The Soul Continuum

by Simon West-Bulford

  “Silicant 5, are you all right?” Higgs observes me with a wary frown.

  “A momentary irregularity,” I tell him. “I have the data.”

  “Good.”

  “It does not confirm the presence of a stellarform.”

  “Thank you. That’s all we—” Higgs balks. “What do you mean ‘does not’? Check again. We all witnessed the phenomena, including you. As much as I’d like to believe there’s nothing living there, I don’t see any way we can deny the evidence of our eyes. The data is merely a formality.”

  All the other technicians have turned too, and like them, I am mystified. Clearly there is life in Celetrix, but the telltale signs of a normal stellarform habitation are not present. Since the very first millennia of interstellar travel, these creatures have made their existence known. As if humanity was rain upon the garden of the universe, our proximity seemed to draw them out of the oldest stars like earthworms from soil. Even so, their occurrence is still quite rare. Only one in a thousand supergiants is home to these nuisance creatures. They have never been captured or studied, never shown signs of intelligence or malicious intent, but whenever they appear—usually one or two centuries after humanity has colonized a world in its orbit—they bring doom. Upon waking, they begin to consume the star’s energy, spitting out vast clouds of dysprosium as a waste product that wreaks havoc on heavy cruisers. Then, in less than five hundred years, the star turns supernova, and the stellarforms die with it. It seems their only purpose is to eat and then perish.

  But this is no stellarform.

  “There are no traces of dysprosium,” I tell Higgs, “and the timing of its appearance is not consistent with every other recorded instance of stellarform advent. We have been traveling for thousands of years, drawing on the star’s energy, and there is no prior evidence of life. This is not a stellarform, Doctor Tazaria.”

  Higgs puckers his lips. “I want to see the data myself. You must have made a mistake.”

  “I have not made a mistake. You asked for my expertise. You have it.”

  He glares at me, intolerant, but there is uncertainty betrayed in his expression too, and I allow him to storm back to the console while I move back to the glass to view Celetrix again. A handful of technicians have returned to their stations to gather data from there, but most are still gaping at the star as it crawls across our field of view. The fiery tentacle has retracted into the photosphere of the star, but the others will not be able to see what I see. My augmented vision can process a much wider range in the electromagnetic spectrum. In the lower frequencies, almost at the level of microwaves, there are ripples in the corona that cannot possibly be naturally occurring. They squirm and writhe like warring serpents, battling against the eddies created by Celetrix’s volatile atmosphere.

  Stellarform or not, the danger is very real. Celetrix is our ride and our sustenance. Traveling from one galaxy to another, even cheating the speed of light, takes many thousands of years, and the power needed to support a galactic liner with a large population could not be contained within the craft itself. Pioneers must wait for rogue stars that are hurled free from the gravitational pull of our galaxy. These nomad stars traverse the lonely Phoradian gulfs between galaxies, and with a little help from relativistic boosters, they are sent on their way to make the vast journey to the nearest galaxy. Galactic liners hitch a ride with them like tiny fish latched to the skin of a whale.

  But this whale is dying. If this is some undiscovered sentient form feeding on helium, then—just as it would with a stellarform—the star’s energy will be exhausted within a few hundred years. Our shielding may survive the resulting supernova, but we would be thrown off course and our source of energy would be gone. Our journey should be over long before that, but even in three years, this level of stellar interference could cause the liner’s trajectory to veer wildly or, worse still, precipitate early collapse.

  One of the technicians touches me lightly on the arm and glances nervously at Higgs, who is now absorbed in his own analysis of the data. “If it isn’t a stellarform, what do you suppose it is?” she whispers.

  I study the female for a few moments and am surprised at how quickly my loathing returns. Why is she more interested in this phenomenon than what happened to Oluvia? And why would she assume I have any interest in sharing my insights with her?

  “I will need to study the data in detail to make that determination,” I tell her. “Please excuse me.”

  I make for the exit.

