The Soul Continuum (23 page)

I hadn't considered that. “The version of us that trapped him?”

Salem nods, still staring absently. “I went there, saw my own body. Vieta had just tossed it aside so that he could get inside the WOOM and live our life. All so he could find that disgusting thing he called his daughter.”

“What did you do?”

Salem meets my eyes. “I didn't dare touch the WOOM
in case I might set Vieta free somehow. I wanted to bury Salem's body in the Consortium Gardens. It's what he . . .
we
would have wanted. But the gardens were gone, jettisoned. Qod told me that version of Salem had to get rid of them because they were infested with Vieta's daughter.” Salem sighs regretfully. “I ended up just shooting the body out into space. I got away as quickly as I could after that. I didn't like the idea that Vieta was in there, still alive. I wanted to put as much distance as I could between me and that WOOM.”

I shudder. It was disturbing enough to experience Vieta in the life of Diabolis, but to be near him in reality would be worse, and to think that poor wretch lived for so long with its suffering, now to be wandering the eternity of space completely alone.

“I did secure his cane before leaving, though,” Salem said. “Just to be sure. The stone seems to be inert now.”

From his robes, Salem pulls out the indigo-blue jewel and shows it to me, cupped in the palm of his hand. My stomach twists at the sight of it, but then I realize it is not fear I feel but need. For some obscure reason—most likely buried within the algorithm—Vieta's jewel has an important part to play, but not yet. There are still things that must
be done first. More information to be gathered and analyzed. I want to scoop it up from his palm, but that would raise too many questions, so for now, I feel I should hold back.

“Salem?” he says. “Are you all right? You're staring.”

I snap back to meet his gaze. “So!” I say, clasping my hands behind my back decisively. “Why did you come?”

Salem places the stone slowly back into his robes and observes me for a long moment before getting up from my seat. “I'm recruiting,” he says, also clasping his hands behind his back, mirroring my posture.

“For what?”

“The Soul Continuum.”

“And what exactly is that?”

Qod interjects now. “Actually, Salem, you already are part of the Soul Continuum. It's the manner in which you contribute that determines whether you're recruited or not.”

Salem nods. “The Soul Continuum is the name we gave to the many iterations of ourselves that currently exist. Technically, because the cycles of a singularity have no beginning or end, there could be an infinite number of Salem Bens scattered beyond the universe, most of them thinking they are completely alone, a good many of them still asleep in their WOOMs living out all manner of different lives. Some of them could be doing exactly what I'm doing now: recruiting.” He glances upward. “Qod won't give me all the details. You know what she's like.”

“There is only you doing this,” Qod says. “I confessed
this much to you only because I had to. You found out too much when you started poking around in Arken-Bright's life.”

“Arken-Bright?” I ask.

“Clifford Arken-Bright,” Salem says. “It's a life you probably never bothered to live, but he suddenly became very interesting to me when I woke up and discovered that Qod had vanished. I started ‘poking around,' as Qod calls it, when I found out about the Aberration Sphere. You see—”

“The what?”

“You don't know about the Aberration Sphere? Isn't that where you found Diabolis Evomere?”

“No, Diabolis was in the Sub-human Sphere.”

Salem cocks his head. “Interesting. Well, the Aberration Sphere is where Qod started refiling all the lives that contained anomalous data. Basically, the Codex calculations weren't matching up with reality because of Keitus Vieta's interference. When I found out that Qod had disappeared after she investigated Vieta's daughter at a subatomic level, I cross-referenced all lives in the Aberration Sphere with historical figures involved with quantum mechanics. I found a scientist by the name of Clifford Arken-Bright, a contemporary of Ernest Rutherford, famous in the early
days of Old Earth.” Salem takes a deep breath through his nose and looks down, his eyes suddenly filling with fear. “I . . . don't
remember . . .”

I give him a moment, but he doesn't seem to be having any success recalling whatever it is he thinks is important.

