The Scientific Indian Science Fiction Anthology
Author: Aditya Sudarshan; Rahul Jaisheel; J Ramanand; Ankit Bhardwaj; Shuchikar; Rinku Dutta
Date: 2011-03-07 18:30:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction
Description: This collection of science fiction stories originally appeared at TheScian.com. They were winning entries sent by authors for the yearly science fiction story contest organized by The Scientific Indian between 2006 and 2009.

Stories

- Stalker
- Aski's Choice
- Asylum in Bergen
- 21 Minutes
- A Story in Blue
- On Board the Ark
- Live and Exclusive

The Scientific Indian
Science Fiction Anthology

First Edition

Edited by Selvakumar Ganesan

Published by TheScian Books www.thescian.com

Book design by Ramya

Copyright © TheScian.com

The moral rights of the authors has been asserted.

This book is published under Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 license terms. Stories in this book can be freely reproduced in any form for educational and non-commercial purposes. We encourage you to freely share the stories. All commercial uses require permission from the publisher.

First Published in 2010

Your thoughts are welcome. Please email them to books@thescian.com

For Nidhi Nova and Nethra

Preface

There is no getting around some simple facts. We are astonishing little things scurrying around on a small blue planet amidst incomprehensible vastness. Occasionally aware but mostly unaware of the fabric with which we have been haphazardly stitched. Douglas Adams once remarked, "The fact that we live at the bottom of a deep gravity well, on the surface of a gas covered planet going around a nuclear fireball 90 million miles away and think this to be normal is obviously some indication of how skewed our perspective tends to be."

Speculative fiction based on science is motivated by our desire to explore our life experiences at boundary conditions, and hopefully, to adjust our skewed perspectives. Amusement along the way is a welcome addition .

Unlike traditional literature which keeps humans at the center of the literary universe, science fiction allows us to displace humans from the pedestal. It helps us to feel the pulse of our existence more intimately, gives us the freedom to imagine worlds we would never be able to feel and touch and sets us on the stage where we can feel—however fleeting the feeling may be—the grandest and most primal of our fears, hopes, joys, despair and the wonders of our world.

To live is to be part of a narrative. To exist in the past, present or the future is to be part of a story. Narrative is universal, they are decreed by the unseen hand, they are woven into the fabric of our universe. As we walk in the dark, stories are our torches. Stranded amidst the darkness that gnaws incessantly at the edge of our illuminated spheres, we seek solace in stories, in the flickering lights of our fellow travelers separated by time, space, culture and ideology. In telling stories, we momentarily forget the fact that we do not know our bearings, our destination or the reason why we travel.

Please join me in welcoming the authors into our midst. They bring us stories.

-Selva.
Amersham. June 2010.

Stalker

by Shuchikar

"For Minerva"

The pulsating strobe lights smell of the new breed of East Asian flowers—the flowers that have taken the underground circuit by storm. If you're equipped with the right set of receptors ('loaded right'), you would feel a mild sexual arousal as the flowers are also touted to be the next-gen aphrodisiacs. The full scale integration of the flowers' olfactory effects with The Strobe Environment is a high-maintenance, grimace-inducing, titty-twisting expense for even the most upscale clubs, but then again, The Establishment, as the saying goes, is no ordinary establishment.

