by B. B. Ullman
The three SMHR units turned toward each other. Maybe they were talking it over in their heads—or whatever parts communicated.
“The guarantee is not absolute,” Citizen Lady acknowledged. “We are dealing with an unknown event.”
Albert sent another willful memo. Must try to fix bad order. Must try. Must try.
“You are so stubborn,” I told him. “Wait . . . what happens if we don’t do anything? Like, if we put a wall around the cloud in the woods and just stay away from it?”
The three SMHR units all shook their heads. The Commodore stopped watching the wall screen to answer. “The imbalance will only grow and grow until a flood of negatively charged energies saturates your world. All living minds are at risk.”
“That’s not good,” I mumbled, stating the obvious.
Albert sent a memo that claimed he could keep the scary thoughts at bay. He showed me a wall of snow encircling a cartoon Albert. The wall kept the army of red spiders out. With this assurance and with Albert so stoked to help, I decided he might as well attempt it. This problem was bigger than both of us.
“Where’re your lasers and the equipment you need to do this?”
“We theorize that because the pressure is mild, Albert can safely slip his inquiries into this end of the tear without the use of invasive equipment if he can keep his thoughts neutral—neither positive nor negative. The triad can code his thoughts and direct them with our integral craft.” The Commodore stepped aside. “Albert, if you will stand over here?”
19
The thought that rose
Albert heard Pearl say, “Okay, Albert, but if things get weird—get out.”
He could sense her worry, born of fear for his well-being.
Albert sent his sister a memo that was unusually sentimental: He made it warm like a sunset, but it was melancholy, too, like the end of a wonderful day. I must try for our father, it said.
He and Pearl shared a wistful longing for that brilliant man—the man for whom everything had gone so terribly wrong. Albert wished he could correct his father’s legacy. He wished he could erase the blackened memories that tarnished the life and death of Albert Day Sr. Perhaps the only vindication he would receive lay in the heart of his son. Albert was determined to fix this mess to honor his dad, to protect his sister, to help save them all.
Albert walked to the wall-screen that was also a window. He was so stimulated by the fascinating turn of events and the data that the SMHR units revealed that he could hardly contain himself. He had to concentrate to calm his mind, to focus.
The Commodore motioned for Albert to place his hand on a panel that appeared. Now he was connected to the integral craft, which was ready to code his thoughts and direct them toward the tear. He closed his eyes and sensed the thick cloud of electronic data that the SMHR units and their craft exuded. It was a phenomenon that was similar to thought, only more rigid and mechanical. It was close to consciousness—so very close—and Albert saw where they came up short, but he couldn’t explore that now.
He prepared to send a memo that was a general inquiry within a direct channel. He’d done this millions of times, but the fractal element made it more challenging. Albert perceived how the SMHR units had tried and failed, and armed with this new information, he was confident that he would succeed.
He took a deep breath and began to shape his memos into ever smaller fractals, embedding details and questions into the virtual stream that flowed away to the half-constant. But the SMHR craft pulsed and clicked, rejecting the command. Citizen Lady came forward and stood close. Melding with her craft she attempted a number of different configurations, one after another after another . . .
Albert breathed and concentrated, trying to stay on task.
Citizen Lady attempted more than three million configurations without a twitch or movement of any kind—and then she found one that was somewhat compatible with human consciousness, though it was time sensitive and fleeting. If she could just skew the command with a triad override . . . There, now the SMHR craft did its job with a pleasant buzz.
Albert proceeded, keeping his thoughts neutral and calm, imagining the fractals rushing smaller and smaller, slipping into a channel that sent his consciousness to that other place.
