So I've decided to rectify that here. In the first of what I hope are semi-regular short stories set in the Parallel U. multiverse, we visit Parallel 33 and learn a little bit about what makes it different—and where it might be headed in the future.
Enjoy.
“It’s called the Terminus Institute,” said the flesh-man. “As
detailed in the materials I’ve distributed, it originated on an Earth similar
to this one, but which exists on a different dimensional plane—same place,
different chronotemporal frequency.” He scratched his cheek near his ear;
probably from nerves. Lorelei m822 found herself remembering that, now, about
flesh-men. They had nervous gestures…”tics,” they called them.
Yet they also itched. That was an alternate explanation for
the scratching. It was never easy to tell why a flesh-man did what he did.
Sometimes there was more than one reason. Sometimes the reasons were even at
odds with each other. Sometimes a flesh-man acted in direct violation of his
own best interests. And if you pointed that out to him, he’d keep doing it
anyway.
And yet…looking at this one now, this stranger—this warm,
moist, biological creature, who had appeared out of nowhere, flushed and
sweating, his breath sour, his eyes bloodshot—explaining himself, with a
mixture of swagger and insecurity…Lorelei realized she missed flesh-men. When
they died out in 1988, they left such an emptiness behind—not simply
geographically, but a creatively and intellectually as well. It was difficult
to explain to the younger generations, who had never known a flesh-man. Their
disdain for them was both ubiquitous and understandable. The flesh-men had died
because they had, for political gain, eased restrictions on commercial nanotech
research; which had resulted in a nanoplague that had devoured them like a
wildfire.
Acting against their best interests, indeed.
How, the younger generations asked, could they be expected
to mourn a species so willfully self-destructive…so irrational?
Because they did things like this, Lorelei would be able to tell them now. Because they had the
imagination to discover a chronotemporal veil that separated parallel
universes—because they had the wit to conceive
of parallel universes in the first place.
And then…they had the sheer, reckless bravado to travel
between them.
Whereas, since the new-men—the androids created by the
flesh-men, to share their world with them—had inherited the Earth, they had
done nothing so revolutionary. Certainly they’d kept society running—in fact more
efficiently than ever before; they had adapted and refined it, streamlined it,
consolidated it, to their own tastes and to suit their own needs. This
post-human world was a highly functioning paradise…a clockwork wonderworld.
But…it was a world without vision. A world without fire.
And this unlikely apparition—pale, balding, saddled with the
beginnings of a middle-aged paunch…this representative of the “Terminus
Institute” with his yellow teeth and receding gums, his nervous tics and his
spotty flesh…he was the man who might bring miracles back.
Yet when Lorelei looked around her, at the other Councilors
at the table, she saw the impassivity in their demeanor. Many of them were
younger than she…but that shouldn’t have mattered. Everyone knew the story of
the flesh-men, of the great human civilizations they had built, destroyed,
rebuilt, destroyed again…the cycle of achievement and annihilation that had
resulted, in the end, in the birth of this race—the new-men, the nanoconstructs,
designed in their creators’ image, to house self-contained artificial
intelligences…humanity had done that.
The flesh-men had done that.
The new-men had done nothing to compare with it.
Despite which the Council appeared ready to dismiss this
invitation from the Terminus Institute to enter into a provisionary partnership.
Lorelei could feel the chill of refusal in the air around her. After so many
decades without human companionship, the new-men had grown mistrustful of the
unexpected…the random…the unknowable.
But that, Lorelei knew, was exactly what their world—what
their race—needed in order to move
forward.
The Terminus Institute envoy—one of several who had
arrived at cities around the globe, coordinating their efforts over
sophisticated wireless devices (a system they offered to share, since the new-men
had not significantly advanced digital technology in the post-plague years)—regarded
the Council and raised an eyebrow. “You are familiar with the concept of
parallels, I’m sure,” he said, adjusting himself in his seat—another nervous
tic, Lorelei remembered, this one signaling the beginnings of anxiety or
uncertainty.
She pitied him; and she was intrigued by him. So she
spoke—despite not being the senior member of the assembly, and thus violating
regulations. “We are aware of the concept, of course, Dr. Hargreave,” she said,
recalling his name from where she had stored it after their introduction. “Our
biological forbears have left us a rich literature on the physics and the
theory involved.”
“That is a literature,” he said with a smile, “that we can
amply amend and expand, based on the Institute’s researches and discoveries.
Our chief aim—our only aim—is to
begin an exchange of information and technologies across the various parallels,
to the inestimable benefit of each.” He settled back more comfortably in his
seat again. “And these exchanges are to be anchored by our most ambitious
project: a university, called Parallel U., in which selected students from each
parallel will come to study, commingling their knowledge and cultures. It’s a
grand experiment, and we invite you to choose your most gifted student to take
part in it—financed, of course, by a full scholarship from the Terminus
Institute.”
