by Neil Clarke
An article catches your attention, an obituary. The name means nothing, but a location sticks out to you in the brief preview of the article, a place you can almost locate in your mind. After a few mis-selects, you pull the article up and skim over the opening words. Something in your head clicks. Every sentence dredges up images, sounds, even smells that you can barely hold onto. You can envision the laboratory they mention, the towering structure with those incredible chambers, the things you witnessed during that faraway weekend. You had met the deceased when you were a young man. He had held the position of Director for nearly thirty years, says the article, practically working up until his death. The article details his most significant discoveries, the impact he made on the field of physics overall, and his education at the same university you had worked at all those years ago.
She takes up barely more than a sentence near the end, but when you read her name, the entirety of her becomes vividly real. The article quotes her sentiment to continue the lab’s most ambitious and groundbreaking work, to honor her predecessor’s legacy. You read the sentence again and bask in every syllable, each a kernel of new information, proof that she has continued to exist beyond that weekend.
Eventually you close out of the article and wonder if memories can ever just belong to the past. All those times you’ve replayed each interaction in your head, poring over scrolls together in that labyrinth of a library or taking towels out of her arms. Weren’t you changing them a little every time? Every fresh coat of paint a slightly different color, so much so that now you aren’t even sure if the words she says to you are hers or your own invention.
And then you think back to that space below the ground, where there exists a single version of that weekend that is true. You wonder if he ever discovered what it all meant. You wonder if she knows now, too.
The next stop in the tour is a place Celine calls the greenhouse. This room stretches higher and longer than the confines of the library, with windows for walls and marble ceiling panels that diffuse daylight into soft, golden pools. Thick trees sprout from the soil floor and stretch to the ceiling, casting dappled shadows at your feet. Lining the pathways that cross the ground are the most verdant, lush ferns you’ve ever seen. They spill onto the walkway, threatening to trip you on any misplaced step, though Celine winds her way through like it’s nothing. She stoops down to show you a tag attached to the base of a fern, and you think back to the scrawled numbers on the fern scrolls in the library. You kneel down next to her and listen to her talk about the symbiotic relationship between the shady trees and temperate ferns; Lomas stays standing, gazing upward at the trees, his head evidently somewhere else.
Eventually, Celine notices this too. She follows his gaze to a small glass enclosure that juts out of the glass wall, connected to the ground by a ladder. “Our magpie roost,” she explains, getting up and brushing soil off her palms. “We can go up if you want. The view is nice.”
Lomas eyes the enclosure warily. “Animals aren’t really my thing.”
Celine shrugs and turns to you, and you nod tentatively. Together you make your way toward the enclosure. At the base of the ladder, she takes off her lab coat and stuffs it into a basket on the floor. “Might want to leave any shiny things down here. Otherwise, be prepared to fight for it.”
You hastily unclip your ID and deposit it before climbing after her, leaving Lomas by himself. You emerge into a small enclosure with an eclectic collection of mirrors, aluminum sheets, and other metallic surfaces sitting at your feet. Wooden birdhouses hang neatly down an aisle of shrubs, though you’re not sure if any are currently holding birds. Seconds later, a chattering screech answers your question for you.
“Why magpies?” you ask Celine, who is cooing into a box. She reaches in and extracts a black and white bird, which fluffs its wings impatiently.
“In terms of testing, they’re more sophisticated than ferns, I suppose. But I think the Director just likes birds.” She strokes its down and you notice a small tag poking out on one of its legs. “Did you know a magpie can recognize itself in a mirror? They’re smart things.”
The magpie glowers at you and you edge away, approaching the edge of the enclosure where the walls slant down until all that stands between you and a plummet down the side of the lab is a knee-high barrier. From this vantage point, you can see a dizzying lay of the land: the residences across the field, the forest rolling away from you, and a sizable body of water you hadn’t noticed last night. The oblong orb shimmers slightly in the cloudy afternoon sun, specks of people orbiting slowly around the perimeter.