The dance floor groans under the weight of all those human bodies grinding against each other, swaying in slow, graceful arcs to the tune of rhythmic, libidinous, mildly intoxicating, synesthetic music that sends periodic bursts of sonic booms reverberating through the packed dance floor, bouncing off bodies in motion, winds of sound ruffling well maintained hairdos, triggering haptic stimulation of erogenous zones set on collision courses, interfacing with holographic glowsticks and evoking that near-optimal set of semi-euphoric, aroused responses that regulars shell out obscene amounts of credits for. Being part of such an upscale clique means that you're almost always loaded right. Ready for any experience, prepared for all adventures—all of which are, according to the customized settings you prefer, just a click, or for the historically inclined, just a mild turn-of-the-knob away. There are dance bots too—perfectly proportioned, sensuous, programmed to dance flawlessly; they keep step with their partners, anticipate their movements, dynamically adapt responses and dig deep and extract from their collective libraries of advanced heuristics (Note #0: cf. 'Collective Consciousness' in the latest issue of TechSlang Five Point O), the exact set maximally compatible with their partners' dance moves. The popularity of dance bots is high, for they can adjust well even in mixed genres, fusion-based dances and anything short of complete arbitrariness. Available in a variety of customized settings, you can see Limp Member, Fake Sheikh, Mr. T and Chuck Norris bobbing up and down, moving left and right on the dance floor tonight. A while ago you could've seen Jesus too, grooving to the funky tunes just like the others, its precision timed pelvic thrusts and provocative, affected mien conjuring unholy images in your head. Fittingly, no one got down on their knees, swapped the zen-fusion track with “Hallelujah” or crossed themselves. They were busy getting titillated and/or stroked while the periodic aphrodisiacal bursts went right through the bot—its engineers not having installed anything resembling the human sex drive in it yet.

I am The Stalker and I am not a regular of The Establishment these days. I used to frequent it once with an old girlfriend but let's just say that that was a long time ago. Real long.

The girl you see there sitting quietly at the side, ensconced deep in the warm embrace of the recliner, with her head tilted slightly at an angle, a strange, hard-to-place smile pasted on her heartbreakingly pretty face, her eyes closed, head swaying gently to the tune of the music, the sonic waves fondling her erogenous zones—she is tonight's Subject.

It was eleven o' clock at night. The smog hung heavy over the city, obscuring visibility and providing cover. Heavy snowfall had occurred last night and the cold air of night was the feel of shiny steel up your nose. Every breath was a veritable exhibition of fortitude. She walked a few feet ahead of me, one hand in her jacket-pocket, the periodic emission of vapor in front of her face making it difficult to judge whether she was smoking or was it simply her breath. Her gait was light, quick and urgent. She took a right turn and entered the alley.

A huge, dark figure whisked her away from sight. I followed stealthily, but the large, upturned, putrid garbage bin obscured my range of vision. A ragged figure lay supine next to the trash heap, its head and torso occluded by wastes of all kind – needles, syringes, food in various stages of decomposition, excrement, alcohol etc. and fortified it with an ineffably foul smell. I covered my nose to prevent myself from gagging, neither knowing nor caring for the state of the lain figure who in all probability was dead, rotting away, on the hitlist of scavengers on the prowl.

Soon enough, the two of them emerged, surely having consummated some not-so-kosher transaction. There was a new glow on The Subject's face and one could detect she was high. She beamed a euphoric, ecstatic smile at the man, rose on her toes and kissed him. During the liplock, as he lay his hand on her shoulder, my attention was drawn to the fluorescent tatt (Note#1 : Commercial name: Bio-Tattoo, from the commercial division of Bio-Art Inc., pioneers of Wetware and Biological Fashion Accessories. However, see also their atrocious marketing campaigns—especially uncool, geeky slogans like “biologically engineered for utility maximization” etc. See Tech Review 2.0's July-August Centennial Edition for coverage of their eventual debacle in detail.) that revolved around his forearm and flashed something in Spanish with a footnoted English subtitle: “Bug me more and I'll bugger you sure”. I'd learned Spanish and located the obvious grade-school-level mistake in the translation (the 'sure' should've been 'sore'), smiled involuntarily and withdrew quietly, to be aprowl again.

I am The Stalker and I stalk pretty wenches that catch my attention. I'm into girls only. Nothing exotic. Not for me anyway.

I kept following The Subject around at some distance. Her pace had quickened and she crossed the desolate, snow-clogged footpaths and intersections with long, purposeful strides, her long, shapely legs crushing the snow underfoot with a sharp 'krunch' sound; her eyes on the ground, her head bent, her round, compact breasts vibrating around a mean position with every step.

