Clarkesworld Magazine Issue 168

by Neil Clarke

  Themes of identity and reality have always interested Arula, particularly as someone who is the daughter of two immigrants from India and has grown up in the U.S with many different cultural influences. Arula is interested in studying brain simulation science in the future, plans to continue writing science fiction stories, and hopes to work on science fiction movies someday. Her Twitter handle is @ArulaRatnakar

  Certainty

  Isabel Lee

  Here you are. Take a look around you and remember it all: the gray sky that reveals no sun and casts no shadows, the dense blackness of trees encircling this place like a crown. You step out of the car, crushing wet gravel underneath your shoes, and marvel at how little this feels like a dream.

  Behind you, Lomas shuts the door to the driver’s seat. You both squint at the sleek structure looming in the near distance, the crown jewel against the surrounding forest. You imagine the building was designed to look formidable, modern, but to you it just looks lonely. The concrete façade is punctured by thin, black windows and angular frames, steadfast against the sky as it cleaves fast-moving streams of clouds. You are hardly an expert in anthropology, but you’ve seen enough of Lomas’ field to know that this is not a place dedicated to it. But what else could it be? When Lomas had broken the news to you back in Cambridge, his only justification for the half-day’s travel and two-night stay deep in the Appalachian forests had been a single, cryptic sentence. I have been informed of a machine with great abilities.

  “Jesus,” Lomas mutters, and you can only imagine what aspect of this situation he is referring to. He taps the side of his temple and reads something off the Iris of his eyes. “Well, at least we made good time.”

  You tap your temple too, and a small display blinks into your vision, the numbers 4:50 hovering over the tops of trees. You close out of the screen and exhale slowly, taking stock of yourself. Your neck aches, your limbs cramped and deadened, the hairs on your arms prickling at the chill. Despite everything, though, you can’t help but feel a little giddy that you’re standing here. This place hangs in your mind like a memory, a ghost. As if you are fated to be here. Lomas walks past in your peripheral vision, setting off toward the entrance, and the fog is beginning to soak through your jacket. Still, you let yourself stand here, just for one moment more, and breathe.

  Axiom #1: Lomas never tells you anything. This used to drive you crazy in the beginning—so many times you’ve sat seething at your desk, caught uninformed and unprepared, barely resisting the urge to splash coffee all over his ratty clothes and quit right then. But now you have come to accept this quirk as a kind of fundamental truth, and this time when he tells you to pack your bags, you are not too surprised.

  Lomas doesn’t actually teach at the university, either. He says he prefers his research, and you’re quietly dubious of his abilities as an effective lecturer anyway. Consequently, for all the time you’ve spent with him, and all the acclaim he’s garnered as a professor, you’ve learned surprisingly little about the field of predictive anthropology. Most days, your tasks are painfully menial: fetching books, transcribing interviews, documenting artifacts, and the like. That’s Axiom #2: never get your hopes up. But now you and Lomas are trekking through the damp grass, the thick glass doors you approach leaking a silvery light, and you feel yourself doubting your own adages, wondering if this time might be different.

  The first floor past the entrance stretches as tall as the structure itself, subsequent floors wrapping around the perimeter, a mandala of endless coiled hallways. You feel caught inside the body of a giant, its rib cage expanded and taut with breath, about to give to a gusty sigh. In the center of the floor, a young woman perks up when she sees you enter. Her white lab coat flaps behind her as she rushes over, her footsteps echoing over the marble floor. She shakes Lomas’ hand and introduces herself as Celine, principal researcher. Lomas nods, prior communication evidently established, and unthinkingly you mouth her name to yourself softly—Celine. The name suits her, you think. Her dark hair is cropped at the shoulder, and her brown eyes gleam as they jump to your face. You realize it is from her own Iris, the micro display bright with open windows. “You must be Professor Lomas’ assistant, right?” she asks, extending a hand.