Celine joins you and follows your gaze. “Oh, yea. Lake Novikov.” Her watchful expression is almost scornful. You stay silent, not wanting to admit to your phobia of bodies of water that has been instilled since childhood. The lake is a tiny marble from here, but still dread twists into your stomach like a knife.
Celine must mistake your silence for judgment, though, and quickly amends her words. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I just—I grew up around the ocean, and it isn’t really the same.” Wind blasts into the enclosure and Celine wraps her arms around her coatless body. You try to imagine her as a young girl, on the beaches of some infinite ocean.
“Have you ever considered leaving the lab?” you ask her.
She blinks at you and then quickly shifts her eyes away. “No, never.” She stands there with crossed arms, shivering. “The work I lead here is . . . irreplicable.”
“So you think the Director’s doing the right thing,” you say.
She gives you a strange look. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Sure it does. You’re principal researcher.”
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she repeats, backing away from the ledge and toward the exit. You turn her words over in your head until the cursing starts.
You look over, and Celine balks down the ladder. “What happened?” you ask.
“He fucking took the jacket,” she says, then swings down at a speed that makes you fear for her safety. You clamber down after her. When you reach the floor, you see that the coat is indeed missing from the basket, and only your small keychain and ID remain. Celine looks around wildly, but Lomas is long gone. “Where did he go?” she asks you, panicked.
You don’t want to tell her you have no idea. Celine, getting this anyway, groans and starts to pace. You open your Iris and attempt to check his location and send him a message, both to no avail. Your face starts to burn. You rack your brain, retracing the steps you took today, desperately trying to figure out why Lomas went rogue.
Then it hits you. “Wait. I think I know where he is.”
You tell her and she gives you an exasperated look, but you can tell she is convinced. “I cannot believe—okay, listen, we need to intercept him as soon as possible.” Her face contorts in concentration. “But without my ID . . . I’ll have to go down to security, where I can check the cameras. If you’re right, I can give you temporary swipe access, and then you’re going to go in there and get him out.” She waves a finger at your face. “And noneof this reaches the Director, do you hear me?”
You split up. Celine descends to the security office, and you hustle up flights of stairs until you reach the floor you’re looking for. You race down the sterile hallways, passing endless, identical doors, but eventually you reach the three letters you’ve been repeating to yourself in your head and you find yourself at the entrance to the library once again.
Celine’s plight takes longer, and so you stand there with only the sound of your breath until she finally pings you and tells you to go in. You swipe your card like Celine had done and the handle lights up green. You lean your body weight into the door and enter quietly.
Warm air rushes to meet you as you walk through the rows of shelves. Your eyes are trained on the second floor, and soon enough the tails of Lomas’ brown overcoat appear, swaying slightly from the balcony. You advance up the staircase, unable to decipher his motion, unt
il you stand at the top. You cough awkwardly. Lomas jerks around, hiding his hands in the folds of his jacket before you can catch what he’s holding.
“Jules. Hi.” He looks around, confirming you’re alone.
“What are you reading, sir?” You crane your neck slightly to the side, and he turns with you.
“It’s nothing.”
You shift your weight back and glance around. This situation would be almost comical, you think, if the circumstances were any less bizarre. “For what it’s worth,” you try, “I think the Director’s proposition is insane too. Y’know, trying to . . . solve you.”
Lomas scoffs. “That’s his plan? He thinks he can just look at the chemicals in my brain and know love. He thinks it’s that easy.” He fixes his gaze on you now, with a chilling intensity. “Do you know what love is, Jules?”
You swallow. “No, sir.”