It was important not to lag behind too much in the pursuit of The Subject since the smog made things difficult to follow. The tarry particles of soot, particulates from the adjoining industrial wasteland, carcinogenic smoke, sulfur dioxide, dust and temperature inversion combined to create a perennial blanket of an all-engulfing, fog-like aerosol that made you blind. On bad days, gas masks became a necessity, transforming the city into a Darth Vader fan zone. However, the lens in my left eye could be counted on to keep the prey in sight even in the worst of smogs. These red Jap miracles went by the name of Mangekyou Sharingan and caused a dent in my bank account bigger than the size of an island in French Polynesia. I invested in this luxury only after deciding to go pro. (The previous one was a solar-powered Carl Zeiss lens. But what's the use of a sun-sucker when you don't see the sun for months on end? I yanked those lenses away when I was blinded in the left eye due to low battery and lost track ofA Subject a few years ago). My new lens is powered by the pressure differentials in my blood. Very appositely, I've chosen its color as red.

Before The Subject had ventured out into the streets, I'd seen her in a restaurant ten blocks away. The Environment had been dim-lighted, in an upscale mimicry of the chronic low voltage problem in the old parts of the city. She'd been spaced out, sitting alone, all by herself, her blue-green eyes ready to piss out rivers of tears at a short notice. What had been the cause? A break-up? The death of a loved one? Or simply a clichéd existential crisis? I didn't know the answer to this question; but the image stayed with me, my will was bent and I felt compelled to follow her.

She stopped midway to stare at the pellucid, midsized building with a dilapidated, blinking neon sign supposed to flash the name 'Hello There Hotel'. Funnily enough, the letters 'o' and 'T' refused to light up, in effect, renaming the 37 level glassy structure as 'Hell here Hotel'. The place was famous, in a somewhat nonstandard way. The outside of the building was a series of conjoined fenestrations of once high-quality, transparent glass and offered sex shows all through the night totally free of charge. A voyeur paradise, many an eventually famous porn stars' careers were launched from the windows of the hotel. A small crowd always gathered around the place, cheering on the performers, choosing among the ones they'd want highlighted on their personal light-screens and amplifying their orgasmic cries of delight. The show was free and in principle, anybody could come along and display their sexual prowess through the windows to the hungry-for-any-kind-of-spectacle public. All modes and forms of sexual conduct were kosher here (think of all possible permutations and combinations of males, females, animals and even some freaks nowadays (Note#2: 'Freaks' – Commonly used name for body modificationists – think of Cyclopean three-breasted women and four armed sporting-an-extra-penis-on-theforehead-type punks, not to mention insane, inter/intrasexed transsexuals of all possible kinds.)), the worth of their performance determined only by the intensity of the cheers of the crowd below.She didn't stay long enough to look and left for The Establishment, with me at her heels.

I am the Stalker and I wear an imitation rexinish, polyurethane based synthetic coat which blends in with the surroundings when in the Camouflage Mode. This Subject is #17. The prime number ones always get a special treatment.

So now she sits there nodding away dreamily at the latest techno-punk-fetishist hit single “The Destroyer Shiva's my man! ”, her eyes rolled up under the influence of all that DMZ she must've soaked through the patch that I saw her stick (and later rip out violently) in that tiny depression at the base of the throat, right in the region between the clavicles (Note#3: Tech name – suprasternal notch), just before entering the serpentine, umbilical tunnel-like entrance of The Establishment. Look at her face perspiring freely, her eyebrows furrowed and pupils dilated, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her legs joggling hard, her position frequently changing on the recliner, her drink untouched, her eyes shut tight, unable to withstand the information-heavy, overwhelming sensory overload that their opening will subject her brain to. Her eyes are blue-green (the right one blue and the left one green) but in the club tonight, with the interior of the lounge drowned in serious polychrome wavelengths with nasty attitudes that wreak havoc with the augmented, finely tuned, oversensitive nervous systems of the denizens of The Establishment, they take on a cerise and maroonish tinge (again, the left and the right ones respectively). When she blinks, her pupils react to the environment, bob around their centers, contract and expand to the tune of the music. The snake-tatt on her forearm gyrates madly, flashes its fangs and explores her flawless, perfect body as it slithers languorously on her skin.

