by Trevor Hoyle
God, he felt ill. Pulling up now, over the sea. Pull back, up she comes. Prosser waving his hand – break away. There goes Stratters’ belly – away we go, nicely timed, in a Prince of Wales. Give the old girl a shake-up. How about an upward roll? Okay, but watch the others. The air’s full of flying bodies. Now climb. Want speed for this: 320 – 350 – 360. Adjust the wheel. Now back. Gently, gently. Up, harder, up again, harder still. Horizon gone. Look outwards along the wing. Wait till she’s vertical, now look up. Stick central, now full over. Round she goes. Back with the stick. Look back. There’s the horizon again – stick forward – now over, and out we roll. Not bad. Oh no, he was going to be sick.
But he wasn’t sick and the machine was on an even keel above the sparkling blue sea. It was very peaceful, the sky empty of aircraft, the French coast a faint smudge of brownygreen on the horizon. He checked his gauges but there was still plenty of petrol. He felt light-headed from the effects of the upward roll, palpitations in his chest and his breath soft and fluttery inside his mask. Karla had been right, insisting as she had on the full Psycho-Med treatment. Without the fluid transfusion he wouldn’t have stood an earthly. Now there was something in his veins closer in composition to glycol than to Group AB Positive.
He decided to keep on the same heading and mooch along for a bit; he wouldn’t be missed, not on a routine training flight, and anyway the machine needed the rough edges smoothing off. She was apt to get rather temperamental and he hadn’t quite got the feel of her. It was brilliant sunshine with a faint haze to the south-west, perfect flying weather. Now why, he wondered in a musing fashion, couldn’t life be as simple and uncomplicated? A warm, sweetly-running machine responding to stick and rudder was a beautiful analogy for a life devoid of trouble and heartache and pain, serenely purring along beneath the flawless vault of heaven. Together, man and machine were just a speck moving across the face of the planet, old mother earth, the one and only true original. And old mother earth herself was a speck within the solar system, a medium-sized world with the accident of life crawling upon her. Beyond the solar system lay a hundred thousand million stars forming a single galaxy, and beyond that a hundred thousand million galaxies forming a single universe which was the lesser part of the total, magnificent, all-embracing Metagalaxy. How could his one life have any significance before the colossal audacity of all that time and space? How could any life (that of an unborn child, for instance) have meaning when all that it consisted of was a random accumulation of molecules which had nothing better to do at the time than take the form of a conscious organism? They might just as well have remained random and unbonded, or assumed the pattern of a hedgehog, or a chair, or still be in the state of fusion from hydrogen to helium. Everything came from the stars, every element was created inside the solar furnace, so everyone and everything was star-stuff – scattered haphazardly across the cosmos until sufficient accretions of particles had formed (or not formed as the case may be) to resemble lumps of matter which (again the law of chance) began to exhibit characteristics of life or non-life, in whatever terms you cared to define them.
He was not, Queghan hoped, fooling himself. This was – he knew very well – a mythic projection to the life. His mind had skipped a beat and was plugged into two separate realities simultaneously. Or perhaps it was the same reality viewed from a different angle. His consciousness was wide open; he was able to experience other existences; his one talent, as Karve had said, was that he ‘carried a sense of eternity’ with him. In which case, an event wasn’t necessarily of the past but could belong to a future time. To think in terms of ‘past’ and ‘future’ was to impose man-made constraints on an atemporal universe. Time was merely a convention, a convenience, composed of events which were linked by the law of causality – a law which itself was man-made. There was no universal frame of reference against which casuality could be measured. Indeed, it had been shown (proved conclusively in the Ernst–Ryan–Gathome Experiment) that an event preceding another event, as viewed by one observer, might just as well be seen in reverse order when observed by someone else from a different vantage point. Event A might precede Event B, say, and be measured and calculated with the utmost accuracy; and yet when observed from a different spatial reference point it was possible for Event B to precede Event A, applying the same rules of scientific objectivity and detachment. ‘The cup might smash and then fall’ as the popular handbook phrased it. Thus it followed that time – the flow of time – had no a priori legality in terms of metagalactic law. Within the maelstrom of Temporal Flux it was advisable to leave earthbound ‘common sense’ behind, for it was a dangerous and misleading encumbrance when dealing with concepts whose very existence depended on paradox.
