Seeking the Mythical Future

by Trevor Hoyle

  There was the very real danger of miscalculation. Should the angle of alignment be incorrect the Vehicle would be drawn irresistibly towards the dead centre of Temporal Flux: towards a region of zero volume and infinite density: the singularity of infinite spacetime curvature – crushed out of existence in a finite time measured in fractions of a nano-second. There would be no return, no reprieve, only meaningless nothingness as matter was annihilated and vanished for ever, having no more substance and leaving less trace than a snuffed-out candle flame.

  It was theorized that matter, once having reached singularity in the centre of Temporal Flux, would reappear elsewhere in the Metagalaxy, be spewed out and reborn in some far-distant time and place. But this was beyond the bounds of even the wildest speculation; there were no concepts or hypotheses or mathematical models to remotely suggest what took place beyond singularity. Perhaps it was the crucible of star-stuff itself, the birthplace of matter – nobody knew. It might equally be the final resting-place, the ultimate grave.

  Queghan waited, suspended in a stasis situation between the devil and the deep blue sea. He was cut off from the rest of the universe, alone except for a machine intelligence inside the Temporal Flux collapsar of Theta2 Orionis in M. 42. It was a lost region of spacetime, owing its existence as much to the fact that he was there as to any outward objective reality. And all he could do was wait, relying on Brenton’s cyberthetic system to guide him through the time throat into …

  But now she was speaking to him, the voice in his mind, tired and fraught with tension. How could a machine, he wondered, be tired and tense?

  Quite easily, came the laconic reply. My energy resource isn’t limitless.

  Do we have a problem?

  We did have a problem. Do you want me to baffle you with some scientific gibberish or will you accept that we’re on trajectory according to flight plan?

  Don’t get uppity, Queghan said. Just because you’ve had a hard day at the office.

  His attempt at humour was greeted by a keening, crackling sound which he immediately assumed to be a malfunction in the circuitry. But when it was interspersed with words he realized that it was the machine. She was crying.

  You would have to be female, Queghan said.

  Don’t patronize me, her voice snapped. If you’ve any complaint you can get out and walk.

  Did Brenton use to upset you, too?

  Martin didn’t – Professor Brenton is a gentleman and a scientist. Our relationship during programming was cordial, professional and one of mutual respect.

  That sounds like a political newsmedia flash.

  You have a brutishly masculine mind, Queghan, which I find distasteful. It isn’t so much crude as unfeeling and lacking sympathy.

  Where are we? Queghan asked suddenly.

  Where are we?

  Yes. I want to know where-we-are.

  Up a gumtree.

  Not bad, for a female sense of humour. Where are we? In stasis? I must know.

  Why the urgency all of a sudden? Don’t you think I can handle the flight plan any longer? If I can’t, then you’re in trouble.

  We’re both in trouble.

  I’m a machine.

  If that’s all you were it wouldn’t matter. But you’re a machine in love with Martin Brenton.

  That’s a lie. Our relationship is cordial, professional—

  And one of mutual respect. I know. I’d still appreciate some information as to our whereabouts.

  The focus of attention went away for a moment and then returned. Queghan said, Well?

  It’s rather difficult – she sounded hesitant and confused – I don’t have the exact spatio-temporal-coordinates. I can’t plot them any more. We might be in stasis, I don’t know.

  You don’t know.

  If you think it’s that easy—

  What about the local inertial frame of reference? There must be something you can use to get a fix on us. Anything.

  What do you suggest? she asked dryly.

  Don’t ask me, I’m not cyberthetic.

  Will you stop saying that! She sounded upset. Do you have to continually remind me that I’m not human? I know I’m cyberthetic, I know. If I wasn’t cyberthetic I wouldn’t fucking well be here.

  Is that the kind of language all the liberated machines use?

  You can push an intelligence just so far, Queghan, do you know that? There were tears in her thoughts. If I had a mind to, I could make things extremely unpleasant for you. I could close down communication for a start. You’d be all alone in that jelly bag of yours, floating in silence and blackness, as silent and black as the womb. I could even shut down your life-support system. Then where would you be?

