“Your Majesty is aware of how Mimetic Osmosis is thought to work?” he began.
Trumba winced. She knew the galdar songs as well as any Urdur, but couldn’t explain why they worked, just that they did.
“It is Odin’s will,” she hedged.
“Indeed it is, ma’am, but it is a little more intricate, if you’ll indulge me. Now, without killing yet another clowder of cats, let’s just say that the universe, at its smallest, most basic level, exists in all possible states simultaneously. However, when observed or measured, it exhibits only one state. Now, it is possible for those small particles to become entangled so that, after a time of mutual influence, when they separate they remain intimately connected and actions performed on one affect the other, even when separated by immense distances.”
“Like identical twins,” she said and then almost instantly regretted it when she saw Bohr’s reaction.
“Tales of telepathy abound, ma’am.” Von Schröding nodded once before droning on. “Yggdrasil represents that connectivity writ large. Our spirit and shape are entangled, if you will, and travel in a kind of superposition of all their possible states. The World Tree instantly communicates, much faster than the speed of light, to link up those states. Ergo, we stagger. Now, as I said, my awareness of the event changes the event. When I touch Yggdrasil, I collapse all possibilities into one actuality. But Yggdrasil makes sure it is the actuality I want, based on the conscious link we create with the codes implicit in our songs. Sentience. Together, we make a decision and come to a destination. For us to travel outside of the greenways, we would need to find other ways in which particles are entangled and then find another partner to help make the decision as to where to arrive.”
“Your Majesty has heard of the Grandfather Paradox?” Bohr asked.
She turned and gave him a pained look. “Does it have to do with the strange likelihood of all you pensioners being useful to me?”
Neither he nor Von Schröding blinked. She did occasionally wonder how the Skuld responded to her phenotypic plasticity, if at all. They certainly didn’t get innuendo.
“You travel back in time and kill your grandfather, which results in you never being born—”
“Why in Asgard’s name would I do that?” Trumba was exasperated, but the little ant carried on scuttling.
“—which means you can’t kill your grandfather, which ensures you are born, and so on,” Bohr explained. “When you describe it, it seems like a linear series of events, constantly looping. But it can be quite easily explained. What is really happening is that two entangled histories are occurring simultaneously: namely, you are born and able to go back in time to kill your grandfather or you’re not born and your grandfather is alive.
“Imagine the presence of mind required to design something like that. All those things that only exist halfway between an idea and a fact. A world teeming with billions upon billions of unrealized possibilities. The Allfather not only thought of everything that exists, he thought about everything that doesn’t too.” This was Bohr trying to be helpful.
“I’ll assume,” said Trumba, “that this isn’t one elaborate assassination plot and refrain from executing you, but only if you hurry up. Look, as long as the T/M Drive works, I don’t need the explanations.”
“Need, your Majesty? Maybe not. Deserve? Certainly,” Bohr said, bowing obsequiously. The old worm had her cornered.
“Ma’am, my thought was that instead of entangled particles, we might use entangled histories. After all, what is history but thought and memories? Plug two human minds together, and we could walk between realities, skipping between the here-and-now and the been-and-gone, just as we use our consciousness to entangle with the World Tree. The problem is our human brains are young and fuzzy. We all perceive things differently, interpret events based on experience. We might introduce an element of fantasy, a skewed perspective. However, if we could eliminate that subjectivity, we could twirl the threads together and choose the destination we wanted.”
“Bravo,” she said. “And the solution was?”
Von Schröding held up his model, and Trumba tried not to laugh out loud.
“You couldn’t send me a computer simulation?”
“Admiral, would you do the honours?” the Skuld said, proffering the model ship.
Mannerheim took the black rod and attached it to his visor, which pulsed once, then went dark. It was obviously made of the same wood as the station and the ships and acted as a control interface.
Not a replica after all.
Trumba put her mistake down to being tired.
“No need for simulations, ma’am,” said Mannerheim. “Time for a test flight. Where shall we go?”
