by Victor Koman
Trine bent over the side of the table. She spoke quietly to Kinney while the Pharmaceutic administered the serum.
“What you’re getting, Virgil, is a mixture of saline solution, ribonucleic acid, and picotechs. The RNA is memory juice. Practically every living thing has it. The picotechs are tiny machines that carry the second and more important component of memory. All this came from a man who worked for the Brennen Trust before he died.” Her voice paused for just an instant. “We want to know why he died, but you probably won’t be able to tell us that right away. When he died, though, he possessed skills and knowledge that take a long time to learn. We’re cutting corners this way because we’re in a hurry.”
Virgil nodded nervously, a trickle of sweat running down his brow. Beneath his bandages, his muscles tightened rigidly.
They’re filling me up with machines that carry someone else’s mind! Maybe I can get him to help me. I don’t hear him, though. And now the roar is coming back. I’m losing her cipher. Down. Back. Focus. They’re trying to make it hard for me. I’ll get out, though. There! Less roar and her cipher’s broken again.
“It’s the picotechs,” she continued, “that make the process work. They were in this other man’s bloodstream and brain, recording his unique electrochemical patterns. They’ll reproduce them at similar sites in your own brain. Instant memories. No need to go to school.”
Deep inside Kinney’s body, machines no larger than a molecule sought out their topologically programmed locations. Picotunnelers bored through the blood-brain barrier, admitting the rest of the invaders. Picosculptors attached to low-activity areas of Kinney’s cerebrum, reshaping neural connections, synapses, and electrochemical order to simulate those of a man now dead. Picogenerators duplicated the peaks and valleys of another brain’s unique electrical field. Picolocators awaited their particular strand of RNA to pass by in the blood-stream. When they did, they mated with the strands; mated chemically, topographically, electrically-more intimately than the minds that created them could imagine.
Impossible to see with anything less powerful than an atomic force microscope, the picotechs were simple. Individually, each one was a mere molecule with an unique topography and electrical charge. Collectively, they possessed the power of a god.
They used part of Virgil Grissom Kinney’s brain to create a mimic of another man’s mind. Synapse by synapse, picovolt by picovolt, a stranger began to form in Kinney’s mind, undetected. Silently, another man’s memories crept into Kinney, quiescent and patient.
Trine slipped the top of the scrim into her clipboard and signaled the first page. She glanced at Kinney.
“While we’re doing this, I’d like you to answer a few questions and listen to some things so that we can make sure everything is working properly. Straight?”
Virgil nodded.
“Straight. Shake your head only if you don’t remember any of the following.” She scanned the page a moment before reading. “Virgil Grissom Kinney. Age thirty-four.”
Kinney’s eyes widened.
With a compassionate gaze, she said, “You didn’t know that, did you? It’s March seventh, twenty-one-aught-seven. You’ve been interned for eleven years, ever since you tried to kill yourself by flying into the PacRim Pyramid. Do you remember that?”
Kinney’s blond eyebrows knotted in thought. He shook his head as best he could beneath his bandages.
Trine scrolled to another page. She held her voice at a professionally flat level. “June twelfth, twenty-ninety-four. After the funerary processing of your wife Jenine, you piloted your flyer over downtown St. Frisco toward the PacRim Pyramid. Instead of hitting the side of the building, you flipped into a power dive toward Market Street. Your crash killed four people. You would have done even worse during a workday.”
Virgil stared blankly, slowly shaking his head. “They were clones,” he offered weakly.
She glanced at the scrim “Two clones-a direct, a sexflip, and their two natural-born children. The primogenitor sued for loss of lineage and Tri-World Life paid off. Then they sent you here.”
Virgil nodded. Softly, Delia said, “You don’t really want to die, do you?”
The Pharmaceutic gazed at the indicators. “Galvanic response shooting up,” he whispered to her. “That’s a key question.”
She nodded without shifting her eyes. “If you don’t want to die, why bother trying? Publicity hound?”
Virgil lay mute, his gaze indecipherable.