  “Silicant 5!” Higgs calls. “I haven’t finished with you yet. If it isn’t a stellarform, then we must still determine—”

  “I have finished with you,” I tell him. “I can complete my analysis alone. I will report my findings when they are ready.”

  “Wait!” he says.

  With no small amount of restraint, I turn.

  “Who was the child?” he asks.

  I regard him for a moment. Why does he want to know? “I have named her Oluvia Wade.”

  Higgs turns to his console and begins working on it again. Feeling awkward at the resulting silence, I am about to leave when he says, “I just ran a search through the Socrates census and it is exactly as I suspected. There is no Oluvia Wade registered. How did you manage to hide it and why?”

  All the technicians are watching. Twenty-five mouths to silence. I can see only one way forward.

  “I have powerful contacts,” I say. “Contacts who are able to provide certain . . . privileges for the only member of the Homo unitas species on board this liner, who in turn is able to provide certain privileges for them. They are very grateful for my . . . uninterrupted support. You would do well to remember that.” I glance around. “You would all do well to remember that.”

  Underlining the menace in my voice, a shadow falls over the observatory as the fiery glow of the supergiant sets behind the neck of the Socrates. A moment later the tint of the glass fades to normal.

  “And you would do well to remember to whom you are talking.” Higgs crosses his arms. “I have no wish to cause any discomfort for the child, but your judgment is clearly compromised. Other than these threats of yours, give me one good reason why I should not inform the Council immediately.”

  Some of the technicians whisper urgently among themselves.

  “You wish me to analyze the data on this stellar phenomenon?”

  “You know I do,” Higgs snaps, “but I have other technicians more than capable of the analysis. You can speed the process considerably, but I will not be bullied by you or by my own impatience into bad decisions. Another,” he says. “Give me another reason. A better reason.”

  “The Council might . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “They might kill her.”

  “They might terminate her, yes, but don’t you think that would be for the best? Her resurrection would be redirected to the Jovian Nova colony and she would be assigned to a new family.” He pouts in consideration. “A family who doesn’t see the need to enforce their views by means of violence.”

  There would be no point in telling Higgs it was an isolated incident. I was momentarily caught off guard by an unexpected emotional surge because Oluvia would not comply with my request. I will talk to her and explain that her behavior was not acceptable, thus guaranteeing there would be no repeat of the incident, so there would be no need for me to strike her again. But none of them will understand that, and I cannot allow Oluvia to be removed from me. There is still a mystery to be solved . . . and I have grown accustomed to her presence. No, she must be kept secret; I cannot allow Higgs or any of the others to change that.

  “I ask one thing of you all,” I say. “If you do decide to take action, please give me one standard day before you do so.”

  I don’t give them an opportunity to answer but turn my back and leave.

  SEVEN

  I am seated in a public travel pod bound for Novinium Prime. Like the rest of the liner, much of the pod in which I sit is constructed with transpa
rent materials, as is the lengthy umbilical connecting the province to the body of the liner. Through the transparency I see the huge bulb-shaped casing of my province in the distance. If I zoom in close enough I can even see the speck of light that is my home, but I cannot will the pod to move any faster, and my frustration is mounting. I often wonder if Homo sapiens can sense the stress in others of their species and, by extension, me. The body language of the two people seated opposite me would suggest this is true, though this could simply be the usual prejudice their kind exhibits against mine. Their plain white jumpsuits and lack of hair suggest they are from the province of Essene, a society whose idiosyncrasies center around the fear of bacteria, sickness, lack of sanitation, and the like. The way they look at me—like I am a flesh-stripped carcass useful only as a feeding ground for a multitude of bacteria—suggests I am high on their list of phobias. I stare back at them as if I can project the thought that my observing them will somehow encourage contamination, but then I think of Oluvia. She would not do that. She would respond with warmth, shaming their judgmental attitude with her special type of kindness. I saw her do this with Cartinian, Sooli, and Yeeka. Their reluctance to help me with Oluvia was obvious, but she responded to their rejection with innocent acceptance, and gradually it changed them. When I asked her how she knew this would work, she told me that she had read somewhere about sowing and reaping and that if she changed others, it would change her too.

