Neverness. David Zindell
Jafar’s ideoplasts. ‘He was a great notationist,’ he said, ‘but his representation of Justerini’s omega function is redundant, isn’t it?’
He suggested certain substitutions of symbols that seemed to make great sense, and I could not keep the note of surprise from my voice as I asked, ‘Why are you helping me, Lord Pilot?’
‘It’s my duty to help new pilots.’
‘I thought you wanted me to fail.’
‘How could you know what was wanted?’ He rubbed his temples as he looked into the open pit of my ship. He seemed agitated and ill at ease.
‘But you tricked me into swearing the oath.’
‘Did I? Did I?’
‘And then you released me. Why?’
He reached out and touched the hull of my ship, almost as one would stroke a woman. He did not answer my question. Instead he pressed his lips together, and he asked me, ‘Then you really will journey into the Entity?’
‘Yes, Lord Pilot, I’ve said I would.’
‘You’ll do it freely, of your own will?’
‘Yes, Lord Pilot.’
‘Is that possible? You think you can bend yourself to your own will, that you’re free? Such arrogance!’
I had no idea of what he was leading up to, so I recited the usual evasion, ‘The holists teach that the apparent dichotomy between free will and forced action is a false dichotomy.’
He pulled at his chin and said, ‘Holists and their useless teachings! Who listens to holists? The question is this: Does your will impel you to your death, or will it be blamed on your Lord Pilot?’
Of course I blamed him; I blamed him so fiercely I felt the bile souring my stomach and spreading hotly through my veins. I wanted badly to tell him how much I blamed him, but instead I stared at his dull reflection in the hull of my ship. I looked at his black-gloved hand resting against my ship. I said nothing.
He removed his hand, rubbed his nose, and said, ‘When your time comes, when you’re close to it and have the choice between blaming me or not, please remember you tricked yourself into failure.’
My muscles were hot and tight, and without really thinking about it, I punched the hull of my ship where his face wavered in the gleaming blackness. I nearly broke my knuckles. ‘I … won’t … fail.’ I let the words out slowly, to keep from screaming in pain. I could hardly bear to look at him, with his long nose and his shiny black hair shot full of red.
He bowed his head quickly and said, ‘All men fail in the end, don’t they? Well, then. Goodbye, Pilot, we wish you well.’ He turned his back abruptly and walked away, into the depths of the Cavern.
There is not much more I wish to tell of that unhappy morning. Master Rafael returned accompanied by the usual cadre of professionals, journeymen and novices that attend a pilot’s departure. There was an orange-robed cetic who pressed his thumbs against my temples and examined my face for illness. There were journeymen tinkers who lifted me into the darkened pit of my ship, and a horologe to seal the ship’s clock. And others. After what seemed like days (already the distortions were working on my time sense), I ‘faced my ship,’ as the master pilots say; I interfaced with the deep, profound neurologics that are the soul of a lightship. My brain was now two brains, or rather, a single brain of blood and neurons which had been extended and melded into the brain of my ship. Reality, the lesser reality of sights and sounds and other sensual impressions, gave way to the vastly greater reality of the manifold. I plunged into the cold ocean of pure mathematics, into the realm of order and meaning underlying the chaos of everyday space, and the Cavern of the Thousand Light Ships was no more.
There was, of course, a brief moment of impatience as my ship was lifted to a surface run, the boredom of rocketing through the atmosphere and falling into the thickspace above our icy planet. I made a mapping, and a window into the manifold opened to me. Then our star, the little yellow sun, was gone, and there were an infinite number of lights and beauty and terror, and I left Neverness and my youth far behind me.
In the beginning, of course, there was God. And from God arose the Elder Ieldra, beings of pure light who were like God except that there was a time before their existence, and a time would come when they would exist no more. And from the Elder Ieldra arose the Ieldra, who were like the elder race except they had substance and flesh. The Ieldra seeded the galaxy, and perhaps many galaxies, with their DNA. On Old Earth, from this godseed evolved the primitive algae and bacteria, the plankton, slime moulds, worms, fishes, and so on until ape-Man stood away from the trees of the mother continent. And ape-Man gave birth to cave-Men, who were like Men except that they did not have the power to end their own existence.
And from cave-Men at last arose Man, and Man, who was at once clever and stupid took to bed four wives: The Bomb; The Computer; The Test Tube; and Woman.
from A Requiem for Homo Sapiens, by Horthy Hosthoh
It is impossible to describe the indescribable. Words, being words, are inadequate to represent that for which there are no words. Having said this, I shall attempt an explanation of what occurred next, of my journey into the nameless pathways of the manifold.
I made my way along the glittering, spiral Sagittarius arm of the galaxy. I progressed outward in good style across the lens of the Milky Way, though there were of course times when I was forced to loop back across my pathways, kleining coreward towards the hellishly bright and dense stars of the central bulge. This part of my journey, I knew, would be easy. I followed pathways that the Tycho and Jemmu Flowtow had long ago discovered. To fall from a red giant such as Gloriana Luz to one of the hot blue stars of the Lesser Morbio is easy when the mapping of the respective point-sources in the neighbourhood of the two stars has long ago been made (and proved to be simply connected). So easy is it that the cantors have given these known pathways a special name: They call them the stellar fallaways to distinguish them from that part of the manifold that is unmapped, and quite often, unmappable. Thus, to be precise I should say I began my journey through the fallaways, fenestering at speed from window to window, from star to star in my hurry to reach the Solid State Entity.
I spent most of this time floating freely within the darkened pit of my ship. For some fearful pilots – such as the failed ones who guide the deep ships and long ships that ply the trade routes of the fallaways – the ship’s pit can be more of a trap than a sanctuary in which to experience the profounder states of mind; for them the pit is a black metallic coffin. For me, the pit of the Immanent Carnation was like a gentle, comfortable heaume surrounding my whole body rather than just my head. (Indeed, in the Tycho’s time the ship’s computer fitted tightly over the pilot’s head and extruded protein filaments into the brain, in the manner of the ancient heaumes.) As I journeyed through the near stars, the neurologics woven into the black shell of the pit holographically modelled my brain and body functions. And more, the information-rich logics infused images, impulses and symbols directly into my brain. Thus I passed the stars of the Nashira Triple, and I faced my ship’s computer and ‘talked’ to it. And it talked to me. I listened to the soundless roar of the ship’s spacetime devouring engines opening windows to the manifold, and I watched the fire of the more distant nebulae as I proved my theorems – all through the filter of the computer and its neurologics. This melding of my brain with my ship was powerful but not perfect. At times the information flooding within the various centres of my brain became mixed up and confused: I smelled the stars of the Sarolta being born and listened to the purple sound of equations being solved and other like absurdities. It is to integrate this crosstalk of the mind’s senses that the holists evolved the discipline of hallning; of a pilot’s mental disciplines I shall later have much to say.
I