  You take it, stammering. “Jules.” Iris technology isn’t anything new; the majority of the population has gotten the necessary operation by now, effectively obsoleting the need for cell phones altogether. Sometimes it still throws you to watch someone’s eye shift and flicker like that, their presence always slightly veiled. Then again, it might just be her actual face that’s making you nervous.

  The corners of Celine’s lips turn up slightly as she meets your eyes, but her gaze shifts back to Lomas after barely an instant. “I apologize that the Director couldn’t be here to meet you,” she says. “He had to finish up some work first. Life at the lab can be like that, I’m afraid.” The lab. The syllable drips with ubiquity, a monosyllabic pervasiveness.

  “No need to apologize. In all the time I’ve known him, I don’t think he’s ever been on time,” he replies breezily.

  So Lomas knows this man. Celine laughs politely, digging through her coat pocket. “Well, I’ll show you to the Director’s in the meantime. I’m sure you two must be starving.” She hands you each a key card, VISITOR printed neatly and dangling from a metal clip. You pin yours to your lapel and she walks you over to the elevator, the giant’s great glass spine. You step inside the compartment as she swipes her ID and presses the last number from the dense array of buttons, to floor 82. The ground starts to distance itself from your feet, and you can feel Celine’s eyes watching both of you. The car rattles skyward.

  After a few long minutes, you slow to a stop and step into a dimly lit foyer. Only now do Celine’s last words really register with you, and you realize you are standing in someone’s living quarters. The apartment’s escher-esque layout unfolds before you, open doorways throwing isometric shadows over the bare, cream-colored walls. A long table is set with plates and glasses to your right, beside sleek floor-to-ceiling windows. To your left, pristine couches and throw pillows surround a lit fireplace. Every doorway you can spot reveals only hazy darkness, and you suspect this intimate gathering space obscures the floor’s true size.

  Celine glides through the apartment, taking one look at both of your faces and hiding her smile. “It’s tradition that the penthouse is passed on to every Director,” she explains. She reaches the windows and peers down at a blurry, tannish patch in the distance. “Though the rest of us aren’t far.”

  You squint and realize you are looking at the roofs of long, squat buildings, barely wider than trailers. You look back at her.

  “You live there?” Instead of answering, she shrugs and points you and Lomas to the dining table, murmuring that the Director should just be a few minutes longer. You take a seat and instantly feel a little ridiculous, a trio of seats occupied at an expanse that should seat at least twenty.

  Celine sits too, folding her hands together and turning her attention to Lomas. You notice she’s closed out of her Iris as she asks about his work, revealing the true amber of her eyes. You would hardly describe Lomas as a charismatic figure, but her attentiveness seems to invigorate him, and he ambles on easily about his research interests, case studies, and academic papers stuck in peer review hell. When he finally draws a breath, she asks how he knows the Director.

  Lomas stalls for only a moment. “We’re old friends from university.”

  Celine cups a candle in the palm of her hand and frowns. “Didn’t realize he had any friends.”

  The elevator dings and the conversation falls silent. After a moment, the doors slide open and a man strides into the room, his face stretching into a broad smile upon seeing the guests at his table. You know instantly that he must be the Director, and yet he looks nothing like you were expecting. There is not an ounce of mad scientist in his slick appearance; his face is all sharp features mellowed with slight salt-and-pepper stubble, the l
ab coat uniform swapped for dark slacks and a crisp button-up.

  Lomas rises from his seat as the Director approaches, and the two men grip each other as they shake hands. Lomas’ worn, pilling jacket and scruffy face stand in particular contrast against the newcomer, who laughs as he takes in his appearance.

  “I can’t believe how long it’s been. Look at you,” he says, his voice rich and steady. Lomas chuckles in reply, and you can feel their rapport become palpable, years of rust shed instantly. The Director turns to you next and shakes your hand, his smile mesmerizing. It’s hard to look him in the eyes. Celine disappears behind a door, coming out quickly with covered platters and a bottle of wine, and the Director tells you all to dig in.