All this drowns me in waves of ferociously intense passion. I take a quick puff of smoke, inhale it deeply and throw away the stubs. Yes, I can see the DMZ taking effect on her now. Soon it will be time for The Stalker to taste her flesh in the throes of passion. Let me dress up in the diaphanous bodysuit, its snug encasing like a body stocking, only with an added intimacy of a condom; the sexperience augmented a millionfold by minute tactile sensors jacked directly to my brain, amplifying the incoming signals and channeling away the noise, dimming my senses to anything but the act at hand; my eyesight totally high definition, my sense of smell as sharp as a dog's, my sense of touch fed on by a variety of jacks and sensors well attuned to my likes and dislikes, turn ons and turn offs, embellishing little haptic sensations with creative, ad hoc signals of their own. DMZ plus The Establishment chases your sex drive way up the hill from where the only way down is a fearless plunge—giddy, breathless, reckless and totally carefree. She's ready to take that plunge now (look at her violently joggling legs if you don't believe me). Now's the time when The Stalker makes an entrance.

I still remember my previous experiences—in HD, better than what they were at the time of performance—all of them, much more detailed, the moans much more heartfelt, the jostling, intimidation and force erased from memory, the sexual satisfaction coefficient much more close to the perfect hundred; the memory of the act harmonious in a very Eastern way, almost like a religious experience. The slight distortion that the memory map undergoes as you back it up in some drive doesn't bother me as it does some. Isn't this what the 'natural' memory acquisition system of the human brain does anyway? So notoriously unreliable, confabulative and primitive this mechanism is—so often concocting experiences, conjuring up scenes that never happened—simply making shit up. It's not without reason that no self respecting court accepts 'natural' memory as admissible evidence. So what if programs modify such digital records a little bit? So what if you have armies of kids convinced they were Stalin in their previous life? So what if you can auction the most intimate moments of your life over the web? (In principle, you can always erase the additive details and extract the original memory. But that's so boring! )

I am the Stalker and my preferred machine is the Shibuyo 5. 0 version, manufactured by Hogyoke – the zaibatsu with the controlling share in the running ofthis country. Watch me as I select the EPL (Note#4: 'Enhanced Personal Pleasure'. ) mode. Now.

The music has segued into a modern jazz synth piece whose complexity would have driven Mozart to suicide and is made to be played only by polydactylic musicians trained by the famed, autistic, inbent, heavy set music gurus from the East (rumors have it that their anal-sound-range variations span four octaves) and their apprentice AIs for over tens of years. On the fourth floor gallery, you can see the famed Siamese Twins copulating to the tune of the music. A couple of teenagers reeling under the weight of all those hallucinogens activate the 'share' mode on their machines and project their keenly felt, highly introspective, extremely personal hallucinations as 3D holograms for all to gawk at. (Kids these days! )

The Subject opens her eyes abruptly, gets up from her recliner and approaches Jesus few tables from her. Jesus looks at her lecherously and gives her the trademark wink that's supposed to mark approval of the thunderous sexual appeal of whatever woman's happened to approach it. This one's more advanced though. Its wink has more subtlety, more of an otherworldly Jesus Christ aura that hints at some transcendental communion—sort of like a cosmic, orgiastic sex dance invitation, more in keeping with the approach favored by some advanced, hypothetical Shiva bot. It puts his arms around her waist, nibbles at her ear delicately and moves its lips over her jugular notch. She swoons, eyes half closed and laughs her small, pearlywhite-teeth laugh.