Lorelei felt a tingle of anticipation. Her model—the
Loreleis—were known to be more impulsive than others; to be more willing to
indulge a calculated risk. Would it be out of line for her to suggest that one
of them be considered for this
honor?...In point of fact, would it be seen as presumptuous were she to
recommend herself?
But…no. She must, on further reflection, answer this request
in the spirit by which it was delivered. A university: that was a place, in
human cultures, for the young, an Lorelei m822 was thirty-eight years old.
True, in human terms, she could pass for nineteen; new-men didn’t age as flesh-men
did; they never withered, or grew infirm, or endured physical impairment or
frailty. They never even died—at least, not in the natural sense; not unless
the nanobots within their bloodstream spectacularly malfunctioned, which was a
statistical rarity, almost unheard of…or unless the body housing them suffered
such a traumatizing calamity—incineration by fire, for example—that its tissues
were irreparably destroyed before the nanobots could even begin to repair them.
A different Lorelei, then; she would advocate for that. And
she would take vicarious pride in one of her model being selected for a
scholarship among the new-men of so many different worlds—strange worlds,
unlike anything she could imagine.
Because imagination was a human trait, quite beyond her.
***
It wasn’t until Dr. Hargreave had been thanked and escorted
out that the rest of the council weighed in.
“We must be wary,” said Titus m604. “We’ve had a long time
to forget the worst failings of our human antecedents. Flesh-men can be
foolhardy, corrupt, and deceitful. We know nothing—we can know nothing—of this Terminus Institute and its proposed
university, beyond what their envoy has told us. Which is nothing of
any substance.”
Lorelei felt a slight flash of irritation; one of the quirks
of her model. The Tituses were all so process-oriented; they had a reputation
for caution, prudence, and reliance on precedent. There was nothing in the
world more likely to appall a Titus than a flesh-man popping out of thin air and
inviting the entire world to a congress.
And nothing more likely to appeal to a Lorelei. “On the
contrary,” she said—again boldly, for none of the seniors had as yet voiced an
opinion—“he’s supplied us with data to back up everything he’s presented to
us.” She tapped the small metal tube on the table before her.
Titus shook his head. “Data can be forged. And this, let me
remind you, is data we cannot even read without devices also forged by the flesh-men. This is very possibly an elaborate
and circular hoax, which relies on layers of duplicity to dull our instinctive skepticism.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Lorelei, her eyes flashing. “I’m not skeptical.” She grinned. “As you
know, Loreleis seldom are.” There was a ripple of laughter; Loreleis were also
among the few models who were apt to provoke that particular anxiety-easing
response. “I fail to see we stand to lose in this exchange. It seems fairly
simple: the Terminus Institute will endow us with information, theories, and
technologies from other parallels. These can easily be regulated by existing
channels before being dispensed to the population at large. And in return, we
offer one student, to represent us and our world at a university devoted to collecting
the wisdom of the entire multiverse.”
“This is all very speculative and conjectural,” said Xerxes
m1044. “There’s nothing solid he’s
promised us.”
“Because he’s being honest,”
Lorelei said. “Only dishonest men promise things to get their way. And only
gullible men ever believe them.” Everyone here knew that. They still had flesh-men
books and movies to remind them.
But the Council ended with a vote of wait-and-see, and
Lorelei left the meeting feeling frustrated.
***
She was on her way across the lobby when she heard herself called from the shadow behind a pillar. “Hey. Hey, you. Lorelei, isn’t it?”
Curious—and delightedly so; curiosity was another rarity, in
the new-men’s highly regulated world—she approached the man who had hailed her.
It was Dr. Hargreave. Up close, his ugliness was even more repellent…and
strangely fascinating. The new-men were all perfect—all beautiful. She’d
forgotten how much character could be read in a face put together by genetic
accident. “You’re the one on the Council, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, displaying her garment, “I’m still wearing
the robe of office.”
“I thought so. It’s hard to tell. Seen six or seven of you swanning
around since I’ve been down here waiting.”
“You’ve been waiting? For me?”
He nodded. “I wanted to thank you for being receptive to my
pitch. The others…well, they’re not exactly poker faces. I saw which way the
wind was blowing.”
Fascinating, Lorelei thought, the way these flesh-men speak
in metaphor. It was a device almost extinct among the new-men.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe one of your colleagues will
have better luck.”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately, we’re striking out all
across the planet.”
She frowned. “Perhaps your best bet is to wait a few months.
In another ten weeks, a new Council will be chosen by random draw for each representative
zone. A new assembly might be more willing to consider your arguments.”
He barked out a laugh. “Fat chance. You people have been on
your own too long. You’ve lost your nerve. Too timid to risk a throw of the
dice.” Another metaphor.
“I don’t disagree. But I don’t know what I can do to help
you.”
“Sure you do.” He smiled. It brightened up his face; made it
almost attractive. “You can dangle a carrot in front of them.” Lorelei was
beginning to feel dizzy at this lava-flow of metaphor; his way of speaking
required so much sheer interpretation.
“You aren’t going to make a promise, are you?” she said,
furrowing her brow. “I’ve just told them: only dishonest men make promises.”