She leaned closer. “Not likely-three of your attempts were made in wilderness areas. You managed to be found barely alive each time.” A strand of her ebon hair fell from around her neck. Virgil watched it sway in time to her words. “You are here because I think your conflicting dichotomy of a death wish and death aversion combined with astonishingly good luck is a mix we can use to our mutual benefit.” She turned toward the Pharmaceutic. “Begin sublimins, Steve.”
The gray man muttered a series of commands to the lab computer.
Gazing more intently at Kinney, Trine said, “You earned a degree in nexialism from Mises University, which means you know a little bit about everything. That will help, because I’m going to give you and your new memories a refresher course in physics. Keep in mind the following nexus: physics is the economics of efficient atomic interaction, and multi-dimensional mathematics is the topography of cosmology.”
She pulled up a chair to sit beside Virgil. “Now, all sub-atomic particles are composed of combinations of just two bounded energy quanta, one positive, one negative. Their overall sum determines the mass of the particle, its charge, and whether it is matter or anti-matter. Their topographical interaction determines such aspects as charm, spin, strangeness and…”
Kinney lay upon the cool black sudahyde couch, his yellowed bandages looking whiter in contrast. His chest rose and fell in short whiffs and exhalations. The room smelled of formaldehyde and disinfectant. Through his narrow field of view, he gazed at the silent bank of instruments against the wall.
Three days. Three days and I still don’t understand her code. I’ve got her cipher all figured out-the physics of space travel.
So play along. Go along with them until you find out how they-
A door opened somewhere. Kinney twisted about to see Trine step through. She wore a light aqua lab coat over a charcoal suit.
Here she comes again. Death Angel dressed to fill. Fill my mind like a cupcupcup…
“Good morning, Virgil.” She pulled a tall stool over to sit beside him. “I hope you’re feeling better today, because we have a lot planned. I’m going to remove those ratty bandages. It’s time you got out of the things for good.” She smiled encouragingly.
Virgil simply stared.
“However,” she continued when she realized he would not return her smile, “it can be physically dangerous to you in your atrophied condition. So let’s proceed slowly, all right?”
Large bandage scissors went to work on his head, guided by Delia’s graceful, strong fingers.
“How long has it been since they changed these?” she muttered. “A month? Two?”
Kinney shrugged, or tried to. “Maybe a year.” His voice was weak, creaky.
Trine’s hand inadvertently withdrew from him. Regaining her composure, she continued to snip away. “Nice to hear you speak.”
She pulled the clipped gauze from around his head. A shock of sweaty, oily yellow hair clung to the fabric. She tugged gently. Most of the hair remained on his head, though some stuck wetly to the greasy fabric.
She frowned. “At least you’re not completely depilated. A good wash and it should be back to normal.”
“Thanks.” Virgil basked in the warm feeling of her hand against his skin. So long since a touch. Maybe she’s not working for Master Snoop. Could she be a free agent? Maybe Master Snoop and Nightsheet aren’t conspiring anymore. Maybe they’re enemies again. I need more information. Listen. Hold back the roar.
His right arm fell limply to the couch. Death
ly white, translucent, and almost entirely devoid of muscle, it looked like a skeleton wrapped in a thin coating of papier-mâché.
Delia shook her head. His other arm looked just as bad. Worse-a hideous burn scar ran its length.
“Why didn’t they fix that?” she muttered, continuing to snip down his torso.
Kinney’s chest, freed from restraint, heaved to suck in great gulps of air.
“Don’t,” she said. “You’ll hyperventilate.” She held the scissors at a fixed angle and ripped them through the cloth around his waist, thighs, and legs. Pulling the fabric away, she gazed at the naked form beneath.
Her crimson lips formed a gentle smile. “Well, you’re a real blond, all right.”
His sudden bark of laughter startled her. Jumping back from the couch, she watched in amazement as his arms waved heedlessly about, bouncing off the sides of the couch before coming to rest on his flat stomach, the only part of him that had any musculature at all.
