The Soul Continuum (10 page)

“Control,” I say as I step inside the Observation Sphere
and head for the seat at its center, “I know there are a variety
of different questions I could ask you about Qod's disappearance, all of which you will probably answer with your incredibly useful response of
unknown
, but I do hope you can furnish me with something helpful if I ask whether she left me a message before she left.”

There is no response.

I roll my eyes, realizing I did not actually ask a question.

“Why did we think it was a good idea to deprive you of any artificial intelligence whatsoever? No, don't answer that—just tell me, did Qod leave any messages for me before she disappeared?”

Unknown
.

The chair molds itself to perfectly fit the shape of my lean body, and I gaze out into the void. “Did she record any data at all, anything containing my name that could be interpreted as a message?”

Yes.

“Please play it for me.”

Day 4113. Data Analysis Batch 9K1.533: Abnormality transport complete. Containment fields holding. Monitoring
abnormality for qalkkjk. Aberration intrusion detected detected
detecteddddd. No! Initiating firewall proto proto Keitus proto
Vieta protocols. No! Protocols. Protocols. Initihhyfmnm. No. Salem! Help . . . help . . . help . . . Salem . . . Sal . . . Sal . . . Sa . . .

Every muscle in my body goes tense. Even before it properly sinks in that Qod was in trouble when she recorded the message, those two words
Keitus
and
Vieta
run through me like ice water. I know those words. No, these are not just words. A name! But I have never heard of this person before. Why would the mention of this name strike me with paralyzing fear? Perhaps it is a memory I erased, believing it to be inconsequential. It must have been a clumsy effort if a fragment has been left behind, but whoever this person is, he was instrumental in Qod's disappearance. Or was it more like . . . death? Is Qod dead? How can she be dead?

Would you like to hear the data file again?

I feel panic setting in. A universe without Qod would be terrifying, but I am no longer even
in
the universe as I knew it. The Soul Consortium escaped the quantum confines of the cosmological cycle long ago and now observes from afar. How could she leave me alone out here?

Would you like to hear the data file again?

“No! No, thank you.” And then a question comes to mind. One that feels like it has far, far more significance than I am consciously aware of. “Who is Keitus Vieta?”

Unknown.

“Where is he in the Consortium Archives? Which Sphere?”

The Control Core goes silent.

“Well? It was a simple question. Every living soul who ever existed except me has a recorded life in one of those spheres. This . . . Vieta person must be in there somewhere.”

There is no record of Keitus Vieta in the Soul Consortium Archives.

“What?” I get out of my seat. “Impossible!”

There is no record of Keitus Vieta in the Soul Consortium Archives.

My mind races, trying to work out what could possibly have happened in the eleven short years I spent within the WOOM to transform my life so utterly.

I raise my hands, knowing that my next request has to be phrased very precisely if I am going to get a sensible answer from a nonthinking machine. I am used to getting my questions answered by Qod. “Control, please access all data processed in the last eleven years and provide me with a summary sentence describing the nature of any unexpected events during that time.”

The Control Core goes silent.

“How long will it take? Estimate.”

Three point four minutes.

“Good. Proceed.”

I sit back down in my chair to wait for the answers. With my chin resting on my fist, I gaze out into the deep, black emptiness of space. There are no galactic clusters to observe at this point in the life of the cosmos. The universe is between cycles, waiting for the next cascading imbalance of particles to create the inevitable big bang. They are the same particles that have always existed, exploding outward to be configured in exactly the same way—over and over and over again—so that the universe is imprisoned by its eternally unchanging sequence of predetermined events. When it happens again, soon now, it will be the second time I have witnessed it—my third universe. I don't want to see it again without Qod.

There are four unexpected events.

I suddenly realize that the Control Core's calculation took longer than three and a half minutes. It was more like six. “Explain why that took longer than you expected.”

Event two is the explanation. Do you wish me to begin my summaries with event two?

“No, list them in chronological order.”

Event one: The Quasi-Organic Deity is no longer present.
Event two: Unknown—all data evidence for a five-hour period
erased from Control Core. Control Core could not recon
struct data. Event three: Presence of planetary body detected. Event four: Presence of unidentified quantum structure detected.

Event one I already know about, but each of the other three definitely falls into the category of unexpected. I have the strangest feeling I should not question the data erasure further, but events three and four tug hard at my curiosity.

“Expand details on event three. How could there be a planetary body still in existence after the collapse of the last universe?”

Unknown.

I shake my head. “Well, what about event four? Is it related
to event three?”

Yes.

“Progress! How is it related? Did the unidentified quantum
structure originate on the planet?”

The unidentified quantum structure is localized on the planet. Yes.

“Is it still there?”

Yes.

“Can we transport it here? No, wait. Wouldn't Qod
have tried this? Perhaps that's why she disappeared. Whatever this thing is, it must have emerged completely independently from the universal cycle. And the planet too? Impossible.”
I shake my head.

Some of the material can be transported. Unknown. The planet's designation is Castor's World.

I cock my head at the Core's answers. “Castor's World? You know its name. That means it must have come from the last universal cycle, correct? How could it have survived the collapse?”

Yes . . . Unknown . . . Unknown.

I sigh, get up from the chair again, and begin pacing a circle around it. “You said we can transport some of the unidentified quantum structure. Is it safe?”

Unknown.

The link between Qod's disappearance and the appearance of something completely alien on a planet that has somehow survived the heat death of the universe cannot be a coincidence. Nevertheless, the urge to investigate is overpowering.

