Chaacetime_The Origins_A Hard SF Metaphysical and visionary fiction_The Space Cycle_A Metaphysical & Hard Science Fiction Saga

by A. I. Zlato

  Baley quickly realised that all Special Agents present at the scene were staring at her. She was the one in charge of this investigation; it was up to her to take initiatives. They looked at her, waiting for her to make a decision, to tell them what to do. She had to be the strongest and not get overwhelmed by emotion. She resumed. Her professional habits took over, and her brain closed itself shortly to this nonsense, to focus on the observation of the crime scene. As in previous cases, children were divided in three concentric circles, their feet towards the centre. On each circle, the children were of the same size. Even if this fact had proved unimportant, she took note of it, nonetheless, filing it in her report. At this thought, she felt a huge weight in her stomach. She was the one who had the task of filing event reports to the Machine. A few hours earlier, she was confident while entering the Tower, requesting the assignment of Special Agents to monitor each child on the list. A few hours earlier, she was still so confident.

  She checked, via her chip, the identity of each little body lying in the grass. When she had all names, she compared them in relation to the set list. All were on it, without exception. With a bitter smile, Baley thought she had managed to identify the children; she found the common denominator. It was perhaps the only positive thing to remember, that she had managed to identify children at risk. How could one say that this was a positive thing? It was a nightmare. Like everything else.

  After completing her observations, she asked the Machine to access the camera recordings of each Special Agent who was present. She visualised them to compare and to seek logic in this ocean of nonsense. They had actually followed each child so far, and they had been there for more than an hour. All had arrived almost at the same time, following the child each was assigned to. The recordings showed children marching with a firm step towards the same place, without looking at each other. Then, Special Agents lost track. The records showed that they had all been distracted for a few seconds, whether by a sound or by a shadow.

  Cameras turned away from children, leaving them off screen for a tiny while. When everyone turned back to see the youngster for whom he or she was responsible, there was nothing. Children had just disappeared. Instead of rushing to find them, the Special Agents remained, for some reason, stuck there, without reaction. In the opinion of some, they would have remained still for even a longer time if Baley had not come out, like a fury. They did not know why. They could not move, simply. In addition, according to their records, she saw herself appear as a storm, an hour after their arrival. She saw herself through them, her crazy eyes, running in every direction. She could then see the cyclone from all angles. The cameras placed in their respective chips had continued filming while they cover their face with their arms. How could one describe what they had witnessed? High winds, swirls of clouds flaring towards the sky, a storm coming out of nowhere, and an indescribable feeling. The cameras then showed the disappearance of the tornado, which exactly matched the appearance of the bodies. Then all cameras turned to Baley, who was screaming again. It made no sense. No, none.

  After reviewing the crime scene thoroughly, and viewing all available records, she called the coroner. The latter would have the difficult task of labelling and taking the bodies to the morgue, and of notifying parents. He would stare at them crying, shouting, touching what had been their child not long ago.

  A few minutes later, the coroner arrived on the scene. He looked at her, and her shoulders slumped by a centimetre. He leaned on each victim to make his first observations, before wrapping the bodies carefully, one by one. She asked that autopsies be performed, in the hope that, for once, the coroner would find the reasons for their death.

  When all the bodies were removed, she walked away from the scene and headed home. During the trip, she reviewed, endlessly, all recordings, failing to interpret what happened. What about the time difference? How was it possible that she received an alert with a defer of forty-five minutes? Connections to the Machine’s database indicated no mistake, and neither did the records of Special Agents ... so? And what about the children, who reappeared after a hurricane?

  Once at her door, she could not enter, and went to her usual bar. She saw Lars seated in the background, surrounded by a decrepit green plant and an aging screen. Another day, she would be surprised to see him in the bar before her — he who only came there to join her — but not today.

  “Hello. Which fuel are you on?” She asked.

  “Whisky Vodka. The glass before, that was Gin-tequila.”

  “OK ... same for me, please!” Baley said, addressing the waiter.

  “Crappy day?” She wondered.

  “I cannot say so.”

  “OK ... and what can you say?”

  “Not much.”

  “You don’t want to talk about yourself?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Well ... I need to talk. So I'll tell you about mine, my day ... We followed them to the track. They disappeared, and they died.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My investigation.”

  “Still and always. Today, I do not care. There are more important things.”

  “What? Please, Lars. It happened again. I know the children who are at risk; I know what they have in common ... but I was unable to prevent their deaths.”

  He did not answer.

  “I need your support, Lars.”

  “I know yes. But I don’t feel like giving you the support you need.”

  Baley looked at her husband with a broken heart. He was very angry, she saw that, but did not know why.

  “What is it about?” She queried, in a weak voice.

  “Let's talk a little about Iris, you know, our daughter? Had you had a conversation with her, which you failed to tell me about? For example, a conversation in which she would have told you she was desperate, that she felt no interest in the life that was offered to her?”