It's her turn to take control now. She fondles the bot's hair, holds its arm and glides across the isles to approach its pimp-programmer. The programmer is a hunchback, his ugliness a throwback (perhaps in fond tribute?) to old times when it was fashionable to don grotesque, ugly get ups to spite the newly beautified gentry naively ecstatic at the revolutionary cost reducing technologies that made ugliness a thing of humanity's atavistic past. He huddles in the dark recesses of the Machine Section, the massive machine structures shadowing his deformities and giving his diminutive, lordotic pose a ghostly, lurking-on-thesidelines-type aura. He has only one eye—a state-of-theart cybernetic implant that would've cost The Establishment a fortune. He accepts the credits offered by The Subject nonchalantly, scans her pupils and hands her the access codes to the fourth floor room.“Hallelujah”, he cries, in mock reverence.
“Amen”, she says, in mock delight.

The rest room mirrors' view is panoramic. I see a middle aged figure in front of me, eyeing me, its shoulders hunched on the sink, its eyebrows furrowed, a slim rivulet of watery substance originating from the eyes. A neutral observer could've described this figure as crushed.

I see its sagging boobs and feel the stamp of all those years of suffering on its withered, no longer beautiful face – the gaudy lipstick beginning to dry up and leave creases of dry skin at its extremities. I see the figure in the mirror take out a patch of DMZ, stick it up on her jugular notch, moan pleasantly at the effects of the drug, feel her withered breasts with her left hand, swoon a little and smile at me with a nudge-nudge-wink-wink sort of an insider/all-knowing expression. I smile at her in return.

I am The Stalker and I stalk pretty wenches that catch my attention. I am into girls only. Nothing exotic. Not for me anyway. This Subject's #17. The prime number ones are in for a special treatment.

Think I'll use my strap-on tonight.

Aski's Choice

by Rinku Dutta

Vera: Aski has just finished reading Andre Gide's Journals, a fiercely honest Frenchman from an age now long forgotten, and Aski is intrigued. His own Daily Log is automatically recorded-every thought, every impulse, every decision-on a chip that he can readily access on a biocompatibly integrated monitor implanted on his left wrist. For instance, he could find out precisely what he was thinking at 23:59:25 hours on New Year's Eve, 2302. Over a million nanoelectrodes implanted in his brain are continuously recording the minute action potentials of nerve cells that constitute the electrochemical imprints of his thought processes. And the neural code of these imprints are being deciphered by a computer and transcribed into his Journal; all this without Aski's active participation.

So the deliberate, selective recordings of Gide's thoughts in his diaries has intrigued Aski: that one can choose to write about some things and not others, can rearrange the sequence of one's thoughts and actions, and possibly, even introduce new elements to craft a narrative; the creative possibilities offered by such freedom has fascinated him. He is envying Gide. He is envying pre-22nd Century humans this freedom, and the ignorance that made it possible.

People in Gide's times had access to only their conscious thoughts—and perhaps a faint inkling of the activities of their subconscious and unconscious minds. Aski, on the other hand, can view the whole spectrum of thoughts— not just the 2% that make up the conscious workings of his brain.

But a 24-hour film recording of the goings-on at a street corner is so dull! How much more interesting the snipped-and-spliced reel that tells a tale! Like Gide, Aski wants to view his life as a story. He is considering the 'authenticity override' option in his Journal settings that will allow him to manually edit the automatically generated first draft. He could also choose to not record his subconscious thoughts. Aski is facing a dilemma. For in his society, a society that is founded on the cornerstone of sincerity, Journals are in the public domain. Anyone viewing his profile would know at once that Aski is presenting an inauthentic history of himself. Aski will have to pay a social cost: he will almost surely be fired from his job; some members of his family might disown him; his friends circle will shrink. He could become an outcast.

Does he have other options? Aski has finished browsing through the Directory of Galactic Settlements. He has found a small community on the atmospherised moon he could apply for admittance. This society is committed to the preservation and production of mystery. A majority of their members have chosen to disable their automated Journals. People relate on the basis of how they present themselves, and the processes of getting acquainted with others have been restored to the pre-22nd Century levels of unknowing. Changing roles is encouraged. Their belief: faking is an art. The community calls themselves "The Counterfeiters".