He grinned. “I’m not promising anything. But…I’m not beyond tantalizing
you.”
She felt a sudden flurry of excitement. All these old
concepts—suddenly alive again in the world! “We’re a difficult people to
tantalize, Dr. Hargreave.”
“I think I’ve got just the thing.” He smiled wider. “As I
understand it, your race grows new generations in batches, in nanolabs. And
you’ve only got the capabilities for a few dozen different models.”
“There are ninety-four new-men prototypes,” she confirmed.
“All were designed and programmed by our human antecedents.” She gave him a sly
look. “You’re not proposing to add to the number, are you? As I understand it,
your nanotech capabilities aren’t as sophisticated as ours.”
“No…but our minds
are nimbler.” He began to look anxious…itchy.
But instead of scratching this time, he nodded at the door to the portico. “Do
you mind if we go outside? I’m dying for a smoke.”
A…cigarette? He wanted a cigarette?
Lorelei hadn’t seen one of those since before the plague. They were
filthy…poisonous.
She felt her pulse thrum with excitement.
“You may certainly smoke in here, Dr. Hargreave,” she said.
“No one will stop you. People may stare at you, but they won’t impede you.”
He grinned. “Thanks. Very civilized. I wish I could tell you
what it’s like back home. Anti-smoking Nazis ready to gut you like a dog.”
First metaphor, now simile! Lorelei was eager to get home and replay this
conversation. It was a linguistic treasure trove.
“Anyway,” he said, as he tapped a cigarette from a foil
packet, then lit it with a butane lighter—Lorelei tried in vain not to
stare—“my point is, we’ve got the ingenuity to maybe give your population a
little sideways jiggle. If you read me.”
She shook her head. “I most certainly do not.”
He inhaled a mouthful of smoke, then expelled it. It was
vile. Lorelei was enchanted. “What I’m saying is, your nanotech is
sophisticated enough to possibly be programmed to accept innovations in its
coding…even randomly determined ones.”
“Randomly determined…?” she asked. “What…why would anyone even…”
“I’m talking about sex, sister,” he said, grinning again.
“I’m talking about breeding. Throwing open the doors for the nanobots to jump
off the procreative cliffs. And that’s not all,” he said, taking another draw
off his cigarette. It seemed to be calming him. “If your people can breed together—which
I think they can—I don’t see any reason they can’t also breed with mine.”
She felt her internal functions jar for a moment; something
that only happened under the most extreme duress or unpreparedness. “Dr.
Hargreave,” she said, “you’re pushing the limits of my credibility.”
“Hey, I’m an organism, you’re a mechanism,” he said with a
shrug. “But we’re both based on the same blueprints. Who’s to say our separate
systems can’t be synthesized? I sure as hell wouldn’t bet against it.”
Lorelei blinked. “But…the resultant offspring…they might be anything.”
He nodded. “Exactly.” He winked at her. “You game to take a
chance on that, sweetheart?”
***
It was only later, after she’d left him, while she was
crossing the park to her apartment complex, that she realized he’d been
flirting with her. Flirting! So people really did that! It was so indirect…so imprecise…such a waste of time and
language. And yet…so wonderfully lightening,
in a way she couldn’t define.
This was exactly the factor the flesh-men could bring back
into their lives: the roundabout way they approached things—the audacity, the
ingenuity—all the things that gave them such wonderful, impossible ideas: sex
between new men! Human-android hybrids!
The weight of these concepts seemed momentarily
insupportable; Lorelei spotted a bench and sat down in it. She turned her face
to the sun, breathed deeply, and released a satisfied sigh.
She felt certain she could convince the Council to at least agree
to a provisional partnership with the Terminus Institute, based on this
“carrot” she could “dangle” before them. It was a cliché to bemoan how stagnant
their culture had become, what with the limited number of points of view
afforded it. Ninety-four, to be precise. What astonishing alteration might they
expect, if that even ticked up to ninety-five?
The question, then, became who to send to this new
university. Suddenly, Lorelei was feeling less confident in her own model;
true, she was much more accommodating of random factors, of sudden shifts in the
status quo—it’s why Loreleis made the best naturalists, geologists, and weather
technicians—but her reactions right at this moment were proof that her
elasticity was limited. She had, from a single conversation with a flesh-man,
been rendered temporarily immobile.
She looked across the park, to where two Dariuses kicked a
soccer ball back and forth, trying to score goals off one another. She smiled.
Darius was one of the few models which could do that; it was a very late
addition to the android stock, perfected just before the nanoplague, and as a
result it was more sophisticated than many other models. Pit two Loreleis
against each other—at soccer, at chess, at any competition—and they’d almost
immediately come to a draw: their range of choice was identical, their method
of attack equally so. But the Dariuses had more expansive programming; they had
range. They could, on occasion,
surprise each other—and even adjust to anticipate the likelihood of further
such surprises.
In short, they could learn.
That was it, then; that was the answer.
She would recommend they send a Darius to Parallel U.