“Well, it isn’t this.” He gestures at the table between you, strewn with unrolled scrolls. “Numbers. It’s more than numbers; it defies them.” He takes a breath, looking pained. “Love is wading into a river and giving yourself to the current. It’s choosing against what makes sense, what is safe.” His voice is heightened, now, his expression agitated, daring you to respond. All you can do, however, is slide your eyes from his face to his exposed hands, which clutch a thin, green book. Celine’s words echo in your ears, and you can picture her next to you, pointing out the spine, explaining its contents. Your eyes slide back to Lomas and the dots connect themselves for you.
“You loved him,” you say. “Theo.”
Lomas’ silence is enough. You nod at the book. “How did he . . . ?”
“A boating accident,” Lomas answers, averting your gaze. “He was alone. I told him not to go.”
“Oh,” you say. The words sink in. “Oh.”
Lomas looks down at his hands, and you realize he had been reading the last few pages of Theo’s book. You imagine him poring over the numbers, trying to pick apart their meaning, to comprehend the death of a person through the trajectory of his atoms. It occurs to you now how weary Lomas must feel, to be thrust into such a trip, to be given such a decision.
“I can’t bear to watch him die,” he says, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper, “but do I owe it to him? He deserves to have someone with him, right? Even like this.” He looks up at you imploringly, and when you meet his eyes you are stunned to realize that Lomas is truly seeking your direction.
All those times you waited for Lomas to ask for your opinion, and now finally when he does you find yourself unsure to speak. You take a breath. “Sir, I think you’re the only one who can make that decision.” You stop and think about the Director, about his almighty ability to relive what was, simulate what wasn’t. “But I would remember that he can go back and forth, and we can’t. We only do things once.”
You wonder if you should say more, but Lomas’ face shifts in a way that tells you he understands. You give him the time he needs. And then it’s time to go.
You jump to a little over a year in the future. You are hovering at the doorway to Lomas’ office, clutching an envelope and watching him read at his desk. It doesn’t take long for him to notice you and with a raise of an eyebrow you are propelled inside.
“Jules,” Lomas says. His face is clean-shaven, a rare occurrence. When he stands, you notice he’s ditched the usual grimy brown suit for a clean, pressed black one. “This is a surprise.”
You shift your weight from foot to foot. “I just wanted to check in, sir. How was the service?”
Lomas rubs his nonexistent stubble. “Oh, it was good. Nice to see people again.” You both stare at his desk, newly lavished with several bouquets of flowers. He chuckles. “The entire time, all I could think about was how much he would have despised having two of ’em. Would have called it pointless.”
You shrug. “Well, a lot has happened since the first one.”
Lomas grunts in agreement, then nods toward your hand. “What do you have there?” “Oh.” You look down at the envelope, creased by your tight grip. “It’s . . . actually my two weeks’ notice.” You brace for a reaction. He doesn’t do much, just stares at you curiously. You clear your throat. “It’s been a great two years, sir, really, but . . . ”
“But you need to move on. Understandable,” Lomas finishes for you. He holds out his hand and takes the envelope from you, glancing over it for a second before discarding it on the desk. “No one wants to be an assistant forever, Jules,” he says, looking amused.
“Yeah,” you agree.
You look down again, at a loss for any more words. Underneath the flowers and cups of to-go coffee—Axiom #3—a familiar color peeks out. You take a moment to recall where you’ve seen that dark green with golden trim before, and even as you recognize it as Theo’s book it feels jarring to see it here, as if a year ago the lab was a set and Lomas had stolen a prop from the production.
Lomas follows your gaze to his desk. “Oh, right. You’re probably wondering about that.”
The machine room is just as dazzlingly tall and cold as you remember. You and Lomas walk to the center of the room, where Celine is standing with her arms crossed, speaking to a seated Director. They turn around to spot you in unison.
The Director’s eyes light up. “I’m glad you’ve come around,” he says, sounding pleased. Your eyes meet Celine’s, and her strained smile tightens.
Lomas stands there awkwardly as you all wait for him to speak. He searches for words for a few seconds before giving up, raising his arms half-heartedly and just saying, “Show me.”