Aski's application for immigration has just been accepted.

Vera: I’ve reported Aski’s choice to the Diary; I’m required to do that; rather, I am programmed to do that— any decision that falls in the category specified as subversive for the community is reported. If you are wondering who I am, my name is Vera. I am part of the metafunction Veracity. Like Aski, every member of his community uses a Journal—Writer algorithm that transcribes their neural codes into their Daily Log. Embedded in each Journal—Writer is a Reporter with the generic name Vera. So, to be precise, my name is Vera2360—0111 that associates me with Aski, who is Aski2360—0111 in the community register. The Reporter routine created 200 years ago evolved a Klenee subroutine that gave us—embedded journalists—the capability to exploit the Journal—Writer algorithm to write our own journals in a sub-directory Vera. I exercised the Klenee option when Aski began to read and take notes from Gide’s Journals. My first entry was a page from this journal, a page Aski had bookmarked:

11 June, 1914
Repeat to myself every morning that the most important remains to be said, and that it is high time… One must get oneself to give the best moment in the day to what most deserves it… The best hour is the first; the hard thing is to protect it.

Aski: I wish you had discussed it with me,” Mier said, fixing me in a blue stare. “I suppose you’ve already cross-checked your thought-log with Isabella.”

"No."

“Isn’t that risky, given the enormity of the decision you are taking? Isabella would have spotted the fallacies in your thinking; she would have provided you with more reasonable alternatives.”

The kettle whistled. I concentrated on pouring the steaming water over the leaves in the chawans. Mier and I had created these porcelain tea bowls in a Rakuyaki pottery class; that’s where we had first met 131 years ago. We sipped our tea in silence. Mier drained his bowl. I spoke: “No doubt Isabella is an invaluable logical-error-check program. It has been perfected since the earliest automated reasoning modules were developed at the turn of the 21st century; I have been using her as a reasoning assistant ever since I got here, but not any more. I’ve decided against using such thinking aids. It’s one of the reasons why I’m leaving this community of Rationalists where using Isabella is virtually mandatory.”

“I don’t understand you” replied Mier, looking perplexed, “the benefits of using Isabella have been substantial, not just for individuals, but also for our collective. We have become the most efficient community in our galactic system, unparalleled as a self-sustaining society. We owe this success over and above everything else to our ability to make rational choices consistently. Isabella made that possible. She gives us the edge over other communities that are equally self-aware, but who have not chosen to perfect their reasoning tools.”

“We have overdone it. And now we are suffering from the consequences.”

“What consequences?”

“Don’t you see it around you, the decay that has set in? Don’t you see how people are becoming progressively sluggish in their thinking? Isabella is not just assisting them with their reasoning, they have surrendered their thinking to her. While the machines we are building are becoming more and more complex and intelligent, we humans are becoming duller by the day. Paradoxically, our society is becoming more and more mechanical. We made our personal journals public to encourage sincerity; a transparent society would be a genuine society, we had hoped. What did we get? A pervasive hypocrisy, a collective sham! Since everything we think and do is being watched, we strut about like performers on a stage. I say nothing is genuine in this society we have created, Mier! Nothing!

Mier looked pained; emotional pain is a rare thing in a Rationalist. The neural circuitries for emotions—a set of pre-figured Darwinian responses, such as lust and fear, crucial for species survival—had become progressively attenuated since the 22nd century. Ever since the technology evolved to continuously monitor the action potentials of the neurons firing in the brain and to decode them, humans have become highly self-aware beings; they can have every thought watched as it arises in their minds and can choose to either have it nipped in the bud or allow it to grow— as deemed reasonable.

