by Hank Davis
The meeting room was nondescript. There was a round table with closely spaced Link pads. A geist glowed somberly near the table, and we took seats around it. Our committee chair was Esmerelda Hillyer-Ortega, who held a position comparable to mine in the Second Dictate. Several members were late in arriving, and Hillyer-Ortega apologized to the geist. It replied using images of dark-haired people and one woman who was very light and blonde. Hillyer-Ortega seemed a bit shaken by the blonde woman’s appearance.
Then Bina came in.
She was younger. I could tell by looking at her that she was troubled and trying not to show it. This was the way she always looked before a difficult presentation. With her was a tall man with closely cropped hair. Pendergrass, the devil.
I found myself staring, and touched the Link pad. Instantly, the room shrank to a corner icon, and a list of committee members popped up, accompanied by pictures. I selected Bina’s image.
“My name is Tabrina Singh,” it said. “I’m a research associate in the Bank of Toronto’s statistics division, Kokopelli Branch.”
Personal information, I shamelessly requested.
My inquiry would be recorded and Bina would get a note saying as much.
“I’m thirty-two years old. I was born on Kokopelli, and grew up in the Khushwant District. I live now in Extension Eight. My parents were from England. We are Pakistani. I went to the University of California in Los Angeles for my undergraduate degree, and completed my Ph.D. at the London School of Economics. I’m married to Dr. Gerald Pendergrass. We have no children.”
Complete entry. Inquiry noted. Anything else?
“Let’s get underway,” said Hillyer-Ortega. I reluctantly exited the Link. She made a speech welcoming the geist.
She turned to the rest of us. “Ordinarily, I would introduce and try to create a context for a guest’s appearance before this committee, but, in this case, I am as curious as the rest of you as to what our . . . speaker . . . has to say.” She sat down. The alien immediately split into as many geists as there were committee members. The geists were about the size of a desk viewscreen, and each hovered before someone’s face.
“To get straight to the point,” said my geist, “it is our fervent desire to establish in this system a branch of the Dwingeloo Time and Life Company.” The alien was silent for a moment.
“Er, what services does your company provide?” asked Hillyer-Ortega. At the first sound of her voice, all the geists around the table became translucent, and the committee members could see one another through them.
“You may very well wonder what service our company can provide,” replied the geist, back to opaque images. “Never fear. It is comprehensible by you and that’s why we’re here.”
The image within my geist, my brother, faded, and was replaced by a picture of a foggy sea of lights, concentrated to a brightness in the very middle. Stars perhaps? A galaxy? Suddenly the core of the lights emitted a pulse of energy that rippled through the other lights, changing their sizes and colors as it progressed. Very pretty. Then back to Dr. Myers.
“Time, as your species has deduced, is not a line. In fact, time has what you may call infinite dimensions. In fact, you might very well say that everything is happening all at once. In fact, you might say that the universe is both moving and being still, that forever is the same as now. What is real to us is what we choose to see.”
“Choose?” Bina said. Her husband shot her a petulant glance, as if she’d spoken out of turn. But she was just as much a member of this committee as he was. “We can’t choose. We are constructed a certain way and we see what we see. This is a crude way of speaking. The mathematics is quite clear, however—”
And the geist cut her off. Did it mean to? There was no way to tell. “Ah yes. Well, no. Actually, if we could just—” My geist flashed a series of equations within itself, their symbology glowing in neon colors.
“And to get right to the point,” it continued. “We have some initial investments to make in your system. A virtual immolation energy device, for instance, that should supply your foreseeable needs until the end of time.”
“I thought you said time had no end,” one of the committee intoned.
“Yes, well, you know what I mean,” the geist replied. “In whatever case, this will prepare you for full entry into our local economy, and eventually into the Intergalactic Prosperity Alliance.”
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Yes, what can we do for you, sir?” said the geist.
“I was just wondering. If you can take care of our energy needs, I assume you and the . . . others . . . are taken care of as well?”
“This is true, and furthermore—”
“—then there is no economy. There is no relative scarcity or abundance. Money is meaningless without them.”
“Good point,” said the geist. “Well taken.”
“Yes,” Bina said. “So you are giving us some kind of rechargeable black hole. What could we possibly provide you in return?”
“Your future,” said the geist.
“Come again?”
“The Dwingeloo Time and Life Company deals in futures,” it said. “As a matter of common knowledge, futures are the monetary unit of the local cluster. An option is what one future is called. Like a yen or dollar. At the moment, your system is worth about thirty billion options.”
The geist went on at some length, explaining how the universal economy worked. It was similar, in some ways, to the Hindu concept of karma, only with no moral component whatsoever. All of the choices that we don’t make, both as individuals and as larger groups, are tallied in a kind of possibility bank. For us, the bank is like a piggy bank that we drop coins into, but which we can never open. The geists had a way of cracking it open. And with that fund of coins we’d saved—with those unused options—we could invest. Others could use our options, and pay us interest, in the form of more options, for the service. Also, we could borrow, the alien mentioned in passing.