“Did Arken-Bright find something? What happened?”

“It's at the moment of his death. I can never remember exactly . . .”

“Did Vieta kill him?”

Salem shakes his head. “I don't think so. I think the recording of his life finishes too soon. Either that or the neural flush wiped out something he discovered right at the end. All I know is that through Arken-Bright's life, I found out about the threat beyond the rift. Qod still hadn't returned when I woke up, and it was only after living the next life that she came back, and by that time, I'd worked out the same thing as you—that there are many of us. She hates us knowing about that.”

“I don't
hate
it,” Qod says. “It just goes against the principles
of Codex law.”

Salem grins. “Doesn't mean
I
can't tell other Salems about it, though, eh, Qod?”

“Speaking of which,” she says dryly, “another one has woken.”

“Good,” Salem says. “I need to get moving.” He pulls a coin-sized disc from his robes. “Take this.”

“What is it?”

“It's a beacon, keyed to our neural print. When I need you, you'll know. For now, it's good enough that you know
the Continuum exists. We know that something is coming,
Salem. Something powerful, and we don't know how long we have left. Even Qod is under threat. I don't know how effective the Continuum will be, but we stand a greater chance of survival as a united force than we do apart.”

I take the disc from him. “You're going to have to give me more than that. What's coming? What is this thing?”

Salem purses his lips and his eyes shift focus for a second,
frightened, as if he has seen something behind me. Then he holds my gaze again and reaches up to clasp my shoulder. “I don't like to give it a name, but I have heard it called the Jagannath.”

“The Jagannath? Who called it that?”

His fingers press harder into my shoulders. “I shouldn't say more. It gives a false impression. Contrary to what many will tell you, names are meaningless. It's easier if you find
out for yourself, though if you do, you will wish you hadn't. I'm going to find other Salems now, but promise me one thing.”

“You know as well as I that my promises are useless.”

He smiles, releases his grip. “Your promises were worth something once.”

I nod. “What?”

“The disc I gave you . . . if it signals you with coordinates, it means the Continuum is calling, and it probably means Qod has had to hide again. Will you come?”

I study the disc in my palm. “What if I am in the WOOM?”

“It will break you out of the life and trigger a neural flush.”

“It's not recommended,” Qod says, “but if this entity is as dangerous as I feel it is, any cerebral damage you receive probably would not matter anymore. You would have no future.”

I nod. “I understand. What if I need to signal you?” I ask Salem.

“Then use it. It's keyed to respond to your . . . our mental
instruction.”

T
he other Salem is gone now.

He left without ceremony. A million lifetimes without another real soul to talk to, and I just let him go about his business—to find more iterations of me. It disturbs me to know that I am glad he left. More so that I cannot pinpoint why. Am I so emotionally detached from the human race that I cannot even enjoy a conversation with a version of myself? Perhaps that is the reason. Perhaps it is because, deep down, I despise myself. But we have a quest now. I am part of a Continuum of souls readying to protect the future of life from . . . what? I have no idea what this Jagannath is. I checked the historical archives right after the other Salem left, but the only information it held about the Jagannath is that it is some sort of ancient deity revered by a long-dead religion. They called it Lord of the Universe; there is no hint as to what it really is. Keitus Vieta was unique, tied exclusively to human souls, but this other entity must be completely alien.

What worries me most is Qod's confession that she knows nothing about this mysterious Jagannath other than that it is trying to break through. There is little else I can do other than follow the other Salem's lead and investigate for myself. I could live the life of Clifford Arken-Bright within the Aberration Sphere and find out what he discovered. I can feel the algorithm in my brain tuning pleasure receptors, pulling at my instincts like a magnet, but is it confirmation or manipulation? Even Qod cannot tell me. I can only trust that Oluvia Wade knew what she was doing when she gave it to me.

Subject 1.73074E+22: Select.

Subject 1.73074E+22: Aberration detected.

Subject 1.73074E+22: Override authorized—ID Salem Ben.