Bohr was grinning from ear to ear, almost salivating with excitement. “The drive allows for two navigators to move whole ships vast distances, with the crucial caveat that one of them has been to or can accurately visualise the destination. He is the Memory to be accessed. The pilots immerse their heads in this magnetic field like so…”
He gestured to the admiral, who stood calmly, but blindly behind his blacked-out visor.
“…creating what we call an Oblivion Link with each other and to their ship itself. It is crucial that we connect the minds of the pilots to MIM, without either man observing or interacting directly in any way.”
“Where is the second pilot?” Trumba asked.
“On board the flagship there,” Mannerheim replied, testily. “The beauty of T/M Drive is that Fleet Command can also give orders. Can’t lose the whole fleet in one go that way. The key is to build in alternates, keep the neurons scattered. It’s all joined up if you know how to navigate.”
Von Schröding was scrolling through messages on his visor, presumably checking systems.
“Of course, MIM and the Mímameiðr help provide impartiality and course-correction. The pilot and the destination must be described with reference to each other, but by looking at the destination the pilot has influenced the flight. With the T/M Drive, it is crucial we intermingle the mental capacities of the pilots, without memorializing or prejudicing one potential destination over another. That way when one pilot’s mind is added to the other, or as we say superposited, they create another valid mindscape. That is, they travel.”
The admiral was tapping his foot, inadvertently showing a little irritation. Von Schröding tutted and made some notes.
“Almost ready. Of course, the Oblivion Link keeps no records. There will be a very real danger during large manoeuvres of someone getting lost in the Gap and never returning to us. That is probably what will ultimately happen to your warships, sooner or later. By my—”
“Such drama,” Bohr said, interrupting his colleague and shushing him as discreetly as possible. “The two pilots merge consciousness for mere moments; no one is going to get lost in time and space. Think of it as a kind of telepathy, your Majesty. A very revolutionary, very expensive kind of telepathy. Given enough time and resources, we think we can supply the proofs necessary for our Simulacra Theorem, the Cyclic Model, and the Ultimate Ensemble. Anything is possible if we have the right amount of resources. Now, where would you like the admiral to send the fleet? A quick flight over the Summer Palace?”
Trumba fished around for her mushrooms. An overdose might be the only out.
THE MAN IN HER CHAMBER was handsome. Rugged, she thought. She walked around him, silently assessing his girth. He was older than she was expecting, leathery with the sun; she’d have to ask her house-slaves for oil. Was that a harp slung across his back? His skills had better not be confined to music, or he would find himself without fingers. Those grizzled whiskers would have to go. No one wore them these days at court, especially with short-cropped hair. It made him look like a dusty broom although, on closer inspection, she could see that they masked a lattice of scars. That was intriguing. This man had clearly fought—and won—many battles. Keeping your head when everyone around you is losing theirs, that was a skill.
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��Well, undress,” she commanded. Beauty and brains seldom went together, but most of her consorts had a grasp of the basics. This one was still looking at her, blankly, even as she disrobed.
“Are you deaf? I’ve had a very long day. Undress and draw me a bath. And fetch some lavender, or whatever plants the fucking Skuld grow on this nightmare planet.”
“Your Majesty is mistaken. I am not a…” An awkward beat. “I served your father.”
Trumba would have laughed if she hadn’t been so tired. He spoke with an accent so heavy it made her jaw drop. “You are here to stretch my cunt, not my incredulity. Clothes. Now.”
She wondered what backwater they’d dredged this imbecile from. He had better be hung like a horse. Perhaps if she found a muzzle, she wouldn’t have to hear him bray like that again.
“I also served your grandfather, Hrodulfr, and Arn before him.”
“Fuck me,” she snapped. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
She grabbed him by the waist and tried to manhandle his belt in frustration.
“That is a gift from Botulfr. I forget when I served him. Before Gandalfr, after Ragnar. A long time ago.”
Trumba looked down at her hands. The belt was old. It used Latin script, bearing the legend Coelestinus on each of three interlocking triangles, one gold, one silver. The third metal escaped her, but it was shiny and clearly valuable. She took a step back, and the old warhorse folded his arms, quietly defiant.
