Yes, I can see outside. It is the end of our journey and Oluvia is telling me this is the absolute endpoint of our relationship, too. When the provinces are ejected from the Socrates framework to cover the new planet, she wants to sever all connections. She wants to live a rural life without technology. This is what New GateLand stands for.
“Why didn’t you give me a chance?” I ask Oluvia. “You left without even discussing what happened.”
Oluvia pulls away from my embrace and looks pained.
“Instinct.” The reply comes from Cartinian, standing twenty paces away as if it is dangerous to come any closer. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”
Lennon Cartinian III is a changed man. His voice is softer, calmer, and he wears the pristine but plain brown robes of a GateLand priest. He is clean-shaven with his black hair now dyed white, combed back so that it looks almost like a bleached skullcap. A pair of steel spectacles rests on the bridge of his nose, demonstrating that he has rejected his retinal implants.
“We will never know,” I tell him.
“Oh, I think we do,” he insists. “I think you would have killed Oluvia. Not intentionally, but you would have eventually, if you got angry enough. I found out what those noises were. It was the nanodrones. They’re everywhere, and I can’t prove it, but I think it was your subconscious mind controlling them through that catharsis gland. The nanodrones even affected Celetrix, using the star’s energy to create that monster inside your head. I wasn’t sure you had it in you at first, but what you did to Yeeka . . .” He closes his eyes. “You didn’t even need nanodrones to do what you did to her. That was your conscious rage.”
Yeeka. Yes. I tortured her. After switching back to machine mentality, I allowed the full spectrum of hatred to reassert control. Cartinian only ever made one error after he went into hiding from me. The data trail was only partial, leading me not to Oluvia but to Yeeka, and I gave her the worst three weeks of her life. The interrogation was ineffective, but the torture was not. It had a lasting effect, and she chose exile from the Socrates rather than be anywhere near me again.
“I was . . . desperate,” I tell him.
Oluvia has returned to Cartinian’s side and the distance between us is palpable, like a wall of regret.
“I know,” Cartinian says. “It doesn’t change anything. I took a massive risk allowing her to come to you, but when she makes her mind up, well . . . you know.”
“Where is Sooli?” I ask.
“She didn’t want to come. She was afraid.”
I nod. “So . . . how long do we have?”
There is a rumble. Subtle at first, like the vibration caused by a travel pod, but there is no transportation anywhere near here. It must be the beginning of the exodus. A glance up into the sky confirms my suspicion and answers my question to Oluvia. There is time enough for last words but no more. New GateLand will be among the first to leave, and she will not want me to be part of this province. Above, several of the other provinces are visible like great metal branches arcing distantly over the skyline, and one of them—Mechanada, I believe—breaks away from the end of its umbilical, popping like a slow-motion stud from the barrel of a hull-plating gun. Gas clouds and spinning particles expand in a lazy halo from the exit point, and the huge bulb, containing tens of thousands of people, ignites at the rear, its pilot propelling it like a huge missile toward one of the planets orbiting our new star. I watch it for a few seconds, then turn to Oluvia, who’s standing beside Cartinian.
“Do you hate me?” I ask.
“Hate you?” Oluvia shakes her head, and her smile takes on a guarded edge as she frowns. “I have learned, Mother, that we are hurt profoundly by those we love, and I will never forget it.”
She turns from me, taking Cartinian’s fingers to pull him away.
“Is that it?” I call after her. “A good-bye? Nothing else?”
“She needed closure,” Cartinian said.
“And what about me? I need . . .”
Oluvia stops. “What do you need?” She turns her head slightly to offer me half her attention, but I have nothing else to say. She turns back, continues walking. Cartinian places his arm around her shoulder and I feel a spike of resentment. I need you, Oluvia.
“New GateLand will be leaving in thirty standard minutes,” Oluvia says with her back to me. “It will take you ten to reach one of the return pods at the umbilical.”
NINE
Wounded by Oluvia, I am in a daze. Instead of ten, it takes me twenty-nine minutes to reach the last travel pod, which is empty. I have left my departure to the very last minute, paying almost no attention to the alert klaxons and announcements telling the inhabitants of New GateLand that their opportunity to change provinces is almost gone. Even after three years Oluvia has not forgiven me for that one mistake, and I cannot help but wonder if there is more to her rejection than a single strike to the face. Perhaps she is not all that different from other Homo sapiens after all. Could their prejudice against my kind be so ingrained that it has worked itself insidiously into the fabric of their DNA so that none of them have a choice but to hate me? But does she hate me? She did not answer my question. She did not say no.
A bright flash bursts overhead and I glance up to witness what I assume at first to be the ignition flare of another province leaving the Socrates, but then I realize that cannot be right. Two provinces would never leave in such close proximity of time. I zoom in on the flare and catch my breath. It is not an ignition flare. It is a vast explosion, and by the trace of the gamma trail leading up to it, I know it is the entire province of Mechanada. I cannot believe what I see. The white glare flickers angrily with the rage of nuclear catastrophe and I shield my eyes as it intensifies. An entire culture lost!