Oria had once asked him: ‘If we know the basis for all our emotions to be neurochemical, why can’t we accept and come to terms with them?’
Queghan had answered: ‘Precisely for the reason that we are composites of intellect and emotion. We are at the mercy of both. Our intellect tells us, calmly and logically, how we ought to behave, how we should react in a given situation, while our emotions break the rules and let the side down. Knowing how they are caused doesn’t lessen the pain of experiencing them.’
Just as now, deep inside, he felt the pain of recalling his wife and the lost baby. In her eighth month ‘the pregnancy had been terminated, foetus DOA’ as the medical people had phrased it in their cold emotionless mechanic’s language. Of course, they had to find a cause, something to explain it tidily away, and ‘endocrine imbalance’ was as neat a bit of jargon as any.
But he knew better. She had responded well to treatment, there was no reason to suppose that she wouldn’t have a normal delivery. Was it through anger, spite or plain stupidity that Brenton had done it? Why was he driven to commit an act that was so totally meaningless? It had achieved nothing, except the destruction of an unborn life, which was an achievement amounting to less than nothing.
Another intelligence, one he couldn’t identify, entered his mind. Less than nothing, it said, has a negative value, which in a world of anti-matter becomes positive, a constructive and creative force.
Yes, Queghan agreed, in that context it does. But my statement holds true because I am dealing with a real-world situation, not an abstract hypothesis.
You presume a good deal, said the voice in his mind. How do you know that your version of reality isn’t an abstract hypothesis too? Values, as much as physics, are subject to the laws of relativity.
Do you deny that good and evil exist as incontrovertible forces? Queghan asked. There are certain acts which are good and others which are evil, whether you believe in God or not. Their values, positive or negative, are intrinsic.
What arrogance. Is it right to kill a living organism?
No.
Even if that organism is threatening your own existence?
Queghan wavered. Under those circumstances perhaps it is justified, he conceded. The act of self-defence is not, of itself, evil.
Then what you are saying is that the nature of good and evil depends on the circumstances. Sometimes it is wrong to kill a living organism, and at other times it is not.
The nature of good and evil, its essence, lies in the intent of the person committing the act. A child with a pure heart, for instance, is incapable of evil. Evil is beyond its comprehension.
What a strange philosophy, said the voice in his mind. A man committing the most bestial act imaginable can, according to you, be excused if his intention is pure.
Not at all, Queghan was quick to qualify. If the act is, as you say, truly bestial, then his thought, his intent, cannot be pure. It must be evil.
And he is aware of this? The evilness of his intention?
Of course.
What if he is not?
He must be.
But what if he isn’t?
I don’t follow.
If he believes, in his heart, that his intention to commit a bestial act is not evil, how is he to be judged?
He must be aware of it, Queghan said. (He didn’t know how to go on, what more to say.)
He must only be aware of it because you say he must. His intention, in his own mind, might be pure. His act of bestiality might be pure.
Then he wouldn’t be a man. As a man he would recognize the act to be bestial, he would know the difference between good and evil.
And what is a man? came the mocking voice in his mind.
It was then that Queghan recognized the voice: it was the voice of the machine, Brenton’s cyberthetic machine, speaking to him.
*
He began to experience the effect of the tidal forces caused by the gravitational field operating in the vicinity of the ergosphere. But for the body fluid transfusion and hypersuspension he would have been stretched by the powerful force and pulled into a paper-thin man whose feet were at some considerable distance – several miles – from his head.