He was in! But he had to control both excitement and fear; he had to stay neutral to get answers. Fear might attract joy, and he’d be crushed by an onslaught of thoughts—and the thoughts were everywhere, squeezed into this corner of an unknowable universe. He kept his consciousness as calm as a dull afternoon counting dust particles . . . and he began to sense the thoughts of this measureless world around him. Some were familiar human thoughts, but others were foreign and almost incomprehensible in their structure; they came from curious creatures and strange, faraway worlds. Some were so energetic that they leaked in from the future, and some were fading remnants of staggering antiquity. Some were individual and some were vast conglomerates of a whole. Some were biological and some were . . . something else. But they were all positive and good. They were all happy and hopeful.
Normally, it was easy for Albert to attract the data he desired. Thoughts in his world were as accessible and as easily read as text messages. They were real, with their own shape and energy, and when they left for the half-constant, there were always more.
With Pearl, he could communicate comfortably right at the source. Her thoughts were simple and clear and almost as naturally good as the best thoughts that bubbled forth from this tear. Albert was proud of Pearl for that; he couldn’t help but be proud. He’d sampled millions upon millions of thoughts, and Pearl’s outlook was something special. What’s more, she didn’t even know it.
But the frenetic, happy thoughts in this space were hard to capture. Their messages to him were brief and disjointed. Though their charges were upbeat and positive, there was something unsettling in this energy as a whole. They lacked something. They needed something. They kept bouncing away in search of it.
Albert’s consciousness reached out, trying to get a solid thought or an equation from this crowded world, but informative data evaded him. He’d hoped for answers, but no answers came—at least not in any form he could decipher. The fantastic, buoyant energy just seemed to push him away, until—wait, what was that? Yes, here was something—something he could hold onto. It definitely came from the half-constant, and it was definitely human. The something settled into a pattern that fit itself into words. There was a warm familiarity in the flavor of this thought; it was humble, and sweet—and desperate.
Remember I love you and Mary and the baby with all my heart and soul. Please, please remember my love.
The thought was so powerful that it rose above all the others and made itself known. It ascended and blossomed with astounding will and with a strength that was unfathomable. Despite a sense of wanting to be away, there it stayed for a tiny fraction of a moment, which in quantum terms could have been a billion lifetimes.
There was a sudden flash of white light, and the strange thoughts were gone. The connection had failed. Albert stood in awe, frozen inward. He sent Pearl a brief memo to let her know he was unscathed, and then he reflected on what he’d experienced. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the data he’d gathered, but he did know that it was fascinating and beautiful, and it made him feel wonderful. What were the chances that he could have found remember my love in the midst of a universe? It was not a matter of chance that he found his father’s thought. This was good order.
20
It’s the red spiders
After shivering the space back from wherever the heck we’d been, we took the Volkswagen to Myrtle Road—at least that’s where the Commodore said we were going. I still couldn’t see anything through the fog, but when the car stopped buzzing, the cold haze cleared, just a little.
“Hey, we’re right in front of the house!” I was thrilled to be home, to be back on Myrtle where things were normal. But they weren’t really normal, were they?
Outside looked like twilight with night falling fast. I wondered how long we’d been away. Had this fog hung around all day or was it some kind of smoke screen that came out of the Volkswagen? I was beginning to suspect the latter.
The atmosphere of twilight and deep snow and the unusual fog gave the end of the road a mysterious feel. Everything felt a little off.
“What are we going to tell my mom?” I asked.
The Commodore was in the driver’s seat; the other two SMHR units had stayed back at “the lab.”
“I took the liberty of scanning the location of the Ma and the Meemaw,” the Commodore said.
The Ma and the Meemaw? Brit mouthed.
“The inclement weather has caused an accident on the highway number 266,” he continued. “This has impeded their progress. They will update you on the telephone-recorder.”
“Are they okay?” Normally, nothing impeded the progress of my mother and grandmother.
“They are in good health and were not involved in the traffic mishap,” he assured me. “But the highway number 266 is blocked by a large freight conveyance, as well as many small vehicles. It would appear that vehicular ground travel is doubtful.”
There was a quiet pause that sat heavy in the air.