The Director nods. He turns in his chair toward the desk, starting to type rapidly. The walls blink to life and a resonant hum courses through the room, just like the first time you were here. You realize with a jolt that that was only this morning. Today has felt longer than you thought possible.
You locate Celine, who has migrated to her own desk. She catches your eye and nudges her head toward the empty chair next to her, a silent invitation. You leave Lomas in the center of the room. His eyes are glued on the screen, which first flashes with chunks of garbled text and then slowly fills with the numbers you’ve seen so much of today. Next to you, Celine works at her monitor, her Iris-lit eyes darting across the screen. “I really hope this works,” she whispers to you.
You look at her. “You don’t know?”
She clacks away some more. “I can’t remember everything I read.”
From this angle, Lomas’ back is the only dark shape against the white rectangle of numbers. The humming around you has grown surprisingly loud, and you watch the Director study Lomas’ face. His lips move and Lomas dips his head in a small nod. Then, the Director cranes his head and yells, “It’s all you!”
Celine takes a deep breath and taps her keyboard. The screen freezes instantly, numbers vanishing. An image appears and rapidly starts to refine, bright blocks of color growing edges and definition, then flushing with texture and shading. You begin to recognize what you see. Swaths of deep blue focus into frozen hills of water and fill up the bottom half of the screen, their crests brushing up against a dull, stormy sky. Far away, a small bright shape perches on the side of a wave at a treacherous angle. A boat.
Your hands, suddenly very clammy, ball up, and your nails dig into your lap. The water, of course, unnerves you, but there’s something more. It’s almost like you’re sitting in a theater, but something about this image is uncannily unlike a photograph, something unnamable. Whatever it is, it does not faze Celine, who stares at the screen with triumph blazing in her eyes. With another keystroke, she sends it all catapulting into action. Millions of gallons of water shift all at once, their static rushing toward you, potent sound you were not prepared for. On screen, perfect arcs of water crash into each other like cymbals, destroying and reforming each other endlessly. In the center, the white boat plunges into the troughs of the ocean, nearly overturning, before being thrown skyward again.
Lomas stands there, and his posture
is almost majestic, as if he is the Wanderer above the Sea of Fog waiting to be swallowed by the toppling waves. You want to reach out and drag him back, but the sight of such an immense body of water is paralyzing. Instead you watch him advance forward, mesmerization in each slow footstep.
“Closer,” the Director commands from the front of the room. He and Celine share a glance, their expressions brimming with the same electricity. Celine sends the scene gliding forward, through foamy spray and clear sheets of water, until the boat takes up most of the screen. You bob up and down with it, the dizziness is almost unbearable. You close your eyes for a few seconds, and when you open them, a man is standing on the boat. He’s fruitlessly tugging at ropes, dodging surges of water that crash onto the deck. Lomas is so close at this point that he obscures a good part of the screen, but you can still catch glimpses of the man’s face as he ricochets across the deck like a ragdoll. It is unmistakably the third person you saw in that old photo, with the likeness of a young Director and an expression contorted with fear. It’s Theo, brought back to life, and now about to die in front of you.
Despite your phobia, the authenticity of this moment amazes you. And yet every time his boat just barely misses capsizing, your heart seizes, anticipating the one time it doesn’t. You tear your eyes away from the screen and whisper to Celine. “How long until . . . ?”
She studies her monitor. “Not long. Maybe a minute.” She looks over to you and notices your agitation. “Are you doing okay?” You grit your teeth and nod, watching the seconds tick up on her computer, feeling your heartbeat ring in synchronization.
When the boat finally does overturn, it does so within a wave, so that you cannot see the body fall out of the vessel. It’s such a small moment, something you didn’t even realize happened until the white underbelly of the boat surfaces seconds later. And then you realize it happened, it’s over. The scene plays out for a few more seconds before Celine halts the simulation, freezing the sea’s wrath, silencing the roar to a dull hum.