  “I am sorry,” I tell the Essenes.

  They look startled. The male hesitantly responds, “For what?”

  “My presence offends you, and for that, I am sorry.”

  The female smiles, but it looks more like an act of sadness. She gently touches the male’s sleeve before breaking eye contact with me. He looks back at her, then at me, the same type of smile turning his lips.

  I gaze back through the transparency at Novinium Prime, which now fills my field of view. I am almost home. My first priority is Oluvia. I must ensure she remains confined until I have time to talk to her and make her understand the necessity of secrecy. Then I will contact Lennon Cartinian and persuade him to hack into the genoplant protocols. If he can make sure the biomaps of Higgs and all the other technicians are reassigned to exile status, then I can kill all of them and they will no longer be a problem. They will be resurrected far, far away from the Socrates and Oluvia will remain under my protection. Things can go back as they were.

  The pod comes to a stop and the Essenes leave. I follow them out, first taking Central Novinium Boardwalk through the sprawling center of our city, then taking the more solitary path that leads through manicured parkland to the isolated and incongruous black cube I call home. Knowing there is no time to lose, I quicken my pace. My hope is that Higgs and his technicians will give me the time I asked for, but if they do decide to report Oluvia to the Council, they will do it quickly and my plan will fail. I have no other plan.

  Sending my personal encrypted signal to open the door, I step through into the first unlit cube, which is currently the house’s genoplant. The usual scans confirm no cell replacement is necessary and that I am in perfect health, but a warning beep insists I should go immediately to the Recreation room or the Gymnasium to decrease the excessively elevated levels of stress the system has detected. I do not have time for that.

  “Oluvia!” I call out, but at the same moment I register the unsettling fact that the genoplant should not be in darkness. How easily I slip back into the familiarity of my old life. If Oluvia were home, all the lights in the house cubes would be on; she has a tendency to wander frequently into the various rooms, which keeps them lit. I step through the door opposite into the Guest room, then straight on to the Contemplation room. Both are dark.

  I hesitate with a moment’s surprise and indecision, then send out a signal to light all twenty-six cubes and patch me into the communication circuit.

  “Oluvia?”

  I wait for a reply. She will definitely have heard me, but she does not respond. An ugly feeling opens in the pit of my abdomen, a strange and uncomfortable hole that should not exist there. I have sometimes heard humans talk of this emotional symptom, but I did not expect to experience this myself; I have no stomach. It is a phantom, an errant product of my brain, but I feel the ache nonetheless. She is gone. I know she is gone. But where? Has the Council found out and removed her already? No, too soon. Then where can she be?

  In a last effort to resist my instincts and the logical conclusion of her reluctance to reply, I check every cube in my home, but the fear becomes a certainty when I check the last room: Communications. There is a message for me. A green light flashes on the central console below the screen, and I signal it to play.

  A face appears. It is Lennon Cartinian, but he’s somehow different from the man I have grown to accept in my home. There is grimness about his expression as he stares directly ahead.

  “Hello, 5,” he says. “You’re wondering where Oluvia is, I suppose. Well, she’s with us.” A hand appears, as if to prevent an interruption. “Oh, don’t worry. She’s safe. Of course she’s safe, but you see, 5, she told us what happened, and well . . .” He grimaces and looks down. “It’s nothing a genoplant won’t fix up, but you broke her jaw, and that’s not . . .” He trails off, sighing heavily. A few seconds pass without words, but eventually he glances to his left in response to someone speaking to him. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he tells whoever it is. “Look, 5,” he continues, “don’t bother looking for us in UnderParis, okay? We’re not there and you won’t find us. You know how good I am with the liner’s systems, right? So don’t waste your time trying. Oluvia doesn’t . . . she doesn’t want to see you for a while. It’s for the best.”

  It won’t work, I tell myself. They won’t survive. He won’t survive.