  Dinner turns out to be delicious, a stream of dishes you can’t name and certainly could not afford. You plaster on a grin for most of the meal and pick at your meat, some kind of lamb, while the two men reminisce about past rendezvous and acquaintances. At one point, the Director disappears into a hallway and comes back with a stack of old photos. You and Celine sit together and sift through the pictures, squinting at the fuzzy faces. This is the farthest back you’ve glimpsed into Lomas’ past by far, and you’re amazed at the sight of his tufts of hair, his unlined smile. In one picture you see him standing alongside two men: one a grinning, handsome Director, the other appearing to be the Director’s clone, with the same sharp jaw and light eyes.

  The Director glances over, noticing your puzzled expression. “My brother,” he says quickly. Lomas stares at the picture until the Director hands it to him. Lomas takes the photo wordlessly and tucks it into his jacket. You look down and remember your axioms.

  The night goes on. The conversation moves to the fireplace, and the Director pours both you and Lomas a copious amount of wine. You take slow sips and grimace at the musty taste; Lomas reaches his third glass. The Director speaks generously, if not a bit vaguely, about the lab and its amenities. He paints a sweeping picture of the campus, where employees enjoy scenic bike paths, private gym facilities, wild buffalo sightings.

  When that conversation meanders into silence, the Director leans back in his chair, his face basked in a warm glow, and runs a finger around the rim of his glass. “You haven’t asked about it yet,” he says abruptly.

  Lomas’ eyes flicker up, his face slightly flushed. “Hm?”

  “Frankly, I’m a little hurt. You’re not even a little bit curious about my machine? After everything I’ve told you about it?”

  Lomas’ face hardens. “I am sure I’ll see it in due time,” he says quietly.

  After a few moments of silence, you can’t bear it. “Wait, that’s not true.” Lomas’ look shoots daggers at you, but the Director’s eager eyes steels your resolve. “I want to hear more about your machine,” you tell him.

  The Director smiles, swirling the remnants of his glass around. He sets it down lightly. “If you had the power to go anywhere, at any time, Jules, where would you go?”

  You stare at him, unable to process his question. “I . . . I don’t know.” You can hear Lomas’ tight breaths beside you and heat starts to creep into your cheeks.

  “That’s alright. It’s quite the question, isn’t it?” the Director says. “Imagine all the answers you could give: requests to see around the world, into the future and the past. My machine knows all of it.”

  You stare at him. “Sorry?”

  “It is called Laplace’s machine, and it is my life’s work,” he continues. “It creates simulations of our universe so precise that any extrapolation is possible and completely accurate.”

  You sit in silence, with only the sounds of flames bursting into existence, crackling away just as quickly. “How is that possible?” you ask. “That’s so much information to account for. An impossible amount, even.”

  Celine speaks up, for the first time in a while, smiling wanly at the obvious. “The lab has a lot of resources. We make do.” Her sympathetic expression does nothing to comfort you, her words explaining nothing.

  You finally look to Lomas, who averts his eyes. “You believe this?”

  “I don’t know,” he says softly.

  The Director lifts his hands in concession. “Understandable. Tomorrow, I will show you Laplace’s machine. Then you will see the truth in everything I am saying.”

  Lomas nods, his face turning to stone. The Director’s claims stay heavy in your mouth, souring the wine that lingers in your throat, but you can’t fathom what else to ask. Before you know it, Lomas makes an excuse to turn in. The Director bids him a brief farewell, and you find yourself in the elevator again, descending the 82 floors to the ground.

  Outside, you get your bags from the car and Celine conjures what appears to be a deluxe golf cart to the parking lot. She tells you your next stop is the residencies, the network of buildings you had viewed from afar, where you will stay with the rest of the five hundred or so employees. You load your bags and get into the back seat, and soon you are zipping around the lab, Celine taking the wheel with a force that leaves you gripping onto your seat. The sun has set and rolling fog spills from the trees, bringing cool night air with it. You glance back at the lab, which has taken on a lunar, ghostly glow.