“Mr. Commodore, what do we do now—I mean about the rip and the imbalance and all?” I asked.
“Follow Albert’s lead,” he instructed. “Albert is the key. He will be processing the information he received today.”
I figured Albert was very distracted because he hadn’t sent me any memos since he’d assured me he was “unscathed.” He’d just stared at the screens all the way back from Mars. Yeah, he was processing.
“The triad will return tomorrow,” the Commodore said. “With eyeballs, of course.” He bobbed his head and the doors of the Volkswagen sprang open.
“Goodbye,” he said abruptly.
“But, Mr. Commodore—”
“Goodbye,” he said again. He waved his silly, four-fingered wave. There was nothing else to do but leave.
Me and Brit and Albert and Lars bumbled out of the car. Lars went first, stomping a trail through the snow to the house.
“I’m starving,” Lars said. “You guys realize we haven’t eaten all day? Or has it been more than one day?” He turned to check on the rest of us. “Man, that little car is quiet for an old V-Dub. I didn’t even hear it leave.”
I looked behind me. The Volkswagen was gone. I retraced my steps to the road. “There’re no tire tracks,” I said. “No tracks coming or going.” Instead, the snow had melted in a round circle where the car had been parked.
Lars and Brit had followed me over, and now we were all staring at the melted circle.
“Yeah, I don’t think it was a Volkswagen,” I muttered. “With no tracks, there’s nowhere to go but up.”
All three of us stared upward. The fog was thinning and I thought maybe we’d see a hovering Volkswagen, ridiculous as that seemed. But there was nothing up there.
“Hey! You hoodlums get off my street!”
It was Mrs. Wagner, wearing Mr. Wagner’s work jacket. She was standing on her porch with her gray hair sticking out all crazy—and she was pointing a rifle at us! It was her husband’s prize repeating rifle, a beautiful antique that he kept displayed above his fireplace. “Get off my street!” she shrieked again.
“Mrs. Wagner, it’s me, Mary!” I was shocked by her behavior. She was normally such a nice neighbor, and she always handed out really good treats on Halloween. “You know Brit and Lars—are you all right?” Her eyes kept darting around and she was flinching like something was about to get her. About to get her. Oh, no.
“No I’m not all right!” Her voice sounded high-pitched and scary. “Nothin’s right!”
Mr. Wagner came out on the porch, moving carefully. He had a black eye. “Now, Lois, they’re just kids. I want you to put that gun down and come inside.”
“Ken, I don’t feel so good. I don’t feel like myself.” Mrs. Wagner rubbed her forehead and she looked like she might cry.
“I know. Now, come along. Quit frightening these children.” Mr. Wagner gently took the rifle and put his arm on her back, trying to guide her without spooking her.
Mrs. Wagner paused and turned around. “I’m sorry, Mary. I—I’m not myself.” And then she stepped into the house, leaving her husband on the porch.
“Mr. Wagner, was Mrs. Wagner in the woods?” I moved closer to hear his response.
“Yeah, she was looking for Ed Shinn because those goats of his were raising such a ruckus. Lois was going to go feed them and—well, she came back to the house just fighting mad, over nothing. Look at this—” he pointed to the black eye—“she took a swing at me!” Quietly he added, “I put some sedatives in her tea. In all our years, I have never seen her like this.”
“I think you did the right thing,” I told him. “Try to get her to rest. And take care of yourself, Mr. Wagner. Maybe some ibuprofen will keep that eye from swelling.”
“Thanks, Mary, I will. I don’t know what got into her . . . ” He went back in the house and closed the door softly.
“Wow,” Brit exclaimed. “I can’t believe that Lois Wagner would smack old Ken like that. They always seemed to really like each other.”
“They still do. It’s the red spiders,” I whispered.
“The what?”
“Something that Albert said about the red mist. Come on, let’s get in the house.”
