  23

  “IS THAT HIM?” Larry pointed toward a small delegation approaching the foot of the stairs.

  The young man being swarmed by university executives looked too young to be a professor. He carried himself more like a first-year grad student: awkward, gawky, and out of place. He certainly looked nerdy enough to be a physics professor. His “do-it-yourself” haircut was far from stylish, barely combed, and he was painfully uncomfortable in the shirt, tie, and outdated tweed jacket.

  The object of everyone’s attention gave the appearance of being properly impressed with the campus architecture as his tour guides pointed out each particularly splendid feature. Online VR tours now made such personalized walkabouts unnecessary but whether it was due to nostalgia, a testament to their pride, or a twisted test of character, the majority of Department Chairs still insisted on dragging new recruits through the motions.

  “Yeah, that looks like him,” Greg answered. He and Larry were camped at the top of the stairs, looking out over the covered Convocation Mall between the Library and Student Services buildings. Their perch was strategically positioned to catch a glimpse of Simon Fraser University’s newest celebrity faculty member, Darian Leigh.

  Almost all campus foot traffic passed on one side or other of the Mall before entering the lower level of the Academic Quadrangle. On a nice day like this sunny July afternoon, it was impossible to resist climbing the majestic stairs and meandering your way across the floating path that spanned the reflection pool and provided shade to the brightly colored koi below. At the end of the pond, a passing appreciation of the sunken central gardens and pyramid sculpture was obligatory before heading into the raised AQ building to enjoy the spectacular view of Indian Arm.

  “He looks way younger than his pictures,” Larry noted.

  Perhaps that was because he was indeed, young. Darian Leigh carried without much grace the thin, insubstantial form of a stereotypically anemic academic, including an early predisposition toward a small paunch. Clearly, he spent more time in thought, than in the gym.

  But at twenty-two years old, with PhDs in Nano-Computing, Synthetic Biology, and Quantum Cosmology, and the rumblings of a Nobel Prize candidacy (or two) already in the wings, Darian Leigh was the most remarkable person ever to stand in the middle of the soaring columns of SFU.

  “I expected him to look a little, I don’t know, smarter
,” Greg confided.

  “Well, you’re a lot smarter than you look,” Larry mocked.

  “Thanks, I think.” He and Larry had been friends throughout grad school. Starting their first postdoc positions together under such a famous Principal Investigator as Darian Leigh cemented the easy camaraderie and good-natured ribbing that had accompanied their student years.

  “Well, maybe not a lot smarter,” Dr. Kathy Liang, the newest member of the team, chimed in as she claimed a seat alongside them.

  Greg laughed, a little louder than intended. His attraction to the intriguing Chinese-American engineer only amplified his usual social awkwardness, causing him to overcompensate in her presence.

  Kathy was accustomed to the effect she had on male colleagues and politely ignored their discomfiture, doing her best to be a casually accepted member of the group.

  She had arrived in Vancouver only a month earlier, hired to help set up the new lab. Given the paucity of instructions from Dr. Leigh, this had proven a challenging task for all of them. They ended up spending a good deal of their time familiarizing themselves with each other’s work, with Dr. Leigh’s seminal papers on the theory of Big Bang physics, and with the coffee and beer served in the Student Society pub.

  While they were chatting, Darian and his executive entourage had climbed to the top of the stairs unnoticed by his new assistants. “Not waiting for me, are you?”

  They jumped to their feet. “Dr. Leigh!” Though Darian was the youngest of them all, he was their undeniable superior. More than his coveted faculty position, it was his intellectual prowess and prestige that commanded their attention and respect.

  Darian decided that introductions were in order. “Madam President, Dr. Pinto, Dr. Wong, Dr. Pratt, I’d like to present the charter members of my group here at SFU.

  “Dr. Katherine Liang is a graduate of the Applied Physics Department at Stanford. Dr. Valeriy Rusalov and Dr. Girikanshayam Mahajani are graduates of Physics here at SFU.” He nodded at each of Kathy, Larry and Greg in turn as he introduced them. Both groups stood in awkward silence at the unaccustomed meeting of disparate academic strata.

  Kathy stepped forward, hand outstretched, “It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Leigh," she beamed, precipitating handshakes all round.

  “We were just finishing the campus tour. Why don’t you join us for lunch at the Faculty Club?” Darian invited. The university executives were clearly uncomfortable with the whole idea but reluctant to dismiss their celebrity’s wishes or generosity. Everyone looked to President Sakira for a decision.

  “Yes, please do. But we will have no technical discussion,” she decreed, with a wagging finger. Everyone laughed. Dr. Sakira was a world-renowned expert in Europolitics, equally well-known and respected on campus for trying to keep social occasions among the academics civil and inclusive. Her appointment as President of SFU had been widely viewed as a stroke of brilliance in troubled times.

  “I am proud to remind you all,” she began, making deliberate eye contact with Darian and each of the executives and postdocs, “that SFU has no separate Faculty Club. Our policy is more equitable here. The Diamond Alumni Centre is open to all. Shall we continue?”

  They walked under the AQ and entered the central garden. Dr. Sakira resumed her narration of the tour. “Notice the relationship between the land and the structures. This campus was designed by award-winning architect Arthur Erickson in the early 1960s. Inspired by the acropolis in Athens as well as the small towns in the hills of Italy, he incorporated the mountains on which they stand into the design of the buildings.

