The Fifth Science Read online

  The Fifth Science

  Copyright © 2018 Exurb1a.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Cosmia Press

  ALSO BY EXURB1A

  The Bridge to Lucy Dunne

  The Prince of Milk

  Logic Beach: Part I

  Contents

  Introduction

  Timeline of ‘The 500 Year Climb’

  For Every Dove a Bullet

  The Menagerie

  A Dictionary

  And the Leaves All Sing of God

  101 Things Not to Visit in the Galaxy Before You Die

  The Lantern

  The Want Machine

  Water for Lunch

  The Girl and the Pit

  Be Awake, Be Good

  The Caretaker

  Lullaby for the Empire

  Notes on Why Stuff Got Written

  Introduction

  Oh hi.

  Even though what you’re reading now is a collection of short stories, I would recommend going through them in order. They follow chronologically, are set in the same universe, and do actually lead somewhere. Hopefully. Or don’t read them in order, that’s all right. You always bloody know best, don’t you?

  There’s a theme among most of them that we may as well address here. Namely: it’s possible (no, I think it’s possible) that one day we will learn to make non-conscious things conscious. And not just electronics, not just computers, but matter itself, from the molecular up to the cosmic. I know that sounds a bit spiritual. Well fine, but I don’t want your soul and there won’t be any chanting. Big hats are okay though. (I've left a little discussion at the end ((with myself...)) about the cosmic universe idea, for those who are still curious.)

  All of this started as a short story I assumed was going nowhere. When it was done I pulled on the thread a bit, wished for the best, and more stories turned up and brought their mates too. This led me on the most enjoyable year of writing I’ve ever had. So really, I just want to say thank you for even picking this up in the first place. And more than that, I hope you enjoy it.

  As with my other books, I would like to dedicate this one to those of you who have been supporting my stuff on Patreon, and online in general. This poor excuse for a writing career is kept going by your kindness. I’m never going to sufficiently get down in words just how grateful I am. So if I may, I will leave it as: a gigantic, gigantic thank you.

  I also owe a large debt of gratitude to a friend who sat with me evening after evening while this book was just a vague idea, and listened to my rambling attempts to flesh it out and never told me to shut the hell up, as she perhaps should have. You were a lighthouse in everything. You still are. Your friend, always.

  Finally thank you to: Agnese for the maths, Jimmy for the Chinese, Martin for the politics, and Ellis for bothering to read this when it was a total mess.

  If you don't hate these stories, you are welcome to inform me of such via: [email protected]. If you do hate these stories, you are sort of welcome to inform me of such via: [email protected]. Plus, if you would like to vent your rage at my terrible prose in the form of an Amazon review, that would also not be discouraged.

  All right then, let’s go hang out in the Galactic Human Empire. No no, after you, I insist.

  All the best, as ever,

  Ex.

  To the engineers and scientists who will one day build minds; from whatever materials, in whatever form.

  Hello from a time when we thought it was all magic.

  One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.

  — Carl Jung

  Timeline of ‘The 500 Year Climb’

  0 A.L. (Anno Logicae) – Mathematicist Polly Hare’s paper published: Towards an Effective Empirical Method via Algorithm Utilisation.

  17 A.L. – Discovery of the ‘fidon’ particle using the ‘Hare method’, also prompting discovery of the second Higgs mechanism and seventh time dimension.

  26 A.L. – First fidon generators made widely available. Reliance on fossil fuels partially diminished.

  119 A.L. – First ‘generation voidships’ launched from Aerth.

  183 A.L. – Narrative War begins.

  194 A.L. - Narrative War ends, prompting the expansion of several existing Aerth states including the Democratic Bulgaric Republic.

  201 A.L. – Mechanical intelligence is granted civil rights by the UN, though with many caveats.

  248 A.L. – Ming Shu publishes paper: Corollary Results in Topology Casting, paving the way much later for ribbondash technology.

  292 A.L. – Artificially crewed voidship, The Hand That Draws Itself, reaches star system LDH39 successfully.

  295 A.L. – Artificial crew of The Hand That Draws Itself unexpectedly declare themselves independent, creating the Sovereign Republic of Sky Eternity (天恆).

  356 A.L. – Final lepton is discovered, the melnitron. The end of particle physics appears close.

  392 A.L. – First generation ship, The Enanga, not responding to signalling. Onboard AI reports all crew perished during the journey. Reason unknown. No further contact.

  419 A.L. – First mathematical proof of ribbondash physics, or now famously known as The First Proof, published by Francois Manelov.

  431 A.L. – First ribbondash drive tested in Aerth space, marking the beginning of the Ribbondash Era.

  433 A.L. – Ribbondash ‘voiding’ effect discovered. Many areas of near-Aerth space are rendered totally unusable, and even fatal to those passing through. Overwhelming pressure to ban the technology.