Trumba had never seen anything like it in the treasury, or the museum, even in the private collection. She was horrified to find it on a common soldier.
“Where did you get this?”
“I was at Utgard with your father.”
“And you took it from the slain there, no doubt. Did you fancy yourself a raven or a magpie?”
“They don’t have either on Jötunheim. High-legged Hábrók and Soot-Red Roosters maybe. Monstrous eagles. Skvader, Rasselbock, and Wolpertingers, too, but those are really feathered rabbits.”
“Are you mocking me?”
Trumba was rocking on the edge of hysteria. A sleepless night followed by the waking nightmare of being schooled by Skulds would test the patience of a godsman, and the drugs still hadn’t softened the edges. She thought about calling for her guards but didn’t want to admit to being out of control. It was highly likely that MIM had registered her distress and had alerted the appropriate staff. That was rather the point of a machine that was everywhere at once.
The warrior had a twinkle in his eye, but he still hadn’t moved much. His feet were planted as if he meant to stay. He evidently wasn’t too stupid to realize that the empress was at boiling point because he mollified his tone.
“Mocking you?” he said. “A little, perhaps. Look, I’m a very old man. Too old to be cavorting across the Nine Worlds like I’m a part of the Wild Hunt. Old enough and wise enough to get past your guards, even with all the bits you’ve grafted and spliced on. Cloning next, I imagine? I’ve always wondered, what patronym would a clone use? Depends on the root stock I suppose.”
“You can find out when I call them and they slit your gizzard.”
“I don’t have a gizzard,” he said. “That’s chickens. Are you planning on giving the Einherjar gizzards? Gills, now that I could understand. Aquatic assaults.”
“Who are you?”
Trumba was defeated. She sat down heavily on the bed and pouted, felt her face drain of its colour. The man was right. There was no way he should be here, and she decided it was better not to antagonise him. This was an unpredictable situation, fraught with danger. In an instant, the high-handed ruler shifted into a frightened little girl, using the tricks Frigga had taught her DNA.
“I am no friend of the Skuld,” he said. “And they didn’t notice me either.”
The years melted away when he smiled, revealing the beaming young boy inside, hoping for an affectionate pat on the head from a proud mother. The guileless fool had been disarmed in seconds. It was so incredibly easy to entice a man to strut, she felt embarrassed for the whole gender. Trumba watched him mentally preening himself and resigned herself to his inevitable grandstanding.
“Nornagestr, at your service. Gest, for short. If you had a sword, I should swear to be your hirðman upon the hilt, as in days of old. Is it still the custom? Your father was less… naked when we met, but that’s all I remember clearly.”
“Assume I don’t have a sword.” Trumba wasn’t about to hand a weapon to an intruder.
“Assuming you had a sword, the oath would go something like this: I was born to Thord of Thinghusbit and raised in his house at Graening in Denmark. I voyaged with Sigurd Fafnisbane and fought at his side at Brávellir against Sigurd Hring. I ventured with the sons of Ragnar when they destroyed Vifilsborg and roamed the Alps. I escorted Botulfr to Miklagard and saw him crowned Emperor. I crossed Hvítramannaland and learned the ways of the Skrælingar. I—”
“So, you are a history book?” she said. “That explains the leather binding and ancient scratch-marks. Let’s assume for a second that you are, what, a thousand years old—at least—and that you were born before the Empire of the North was founded. It can’t be telomerase therapy keeping you upright. That keeps you looking—as well as feeling—young. Tell me your secret, and I might just let you live.”
Trumba was sceptical, but there was a tinge of authenticity to this warrior. The timbre of his voice, the detail on his artefacts, the confidence of his gait, not to mention the sheer absurdity of his being in her bedchamber. A bedchamber on a fortress-monastery, orbiting one of the most inhospitable planets—a bedchamber belonging to a head of state on last-minute and top-secret visit.