But we could not only use options that we hadn’t taken in the past. We could invest our future options as well. In fact, past options were merely nickels and dimes compared with the futures. The marketplace for futures was the universal economy, and, in a sense, we carried the past around in our pockets as mere change.
Bina closely questioned the geist on the mathematics of this point, and she seemed satisfied with the answers, but I must confess that the discussion was far over my head. Oh, I understood the concept well enough. And the disk, my bribe, began to make sense to me. Options let you buy a desirable future life. You could borrow, and buy a better life than was, at least in your perception, possible before. If you invested wisely, then you would produce a future rich in even more options, and you could pay the loan back and have plenty of options to spare. You might even loan some out yourself, and get an even better future for your money.
I waited until Bina was through, then asked another question. “What if someone were to invest poorly, and create a future with only a few options? What if they couldn’t pay back Dwingeloo?” I asked.
“Well, then, we would call in whatever we could and write off the loss.”
“You would call in whatever they had?”
“Yes, essentially. We zero balance them.”
“And they would have no further options?”
“No. That state is impossible.”
“But, you just said—”
“They would cease to exist. They would cease to be and cease to have been. They wouldn’t be missed, because no one would ever have known them. Not even us, by the way. It’s a risk we take.”
“Very brave of you.”
The geist evidently had no concept of sarcasm. “We like to think of it as the cost of doing business.”
The committee decided, as was expected, not to decide anything at the moment. This seemed to content the geists, who acted as if they had all the time in the world. As we left the room, Pendergrass and Bina were arguing—well, actually Bina was
listening as Pendergrass chided her on several points she’d raised. The gist was, I took it, that she’d awkwardly stated some of the points she made, and the aliens might think us mathematically primitive because of her. I bided my time, and walked out with them.
“I’m going right past Extension Eight on my way home,” I said. “Perhaps we could share a ride?” Ah, what stupidity, I immediately thought. How could I know where they lived?
Pendergrass stared at me for a moment. “Oh yes, you were the contentious gentleman on the committee,” he said. “Well, we are going that way—”
“Splendid. I’ll order a rimshot.” I stepped over to a Link pad on the corridor wall. What was I doing? This could only lead to no good. But I called up the capsule.
Note: Inquiry into Level One Personal Information was initiated by Tabrina Singh 421050432 at 1348.24 KST, Access provided. Trace code available upon request, the Link informed me. So, Bina had asked about me, too.
We had a good twenty-minute ride ahead of us. Of course, the trip only took me further out of my way home, but that was unimportant. I wanted to spend at least a few moments of my real life—the life I was in now—with Bina.
Once we were inside, Bina immediately addressed me as if I were a friend with whom formalities could be dropped. This seemed to bother Pendergrass, but I paid him no mind.
“Did they give you one of these?” asked Bina. She pulled a metallic disk identical to mine from her pocket.
“Yes,” I said.
“We’ve discussed that,” said Pendergrass. “Those are merely a way of overawing us with their technical superiority. Obviously, it is some kind of fantasy, wish-fulfilling device, a fancy drug if you like.” He took the disk from Bina, turned it in his fingers, tossed it back. “That offer they made . . . unlimited energy. Does anyone but me realize how incredible it is?”
“I do,” I said. “I believe I realize many things.”
“This is an option,” Bina said, fingering the disk. “I’m sure of it.”
“It’s a hundred-thousand-option note,” I said. “Perhaps more.”
“What are we to make of this? What could they want from us that is worth this much . . . money?”
“Nothing,” said Pendergrass. “You’re jumping to conclusions, as usual, my dear. And what if it is valuable in the larger scheme of things? Why, then, we’re rich—for all the good it will do us.” He chuckled. “I’m not planning on buying a star any time soon. What would I do with it?”
“What he said is true,” I replied. “Nothing is what they want.”
“We are the ones who asked the questions, you and I,” said Bina.
“You are the only person on the committee who really understands the technical side of what is going on.”
“I beg your pardon,” Pendergrass cut in. “I’m perfectly aware of the implications of what was discussed.”
I looked at Pendergrass coolly. “Yes,” I said. “Pardon me.”
“So all we have to do is keep our mouths shut and let them go about business as usual,” Bina said. “Let them set up their bank, or whatever.”
“Then we deposit our funds.”
“And the future . . . happens. The one we want; the one we pay for.” Bina looked at me, looked me over, as if she were drinking me in. As if this were the last chance she’d ever have to be with me. She’s seen the same vision as I have, I thought. She has loved me in another life.
“I wonder how much thirty billion options is in real money,” she said. “I wonder who will decide how to invest it.”
“Oh, I think this is too important a matter for our little committee,” said Pendergrass. “We’ll have to kick this one upstairs.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bina said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She rubbed her hands together, the way she did when she was truly worried. “I want to clean them,” she once told me. “The more stress I’m under, the dirtier they feel to me.”
“A power source that cannot be depleted, powering a war that never ends,” I said. “Seems like a good way to keep generating a few options. Maybe not many. But what a safe bet, eh? Like buying bonds.”
When she looked up at me, tears were in her eyes. “Did you see it, too?”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Pendergrass.