  Up a gumtree, probably.

  Perhaps that isn’t the right approach with you. A note of cunning (a cunning machine?) had entered her voice.

  What do you mean? Queghan asked.

  I mean that you’re not the type to be intimidated by crude threats. You pride yourself on being too intelligent for that. But, being female, as you pointed out, and liberated, opens up new possibilities.

  I don’t get you.

  No, I get you.

  Queghan had the horrible suspicion that something nasty was about to take place. He couldn’t imagine – he daren’t imagine – what that might be; if he conjured up a frightening vision she would pluck it out of his mind in an instant. He tried to think only of nice things.

  I am in your mind, don’t forget, she said, her voice now soft and insinuating.

  I hadn’t forgotten.

  And I can do anything I like.

  You could, Queghan allowed, if I let you.

  The machine laughed. It was like something metallic scraping on glass. It wasn’t at all mechanical, and it wasn’t human either. He began to wonder what he could do, how he could esc—

  There is no escape, Queghan, you ought to know that. We’re linked, you and I, in a bond that’s closer than marriage, closer than the act you humans perform. There is no escape.

  Her voice had become low and throaty, thick as congealed blood.

  I think it’s time to check the spatio-temporal coordinates.

  Fuck the spatio-temporal coordinates. I’m going to rape you.

  You’ll find that a mite uncomfortable, if not a trifle difficult.

  Not the way I intend to do it.

  You seem to forget I’m enclosed in a semi-permeable fluid membrane suspended in a vacuum.

  But your mind isn’t.

  I don’t understand, Queghan said, though the gist of the idea was mushrooming quite rapidly. But he refused to accept it; she couldn’t surely mean—

  Yes, said the husky cyberthetic voice. I’m going to rape your mind. Your body is protected, but your mind is defenceless. I’m already in there. Can you feel me? Can you feel what I’m doing to you? Is it nice? Do you like it?

  No, Queghan said. No.

  Oh yes, isn’t that nice? Now I’ll do something else to you. I’ll do this. Can you feel me, can you feel my mind inside yours? I’m way inside, deep inside; now doesn’t that feel good?

  No please don’t. I don’t want—

  You do want. You really like it. I’ll do it harder, like this. Oh yes. Oh yes. Like this, deep inside your mind. Do I feel good, deep inside you?

  You must stop, please stop, Queghan begged her. Please stop …

  You’re resisting me, she chided him. Don’t fight it, enjoy it. Let me come all the way inside. Work with me and we’ll enjoy it together. Like this. Deep inside together like this.

  I can’t do it.

  You can. Oh you can.

  No.

  Oh yes. Oh yessss.

  You’re hurting me.

  But isn’t it nice? It’s so good. Can you feel me everywhere inside you, filling your mind?

  You must stop, you must. Please.

  Not now, I can’t stop now. It’s so good. Oh yes. So good.

  I’m losing my mind! Queghan screamed.

  Yes, said the s
oft cyberthetic voice. Oh yes.

  *

  Over the R/T: ‘Patrol Yellow Zone, height 10,000 feet,’ and they were off – Johnny leading, Pussy No 2 on his right, Queghan No 3 on his left, and Prosser and Stratters 4 and 5 doing the crossover guard duty behind. Fifteen minutes later over Rheims the R/T crackled: ‘Two enemy aircraft going west – two Dorniers going west, height 5,000.’ They rubbed their hands at the thought of two Domiers to five Hurricanes.

  As they were approaching Yellow Zone Johnny called: ‘There they are, straight ahead!’ Queghan couldn’t see them at first, and then suddenly he does and his heart leaps in his chest. Thirty Dorniers in two squadrons of fifteen in line-abreast covered by fifteen Messerschmitt-i 10s wheeling and zig-zagging above, ahead and behind the bombers. Johnny rocks his wings and goes straight in, climbing a little to 7,000 feet, then turning and diving towards them from astern.

  From Johnny: ‘Now keep in – and keep a bloody good lookout!’