  “Here, you can see how the massive cement columns of the AQ rise and support two floors of classrooms and offices above us, leaving open access or sight lines to this peaceful one hundred meter square park in the middle. The entire campus, including this futuristic-looking building, continues to be used as a movie and television set. The first movie filmed here was the sequel to The Fly, filmed in 1989, I believe.”

  “Actually, it was the Groundstar Conspiracy, with George Peppard,” Larry interjected. When everyone turned to look at him, some with surprise and others with disapproval, he added, “Sorry. A bit of a trivia buff,” and shrugged.

  “You are correct,” Darian said in support of his assistant. “At least, according to the latest information available on the web. It starred Michael Sarrazin and Christine Belford, and was directed by Lamont Johnson.”

  “Are you also a movie trivia buff, Dr. Leigh?” asked Dr. Pratt.

  “Not at all,” replied Darian. “I looked it up.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Your internal DNND network,” observed Dr. Pratt. “Well, I do hope it is useful for academic purposes as well.”

  Darian didn’t bother to respond to the openly snide remark. Apart from Dr. Wong, Chair of the Physics Department, it appeared that none of the other three faculty members carried implanted dendy lattices. And while Dr. Wong did sport a telltale induction headband, even he was not sufficiently comfortable with the technology to access movie trivia on a whim.

  Dr. Pratt's open contempt for the DNND technology wasn’t uncommon. On this campus and many others, the issue of whether built-in access to online data should be considered a professional cheat or an essential enhancement was a hotly debated topic. Most established professors eschewed the conveniences of the new technology, saying that solid, scholarly work ought to rely more on skillful thinking and solid research than on fancy computer tricks.

  As always, the students—those who could afford it, anyway—were quick to adopt the new technology. Truth be told, they were employing it more for entertainment purposes than intellectual pursuit. To obviate the need for wifi shielding in lecture halls, induction headbands were not permitted during exams. Cheating still relied on conventional methods.

  President Sakira skillfully intervened. “Oh, it looks like we’re running a little late,” she said, glancing at her watch. She picked up the pace, and briskly redirected them along the north side of the AQ, down through the Robert C. Brown Hall, and across the road to the Diamond Alumni Centre. Not by accident, the faster pace made it difficult for the group to keep up the conversation and breathe at the same time.

  The host delivered them to a table along the north windows of the DAC dining room, overlooking Indian Arm inlet and the beautiful Pacific Coast range. The cold blue waters of the glacial fjord extended inland between steep, conifer-lined slopes. Sakira took a moment to enjoy the view; she believed it to be among the most magnificent, and calming, of any university-based restaurant in the world.

  They ordered and ate their meals, confining their remarks to appreciation of the food and scenery, and were relaxing over coffees and teas when the conversation took an unexpected turn.

  “I was sorry to hear of your father’s death this past winter,” President Sakira offered; “I’m sure he’s in a better place now.”

  “I doubt that he would prefer an urn over our house in California,” Darian responded. His table mates winced at his dark, dry sense of humor.

  “I meant,” the University President corrected, “his soul in heaven.”

  “Mm,” Darian said, “his soul. Well, I’m quite sure that, prior to his death, my father was finally convinced there is neither heaven nor hell, and that the whole concept of souls is simply a reflection of a very human inability to accept that our brief physical existence on this planet is really all there is. He accepted his death as his ultimate end.”

  Dr. Pratt could not resist weighing in. “That couldn’t have been very comforting to him.”

  “I’m sure that it wasn’t as comforting as his previous belief in the myth of an eternal afterlife. After facing the prospect of his imminent death for two years, my father was finally able to accept that nothing uniquely him would survive the cessation of coordinated biological activity in his brain. We had many discussions about this during his battle with cancer. I think he was brave to discard his earlier superstitions and face his death without an emotional cru
tch.”

  “I hate to say it, Dr. Leigh, but you sound rather heartless,” Dr. Pratt retorted. “Science has little if anything to say about the existence of a soul or spirit, if you will, or about the possible existence of heaven.”

  “That is not at all the case.” Darian's three postdocs raised their eyebrows in unison. Pratt was an internationally respected moral philosopher whose moderate religious views were perceived as generously inclusive. Why was Darian picking a fight with him?

  “I would be interested to hear how you believe the study of natural law can contribute to our understanding of the transcendent,” said Pratt.

  “Very well,” agreed Darian. Kathy shot Greg and Larry a discreet look in response to his literal-mindedness, and made herself comfortable.

  “First, I need to know which version of the soul you might subscribe to.”

  “Version?”

  “Yes. Do you believe the soul is a kind of energy that temporarily occupies the brain or body, and returns to the universe upon corporeal death where it simply dissipates? Or do you believe that the soul is an organized structure unique to each person; that it can think or feel, and possibly remember? I think that the soul alluded to by most religions would generally belong to the latter category.”

  “If those are my alternatives, I would go with choice number two, that the soul is eternal and unique to each person. But I reserve the right to revisit choice number one.”

  “That’s fine. Do you accept the compendium of sub-atomic particles that constitutes the Standard Model of Physics, as incomplete as it may be?”

  “Certainly.” Dr. Pratt was reasonably well-versed in modern physics, considering it to be a sub-interest of sorts to reconcile common scientific and religious viewpoints. “Except, the soul belongs to the supernatural.”

  “And what exactly is the supernatural?” asked Darian.

  “Something outside the laws of nature,” Pratt replied by rote.