“I saw it,” I said. “And I saw other things.”
Now she was crying outright. Pendergrass huffed. I reached over, touched her hand. “Bina, we were so happy. Anything else would—”
“It can’t be,” she said. She took my hand, turned it over and ran her finger along my palm.
“I say!” Pendergrass exclaimed.
“Oh, Haliman,” she said. “When you know the future, there are some things that must cancel each other out, and some things must be. It’s in the math, in the logic. If we take the bribe, the horror we saw will happen.”
“Precisely because we’ve taken the bribe.”
“Yes,” she replied, and let go my hand. “In the future.”
We parted at the Extension Eight transfer. She held out her small hand. I did not shake it. I could not. And then I watched her walk away—watched her light and beautiful gait, the sway of her shoulders and hips. It was all so familiar. Never was. She turned a corner. Never will be.
I took the next rimshot and flew around Planet Earth three times before I finally returned to my apartment. Why not? I was a rich man, after all.
The Dwingeloo Time and Life Company established a branch office within days of gaining permission from the Ethics Committee. I have no idea if the vote were close, or what the discussion was. I attended no more meetings.
But I was first in line when the geists opened up. The office was a simple room, with a chair for me. A geist hung in the air before me—a geist phalange, actually, poking through my reality like a fingertip, radiating from one of the central beings, who were as invisible as time to us.
“Dwingeloo wants to be your neighborhood bank,” said the geist. “Here at Dwingeloo, we operate on a handshake, so to speak, and our good faith in one another.”
“That is acceptable,” I said. I took the metallic disk from my pocket. “I have two transactions to make.”
“You wish to cash in your options,” the geist replied. “We will be pleased to serve you.”
“No.”
“Bring it back again? You wish to borrow more, then? Well, seeing as you’re a good customer—”
“I want to make an investment,” I said. “I wish to place half the amount of this note in a high-yield account. I will accept whatever risk applies, of course. Do you have anything like that?”
The geist was silent. The phalange was integrating with the parent being, getting its order on how to proceed. I waited.
“Well, according to Intergalactic Accord, I am compelled to inform you of the investment instruments we offer,” it finally said. “But I should also warn you that it is possible to lose more than the amount you invest. In that case, we would be forced to call in your other options.”
“As I stated, I’m prepared to take that risk.”
“Very well.” The disk flashed in my hands, and then disappeared. “And how do you wish to handle the other two million options, Haliman Yorasi?”
“I want to bribe you with it,” I said.
“Come again a second time?”
“I am tired of working for Kokopelli Station. I want a change. I want a position with Dwingeloo. Middle management will be fine.”
“Haliman Yorasi, surely you cannot—” But this time the parent being pulled the phalange back to it. All of this would one day be utterly familiar to me. It was gone a long while. I waited. I had plenty of time and nothing better to do.
The geist blinked back into existence. “Sure thing,” it said. “When do you want to start?”
After five years, I have been kicked upstairs. Now I am on my way to a new position at headquarters. I am on my way to Dwingeloo. I travel—although that is not quite the word fo
r it—in an invisible capsule of events that did not happen. Mutual exclusion powers the stardrive.
I did quite well for Earth, I must say, even at the risk of appearing to gloat. I took on our systemic account, after about a year of learning the ropes, and turned it around. It had fallen into a sorry state under geist management, whether deliberate or not. I find that the geists and I have a lot in common, actually. They are not evil; they are just good business people. When I showed them that Earth could turn a tidy profit without war and ruin, they were quick to come around and do things my way. In fact, the home office decided it needed more go-getters like me in upper management.
So now, fair Dwingeloo lies before me. The Milky Way glows fiercely behind me, but I have taken my last backward glance. I will never see Bina again. What is the use? And if we did meet in some secret way, and lived in some hidden room the life that might have been, would we not run the risk of making it actually so? When you know the future, there are some things that cancel one another out, some things that must not be.
And so I ride to the corporate office in a ship of lost loves, broken promises, and stifled passion. Oh yes, out here among the stars, it’s business as usual. And there is no love in all of Dwingeloo.
FIRST CONTACT,
SORT OF
by Karen Haber and Carol Carr
The alien from Rigel 9 thought that humans having fingers was absolutely great, but otherwise they were primitive wimps, with weak minds easy to control Too bad the creature had never read The Exorcist. Or even seen the movie.
***
Karen Haber is the author of nine novels including Star Trek Voyager: Bless the Beasts, and co-author of Science of the X-Men. She is a Hugo Award nominee, nominated for Meditations on Middle Earth, an essay collection celebrating J.R.R. Tolkien that she edited. Her recent work includes the short story collection The Sweet Taste Of Regret. Other publications: The Mutant Season series, the Woman Without A Shadow series, Masters of Science Fiction and Fantasy Art, Crossing Infinity, Exploring the Matrix, and Transitions: Todd Lockwood. Her short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and many anthologies including The Madness of Cthulhu and Zombies! Zombies! Zombies! She reviews art books for Locus Magazine. She lives in Oakland, California with her spouse, Robert Silverberg, and three cats.