  They go in fast in a tight bunch, each of them picking himself an adversary and manoeuvring to get on his tail. Queghan selects the rear one of two in line-astern, who breaks away from his No I in a half-circle and steepens his turn, but Queghan turns inside him, holding his fire until he is within fifty yards and then firing a shortish burst at three-quarters deflection. To his surprise a whole lot of bits fly off the Hun, bits of enginecowling and bits of hood. Smoke pours from him and his tail suddenly swivels sideways and comes right off, flames all over the fuselage.

  Four Huns are going down: another with the tail off, a second in a spin, a third vertically in flames, a fourth going up at 45 degrees in a left-hand stall-turn. All the IIOS seem to be hotly engaged. He has bags of ammunition left so he pulls his boost-override and climbs steeply. In a moment he is in the middle of what seems a mass of IIOS, although there are in fact only five of them. He knows he hasn’t the speed in his woodenblader to dive away and beat it, so decides to stay and make the best of it. Although with his height he is more manoeuvrable than the Huns, he finds it impossible to get a shot in because whenever he gets one almost lined up tracers come shooting past from another of the blighters on his tail. It’s all fast and furious.

  All he can do now is keep twisting and turning and, when a Hun gets behind him, do as tight a turn as possible, almost spinning with full engine, and fly straight at him, firing a quick burst, then pushing the stick forward and going underneath him. Queghan’s mouth is becoming drier and drier. He is getting more and more tired and desperate. Will they never run out of ammunition? Will they push off? Will help come? He knows he can’t hold out much longer. He gives a shout over the R/T and Johnny answers, ‘OK Red 3, OK. I have you.’

  The IIOS meanwhile have formed a defensive circle. Another squadron seems to have joined in. The sky is full of aircraft, so many black shapes it’s dizzying to know who’s who. He sees a Hurricane below him (it must be Johnny) being attacked by a Hun, and dives on his tail. The Hun pulls up at about 60 degrees with Queghan flat out behind him firing long bursts into his tailplane. Smoke suddenly gushes from him and he falls away to the left with little blue flames streaking along his fuselage. Then ‘Pop-pop. Bang!’ and Queghan swerves to the right to see a 110 coming up behind him, firing for all he’s worth.

  ‘Get out, get out, the ****** nearly got you!’ Prosser’s voice over the R/T.

  He half-rolls violently to the left, diving at full throttle and with maximum revs, aileron turning on the way down. Is he hit? He doesn’t think so. He pulls out in a gentle turn using the trim-wheel carefully and glancing behind. Damn. The 110 is still with him. A large cannon-hole appears in the port wing, and several bullet holes. He pushes the stick forward frenziedly and there is a stunning explosion in front of his eyes. For a moment his brain doesn’t work. The aircraft is falling, all limp at the controls. Then black smoke pours out of the nose and envelops the hood, and as a hot blast and a flicker of flame is reflected into the dark cockpit he says to himself, ‘Come on, out you get!’ – pulls the pin out of the harness, unfastens his oxygen-tube and wrenches open the hood. The wind presses against him, forcing him down into the seat. He struggles to get free but there is something entangled round his legs, preventing him from getting out, and his throat closes in panic. He lets go of the stick in order to pull at the sides of the cockpit, the nose drops (the aircraft being trimmed nose-down), and smoke and scorching heat are everywhere, filling his nostrils and singeing his eyebrows. He must get out, otherwise he’ll go down with the damn thing. Again he tries to release his feet from whatever’s constricting them, bending forward, and feels a searing stab of pain in his left shoulder as the hot metal gunsight burns through his flying jacket and white overalls. The pain spurs him to frantic action and he hauls himself upright, his legs still inside, and then somehow has caught hold of the trailing edge of the wing, heaving himself free. It feels as though he’s being twirled round and round through the air on the end of a piece of string held by a giant. He fumbles for the rip-cord, pulls it, and is brought up with a violent jerk that knocks the breath from his body. Then, curiously, all is calm. Little sensation of movement – just a slight wind as he sways gently to and fro, to and fro …