After waiting a moment for him to calm down, she said, “Hold still, Virgil.” She put down the scissors and laid a hand on his narrow thigh. “This may hurt.” Her long fingers grasped the waste cycling tube that snaked between his legs up into his rectum. With a gentle-but-firm tug, she twisted and removed it.
Virgil moaned, hovering somewhere between pain and relief.
She deflated the urine catheter. “You go on light solids and muscle food tomorrow. And you begin your training.”
“And if I don’t want to?” A sneer flashed palely across Virgil’s lips.
She pulled out the catheter with a smooth, firm motion.
He screamed.
“Then,” she said, “I guess we’ll have to wrap you up again.”
He whimpered, doubling over to clutch at his savaged member.
Somewhere deep within Virgil’s searing pain rose one coherent thought. It echoed over and over in his mind, creating its own nearly infinite loop.
The roar’s coming back.
As he folded in on himself, so did his thoughts. He fought the urge.
Nightsheet drags me down down down. Master Snoop shrieks in joy at the burning in my center. Back. Down. Don’t. Don’t back down.
He forced his eyes open, forced his reverberating mind to focus on the woman in the aqua coat. The color soothed him. The red noise subsided in his mind.
“What’s your name?” he asked after a few moments. “What’s your true name?”
She tilted her head a bit in curiosity at both his question and his quick recovery from physical pain.
“My name’s Dee.”
“Dee? The necromancer?”
She shook her head, smiling. “That’s my first name. Short for Delia.”
“What’s the rest?”
“My name is Delia Trine.”
Death Angel bares her fangs in a glee without hunger. I cracked part of her code. Good. Press on.
“Did you spring me just to give me that physics lesson?”
Delia thought it remarkable that he adjusted so well to sudden change. She suspected that the braindump from Jord might be aiding in his stabilization.
“Actually, Virgil, you’re here because the Brennen Trust made a mistake. A fatal mistake with a man named Jord Baker. You’re going to help us find out why he died. We’ve given you some preliminary theoretical data on a new concept of interstellar travel. The RNA-PT injection and subliminal instructions-”
Aha! Virgil smiled at the confirmation of his suspicion.
“-have stored inside your brain everything Jord Baker knew up to the point of his death. When we begin training, you’ll remember things you never knew before. You may be experiencing memories right now as you listen.” She paused. Virgil looked up at her and shrugged weakly.
“Well,” she said, “your mind needs to recall the information and refile it. That may take some time.” She slid the stool closer to the table and sat near Virgil’s naked form.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
He shook his head. His long golden hair had dried to a stiff, dull mess. His eyes watched her with relentless intensity.
She took a deep breath. “Here’s the whole story. Jord Baker was a test pilot for the Brennen Trust’s spacecraft division. He was testing out a teleportation craft when he killed himself. We can’t figure out why. We’ve-”
“Teleportation?” Kinney asked. He searched his memory. His, and what fragments arose of Jord Baker’s.
Trine nodded. “It’s a method that could make every other form of space travel obsolete. It was just ten years ago that Ernesto Valliardi developed a mathematically provable theory of pandimensional translocation. Without a device that could generate the field collapse, though, the theory was nothing more than a curiosity. Until two years ago. That’s when Brennen Trust researchers, using portions of Valliardi’s research to develop a multidimensional method of non-destructive metallurgical testing, accidentally teleported a small steel pellet three meters across their lab. It appeared in midair and exploded.”
She leaned on the soft sudahyde. “If it had appeared in something more solid, the blast would have left nothing but a crater where the building stood.” Her grin was almost feral with joy at retelling the tale. “It seems that if the nucleus of a teleported atom appears within the same space as that of an atom at the destination, they mutually annihilate.” She lowered her chin onto her clasped hands. “The resulting explosion was still big enough to kill a dozen people in the lab. Including Grigori Felitsen, the inventor of the process. Computers and video captured all the info, though, and we refined the process in hard vacuum at Brennen Orbital.”