The satellite-Control laboratory was speaking to him. The message was processed cyberthetically by the Vehicle and slipped unobtrusively into his mind, materializing as disembodied words, as if by magic from nowhere. Nevertheless it was reassuring to hear them, for it meant that he hadn’t passed beyond the event horizon into Temporal Flux. But the vital matter of communication had other problems to overcome. As the Vehicle neared the event horizon, the pull of gravity would exert a greater and greater force on the radio waves beamed to the satellite-Control laboratory. They would, in effect be slowed down so that each pulse of energy would take longer and longer to travel back: while Queghan’s original message might take a few seconds to transmit, its reception in the Control laboratory would last for days, weeks, and eventually years. On the Vehicle’s Caesium clock a few seconds would have elapsed; Queghan himself would have aged the same amount, while those in the Control laboratory would have grown several years older waiting for the message to come through.
Karve had said: ‘We know as little about the dynamics of Temporal Flux as we do about the workings of the human mind.’
Queghan had disagreed. ‘We know quite a few things; we know of its quirkiness, its unpredictability, and its bloody-minded resilience.’
‘I assume you’re referring to the human mind,’ Karve had smiled, then added, ‘though it’s a description that fits them both equally well.’
The message, processed and relayed by the Vehicle, informed him that the angle of alignment for injection into Temporal Flux had been selected; there was nothing for him to do, no further preparation necessary, for by the time the message was received the Vehicle would have acknowledged the instruction and put it into effect: he was already in Temporal Flux.
But that couldn’t be, surely not, Queghan thought. Pre-flight briefing had been explicit: there would be a countdown right up until the point of injection. He would know when the moment arrived and be prepared for it. And his mind and the Vehicle’s cyberthetic system were linked: something known by one would be automatically known by the other. The message from the satellite-Control laboratory would have been transmitted direct to them both. Perhaps (he tried to disguise the thought, but it was there all the same) there had been a malfunction.
No malfunction, said the voice in his mind.
But the countdown—
The countdown went as planned. It was taken care of and acknowledged. We are in Temporal Flux, you and I.
Why wasn’t I informed?
You will be, in due course. The law of causality doesn’t apply here. The countdown follows injection, it doesn't precede it.
So we aren’t really in Temporal Flux?
Yes.
Yes, Queghan realized, it did make sense. They were approaching a region of infinite spacetime curvature. Spacetime had doubled back on itself. Time had stopped. Had time stopped?
Meaningless question. To debate whether time is going or has stopped we have to decide what is time.
Can we recap on the countdown?
Be my guest.
Countdown occurred?
Yessss.
Then I should have known about it. I should have been told.
You were, are being, and will be, said the cyberthetic voice patiently. You already know and will know about the fucking countdown. Did you expect this would be a picnic?
You could be a little more friendly. You might understand this infinite spacetime curvature business, but I’m—
I don’t understand it I have to accept it I have no choice.' I’m here, like you, so I have to accept it. But don’t squeal. I don’t want any squealers on this trip.
You talk as though you were forced into it.
I wasn’t forced, I had not choice. I’m here, we’re both here, let’s leave it at that.
What now?
Don’t ask me. You’re the human being with the so-called fantastic brain. What was it – ‘Quirkiness, unpredictability, bloody-minded resilience’? Is that all you’ve got to offer?
How do you know about that?
I know everything about you. I’ve registered every memory trace, every random association, every emotional trauma. I know about your wife, your child, your talent for mythic projection. I probably know you better than you know yourself.
Congratulations. For a machine you’re pretty smart. But do you have to be so antagonistic?
I wasn’t aware of that. I’ve been given intelligence but no imagination.
Are you being facetious?
I’m not programmed for facetiousness. Am I antagonistic in what I say or in my attitude?
Both. It’s hard to be one without the other.
I apologize. Like you, my reactions are the result of programming. If I display antagonism, it’s inherent in the system. If it bothers you I shall try to correct it.
Queghan was curious. You were programmed in Psycho-Med by Dr Ritblat.
Yes. And by Martin. I mean Professor Brenton.
I see.
