The Soul Continuum (41 page)

She says nothing, and I know I am right. I also know that reaching the Navigation Sphere is paramount. We have to leave, and I know exactly where to go. I also know why I was encouraged to live those three important lives. Comparing the life of Clifford Arken-Bright and Silicant 5 provided a destination, and Diabolis Evomere provided the knowledge of how to reach it.

“You want to know why I'm heading for Navigation?” I tease Qod.

“Call it a wild guess, but I suspect you might want to go somewhere.”

“Genius. Yes, I have some coordinates. I'll feed them in.”

“And you got these coordinates how?”

“First, let me ask you this: did the other Salem tell you how Clifford Arken-Bright and Edith Levaux made contact with the Jagannath?”

“Yes. It happened when they examined Keitus Vieta's stone. They unwittingly used it to manipulate matter and energy at the subatomic level, which got the Jagannath's attention.”

I stride through another corridor and use a gravity pad to propel me up a lengthy shaft. Two more minutes and I will reach the hatch that opens into the Navigation Sphere.

“Well, the interesting part,” I tell Qod, “is that the Jagannath reached out by testing them with an incorrect number in the Fibonacci sequence, and it used the exact same tactic on board the
Socrates.
That's how I know it was the Jagannath. As soon as it had a decent foothold, it attacked. Silicant 5 was convinced it was her subconscious controlling them, but it wasn't. It was the Jagannath. She accidently drew its attention when her catharsis gland interfered with atomic structure, just as Arken-Bright did when he experimented on Vieta's stone.”

Rising through the hatch into the Navigation Sphere is like passing into ancient history and, in fact, that is exactly what it is. I have not been here for eons. There was no need. The Soul Consortium has been adrift in the Phoradian Gulf between cosmoses with nowhere new to go for what would be to many an eternity. The floor—which acts like a cloudless and solid sky—fluoresces like dusk sunlight as I step
inside, and like the Observation Sphere, it reveals a panorama
of the heavens, except here they are seen through the veil of twilight, and a good percentage of the early forming stars are obscured by the Soul Consortium's other spheres and streams dancing their complex orbits around it. The Navigation Sphere is significantly larger than the other spheres. It was the first sphere to be constructed. Lying at the heart of the Soul Consortium, it is home to the legendary Slipstream drive that broke us free from the gravitational constraints of the cosmos, allowing humanity to escape the never-ending cycle of destruction and rebirth.

But this time, we must go farther. Much, much farther.

I crane my neck to look up at the dead, craggy globe suspended at the sphere's center, the only object in the entire Soul Consortium that is not artificial, apart from the gardens. It is the original moon around which this first sphere was built. Pitted and scarred by astral bodies that bullied it constantly when it was still young, but now lanced by tens of thousands of kilometer-wide connector conduits that reach inward from the fake sky on which I now walk, the scarlet orb hangs there like a cosmic pomander ball. It is an ancient relic serving no other purpose than to act as a reminder of the Consortium's humble origins. The volcanic ranges are long dead, the rippled mountain ranges—once home to a thriving colony—are now nothing more than nostalgic decoration. But under the rugged surface, where the molten core once provided those first human inhabit
ants with geothermal energy, is a chaotic tempest of quantum
forces harnessed by the almost magical mathematics of Slipstream technology.

“Here,” I tell Qod, activating a console that has not been used for millennia. I can feel data streaming through my mind, working its way into my fingers as I tap in a geometric equation that, if written out in hard form, might span a thousand meters. “This will give us what we need. When I've finished keying it in, store it for later. We need to secure something before we go there.”

“Before you finalize the coordinate programming, just do one thing for me.”

I pause. “What?”

“We should exercise some caution. Offset the coordinates by at least ten astronomical units.”

Qod's request seems reasonable, so I oblige. “Done.”

“You still haven't told me how you came by these coordinates.” Her voice sounds hollow in this larger sphere.

“It feels like they were always there in the algorithm,” I tell her, “but I was held back from using them until now. Oluvia wanted to gather information from those different lives first before going wherever it is we need to go, but the interesting part is that I recognize this equation. Or more precisely, I recognize what it's pointing to. In Silicant 5's life, the Jagannath reached out twice using the Fibonacci sequence to create its signal. The first time, it pointed to the atomic signature at the heart of Silicant 5's catharsis gland, which indicated a focal point for the Jagannath signal, but they had no match for the second signal.”

“And you do now?” Qod asks.

“I think so, yes. I believe it's at the heart of this location I'm entering now; it must be the second focal point. If we shut down whatever's there, we stop the Jagannath. At least, that's the theory. There.” I tap in the last sequence of code with a flourish of my fingers. “It's in, but ten AUs distant.”

Qod is silent for several seconds. “There is nothing at that location. There cannot be.”

“There is. The algorithm knows it.
I
know it.”

“Salem, that location is so very far away, so deep into the Phoradian Gulf, it would take millions of years to get there, even using Slipstream technology.”

“And that's why I said we need to secure something else before we use the coordinates. Oluvia's algorithm wanted me to see inside the life of Diabolis Evomere because it reveals the secret of instantaneous travel anywhere. There's something unique about the composition of Keitus Vieta's jewel. It isn't bound by the physical laws of our universe, and it's what he used to travel. The jewel's structure was formed by physical laws that originate from outside our universe—it's quantum entanglement in a whole new paradigm—a kind of macro teleportation but without having to make that first lengthy trip to the destination to establish the target point. When the other Salem Ben told me he took the jewel from Vieta's discarded cane, I sensed I would need it later. That time is now.”

I pull the coin-sized disc from my robes and examine it. “It's time to gather the Continuum.”

T
hirty standard minutes after the summons, more than fifty versions of me have already arrived. More Salem Bens teleport in every few seconds, Slipstreaming their Soul Consortiums within reach of my own, and it is an awesome sight: so many of them shining through the opaque blister of the Navigation Sphere, some hovering like molecules in Brownian motion, some weaving firefly paths around their neighbors. Each of them is empty now; their Continuum occupants are seated with me, assembled around a silver table, resting on a levitating disc that is tracing a lazy orbit of the scarlet Consortium moon. Qod expands the circumference of the table to accommodate each new arrival and has instructed us to wait until all of the currently recruited Soul Continuum—a total of ninety-three Salem Bens—is present before commencing conference. More have been invited to join the Continuum, but we do not know how many more will answer.

It is a bizarre gathering. Uncomfortable, intimidating, monumental, daunting, perhaps even a little mystical, and for some even profoundly disturbing. But one thing we all know for sure: this is unprecedented. As their host, I feel greater pressure to break the silence than the others do, and the algorithm feels like an itch under my skin, urging me to take action. But I resist. As if it will somehow help my patience, I say nothing, and I do nothing, but I sense that I am not the only one who has nothing to say. We simply sit quietly, hardly making eye contact long enough to form the silent empathy one might occasionally risk with a stranger. But these people should not be strangers. They are me. They all look like me, many of them exactly the same with their long hair and charcoal robes, but a few are noticeably different in mannerism, appearance, and clothing; one of them is the bald iteration I met previously. He notices my glance, and as I look away—unsure why—I feel his gaze still on me. Is he expecting me to speak?

The itch grows, and despite Qod's call to wait, the new arrivals seem to have stopped. Though only a few minutes have passed, the urge to pierce the awkward silence wins through. Slowly, I rise from my seat and open my mouth to speak, but the bald Salem, seated on the other side, rises faster and lifts a hand to prevent me. Clearly he has no problem establishing himself as leader—something I find odd. It was only in the youth of my first few million years that I gravitated to that kind of responsibility, but I suspect this Salem is much older than me. Perhaps, like the cycling universe, my desires will come full circle too.

“Qod,” he says, “how many more to come? They should all be here by now.”

“Three,” she says. “But you should not count on their arrival. They are expressing reservations about their part in the Continuum and show signs of your usual stubbornness. Thirteen, Six-One-Zero, and Six-One-One.”

Dozens of the other Salems arch an eyebrow, just as I have, but the bald Salem doesn't ask why the three have refused to come. He just squints, then sighs and nods as if a tricky decision has at last been made, and looks at me. “I hope you have a very good reason for calling us here. Our numbers are still comparatively small.”

“We're part of an infinite cycle,” one of the others says. “If the number of our iterations is infinite, then our number will always be comparatively small.”

“You want to seal the rift and end the threat, don't you?” I say.

Bald Salem strolls around the huge table to greet me with an outstretched hand, and the others watch silently as I take it. For a moment I anticipate his grip may be tighter than mine, but it isn't. He releases my hand, considering me with a slightly frosty expression, and of course I recognize that look. I have never seen myself use it until now, but I am sure it is the same way I once looked at my eightieth son when he told me he had been offered the job of planetary custodian for the Teladese sector. Skepticism. I was wrong then. And this man is wrong now.

The frostiness melts slightly; perhaps he recognizes my expression also, realizing that I am completely serious about my claim. Or he simply wants to put my claim to the test.

“Well,” he says, “before we go any further, we should give you a name. I am sure you can understand that it can get incredibly confusing if every single one of us here goes by the name Salem. As demeaning as it may sound, we refer to each other by whatever cosmic cycle is current for us. My name is Seventy-Seven, and that would make you Three.”

“That's not exactly true for all of us, is it?” says one of the Salems, leaning forward into the table with his palms flat against its surface. All the other Salems turn their heads his way. He smiles back at the rest of us without humor and I notice a gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. I remember from recent lives that this was a sign of intimate partnership in some cultures. He is one of the iterations conspicuously different from the rest of us. He is bigger built, as if muscular bulk has taken precedence over agility. His bleached hair is short and smoothed back over his scalp, and instead of charcoal robes, he is immaculate in a dark red suit, black shirt, and scarlet tie. I recognize the style to be Old Earth design and unnecessarily loud.

Seventy-Seven tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Yes,
not all of us are keen to conform. This . . . gentleman prefers to go by the name of Ironius instead of . . . how many iterations
of the universe have you seen? Remind us.”

He chooses to answer with a widening of his fake smile.

“Erroneous?” I say.

The red-suited one huffs a single laugh. “Ironius,” he corrects me with emphasis on the first letter of his name. “But yes, you could say it is a play on words. Tell me, Seventy-Seven,” he says, turning back to him, his voice dripping
with sarcasm, “are you going to increment your name to Seventy-Eight when we hit the next universe? When someone
speaks to the new Seventy-Seven, will you keep doing double-takes?” He huffs again and shakes his head.

“A recent recruit?” I ask Seventy-Seven.

“Fairly recent, yes.”

I remember Qod telling me about a rogue version of myself who had been recruited and wonder if this is him. Curiosity gnaws at me as to why he is different, and why he should give himself a name like that, but I sense this is a man with an engorged ego, and I decide not to say anything that might inflate him further. It irritates me to imagine that I could one day be like him.

“And the others who are different?” I ask, casting my gaze around the table.

Seventy-Seven points to a version of me who is not wearing robes. Instead, he wears a half-robe starting from the waist down. His pale chest has black metallic ribs covering his real ones, and a single strip of metal the width of his nose runs from the top of his head all the way down to his throat, matching the contour of his face.

“The Salem with the cybernetic implants is called Shalom,” Seventy-Seven says. “He won't tell us which cycle he's from either, but he's old. Very old.
The one next to him in the nanodrone suit is even older. He calls himself Demetri.
If you have time after all this, it's worth listening to why he changed and why he's crawling with those nanodrones. It's not often we live a life that changes us so dramatically. I haven't yet summoned the courage to live the life he did.”