  445 A.L. – Bulgaric Republic illegally dispatches first ever ribbondash colony ship, Geo Milev (Гео Милев), to the void. Reaches star system IR394 within 7 minutes, onboard time.

  452 A.L. – Bulgaric Republic declares it has initiated the creation of the first ever galactic human empire.

  Galactic Empire Period Begins

  For Every Dove a Bullet

  I was born (to use the word loosely…) over ten thousand years ago inside one Winston Earnest, a law clerk: 41, unhappily married, three children, one deceased.

  Meticulous, well educated, and entirely boring.

  What was my first sense? Of being Winston Earnest and not being Winston Earnest. His hands moved in front of me, but it was not I who moved them. His voice spoke, but it was not I compelling it to do so. I had all of Winston Earnest's memories. I was Winston Earnest. But something had taken control of my body.

  I watched that thing and it appeared to also be Winston Earnest. I could hear his thoughts and observe his actions and he both thought and acted like Winston Earnest in every way, behaved as I would.

  I spent a year or so like this, a passenger. Sometimes I would daydream as he went about the morning and afternoon. Other times I would be wide awake as he slept. But always powerless.

  Earnest acquired something of an impressive gambling debt, playing cards in order to spend more and more time with ladies of the evening. As the debts increased he turned to more elaborate attempts to cheat at poker and such and soon found himself living far beyond his means. Inspired by a ruined copy of Crime and Punishment, he resolved to murder his landlord, a fairly rich man in his late sixties. He gave no hint of this on the outside,
but I was able to listen to Winston's thoughts as though they were my own, of course.

  The date was set. He would wait until the old man came to collect the rent, offer him a seat on the sofa facing the window, then bludgeon him to death with a mallet. Inelegant but effective. He would then steal the old man's keys, raid his apartment upstairs, and escape to a distant spot such as Minnesota or the like.

  Sure enough, the old man came around midday. He accepted the offer of tea and sat down and stared out of the window. Earnest fetched the mallet from the kitchen.

  I am not able to account for what came next. As I have said, I was Winston Earnest and I was not. I had his memories and inclinations, yet I'd had to watch them play out for a year or so without any control. Instead I’d become a kind of critic, seeing my own decisions, but incarcerated. Perhaps this was what inspired my first ever true action in the world.

  Earnest raised the mallet above the old man and went to bring it down.

  In desperation I tried to fight the act with every ounce of will in me, spreading out into his mind like a drop of blood in water. And the mallet did pause at its peak.

  I felt Earnest panic. We stayed like that for a full minute or so, perfectly still, Earnest fighting for control of his arm as I did the same, will set against will. The old man must've heard Earnest scuffle and turned about, fled in an instant.

  I could hold Earnest's arm no longer. He almost fainted, presumably weak from the mental struggle. He then cried out to God and prayed for a long while thinking himself either ill or possessed. Both, I would say.

  (And how forgiving God must be if he’s willing to overlook the odd spot of attempted murder!)

  This was how I learned to control packets. Winston Earnest was the first. He would not be the last. I sensed I could exert greater influence over him now, but I stayed dormant and only watched his life for the next few days. He packed his things and moved to a small town in the Midwest and spent the next week inside reading the newspaper, smoking, sleeping, and trying to lay low.

  Then came the next test of my abilities.

  I spoke to him several days later. He was on the run still, eating dinner in a small-town restaurant and I said to him, You are a shit.

  His blood ran cold. He remained perfectly still. I was silent. He continued eating.

  He became extremely paranoid as a result of this little episode and began lining his bedroom with garlic. (That is for vampires Earnest, but no matter.) He often pulled the lid of his eye down to look inwardly for intruders. I remained quiet throughout.

  Soon Earnest found himself penniless again and reverted to his old habits. He planned this time to murder a young man — famous in the town — who it was well known had just inherited a large sum from his father. I took this as quite the perfect test of my abilities.

  I did not sleep. Ever, in fact. This was not too much of a surprise, as I was obviously not made of the same soul-stuff as Earnest. So one night as he was sleeping, I willed his legs to move as I had held his arm in the air that fateful day some time ago. With considerable effort his left leg moved. I tried the right leg. It obeyed. And carefully, ever so carefully, I eased him out of bed and onto his feet, ambling about in a drunkard's shuffle.

  The eyes were bleary. God, they were my eyes once. The legs were weak. Those too used to belong to me. Now I felt a burglar.

  I resolved to write a letter, nothing too complicated. A paragraph at most. Earnest's hand was accurate as a damn mitten, but I made the scrawl readable enough. Finally it came to the signing of the piece. My title, I wondered? I had no parents, nor had I been born. And so I signed off with Winston Earnest’s name.

  A wild shuffle later to the door, down the street, and to the police officer's house — I rang the bell once, twice, three times. A dishevelled officer opened the door. I dared not speak for I feared it would sound quite outrageous. I handed him the letter.