Subject 1.73074E+22: Activate. Immersion commences in three minutes.

It seems bizarre to imagine the universe now, knowing what I know. There could be an infinite number of Salem Bens out there. Vast millions of them thinking they are utterly alone, all following this same lonely and futile routine as the WOOM embraces them to live the same lives over and over again. How many times have people lived? How many more times have I lived them? Immortality, eternity, and infinity are curious things.

I am ready now. I have not heard one word of Qod's redundant warnings about entering a life within the Aberration
Sphere, and I hardly notice the nanofibers penetrating my
skull and spine, or the shackles sealing me in place. A brilliant
speck of white-blue light ejects from the wall to hover before me like a tiny insect. It is all that remains of Clifford Arken-Bright, and it waits for me, as if expecting some sort of approval before I plunge into his memories. Another second passes, and then it fires like a bullet into a nozzle on the tip of the WOOM door.

“Farewell, Salem,” Qod says. “See you in twenty-eight years.”

Do not look into the devil's eye

For secrets will speak and ignorance will die

Do not look into the devil's eye

For there you will find not him, not you, but I.

A
t lunchtimes I sometimes sit on the bench underneath the oak tree at the far end of the grounds. From here, elevated on the brow of Penswick Hill with the shade of the woods behind me, I sit alone and take in the full sprawling panorama of Borealis University; it stimulates a broader perspective of thought when I need to consider new direction in life. How did I get to be here? Where will I go next? What will I achieve? At twenty-eight years of age, I still have my whole life ahead of me and it is as open and wide and sunny as the sky above the university.

I take a bite from my sandwich and chew slowly, studying the somber grays of the building. With its tall walls and barred windows, it looks more like a prison than a place of learning, and today, perhaps because I am anticipating the first steps into a brave new world of enterprise and vocation, it looks more like a prison than usual.

I grew up under the loving gaze of hopeful parents whose material success afforded me private tuition and eventually a coveted place at this prestigious university, and I have studied here for many years, but my obsession with the sciences has consumed me completely. I have withdrawn into a tight and dark chrysalis of my own making all my life. Until now. I have made friends along the way, of course, but in truth I have little time for others, even my family. I am not consciously antisocial, but sitting here, looking at the moody building before me, I see what I really am. I mean to change after today.

After today, when I receive a distinction for my most recent paper, I will leave this place and make my way forward in the world as a new man. No longer keeping people at arms' length. No longer hiding from the world. My ambitions are considered here, under this tree, but the journey begins down there, in the university.

And now it is time.

I screw up the greaseproof paper that protected my sandwiches and, after placing it back in my lunch tin, get up from the bench and make my way down the hill, through the grounds, and back inside the university. Fellow students
nod and say hello as I pass them. I do the same but politely refuse when one or two of them indicate they want to talk. I do want to talk but not to them. My objective is the chancellor's office.

P
rofessor John J. Withering has my life in his hands. A significant life though it is, I find myself wondering if his critical analysis of the meager file open in his palms will recognize that. How can one truly capture the complex stratification of thought within a constantly changing mind? He should be looking at my thesis, not at my credentials and background. He knows all of that anyway, and those details are irrelevant now, meaningless. What matters is the work. My work.

Not one syllable has crossed his lips in the last five minutes,
so I cough. The professor glances up at me over his tinted circular spectacles, not moving his head. It isn't a pleasant look. It is the look of impatience. But then, Withering is neither a pleasant nor a patient man, at least not with me. It must be jealousy.

In truth, I am grateful he is the type who chooses not to maintain eye contact. He has the look of a man who has forgotten what it is like to have a passion for discovery, and I prefer to not mix with his kind. The fact that he is an ugly man does nothing to help, either. Two large warts nest together on one side of his nose like shriveled raisins, and I suspect his thick brown beard hides more of them. Either that or the excess of hair is his way of shielding himself from the world. We have this in common.