And then I hear it: the haunting, distant bass moan of whatever it was that first troubled the liner almost eight standard years ago. It has returned. But as the volume escalates into a bestial roar, the explosion is suddenly gone, as if a great claw has closed around it and snuffed it out. The eerie sound fades to a mournful sighing wind, and I stare at the emptiness. Horrified by what I can no longer see and stunned into inaction, I have missed my only opportunity to leave. But I am not certain I really wanted to. Subconsciously I know I could not willingly be parted from Oluvia now that I have found her. But what else has my subconscious done? It cannot be a coincidence that the mysterious sound has returned on the very same day that I have reactivated my catharsis gland. And is it a coincidence that an entire province has been snuffed from existence? Of course not.
Under my feet, the hum of generators begins its incremental build to ignition. There are very few people around, most are in their homes preparing, but a few have come outside to risk the danger of launch and witness the final stages of travel to their new world. One or two of them point at where the explosion was, looking confused. Others hunch and grimace at the sound.
The travel pod has left the station and I feel the static charge crackle through the atmosphere as the province prepares for ejection. Trees shudder and even the grass surrounding my feet vibrates until the inevitable burst of power decouples us from the umbilical to propel our province into the depths of the new star system. Gravity compensators balance against the force of acceleration, and through the transparent wall of our province bulb, I see the length of the Socrates rushing past: the sweeping umbilicals of other provinces, the vast passenger neck, the bulbous astronomics section, the quantum drives, and in a moment of terror I realize I am witnessing the beginnings of its total destruction.
Vast bubbles of shimmering white light expand and collapse in random places across the hull, and as each bubble dissipates, the affected structure buckles and collapses, spewing chunks outward like blood globules from a blaster wound. And even as the debris spirals into the void, this too is disappearing, swallowed by something vast and invisible. With it all, that deathly, echoing moan heralds the carnage.
I wish I could calm my mind, but something in the chemistry of m
y brain is slowing everything down. Each moment of destruction is agonizingly detailed, and I feel the quivering of my catharsis gland, the faltering of my breath, and a numbing dizziness trying to incapacitate me. I am going into shock. The emotional impact is so great that I wonder if my brain will shut down, sending me back to the safety of my machine mind and relinking me to the Unitas Communion. If it does not, I may have to do it myself. But not yet; there is no time for that disorientation now. I have to find Oluvia. I have to make sure she is safe.
I run back the way I came, hoping desperately for any kind of clue about where Cartinian will have taken her but knowing the chances are remote. There is another explosion, far more blinding than the first. So bright that for several seconds nothing is visible beyond pure white, but I continue to stumble on, feeling the twisting, turning pull of competing gravities until finally the ground is no longer touching my feet. I am falling. The Socrates is gone. I don’t even have to look to know that. The force of its demise has tossed New GateLand from its intended trajectory, subjecting it to forces of stress that will soon tear it into pieces.
As my vision returns, all about me is chaos. This is no longer a province. It is a vast quivering bubble on the verge of collapse, and its contents are floating, falling, turning, and shooting like shrapnel caught in underwater ocean currents. I manage to grab hold of some cable that is still connected to what used to be the ground and haul myself along it until I reach the surface. People are adrift in the air, most of them dead, and I have no idea what I will do if I see Oluvia among them.
“Oluvia!” I cry. “Where are you?”
But my own call is drowned out by the violent wail of the invisible beast. Could it really be me doing this? Did the wrath of my subconscious return when I activated my catharsis gland to maximum? Am I so full of suppressed resentment and hatred that it should manifest into a force so powerful it can destroy an entire galactic liner? Could I truly do this?
“Mother!”
At first I think it must be someone else. A different child calling out for its parent, but then I remember that Oluvia was the only child on the Socrates. It has to be her, and when I look in the direction of the call, I see that it is. A miracle! She is here.
“Oluvia!”
“I came back looking for you,” she shouts. “I didn’t want you to leave.”
She is floating little more than a hundred meters from me, arms outspread as she drifts in my direction. All I need to do is wait to catch her. Again the emotions well up so powerfully within me I scarcely know how to react, so I say nothing and simply stretch out my arms, ready to receive her. She shouts something else, but her voice is overpowered by a splintering sound so loud it hurts. Above us our world is disintegrating. A massive crack snakes its way across the skin of New GateLand, but it cannot complete its path. It explodes outward, and through it, the last remaining contents of our once magnificent civilization pour out from the wound. People, buildings, art, industry, pride. Everything. And alongside the deafening howl of escaping heat and oxygen, the other haunting moan harmonizes.
My fingers clasp onto Oluvia’s and I pull her to me, holding her to my breast, protecting her from these last terrible moments. There is nothing left to do now but crunch us both into a tight ball and wait for death. My hope is that we will both resurrect in a genoplant in our home galaxy, but even this I doubt. Whatever destructive power has brought this death upon us is not just exploding the liner and its provinces but somehow blinking them out of existence, and I fear it will have also annihilated the light-year transmission nodes that lead back to our original home like bread crumbs.