Virgil nodded. Thoughts began to rush to him without summon. Topological images of six- and twelve-dimensional space flickered at the edges of his consciousness. Mental constructs of an intricately folded universe made sense to him even though he had never studied anything more complex than calculus.
Can this, he thought, be what Master Snoop feels, sucking the minds of all around, a constant flood of incoming knowledge, sights, sounds, facts, ideas?
Delia continued, noting Virgil’s facial reactions with professional excitement. Her gaze also drank in the rest of his form. She noted that his flesh responded to the rush of knowledge by pricking up the blond hairs on his arms, shoulders, and legs.
“Finally,” she said, “Brennen engineers built a small ship that could teleport by remote control. The most important aspect of the Valliardi Transfer is that it requires no receiving station.”
“It’s not teleportation, really.” Virgil frowned in amazement at the authoritative manner of his speech. “It’s a concept in many-dimensional theory. Every point in a lower-order dimension is in contact with a point in any higher-order dimension.” His frown transformed itself into a weak grin. “It’s all coming back to me.”
Delia sat up and smiled. “See if this jogs more memories: Every point on a one-dimensional line can be reached from a two-dimensional plane without crossing any other linear point. Any point on a plane can be touched from three-dimensional space without passing through any other point on the plane. And so on up the dimensional ladder.”
“I know,” Virgil said. “I know it without knowing how I know it!”
Delia nodded with enthusiasm. “Jord understood the fundamentals of dimensional topology, though Valliardi’s Proof was too much for him. He could push the right buttons, though, and was the finest test pilot we had. After a dozen successful robot flights, he performed the first human test. He traveled from lunar orbit to Jupiter in an instant.”
Kinney rolled over on his side, his skin sliding over the sudahyde without adhesion. His own enthusiasm began to grow, unaided by the dead man’s memories.
“You mean,” he said, “that you’ve developed instantaneous teleportation?”
“Almost. The trip took only a subjective instant for him. For us, it was as if he’d disappeared for over half an hour. When he reached Jovian orbit, a laser beacon switched on automatically. It was another ha
lf an hour before we received that beam, so we know that he was literally outside the universe for that length of time.”
Virgil’s stare turned solid. “Where was he?” Half an hour away from Master Snoop? Away from Nightsheet? Time spent out from under the prying eyes of God?
Delia gently brushed her long fingernails against the coil of black hair wrapped around her neck. “Nowhere, apparently. The experiment turned out to be the vindication of Einstein. Even if we use the Valliardi Transfer to travel instantly from here to there, the traveler is still out of the universe for exactly the length of time it would take for light to travel that distance. It would take you an instant to transfer to Alpha Centauri, but when you arrived, the universe would be four years older. Or you could transfer to the center of the galaxy like that”- she snapped her fingers-“and the rest of the universe will have aged twenty-six thousand years.”
Virgil stared at her. “A one-way time machine,” he whispered in awe. Unconsciously, his thin, bony fingers reached down to touch below his waist.
Delia gazed in puzzlement at the swelling flesh Virgil grasped in his hand.
Chapter Two
30 March, 2107
She can’t expect me to do it. She can’t. What do I know about these things?
Virgil lifted his head to look around, then dropped it back to the cushions. He enjoyed the exercise, the fresh air, the bulk-building food. Four meals a day. Real food. Steak from the Saharan grasslands. Fresh fruit from the vast orchards of Paine, the rich farmland on the Potomac created from the ruins of the old imperial Capitol. Huge vegetables dropped from Cornucopia Orbital. Vitamins and brain-food drugs from the vast chemical labs just south of Iverson, Earthward Luna.
He exercised in the spacious seventh level sky lobby on the four hundredth floor of the Brennen Spike in downtown Houston. The equipment stood near the windows and, from the fifteen hundred meter vantage, Virgil regained his strength and stamina while observing the busy world below him. Every now and then he would pause to watch a thin trail of vapor rise from the south-another launch from Port Velasco.