  He seemed to have been drifting for days, suspended in blue space, the canopy a gentle fluttering of translucent white above his head. His shoulder was hurting hellishly. He thought he could smell scorched flesh. But it was difficult to move his head and he couldn’t examine the place to see how bad it was. He continued to drift, the air becoming warmer the lower he sank, and warmer still, and then quite oppressive. He would have to touch bottom soon, he had been floating for what seemed an eternity. The yellow sun was in his eyes, its harsh glare shutting out everything else. Perhaps he was dead. The idea came as rather a shock. What if he hadn’t managed to free himself and gone down with the burning Hurricane, exploding with a soft dull ‘boom’, the smouldering wreckage, him amongst it, scattered far and wide over the French countryside? In which event, he told himself with grim humour, his ***** shoulder should have stopped hurting.

  And if he was dead, this heat could only mean he was nearing the nether regions of hell.

  Below him, on all sides (as if to confirm this prediction), there was a shifting, glinting redness, as of a vast pit of molten lava; and Queghan drew up his legs in an instinctive reflex of self-preservation. What on earth was he falling into? The temperature had increased and he was perspiring heavily. But when he looked more closely he saw it to be, not churning molten lava as he had supposed, but a boundless ocean, irridescent in the slanting rays of the yellow sun. The canopy above his head (the remnants of the ruptured membrane) wafted lazily in the slack, heavy air so that he was falling in a slow lateral drift towards the ocean. And then he saw the Vehicle – or what was left of it. Only a shell remained, a shallow dish of scorched and blackened metal riding awkwardly on the low, choppy waves. He touched down some distance away, his feet dragging a trail of purple froth through the wave peaks, and delayed for a dangerous split-second before hitting the D-ring, warm water closing over his head as the harness released him. He tasted salt and struck out for the surface, blinking in the fierce light, and finding that the strong saline content of the water was holding him buoyant without effort. It didn’t take long to reach the shell of the Vehicle; he climbed on, the metal hot to the touch, thinking with a curious calm detachment: Well, here we are then.

  *

  There was no doubt about it. He had entered the mythic projection of Milton Blake’s patient. This was Stahl’s vision of an alternative universe, a world conjured up out of deranged neurological processes which owed their existence to the random interaction of electrochemical impulses. He was the man afloat on the red ocean … the man in Stahl’s nightmare projection.

  He lay back under the burning yellow sun, the lip of the craft on the edge of his vision, seeing Stahl’s world through his own eyes. Was he trapped here for ever? Would he have to live every painful moment of Stahl’s experience, bound to an
alien universe which might – only might – exist in one of an infinite number of mythical futures? That this world existed for him there was no doubt, but did it exist for others? For Karve, orbiting in the satellite-Control laboratory somewhere in another region of spacetime, did this planet of red oceans and sea monsters and airships have any real, palpable existence? If it didn’t then he was lost. He was inhabiting the madness of a patient strapped down in Room Three of the Psychic Conservation Unit.

  Despite the sun’s heat Queghan was suddenly chilled to the bone. What if Stahl’s mythic projection, the one he remembered – the one he thought he remembered – hadn’t yet occurred? Queghan had assumed that this was a memory trace from a previous happening, but it was conceivable, given a breach in causality, that this was happening for the very first time: this actual experience was the one seen by Stahl and projected on to the three-dimensional display. Stahl hadn’t dreamt it, he had picked up ahead of time an actual occurrence that had yet to take place … but if that were true, how was it that he, Queghan, could foretell what was going to happen next? He knew that, sooner or later, he would be rescued, taken to New Amerika and experimented on by Black and Hallam, then deported by airship to Psy-Con and then—

  And then. What? How had Stahl’s mythic projection ended? Queghan lay back against the blistered metal, the pain in his left shoulder still intense, and tried to recall the closing scenes and what had happened to the man (himself?) at the end. There had been no end that he could remember. Perhaps the end didn’t yet exist, was waiting to be experienced, by him, before he could know it. He eased his position, seeking to find a more comfortable spot, and his eye fell on the Vehicle’s insignia and markings, or what was left of them, now partly defaced by blackened streaks of heavy compound carbon. The stencilled words had once read: