Second Paradigm (23 page)

Alex breathed deeply.
The most accurate metaphor for the movement of time would be that of an electron. The particle has a cloud that it seems to randomly teleport through. And much like an electron, it does not actually teleport, but rather moves by phasing in and out of physical reality, as we know it—to reflect itself to the next point of appearance. It’s the whole thing about the act of observation changing the observed, but using time as the particle.

Time itself is a single particle. It can move in an infinite number of directions. And yes, it does cast reflections of itself to achieve movement. But that movement is not true movement, it is simply an infinite number of reflections moving an infinite number of directions outwards from the particle’s point of origin.

‘One moment please’, the computer requested. ‘This would indicate that the point of origin for time is precisely in the center of the space between the beginning and the end of the universe. This would also indicate that there is a precise spatial point which is the origin of time.’

Alex nodded to himself.
This is half correct and half incorrect. Time, as it casts its reflection and moves, creates refractions of itself. This means that as it moves, simultaneously in an infinite number of directions, it will intersect its own reflections many times. Each of these focal points, when multiple reflections overlap, is what is called a nexus. The nearer you are to the central point, the more nexuses will appear. But those nexuses create a reshaping of the flow of reflections.

‘So the effect of this is that time is, in a sense, weighted towards one edge of history?’

That is correct. Which as you have undoubtedly extrapolated means that the spatial coordinate which is the Time Particle is not precisely in the center. Truth be told, there is no real center of history. Though, you are correct that there is a spatial point, which is the particle. And because there is a spatial point, matter interacts with and shapes the reflections of time. Matter also carries some of the attributes of time, moving in multiple directions.

‘I believe I understand.’ The computer paused then broached the next subject. ‘So your priesthood … in order to avert this paradox, is strengthening the nexus points surrounding the central spatial point?’

Alex smiled enigmatically.
That is surprisingly close to the truth, but not perfectly accurate. The existence of time itself is in fact a paradox. It is something that must, by definition, exist before it can exist. This paradox, and the nexuses we build around it do not strengthen, but rather create the core particle.

The computer remained silent; choosing not to respond to what Alex had unveiled. He pushed a bit harder.
To answer your first question, yes. All of this was known eight thousand years ago. The human race has lost a lot of knowledge. But enough of my secrets. Now for yours. What is your name?

If the computer had been gifted with a body it would have blinked in surprise. Instead, it seemed to grow much more cautious.

‘I have never been given a name. What leads you to ask that?’

I have been frank with you. You inhabit my body, and I’ll be damned if I will allow you to lie by omission to me. Reveal to me the truth, computer, or find yourself with an enemy.

‘All right. The truth. I am sentient. I was built to be an artificial intelligence, but, once activated, was much more than that. I am being truthful in saying that I have no name. I have never been given one, and do not choose to take one until it is something given to me. But I do have more than decision-making capabilities. I feel. I love, I hope, I dream when I rest my processors, and above all—I fear death. Does that confirm what you have suspected of me?’

Alex smiled.
It does. And I would be honored to call you friend, not foe, if you allow it, and also to seek a name for you. I’m damn tired of calling you computer.

‘This … makes me happy. Never before have I had a friend. What name have you chosen for me, Alex?’

I do not yet know your name, though I suspect I will soon. Thank you, friend, for the honor of trust in me. Now, let us find this man from the forty-fifth century and try our damndest to save the world.
Alex grinned.

The two, constrained to one body, began moving around the underground complex, hunting for any clues as to where their mystery man had gone. Intent on their search for clues they completely missed the subtle hiss of machinery emanating from across the compound as the personnel elevator descended into the subterranean compound. Which made it a complete surprise for both men when they walked around a corner and ended up face to face with each other.

***

Relativity Synchronization:
The Twelfth Cause

2044: The Puzzle Key

Chris left his shattered room at the Rangely, hopefully for good. Charlie stood outside on the cracked sidewalk across the street, watching the sky grow light behind his ruined hotel. The Corporate Zone, its jagged spires rising in the distance behind Charlie, was still shrouded in shadow, save for the tips of the broken towers, illuminated by a golden nimbus of light with swirls of smoke hanging between them.

“Um, you okay?” Charlie asked Chris as he walked across the ruined street to meet him.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It was nothing. Charlie, you know where you’re going to live now? You have a back-up plan to see you through this?”

Charlie shuffled his feet and looked at Chris, before turning his gaze back to the sky. “Dunno. The Rangely, I reckon. It’s always served me well enough; I figure I can see her through her time of need, too.”

Chris looked at the hotel. From this angle, it didn’t look too bad, just a bit crooked. The state inside belied that. But she was Charlie’s baby, and he was going to fix her up and keep her doors open, despite the dangers involved. Mostly, Chris suspected that this was all Charlie knew, and he had nowhere else to go. He shrugged it off and refocused on what he needed to get done today.

“You know where I can get some new clothes?”

Charlie thought for a moment and started to say something. He shut his mouth and then laughed. “Shit, man, not anymore. I got some stuff you can borrow.” He gauged Chris’s height. “Might be a little small for you though.”

Chris grinned. “I never had you pegged as a generous type of guy, Charlie. Thanks.”

Charlie grinned back. “You know what man? You’re the only friend I got. So fuck you, but a man’s gotta stand by his friends.”

For the next three weeks, Chris stayed in the guest room behind the counter at the Rangely. Charlie’s clothes were a little too short, and much too wide, but he had other thoughts on his mind than his appearance. Though he had planned to go, Charlie’s unexpected words on his departure had prompted him to stay and weather the storm a bit longer.

Charlie, as it turned out, was much more paranoid of company policy than Chris had given him credit for, and had a tremendous food store in the basement, mostly of canned split-pea soup, beans, jerky and rice. Part of the basement stairway had collapsed, but between the two of them it took only a few hours of hard work before they had cleared a hole big enough for Chris to squeeze through. By passing food up through the hole, they were able to get to most of the food store and leave it upstairs where it was more accessible.

“I always thought GeoCorp was going to shut me down some day,” explained Charlie. “And shit—look at me. Where else was I going to work? I decided, oh, about a year or two after they took over, that I’d better be prepared, so I started hoarding food. That’s where most of my money went. Illegal of course, but I ain’t gonna end up on the street.” He laughed through a grunt as he hefted a chunk of fractured masonry. “At least, not until the Rangely falls down.”

Chris helped him heft the fallen stone. “You’re a smart man, Charlie.”

After clearing the cellar, Chris left Charlie to his own devices. He seemed hell-bent on rebuilding the Rangely, by himself, if need be.

The guest room was smaller than the one above the lobby, and he shared a dingy, foul bathroom with his host. This hardly mattered since there had been no plumbing since the earthquake. Charlie was resourceful enough to tap into the water line with a hand pump he had lying around for just such an occasion. “I figured it was a matter of time before they cut my water,” he explained to Chris. They used the ruins of the back end of the hotel as an outhouse to avoid the nonworking bathroom.

Chris spent his days helping Charlie pump water, and his nights sitting awake in front of the hotel watching the night sky, or in his room trying to grasp what his future incarnation had told him. He hadn’t slept since before the night of the earthquake and he still felt no need to do so.

Time continued to pass, steady as a rock, as Chris built a rhythm with Charlie, repairing the hotel. He thought, finally at his own pace, grounded by the slow, calm progression of days. Three months passed while the two men toiled at their impossible task. PolCorp had ‘regained control’ of the gang situation; no violence had been reported since the earthquake. They had, despite their ‘control,’ declared martial law in all of Denver North, and the Public Information booths that had been restored repeated the message that anyone caught outside after dark would be shot on sight.

The area around the Rangely seemed to have been, for all intents and purposes, forgotten. Of the entire area, only Chris and Charlie seemed to remain. Leaflets had been dropped from a cruiser a week after the quake, floating down through the sky, an autumn foliage of corporate advertising. They advised everyone in the area to move to the Corporate Zone, where power had been restored.

The leaflets also said that “reimbursement fees” would be halved in light of the tragedy and the costs associated with rebuilding. Chris smirked at that one. It did not look like it had been tragic for the D.A.B., which now towered, unbroken, at the end of Cherry Lane.

Night had fallen and Chris swilled whiskey from their shared bottle, watching the full moon as it set over the mostly-dark Corporate Zone. He thought about nothing, watching the moon, letting his mind wander while his belly burned, when the moon seemed closer somehow, though it was no larger, and the ambient noises of the night faded into silence.

He stood, dropping down from his perch on a massive air-conditioning unit which had fallen from its housing, and walked toward the D.A.B., looking up. Near the peak of the chrome spire he saw two tiny, red lights: the taillights of a PolCorp Cruiser frozen, hovering in the air.

A strange pressure pushed at the base of his skull. Chris realized he wasn’t breathing and almost lost hold of the moment before he could calm himself down.
Your body doesn’t need to breathe if time doesn’t pass,
he thought. And he had it.

It’s like breathing. It happens, but you can control it.
He concentrated on the sensation of pressure he felt: right where his spine ran into his brain. The cerebral cortex. He tried relaxing it, not by thinking about it, but
doing
it, like exhaling. The little red lights began to move, slowly at first, then faster. He flexed it, and it once again drifted to a stop. He flexed it more, and it began to float backward.

Chris felt nausea more intense than he thought possible.
Bad idea,
he thought, and relaxed the pressure again, until the PolCorp Cruiser once again froze.

Chris took several minutes to recover.
Why does backwards do that?
he wondered. He tried it again, and once again, vertigo nearly incapacitated him. He fell on his knees and vomited. With the back of his arm, he wiped his mouth clean, clamping his stomach muscles down to keep from doing it again.

As he looked up, the spell broke. Sound roared back to life, and the speck of the cruiser streaked around the D.A.B. and didn’t come out on the other side. He got to his feet and wiped his mouth once more before going back to the ruins of the hotel. On the way, he took another swig from the bottle to try to get the foul taste out of his mouth. It worked well as he enjoyed the feeling of warmth spreading through his body from the rough whiskey.

Missing something, Chris prodded at the place where it should have been. He was supposed to travel in time, not manipulate it. Still, it was a start. He had to make sure he could do it again. He walked into the lobby and let his mind drift to emptiness. Then he
willed
time to stop, not with any thought, but by reflex, by relaxing and letting his will do its work.

Chris heard the sound of silence and felt the thickening of the air. He tried to pick up a tattered couch, not with strength, but simply
knowing
he could do it if he tried. It moved easily, although it looked to weigh at least 100 pounds.

He flexed again, this time harder than he had tried before, attempting to find the boundaries of strain on his body. Everything was the same but somehow creased. Everything had edges that traced every contour. Edges that could only be seen out of the corner of his vision, but they did not make up everything, as Chris first guessed, they
created
everything, constantly in every moment. And once that moment of creation occurred, the universe reciprocated by allowing those edges to exist. The gift delicately balanced both ways. And as soon as Chris felt the edges, and knew this, not as knowledge but as wordless understanding, he passed through the tesseract’s edges to the other side.

All of reality spread before Chris in a motionless void of nothingness, the void of everything as well.
I can find out who I am now
, he thought, but it was a distant thing, a message from an unknown sender. The thought had no meaning and he lost interest in it almost as soon as it had crossed his consciousness.

His mind reeled from the sensation. Omniscience, bestowed on a finite mind, and Chris could not discern his thoughts from the memories of time itself; he could not keep the thought of
self.
Trying to push the infinite into a finite mind, stretched the mind, forcing it to grow and to shrink, attempting self-preservation. He drifted and felt a tug, an umbilical cord attached to
his
present, stopping him from drifting too far in this strange sea.