  “But, what are you talking about? What happened to her?”

  “I thought you were going to tell me! When I arrived here, the waiter handed me this note. Read it yourself! She wrote that she told you about the fact that she did not want a life decided in advance by the Machine; you told her the same feeling pervaded the children who were victims owing to the Problem. She said she would probably not be back tonight, because she wanted to live her life. So, let me ask you. WHERE IS OUR DAUGHTER?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t see anything alarming here. At her age, she can still not return one night, as long as she lets us know ...”

  “And the fact that she says she is desperate, aren’t you worried?”

  “The discussion I had with her ... She had a serene air. So no, I do not care so much.”

  “Ah, ‘the’ conversation …”

  “Listen Lars, it's true that I discussed with Iris; it was even the first real conversation I have had with her in a long time. I have not had time to tell you, and then it came out of my head.”

  “I'm nothing but her father, after all. Why inform me of a discussion? Especially when it's been months that nobody could not communicate with her.”

  “Lars, I ... I am sorry. I had this discussion with Iris because I told myself that her rebellion could help me understand the motivations of the dead children.”

  “In other words, you've pushed our fifteen-year-old daughter into your investigation. You threw adult problems at her, and made her feel ultimate despair. Good going!”

  “It did not happen that way, I assure you; I was just trying to understand ... to understand her anger vis-à-vis the Machine. Of course, it was important to my investigation, but it also allowed me to start a discussion with her differently. When I said she could help me, she felt valued ... and she talked to me. In explaining her feelings, she told me, indirectly, that she had found another way. Her way. From my point of view, this is the meaning of the note she left us. She is not hopeless; in any case, she no longer is, and she wants to live her life as she sees fit.”

 
“That is to say?”

  “I don’t know. Lars, for once we both managed to speak, I did not want to insist.”

  “Well, no, eh, your investigation, you, yourself, and always you first!”

  “You're unfair; I just wanted to avoid yet another conflict with her, I ...”

  “And now? You are crying, and so what? You want me to comfort you? I don’t know where Iris is, or whether she is doing fine. About your mood swing, I assure you I ..”.

  Lars clenched his fists so hard that his joints whitened. He tried to contain his rage. Although Baley understood that he could worry about their daughter, she thought he was showing off too much. After all, Iris was fine until proven otherwise. She even cared about her parents, as she had left a note. At her age, Baley, too, did not return home all nights. Her concerns were much more serious, but Lars did not want to hear them.

  They sat silently, swallowing glasses, one after the other, without looking at each other. Lars’ hostility maintained an invisible wall between them.

  On the way back, she felt that her entire body as replete with alcohol, and yet she felt no drunkenness. Her eyesight was blurred; buildings moved to the rhythm of the waves of her consciousness.

  Instead of returning directly home, she went to the Tower to feel the Machine’s presence. Baley sat facing it, and she saw nothing but it. Her mind freed itself from the influence of alcohol, as if her body had instantly degraded the molecules. Anti-Machines children ... not wanting their lives to be planned in advance ... but why at this age, in particular? And why now? If the cyclone triggered their death, who triggered the cyclone? Where did it coming from?

  The Machine ... and the Equilibrium. The beginning and the end, said the children ... no middle ... we must break the circles. Break the Machine? Break the Equilibrium? By breaking their life?

  The trigger factor ... who, or what? Why?

  The Machine ... everything pointed in Its direction. Baley felt her chip fighting against her thoughts. She should have felt the beginning of a migraine; the dark area of her brain should have helped the chip by absorbing ideas ... And yet ... Everything was bound. Chip / Machine / black hole / trigger / Equilibrium / changes / ...

  She stood up, without the answers she sought, without knowing what to do to solve the Problem ... but with the impression of having asked the right questions.

  Finally.

  She slipped into the apartment. Lars had returned and was ostensibly watching a movie. He did not venture a stare in her direction, indicating that he was still upset. She could not find solace in his arms; she was alone.

  Paul. Tomorrow.

  The Machine. The trigger.

  The Equilibrium is the beginning and the end. Circles.

  Compliance with rules is the foundation of life in the City. Yet if no one crosses limits, stagnation will reign supreme. Any form of rebellion, as annoying as it might be, is a source of evolution.

  Recollections from Chaacetime

  Chapter 52

  Space H. (1st Encirclement)

  Iris thought about Mossa during the day and dreamed of him at night. This man-machine obsessed her, and she talked incessantly to her friends, when they got together outside the City. She talked about him with Fighter, Aimie and Kahila, but especially with Eric. Eric, this big, shy boy and she got closer over time. Their perception of Phalomera, the Forest’s conscience, where others had only a diffuse feeling, bound them.