Oluvia’s face is pressed hard to my chest, her fingers are claws in my back, and I hear her weeping in terror as we fall upward toward the crack and the waiting icy void.
“Not long now, Oluvia. It will soon be over,” I whisper.
The vastness of space receives us. I know we are not feeling absolute zero yet, and even as we are thrown clear of the protective shell of the province, there are a few seconds of air left. Just enough time for me to activate the protective bubble that every passenger is implanted with. It acts as a life raft providing enough warmth and air for six hours, but there is no hope of rescue out here. None at all.
“I don’t want to die,” Oluvia says.
I have no response for her. No words of comfort, but even as I try to think of something to say, the thoughts freeze in my mind. There is a face: a terrible, wrath-filled face, perfectly assembled from the remaining wreckage, gas clouds, and plasma storms. It gazes upon us from the burning heavens, glowering over the broken bubble of our province like a spiteful goddess wanting its wayward subjects to see who had smote them. But this is not just any face. I recognize the eyes. They are Oluvia’s eyes! There could be no greater proof of my fallen nature than this manifestation of my guilt. I can no longer deny what my senses reveal, and convulsing with the shock of it, I release Oluvia from my grip. She is limp, unconscious within the bubble. At least she did not get to see her own angel of death at the end.
The titanic eyes turn on me. They are fiery orbs of pure malevolence, a mirror to my madness, snuffing out everything so that there will never be any sign of our existence, even if another ship were to ever venture here. I want to switch off the catharsis gland completely and go back to machine emotion where the intensity of feeling is nothing compared to this, but I will not give in to such cowardice. With those eyes focused upon me now, the only remaining morsel of matter at the edge of this new galaxy, it will soon be over. I deserve to feel this. I deserve to suffer.
And with a final burst of defiance I send every last mote of power into my catharsis gland to push it far beyond its capacity: 115 percent. I will feel this. I will feel everything before the end.
TEN
This is not catharsis. This is something else. A merging. Or a mental cloning. Overload? Perhaps. Madness? Yes. I feel nothing now. Even as the impossible melding of fire and darkness consumes me in the final moment of Planck time, where I stand on the brink of white infinity, I know only my own insanity. I am able to reason, able to think, but I cannot make any sense of this event. Yes. It is a merging. I am sure of that. Something has happened between me and the child Oluvia Wade. Something unique and profound that I do not understand. The organ, the catharsis gland, did something. Beneath the dance of molecule and atom, we came together as one being, one flesh, one mind, one purpose, one goal, one . . .
SALEM BEN
TEN
Life . . . one woman . . . one god . . . one void.
There are no stars or gas clouds, and there is no more destruction. My psyche is finally quiet and the monstrous thing that sent the Socrates to oblivion has ceased.
All is white. All is gone. Only I remain adrift in a sea of crisp air, riding a soft and ebbing current, flowing like liquid through an infinite stream, twisting and turning like a dancer in flight, phasing and shifting like a waveform. And then the waves pass, and I have been beached upon a formless shore. For a time there is nothing but the bleached unreality of emptiness, but then, there is sound. At first I think it is a distant gale, like the walls of a vast tornado closing in whilst I wait in its eye, but the sickness of memory reminds me that I have heard this noise before. It is the moan of the entity calling, and to offer substance to my fears, the white fades to roiling coils of thick smoke from which dark orbs filled with slavering jaws push against each other, snapping and yawning wide to devour me. Lightning and thunder crackle and boom, reverberating through the suffocating ether as I fall sidelong into a vast throat, only to be devoured over and over again until suddenly, all is returned to stillness.
But this time it is not white that surrounds me but clinging darkness and a guttural howl to compete with my own desperate scream. But then, as I lose my breath with the effort of it, the moan dissolves into soft words.
“Did you find . . . what you were looking for?”
That voice, I recognize it. It is different, older and deeper
but . . . “Oluvia?”
“You mean Qod, but there is part of Oluvia here, of course.”
“You’re here?”
“For now.”
It isn’t her. It can’t be her. “How did you . . . ?”
“Take your . . . time, Salem. Sixteen minutes, to be exact.”
It is warm in here, and humid, but cold metal fastens my wrists and ankles, and I am grateful for that. Incarceration is too good for me. I do not know who my captors are or why they saw fit to torture me with such visceral imagery and sensation, but to hear Olivia’s voice means that at least she is safe. I saved her somehow. Didn’t I?
“Release me!” I demand.
“Steady, Salem. I almost lost your life support. The WOOM is . . . difficult to sustain . . . while . . .”
The WOOM. That’s where I am. I am Salem Ben.
A long rattling breath escapes me and an unfamiliar sensation of air passing in and out of my lungs catches me by surprise. As a silicant, breathing was more like continuous filtration than the steady in-out of an organic diaphragm. There is real blood pumping through my veins, too. I am back. Free from the terrible pain of being Homo unitas. Memories of Silicant 5’s life and Salem’s life trickle slowly into my synapses, separating and sorting so that identity returns and, with the transition, a merciless sense of urgency. I feel the algorithm pressing upon my will, desperate to send me on to the next step of my quest.
The Soul Continuum Page 30