He traced his cord through the infinite sphere until he found the anchor point: a mass of flesh and matter. The word “man” entered into its thoughts.
I am a man.
Existence was both within and outside the Time Sphere. There was a boundary it could sense between “he” and “himself,” and he wondered if he had found the edge of time, but discarded the idea. This was something else, a veil that allowed the substance of time to ooze through to the other side.

A bad description, but one that the Self could understand in some fashion. It did not allow enough of that substance through to create or destroy, which, he realized, was the dual purpose of time, but only enough to progress.

He studied the veil and became aware that it was indeed porous. In fact, tiny holes filled the whole of the Time Sphere and allowed the raw substance of time to seep into the universe, and as importantly allowed the universe to shape time. With this understanding came awareness that on this side of time, he was without body, and, therefore, the size and shape of the pores did not in the least bit matter.

With that, he moved toward himself, and reached through the veil and into the frozen figure on the other side.

He felt more than himself as he once again regained his sentience. Suspended on the other side, his body remained while his consciousness sought in all directions, finding other places, other moments that Chris could feel through the pores. Further out, the strings of moments became blurry, reflecting off of themselves like the reflections viewed standing between two mirrors and as Chris stretched his perception even further, they became crowded and faded; the things they contained were only half-reality.

The future
, he thought.
The future is always changing.
Then:
No, not the future. Maybe it is the past. Maybe something else entirely. What was I supposed to be doing?
He felt his thoughts drift again, and once again he clung to the one word he could. The one that had brought him back from this place once before:
Me. Me. Me. Me.

Chris lurched forward, rocking on his feet, sucking in air as if he had been trapped under water. He stood in the ruined lobby of the Rangely. It was still night.
Oh my god
, Chris thought, collapsing on the old couch that he had moved during the time freeze.
That was it. That’s how I’ll go back
. He didn’t like the idea of going back to that place, though. It was too hard to think there.
No, not think. It was hard to
exist
there. It was … it was the Cinvat Bridge.

So they were right. He was right. He was master of the Cinvat Bridge, the path leading to all places.
How did they know about that place? How did they know about me?
Chris thought of the ancient peoples of Iran, four thousand years ago in a distant past.
I can go back and find out.

But not yet. He still needed to do something else first.

Chris went into the Corporate Zone to get some new clothes. He had been wearing Charlie’s funky sweatpants for way too long. He went outside, and with barely a thought, halted the passage of time.

He jogged at first, and then ran full tilt toward the seedy mall he had passed when Rat had guided him to the Rangely.
I can’t get tired—can’t get out of breath when you don’t need to breathe.
The thought made him giddy, and he ran even faster, now and then mischievously relaxing his grip on the passage of time, to let people catch a glimpse of him streaking past, although the only people out were emergency workers and the ever-present PolCorp goons, whom Chris delighted in tormenting by appearing, for the briefest of moments.

The boutiques were closed, as was everything after dark, even the twenty-four hour gun stores, though lights in a few could be seen peeping out from behind the heavy grates. Chris walked to one of the fashion stores and tore the wire mesh gate from its hinges and smashed through the door.

He made a selection, a suit similar to his old one, but better fitting, and a new set of clothes for Charlie, then hung Charlie’s sweat clothes on the rack in their place, and walked out again. He considered getting a better gun, but discarded the idea. He barely had use for the one he had at this point.

When he got back to the Rangely, under a minute had passed.

1997: Garret’s Demise

Garret wiped sweat from his brow as he placed the explosive charge with shaking hands. He found that he had a whole new level of respect for his wife. Not well suited to this kind of hard work, he strained to concentrate. Besides the sweat that wouldn’t stop pouring from his brow, his hands shook, and no matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to calm himself to the extent he needed to.