  Phalomera showed them another Space, an Ocean ... and made her meet Mossa. Yet even Eric did not understand the attraction she felt for the hybrid. Iris had told him about the meeting, Mossa’s plan to go into space, but Eric had looked half-incredulous. She knew he believed her but he doubted Mossa’s remarks. Even knowing this, she was very distressed, and had taken some distance from him. They had not taken each one’s hand or huddled against each other for several days. She thought only about Mossa. Although she still rode with her friends, she left them after seeing the first tree. At each break in the Unique Forest, she sought, while the group remained at the edge of the Forest and Eric came her way. He would sit against a tree and wait, opening his mind to Phalomera.

  Meanwhile, Iris would traverse long distances, in all directions, hoping to spot Eutrope, especially Mossa, but she always came home empty-handed. All questions that filled her brain were keeping Phalomera away from her. She wanted to find again the communion with the Forest that she had experienced. Reviewing this Ocean ... feeling the elements forming a whole ... dreaming of Space and Time ... learning more about this Circle Zero ... But the attraction to Mossa was even stronger. Yet, thousands of microprocessors on his arm turned her off. Nonetheless, Mossa despised her. He despised her Space, which was backward technologically compared to his, as well as her desire to overcome the Machine. Yet, she wanted to see him again; she wanted to know more about his space project. Today, again, she did not find him.

  She then returned to the City, looking into space, her legs aching because she had walked that much. On her way back, Eric got up and followed her, talking about Phalomera. He described to her the feeling of being part of the Forest, itself integrated into a whole. From that other Space and its Ocean, which he now knew to be called Unique Ocean. Unique Forest, Unique Ocean, the uniqueness of something broader. She listened, saddened not to share this experience with him, while thinking of the hybrid. Side by side, but not really together, they returned to the City.

  The Machine transmitted them again a data stream, which Iris found more and more unbearable, an intolerable intrusion that she nonetheless had to accept. The digital stream epitomized their return to their narrow lives. To a life with the Machine, along with her electronics school and her Machine-obsessed parents, in the First Circle. For Eric, that meant back in the Sixth Circle, with his brothers and sisters, in a miserable apartment. Aimie and Kahila, alone in their small house in the Periphery, away from their families. For Fighter ... where he had to be.

  Iris went home. The apartment was dark, neither of her parents had yet returned. Her mother immersed herself completely in her investigation, so much so that she came to her for advice. Surprised, Iris had responded openly, because she was really convinced that she knew the reason for these suicides. If only she could convince her mother and a sufficient number of people ... maybe humanity could free itself from the Machine, or, at least, relegate It to the place that was supposed to be Its, as a supercomputer. Her mother had listened, for once, but she did not understand everything that Iris had tried to tell her. She had remained in her usual routine of investigator, without understanding the big picture.

  Yet, Iris was confident. Her father was also busy with his work. She suspected him of deliberately dragging his feet so he would not be alone in the apartment with her. Though the relationship with her mother had improved a little, it was open war with him. He could not stand her opposition to the Machine; he did not even try to understand her point of view, as if her vision were a personal attack against him. He saw his daughter's life as a direct affront, and decided to make her pay for it. Tonight, in the darkness of the apartment announcing their absence, Iris sighed in relief.

  On a whim, she wrote a note to her parents, informing them that she would not be here tonight. She would go back, alone, in the Forest, in search of Mossa, and this time she would find him. Slamming the door behind her, she thought of leaving the same note at their favorite bar, in case they would go there directly after their day. She did what she had to do. Phalomera had introduced her to Mossa; there had to be a reason. It was therefore necessary that she find him.

  She passed by the Tower to get to the nearest rail. Damn Tower ... She suddenly froze. Its black and opaque surface, its slender structure towards the sky with ends one could not see, absorbed lives and transformed them into data, into statistics. This could not be the pinnacle of technology; human beings had to be able to build something else, why not a flying machine? Explore space, move forward, into the unknown. Do not stay stagnant.

 
; Night was falling, and pleasantly cool air brushed her face. She crossed the City by rail, following the route she followed every day with her friends. Knowing the route by heart, she had stopped looking at the scenery when riding with her group. There, alone, at night, she took advantage of the sight of the sleeping City, finding happiness with artificial lights fading, buildings shrinking and spacing, in order to become the homes of the Periphery. She wondered how it would feel to live without immediate neighbours, to be truly alone at home, to open one’s door into a garden, not a hallway ... She had never thought about questioning Aimie and Kahila on this subject. She promised to do so soon.

  In the darkness, her chip activated night vision, changing her pupils and increasing the tension of her optic nerves. Technology could be useful ... as long as it served the interests of humans exclusively. Gradually, as she moved away from the City, contact with the machine became weaker, and night optical regulation stopped. She walked slowly and carefully to reach the Forest. When she touched the first tree trunk, she felt Phalomera. He or she crept into her mind and took over, in some way, from the Machine, by restoring her night vision.

  Why was Phalomera helping her? What was its exact nature? Iris had many questions about it, but she had no time to think about them now. Above all, she had learned that the questions were making Phalomera flee, and its help was precious. She then pushed her questions aside.