21
A sour taste
I made a beeline to the phone. The rooms were cold, as usual, because Ma wouldn’t turn the heat up over 65 degrees. She said gas was too expensive, plus we had a good woodstove and a bunch of firewood that she’d gotten from Bob Dietz. She’d traded eight quarts of her home-canned plum chutney for that wood. I think that we got the better end of that deal.
“I’ll start a fire,” Lars said. He headed back outside to the wood pile.
“Thanks, Lars!” I called. I clicked on the message button which was flashing an insistent red eye.
“Hi kids!” It was Ma’s cheerful voice. I was so happy to hear her. It made me feel more grounded, more like myself. Ma had sort of a low voice and it was full of humor that only she and I understood.
“You won’t believe the excitement we’ve had. A big tanker jackknifed on 266, and a bunch of cars plowed into each other. No one is hurt but the road is a mess! I was thinking that it might take a while, so I pulled a U-ey and scooted back downtown. I got a hold of Bob and he said the road won’t open for hours, so Meemaw and I went to Rona Zucker’s and—what’s that?—oh, Rona says she’s got cabin fever and she’s thrilled to have the company. Anyhow, Meemaw is tired and cold and—what’s that?—oh, Meemaw says she’s not tired, she’s just mad that the road is closed. We’re going to stay for supper; Rona’s making meatloaf, and Bob promised he’d call the minute the road opens. Now, Mary, you see that Brit stays over, and in fact, ask if Lars will come hang out for a while. I’d feel better about—well, I’d feel better. There’s that pizza in the freezer. It’s three-o-clock right now. Call me.”
Brit had already found the pizza and was reading the instructions. Lars was clunking around in the front room, making a fire. Albert had gone to the bathroom—I heard the toilet flush. It seemed like the day hadn’t really happened.
“Did we really go to Mars?” I asked, looking for general confirmation.
“We went somewhere,” Lars said from the front room. The fire was starting to crackle.
“Yeah, we definitely went somewhere,” Brit repeated.
“Lars, didn’t you put that ID on the table?” I asked.
“Right in the middle.”
“Well, it’s not there.”
“That Commodore guy probably palmed it.” Brit scowled. “Mary, what did you mean by red spiders?”
“It was how Albert explained those bad feelings that came from the mist. I think he meant that the bad stuff could get into your head like spiders.”
&nb
sp; “Eww. And you think that’s what happened to Mrs. Wagner?”
“That’s what the Commodore said would happen. And it’s only going to get worse with more negative stuff flooding in. I mean, it made all of us feel pretty rotten.”
“And I bet it makes the animals feel rotten, too.” Brit clenched her jaw with this grim realization.
I pictured the coyote and the birds. From what all we’d learned from the SMHR units, the odd behavior that we’d witnessed seemed much more menacing. I felt my stomach twist and it gave my mouth a sour taste. “I gotta eat something.”
Brit and I had finally changed out of our pajamas and put on our jeans and big sweaters. We sat down to gobble the pizza with Lars, and we were downing big glasses of water, too. I guess we were all dehydrated.
“Albert!” I yelled. “Come and eat!” He’d gone to lie down while I talked to Ma on the phone. I’d tried to reassure her that all was well here at home. And she tried to reassure me that she was having a great time at Rona Zucker’s.
I hadn’t gotten a single memo from Albert. He’d seemed tired and unsociable. I hoped he was okay.
“Lars, that’s four pieces. You’re eating way more than your share,” Brit accused.
“I’m bigger than you are,” Lars replied with a droll expression.
“So, Lars, do you mind sticking around? My mom thought it would be a good idea, with Mr. Shinn and all—”
BOOM! There was a blast from outside.
22
A horrible place
The three of us froze, looking at each other across the table.
“Do you think—oh my God, I hope that’s not Mrs. Wagner,” Brit said.
“I’ll go see.” Lars rushed outside and ran into the snowy street. Brit and I watched him from the open door.
Mr. Wagner was out on his porch, staring at the woods—he must have heard it, too.