The Marriage of the Living Dark

“Not yet”

“But surely you need a hull of some kind?” Ebert said, one hand reaching out to gently brush the fine web of wires that curved out from the top of the central pole, surrounding the three skeletal-looking recliners. Kim smiled. ‘Perhaps I should be more specific. I say spacecraft, but what this is - or will be - is a space-time craft A folder.” “A what?’ Tomoka asked.

But Ebert was staring now. “You mean ...?”

Kim nodded. “When you told me about the craft DeVore was using, that time on Mars, I knew it must be possible. It was only the how of it that remained to be answered.”

“Then this is a kind of channel,” Chuang said quietly. “That’s right” Kim said. “The central pole is the important thing. If s a basic energy conductor.”

“And the wires?” Karr asked.

“They’re the hull.”

Karr laughed. “A bit draughty, wouldn’t you say, Kim?” Kim smiled. “Not when they’re working, Gregor. You see, they generate a force-field. When thaf s working, nothing will pass through it Not even the cold of deep space.”

“I still don’t understand,” Marie said. “I mean, how can you build the craft before you know how if s going to work? That doesn’t make any sense to me.” “Oh, I know how if s going to work. I just don’t know how to tap into the energy source yet thaf s all. But maybe I had a clue to it, this morning.” “Then you could go back?” Sampsa asked, from where he stood on the far side of the machine. “To Earth, I mean.”

‘Possibly.”

“And you said space-time Does that mean you could go back in time?”Kim shrugged, but this time he seemed much more uncertain. “I don’t know. But I’d guess no. If one could... well, none of it would make sense. Physical process has to have a direction ...”

“Talking of which,” Tomoka said, “which is the front and which the back of this thing?”

Kim grinned. “You don’t need a front and a back. You don’t even need up and down. You see, it doesn’t work that way. It’s like a snake - a snake swallowing its own tail.”

For the first time in years, Kim dreamed of the death of Ravachol, the humanoid

morph he’d made, to whom he’d

given life.

Or, at least, a kind of life.

In the dream, as in life, he had aimed the gun and killed his progeny, conscious that, in that last moment, the mad gleam had left the eyes and something sane had stared out at him, begging to be killed, to be released from its suffering. But why that dream? And why now?

And why had he not shared the dream of flowers? The common dream.

He sat up, looking about him at the shadows of the room. The familiar shadows of a familiar place. Beside him Jelka slept on, her soft snores filling the darkness.

Impossible, he thought, going over it for the thousandth time. He could think of no rational explanation for it. And yet... Be scientific, he told himself. If such a thing is possible, then what follows?

For a start there would have to be something in the brain of each of them - a receptor of some kind - that could pick up on this “signal”, this triggered dream.

Something in the hypothalamus, perhaps.

Okay. But if that were so, why had he not received the signal? Or was his turn to come? For the dreams had been strangely staggered. And why was that?

Part of his difficulty in accepting this was to do with the imprecision - the symbolic fanciftdness - of the dream. Flowers and ashes. Why could the deeper mind not speak in less dramatic - less theatrical - tones if it must speak at all. Why such indirectness?

And if a signal, then from whence did it come? For every signal had an origin.

Yes, and a purpose, too.

And why had it been sent to them? And why had he specifically been excluded?

It made no sense. Unless ...

Watted-off. He had said it himself, earlier, to young Chuang. Maybe that part of him that could receive the dream was walled off. Or maybe his shadow self - Gweder, the dark mirror in which his deeper nature was reflected - had received it, and never told him.

The thought frightened him.

He stood, then went to the window, staring out into the eternal night of space. It had been a long time ago, but who was to say he had changed? Maybe that darker, shadow self yet existed in him, subdued and submerged, yet there all the same, influencing him in unknown ways.

And the dream itself? What did it mean?

Kim drew a circle on the pane, then turned, looking back into the room.

It was no good; he wouldn’t sleep now. Nor was it fair on Jelka to disturb her. Moving quickly, quietly, he crossed the room and out into the corridor. The old house was dark and silent Blindly he made his way along to the library and, softly closing the door behind him, switched on the lamp. Against that warming glow, the great panelled window on the far side of the room seemed to be backed by a sheet of tar, it was so black Again he walked across, as if drawn to it, and stood there for a time, looking out into that blackness.

Home. Back there was home. He felt it call to him. Yet something in him denied that call. He had set his face against return - had rigged it so that return was not an option.

Or so he’d thought

We, made, our choice, he thought That’s why we’re out here in this awful, inhuman place. Because there’s no option for our species. Not if we want a long term future.

Or was he thinking like DeVore now?

He huffed, exasperated with himself, then turned from the window. Books. The walls were filled with shelf after shelf of books - real books, not tape-script Old, leather-bound books from before the time of the City. Kim walked across and took one down at random, opening it halfway through.

He read aloud:

“The sign is always less than the concept it represents, while a symbol always stands for something more than its obvious and immediate meaning.” And when the symbol had no obvious and immediate meaning? Kim slipped the book back and chose another, then sat in the chair beside the window, opening the book up.

Answers. He was looking for answers. But what if there were no answers? Then he might trawl all the books on all of the shelves in the entire universe and not find what he was looking for. He looked down at the page, then smiled. The Kalevala. He had taken down the Kalevala.

Sampsa pushed the door open quietly, then peered in from the shadows of the corridor. “Father?”

Kim was sitting by the window, a book open in his lap, but Sampsa could see he was not looking at the words. He was thinking. Kim turned his head, looking towards him. “What is it?”

Sampsa went across and sat on the low stool, facing his father. Physically he

was much bigger than Kim in every way,

BEHIND THE WALL OF SLEEP

yet he had never felt bigger. Not in any meaningful way. His father could encompass whole universes in that imagination of his. Beyond Kim, through the panelled window, he could glimpse the blackness of space.

Your dimension, Sampsa thought, wishing for something less grand, something far more human than that eternal sight “Well?”

Sampsa smiled. “I just wondered what you’d decided.”

“Whether to go back or not, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Kim pondered that a moment. “You think that’s what the dream means, then, Sampsa?”

“What else can it mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s a dream. It could mean that we were right to get out when we did. Maybe if s ended back there. Maybe we’re all that’s left of the story of humanity.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

Kim frowned, then, “I thought we’d made this choice.”

“Did we?”

“I thought we had.”

“Then maybe you were wrong.”

Kim laughed at that. “Maybe. But what would be the point? What could we do?” Sampsa sighed. “I don’t know. I just feel that we ought to do something. If we can.”

“Like go back and fight DeVore?”