  He must've sensed madness in the figure before him, for he read the letter there and then, looking up to check on me every few seconds and quietly he asked if I was the man who had written the thing. I nodded slowly, once. He took a pistol from some secreted spot behind the door and ordered that I “stand very still”.

  Instead I collapsed. The effort it had taken to control Earnest's bulk was simply too much.

  I do not entirely remember the contents of the letter, only that I gave the exact details of the murder attempt on the old landlord and made it clear that he — I — was planning to murder again. Finally it was signed in that strange name, the name that was not my name, in almost illegible and infirm scrawl.

  The remainder of Earnest's life is not all that interesting. A haze of medication, straitjackets, and sanatoriums. When doctors began considering him for release, I needed only to make him soil himself in the middle of a review meeting or slap his own face repeatedly. For the most part it was a fine sport. Interventions such as that took little energy. But movement like walking or talking was utterly exhausting back then, much as learning to read is to one who cannot. Every muscle must be controlled at once, every pivot and twist is the beginning of a possible fall to the floor. No, I left him alone.

  A year. Two. Five. Ten.

  Did I feel guilt of any kind for keeping him confined? No. The man was despicable, a would-be killer.

  It's not unlikely that I gained my strong moral sense from him to begin with. I was born of him, of course, somehow. In fact I was a wonderful experiment, nothing less than his own moral sense applied to himself, a watcher at all times, with no vested interest in his life.

  I wonder, if we all divorced ourselves in two, what would be the result? One half the observer, one half the doer. I doubt we'd be impressed with what we found.

  In any case the death happened this way:

  Treating another patient with diabetes, a nurse left several vials of insulin on the counter, along with a syringe. Earnest may have been many foul things, but he was not stupid. He quickly resolved to inject himself dead.

  For the first time in ten years I spoke to him.

  Steady on, I said. If you do that you'll kill us both.

  A silence. He paused. The nurse would be back at any moment.

  “Us?” he said slowly.

  He was old. He was wretched. He deserved the truth. I told it to him, what I was (as far as I knew), what I had been doing, that he was not in the least bit mad but only wicked and in many ways that was worse. He listened silently, shaking.

  “Do you die if I die?” he asked.

  I should imagine so, I said. But don't let that stop you. You've been punished enough. They won't let you out of this place alive. They think you're nuts! So the choice is yours. Do as you like.

  I didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of hearing it, but really I was not terribly fond of this life as a prisoner inside a head which once belonged to me. Death would be fine.

  His brain whirred and flickered; an animal trying to catch its own mind in the mirror.

  He injected himself over and over. I did not try to stop him.

  We experienced the death together. He cried out a few times, to God, to his mother, to me. And then to me again, and again, cursed and cursed.

  Darkness, for how long I don't know.

  I sensed a number of doors in front of me, some simple and made of wood, others complicated and with metal mechanisms.

  I was free of Earnest.

  I hesitated for a time. How long did I have in this place, and where was it exactly? It was not heaven. Nor was it hell. Purgatory neither. There was no sense of a lord or creator in any fashion.

  Each of the doors held a notion of whatever lurked beyond it; of cleverness, shrewdness, shyness, lust, and honour. Some were obviously cats and dogs, others young women and old men.

  I settled on the one door that pulsed with intelligence, for if I was to go into the world again I wanted to know what I was, by God. Any sentient creature desires this.

  The door handle offered no resistance. I stepped through
easily.

  I came to in much the same fashion as I had in Winston Earnest, slowly waking up to realise I was in a body I could not control.

  The new packet’s name was Henry Berkhamsted, American (again), a professor of philosophy of mind. A tedious subject but the man was bright enough.

  It was morning and he was eating porridge, a texture I hated from Earnest. He paused for a moment, perhaps sensing my arrival, then continued eating.

  I relaxed back into his memories the way one might go through a family album found on the street. Usual childhood, if not quite rich. Years of pointless education followed by a professorship.

  And ah, but there it was, the thing which had drawn me to the man.

  He was an outcast in academia, mainly due to his bizarre views on consciousness. A formalist as he described it, believing that a mind is a pattern of information rather than a solid thing enclosed within the brain.

  Yes, I thought. A fine idea. For what was I after all?

  Brain research was almost non-existent then in the 1920s. The brain had something to do with consciousness. That was as far as it went, more or less. And ironically, for a man dealing in consciousness, Berkhamsted had very little soul indeed.

  He woke every morning at 6, showered, masturbated occasionally (though with enormous guilt), breakfasted, dressed, then caught glimpses of the girl across the balcony, also getting ready for work. Penny she was called, I knew from his memories.

  I watched him lecturing bored students day in day out, using terms he had not taught them, covering subjects they did not care about, and all the while he wondered why they showed only a minimal dose of respect. He envied the younger, more spritely professors; on the one hand desperate for the respect they commanded, resentful on the other that they did not seem obsessed with life's deeper questions in the fashion he considered proper for academics.