  “And fuck your amphidextrine,” he says with a sudden-found aggression, as if his recording knows my thoughts. “I’ll live without that shit . . . somehow.”

  The screen goes dark and I am left empty, but only for a few precious seconds. Something far worse fills the hole. A directionless, chaotic, agonizing storm of rage and hurt. These are feelings I cannot endure, feelings I cannot control or truly understand. Or want. And these emotions feel far more dangerous than those I experienced in the astronomics section. I do not know what the repercussions will be. I cannot function like this, and through the vehicle of my denial, the dark entity that could be my subconscious, may come back with a vengeance. It could even be something to do with the thing we saw in our star, Celetrix. I cannot afford to feel like this. I cannot bear it. And I must not allow it to take control.

  Reduce catharsis gland to 0 percent in increments of 10 percent per second. Initiate.

  I will be reconnected to the Unitas Communion. My brain’s emotions will be set aside allowing only my mac5in3 m1nd to exper13nc3 the w0rld ar0und me. And it mu5t r3ma1n that way unt17 I hav3 found Oluvia. The Un1ta5 will kn0w h0W th3 ca7har5i5 G1and fUNC710n5. AN6 1 w177 NO LONGER f337 th15 PA1N. PR1MARY B10L0G1CAL FUnCT1ON5 disENGAG3D S1MULAT3D N3RV0US 5Y5TEM DISENGAG3D C1RCULAT0RY SY5TeM DISENGAGeD CER38ERAL FUNCT10NS DISEnGaGeD 7593845 02 8 93 075847 87567378-4673-848-4578 001101-000110-101000-011111 . . .

  EIGHT

  Day 3010.

  001101-000110--34919-10010437-57-45-7273-7364-736478566291-0209-3847--4578-4777-66566 TH89 7YH D3A7H D3A7H D3A7H LI7E AND D3A7H 000 LI7E AL15 AL15E 1 am A71VE 1 aM r3turN3D. All 810LogiCAL FUNCT10NS resTOred. CognITive ReaS0nING reengaged.

  Catharsis gland reengaged at 100 percent.

  “Oluvia! Oluvia!”

  I have hunted for her for three long years. Scouring the Socrates, searching tirelessly through every province, tracking every lead, sifting through endless data streams to find her. Even in the comparably cold emotions of my machine mind, I understood that Oluvia was my objective. She was still the key to the success of the catharsis gland, and the mystery of our connection is still unsolved.

  But my efforts are not what brought us back together in the end; Cartinia
n proved to be more than adept with his hacking skills. Oluvia’s presence remained a secret, and though my memories of the last 1,185 days seem from a different life without my brain’s emotions in use, I recall the lie that was told to Higgs and the technicians: that I had exiled the child. They believed him because of the emotional change in me, and no further action was taken; Higgs still needed me, so he made no formal report.

  Oluvia Wade’s arms wrap around my waist and she squeezes. I cannot believe how much she has grown in three years. Her features are more defined now, her skin almost bronze, her eyes showing so much more intelligence than before. Her clothing reflects her more mature manner, too: a plain white dress gilded with patches of lace.

  “Hello, Mother.” Her smile is like sunlight. “You’re crying.”

  “I am not crying,” I tell her, “but I am so very happy to see you. Why did you change your mind?”

  “I didn’t change my mind,” she says. “This is good-bye. I wanted to see you before things change forever.”

  “Good-bye?”

  “Yes. You can see outside, can’t you?”

  I look into the sky, and it takes on new meaning for me now. The transparent skin of New GateLand province glints in the setting light of the now-distant Celetrix, a dark red sheen coloring the spires and steeples of Oluvia’s present country home, but until this moment, I had not considered the white freckles of light dominating the void ahead. The specks that have become so familiar to everyone are no longer distant galaxies, they are stars. We are mere days away from our planetary destination, and the Socrates has nosed into the foggy outskirts of galaxy Senerius Exis H1 to enter the orbital grasp over the closest star system.