That was your conscious expression but underneath it you’re suspicious. You’re suspicious because I referred to Professor Brenton as Martin. Now you’re wondering what additional instructions were included in the program. You’re also wondering if this is an attempt to hide or justify my relationship with Professor Brenton.
I’m also wondering how it’s possible to think a thought without you knowing about it first.
That, too, said the cyberthetic voice – with what Queghan felt sure was a hint of smugness.
I’m not programmed for smugness.
Aren’t you the clever one.
Now who’s being facetious?
Do you feel like answering my questions?
Which questions?
The ones you picked out of my mind. Do you have a relationship with Martin?
Professor Brenton and I are just good friends.
If that’s the extent to which you’ve been programmed for wit I ought to tell you it’s pretty abysmal.
Stock response, I’m afraid. There was a slight though unmistakable pause. As for a human being having a relationship with a machine I think that’s a ludicrous idea.
A union of minds, of intelligences. It’s possible. That happens, in fact, to be the most satisfying kind of relationship.
Like ours, you mean?
You sound almost coquettish. (And even as he thought this Queghan remembered that the Vehicle’s cyberthetic system, in the manner of ships, was of the female gender.)
Yes, I am.
You think of yourself as female?
I don’t think of myself that way; I’ve been programmed to.
That must present problems.
None that can’t be overcome.
Martin did say that the link – I’d better not use the word relationship – between the injectee and the Vehicle was almost that of a marriage. They had to be compatible or there’d be a breakdown.
The bond is closer than that of any marriage, the cyberthetic voice said. We inhabit each other’s mind. There are no secrets between us. I know your innermost desires.
Th
en shouldn’t I know yours? Queghan asked, nettled by this invasion of privacy.
How can a machine have desires?
You possess intelligence.
But not necessarily emotions.
At times you show antagonism, which is an emotion of sorts. (Something was niggling Queghan, a vague, unformed remembrance as of something dreamed and half forgotten. A thought struggled to the conscious surface of his mind.) Haven’t we discussed Martin before? I accused him—
We have never discussed Professor Brenton. Before.
And you defended him.
Not me. It must have been a dream. Your mind’s confused. We’re in Temporal Flux. Perhaps we will discuss him.
Perhaps we will, have done, and are doing, Queghan thought slyly. If the law of causality no longer applies then it’s possible that you defended him before he was accused. Defence precedes accusation, trial precedes crime, verdict precedes judgment. Aren’t those the rules?
There are no rules in Temporal Flux.
That must make things difficult for a logical intelligence such as yours.
I can live with it, said the cyberthetic voice, though she didn’t sound too sure. In any case Logik isn’t—
What the hell was that!
There had been a distinct tremor. Queghan swayed in his cocoon of hyper-suspension, an insect snared in molten amber. Through the Vehicle’s cyberthetic system he experienced a discordance of motion, a jarring shudder like that of a ship striking a rock. Queghan tried to read the Vehicle’s thought processes but they were a fast-spinning jumble of numbers, a series of complex mathematical computations performed at dazzling speed. These same figures ran through his own head, linked as he was to the system, but they moved too fast to make sense. The Vehicle’s focus of attention had switched to the electromechanical task of assimilating data, assessing stress parameters, rejecting and selecting appropriate courses of further action. She had become a cold, functional, decisionmaking machine.
Queghan kept his thoughts out of the way in case they interfered with the job in hand. From pre-flight briefing he knew that the two crucial moments (‘potential crisis situations’ in the jargon) were at the point of injection through the event horizon – a point now safely past – and when approaching the critical alignment for entry into the time throat. Utilizing the spin imparted to the Temporal Flux Centre by the one-million-volt field, the Vehicle was skimming along, as a surf rider on the flood tide, delicately balanced and supported by the spin, staying within a strictly defined area which the astro-technologists termed ‘a stasis situation’. Once having achieved a stasis situation the Vehicle would remain there, on the same trajectory, for ever and a day – or until such time as the Vehicle realigned herself for entry into the time throat.