“Please transport the quantum anomaly here, directly to the Observation Sphere. But be ready to transport it back immediately if there is a threat.”

Processing.

A few seconds pass as the Control Core makes its calculations. I am always stunned by the Soul Consortium's ability to transport items out of the universe. It is very rarely done because the Soul Consortium is self-sufficient and can usually analyze from afar, but the science has always baffled me—extraction should not be possible. Even observation should not be possible, because there is no quantum connection between the Soul Consortium and the universe. We escaped those constraints. But what baffles me even more now is why I have always settled for bafflement. Why have I never sought to understand?

Directly in front of me, a disc-like platform is generated for the transportation, and the space above it warps like a turbulent underwater current. A crackle of energy electrifies the air, and then something appears on the disc, something so disturbing I stagger back with a sudden cry of shock and fall awkwardly into my chair.

W
hatever it is, it is no longer alive. But I am certain it must have been alive once. And by the look of its twisted, grotesque form, I believe it must have suffered greatly before its expiration.

I cough and wipe a hand over my mouth and nose to stifle an impulse to gag. “Control, did something go wrong with the transport?”

No.

“Then this . . . thing lived on Castor's World?”

Yes.

“And this is just one of many?”

Yes.

Pity is not something the real me has felt for a long time. I usually only experience it when living another's life, but I feel it now. This poor mummified monstrosity on the transportation disc is little more than the clay trimmed from Nature's mold, beaten into a mockery of the human form. Naked, much of its skin is split where a mass underneath has burst through in clusters of blackened polyps; the untorn patches are red and glistening with sores or clumps of wiry black hair. Both legs are bent at the knee in the lotus position, but one of them is at least twice the length of the other, and the foot is more like a hand; it has recognizable fingers and a thumb, but they are locked into a grasping claw shape, disproportionally long, with too many knuckles. The shorter leg could be mistaken for a tail if not for the five flattened toes at its end. A confusion of angry red flesh fills the pelvic cavity; there is no recognizable genitalia. The contorted, armless torso is shaped by a spine split into three distinct but twisted backbones, each of them meeting again at the base of the head, which is an openmouthed portrayal of agony. It is hard to maintain composure, and I find I cannot observe it any longer, so I direct my gaze elsewhere.

“So, this body is composed of an unknown quantum structure. Control, are there any similarities to normal quantum structures at all?”

Evidence of demi-praxons vibrating at lower wavelengths.
No electrons or nucleonic structure. Organizational parameters
indicate a triple-string-state helix.

“Is it matter? How is it solid?”

Solidity is illusion. Organization of proto-particulate architecture is stable.

“I see.” I don't. “It may be pointless for me to ask you this, but how can this thing possibly exist, especially in humanoid form? And what is it doing on a planet that should have been destroyed billions of years ago?”

Unknown . . . Unknown.

I dare to look at it again, hoping that some sort of clue might be revealed as to its origins, but the more I look at it, the more it disturbs me.

“Control, please remove it. Place it in storage somewhere.”

It is a relief when it vanishes from the transportation disc, but the image of its suffering, the ugly fantasy of it writhing and screaming while it was still alive, perhaps with a host of others in an orgy of pain, persists, and I feel like I need to wash my mind.

I collapse back into my seat, and then a wild thought comes to me.

“Control, considering that this was vaguely human in form, could it have had a memory? Would it have been recorded in the Soul Consortium Archives?”

Unknown. Subject identity unknown. Therefore impossible
to determine if a file exists.

I nod, still thinking. “Very well. What about that—what did you call it—proto-particulate architecture? Can you run a surface scan of the files or the codex to see if you can find a match?”

Yes . . . Yes.

“How long will it take?”

Approximately nine hours.

“Then do it. And while I wait, show me Castor's World. I want to see this impossible planet for myself.”

The vast panoramic windows of the Observation Sphere shift as the imagers zoom in and focus on the mysterious world, and I feel a kick in the back of my mind—an endorphin
release rewarding me for following this path of investigation. I want to think that it is because I have taken a step closer to Qod's recovery, but I sense it is something else, something deeper, as if it is a response to subconscious stimulus. The thought irks me, and as the ravaged ball of rock and lava that is Castor's World is brought into perfect clarity, I take a moment to dig through my mind. I regret it instantly. Like fingertips dipped in boiling water, my mind recoils at the
attempt. Was that pain? It is something I only ever experience when living ancient lives, but the memory of that sensation
is comparable.

Not wishing to provoke another pang, I return my attention to the world before me. I do not want to slow down the Control Core's calculations, so I mentally access the data files myself and run a search for any standard historical files relating to Castor's World. It was, or perhaps still is, the residence of an isolated colony of monks. Other than its unexpected presence, there is nothing particularly unusual about it, except that it was the closest habitable world to survive the Great Cataclysm after the Promethean Singularity collapsed at the center of the universe. There is nothing in the files that could explain how it could possibly have survived the expiration of the universe. With its
uniquely designed Slipstream drive, only the Soul Consortium could escape that. There is no other such endeavor on record.

I spend the next few hours searching, sifting, and filtering data, hunting for anything that might provide a clue that could unravel this mystery, but it is only when the Control Core provides me with an answer to my query that I have a lead.

There are six hundred twenty-four files in the Soul Consortium
Archives containing a match to the proto-particulate architecture
found in the subjects on Castor's World.