  After a few minutes, hazy lights in the distance become glowing gas lamps, yellow billowing around each globe like smoke. Celine pulls into the lot and parks, then points you to separate rooms in the first row of buildings. You turn to your right, hoping to catch Lomas’ eye, to beg him for a crumb of an explanation of tonight’s events. But he’s already gone—you watch him swipe his card and disappear behind the door to his room. You look the other way and see empty air. Celine has disappeared too.

  With a sigh, you start shuffling over to your own room. You swipe in, and once the lights flicker on you take stock of your accommodations. The room is plain, a far cry from the magnificent penthouse in which you had just dined, but adequate by any motel’s standards. You sit on the queen bed, the day’s events playing in the back of your mind, the conversation with the Director ringing loudest of all. You drag your fingers lightly across the comforter, watching minuscule folds form and shift in its topology, almost imperceptibly thin threads catching underneath the ridges of your fingerprints. You close your eyes and exhale. The thought that any entity could fully capture all the information just contained in this room makes your head spin.

  Then there’s a pounding at the door, jolting you into reality. Celine is waiting when you open up, peering at you over an armful of folded towels. “What are these for?” you ask.

  “The rooms don’t come with them,” she says shortly.

  You nod and then stand there awkwardly for a bit, not sure what to say. “Thanks for doing all this,” you finally manage. “I’m guessing this isn’t really supposed to be your job.”

  She snorts. “No, it’s not.” The wind blows strands of hair in her face, which she pushes away mindlessly. “But you should know that anything to do with Laplace’s machine is top secret. Most of the employees here don’t actually know about it. There’s no one else but me.”

  You process her words, at the same time constructing all your questions to be as casual as possible. She sees you take a breath and silences you with a hand. “Save your questions for tomorrow. Seriously, it’s not a good idea to get into this now.”

  You close your mouth and bow your head in acquiescence. For another moment you and her just stand there, less than a foot apart and separated by a doorframe. Then Celine steps away and clasps her hands. “I should get some towels to your boss.” And then she is gone and you are staring at empty space. The sounds of her footsteps on gravel slowly diminish and despite the mundanity of the interaction that just happened, something in you aches just a little.

  You step back and close the door, overwhelmed, relieved. At least this first day is over. You’re in need of a break.

  You go somewhere different, someplace before. You haven’t met Lomas yet; you won’t for many years. You are traveling down a river in the p
addleboat your father built a few years ago, painted red by two brushes of different sizes. The water flows a little faster today, as the lake it runs out from has swelled from last night’s rain. Mist pours on your face and leaves teardrops on your eyelashes as you battle the harsher currents that twist your trajectory.

  If you look behind you, you can catch a glimpse of your big black dog, Reno, barking and bounding down the riverbank, trying to keep up with you. You and him have grown up together and are nearly inseparable at this point. You are watching him mid-leap when your world literally turns upside down, your head dropping into the water like a rock and forced downward by the hands of malevolent beings. These river gods drag your body through the coursing water, brief spasms of solid force hitting your appendages with the wooden planks of your boat and the river floor, disappearing and reappearing below your feet sporadically. You feel endlessly caught in this blinding rush, and yet cannot seem to change anything about it. Your journey to wherever this river takes you feels inevitable. Something inside you accepts that this is it.

  And then you are thrown back by a sudden force, by bared teeth clenched onto the back of your shirt collar. You thrash your arms wildly and something gradually drags you to the banks of the river. You lie there dazed, feeling ribbons of water course across your skin, and then you realize your face is above the surface, and you take a deep shuddering breath.

  An immeasurable amount of time passes and then you can feel something nudging your hand, licking your face. You open your eyes and it’s Reno. Your fear and gratitude leaves you sobbing and gripping onto his body, face buried in his fur.

  But now—now you are here again, and you are getting up from the mud, and you see the jagged branches that lie across the river, allowing someone to drag themselves to shore. You reach out and stroke Reno’s fur, which drips and glosses under your touch, as if it hadn’t been wet before. Reno is an old dog at this point. He could barely keep up when you were still in the boat.