Improbable verging on insane. He was even carrying a musical instrument, as if he had just wandered out of her birthday opera.
What was the game here? She couldn’t see it. If he was an actor, he was superb at his craft. If he was a Jötunn assassin, there was no need to expound such a ludicrous backstory. If he was an admirer, he would have let himself be ravished, or, at the very least, tried to serenade her.
If he really was that old, she had to know. Her hunger for immortality was insatiable—a second bite of the apple was too good to pass up. All these paths to eternity kept on careening into her path; her lap was like a landing pad for otherworldly things. Trumba decided that humouring the intruder was the best approach. She leaned back and plucked a goblet from the table beside the bed.
“Til árs ok friðar,” she said and raised the cup to her lips. For a good year and peace.
Gest produced a flask and swigged from it.
“Put a gown on, your Majesty, before you catch cold. This is a long story, made short for your modesty.”
“Are you planning on singing?” Trumba tried to feign excitement at the prospect.
“The harp is an old friend, but I’ve forgotten most of what we used to play. My father was a farmer, a freeman who kept an orderly house. Twenty head of cattle, goats in the pen too. At that time, the vǫlur walked with wolves, rather than attended court. Spá-wives, we called them. They travelled around the countryside, swathed in Hel-blue cloaks, ministering to the hidden places. When a baby was born, it was custom to invite the völva to feast and tell the child’s fortune. Three such women came to my crib. The first two gave me kind, gentle gifts and prophesized a bright future. The third was called Skuld, and she was less than enchanting. My uncles mocked her and knocked her off her chair for sport, I’m told. By way of revenge, she dictated that I would die by the time the candle lit at my bedside went out. Immediately, the eldest Spá-wife extinguished the candle’s flame and ordered my mother to hide it, to protect it, so to prevent her son from succumbing to the wand-witch’s curse. When I was full-grown, my mother gave me the candle for safe-keeping. I have it with me now. I have had it with me these thousand years or more.”
“And when the candle is lit?” Trumba asked.
“Then the curse is ended, as is my all-too-brief sojourn beneath the stars.
The guttering flame will die, the wisp of smoke from the last stretch of wick will match my last breath. Or so I am told. I’ve never cared to experiment.”
Trumba sighed. The old warhorse had delivered her a steaming pile of dung. It wasn’t an explanation, it was a fairy tale. Why was she surrounded by these people?
“And you are sure you haven’t been spliced in any way?” she ventured, hoping against hope. The apple was rapidly rolling away from the tree.
“No, I am as pure as the driven snow. But your prisoner isn’t. That draugr has called himself many names over the years, but in the past fifty, he has unlocked secrets meant only for gods. Even his men called him the Father of Monsters. You should blast him into the Gap before it is too late.”
How did this lunatic know about that? If news had somehow leaked it could be disastrous. She needed to control this story. She tried not to show her agitation.
“I appreciate your concern, soldier, but I already answered the Father of Monsters with the Mother of Bombs. His creatures are mostly smithereens.”
“I was at the siege. After the orbital strike, your prisoner took the few Jötunn survivors and sat waiting in the forests for the empire to collect him. I saw all the laboratories where he kept the Verðandi busy. I saw the creatures he twisted into life, ravenous dog-headed men, foaming and frothing, and brutes who writhed on serpents’ tails, six-headed, misshapen, blind.”
At the siege? She felt a rush of familiarity. He was a wolfcoat! He had to be. There were only a handful of people who knew she had apprehended the Roarer. The old soldier must have been one of her trackers, must have been on the detail that brought the Jötnar leader to her. She couldn’t be sure if she’d followed him before, but there was a trace of recognition that suggested she had. Not that this realization brought her much comfort, for the Úlfhéðnar often had mental health issues. She’d have one of the shapers look at him; it would be a shame to put him down. She relaxed and brightened, although she was surprised to find he was still talking. These taciturn types were all the same, once they started unburdening themselves they couldn’t stop. Bergelmir had been just the same. Trumba found it very tedious.
The All Father Paradox Page 26