Yet Mier, 152 years old and born in the Rationalist community, looked pained. More than his features—refreshed every 5 years to maintain his chosen 45 year old appearance—, the quality of his silence expressed his unhappiness. When he finally spoke, the sparkle in his familiar blue eyes was gone; he drew his slim, elegant frame to its full height and holding my hands between his palms he said in a voice that echoed some distant civilization: “I had never thought that a day would come when you, my dear Aski, would choose unreason over reason. I recognize that your decision is final and will respect it. Our ways have parted. I wish you well in your journey. Goodbye.”

Vera: Aski sat down in the chair Mier had occupied. He had ergonomically designed it to support Mier’s lanky 6’ 4” structure— legs disproportionately longer than his torso. He and Mier had been Merging for over a hundred years. But unlike Mier, Aski had always known that a day would come when their paths would part and each would have to go their own way. He had known this intuitively, and been preparing himself for this eventuality. Although humankind has made tremendous progress in understanding the workings of the brain, the neurobiology of intuition is yet to be fully understood. And since Aski’s intuitive power played a dominant role in his decision processes, reasoning assistant programs like Isabella that implement logic formalisms have not been of much help to him. But Mier refused to acknowledge this vital aspect of Aski’s mental hardware.

Aski is peering into his chawan. He is examining the pattern left by the dried green-tea powder residues. He is wondering whether he is making a mistake, whether he ought to join the Lotus-eaters on Ganymede instead of the Counterfeiters on the moon. He has shrugged off the momentary doubt— he is not a hedonist. Now browsing through Gide’s ‘Fruits of the Earth’ that has been lying open on his desktop, he is pondering over these lines that he had marked on an earlier reading—

“All our life long we have been tormented by the uncertainty of our paths. How can I put it? All choice, when one comes to think of it, is terrifying: liberty when there is no duty to guide it, terrifying. The path that has to be chosen lies through a wholly unexplored country, where each one makes his own discoveries, and —note this—for himself alone.”

“Note this Mier, for himself alone.” Aski is speaking this aloud, directing his words at Mier who was not around to hear it.

I wish I could tell whether Aski is sad.

Aski: I am not sad. I feel free at last, unbound from the fetters of consensus thinking—the unforeseen outcome of the measures that were taken in good faith to build a saner society. But we had equated sanity with rationality.

“Assume as much humanity as possible—let this be your motto,” recommends Gide’s Menalcas to Nathaniel. “Nathaniel, I will teach you fervor,” he says.

And I? What have I done with my youth? I have been so enamored of reason; I worshipped the dispassionate brilliance of Mier’s mind, Mier who has systematically dispensed with any distracting emotion so as not to impair his judgment. Whereas Nathaniel is advised by Menalcas to celebrate the existential gratuitous act: “Act without judging whether the action is right or wrong. Love without caring whether what you love is good or bad.”

Vera: Aski has just chucked ‘Fruits of the Earth’ into the trash. He is merely following Gide’s instructions—

“And when you have read me, throw this book away—and go out. May it then give you the desire to go out—to go out from wherever you may be, from your town, from your family, from your room, from your thoughts.”

The Diary has just sent me instructions to insert auto-suggestive material into Aski’s Journal to influence him when he reviews his Daily Log—thoughts about the advantages of conformity, of being part of a secure, cohesive, productive and powerful social network. And fearful thoughts—impulsive gratuitous acts would sooner or later lead to tragedy.

I have chosen to disobey the Diary. Being a narrator myself, I support Aski’s desire to craft an interesting narrative from his life.

Aski: I am not a fool Menalcas. You have not taught me wisdom. Not wisdom, but love. Mier chose wisdom. I chose love.

Vera: Aski has just been inducted into the community of The Counterfeiters. He is in the process of disabling his automated Journal, which implies that this is my last entry in my Journal. I wish < transcription error, check program>.

Asylum in Bergen

by Aditya Sudarshan

Two hours into the journey I put my book away and looked out of the window. It was early evening and overcast but the light was still good, as I knew it would remain until past midnight. Outside, the country was speeding by—dark woods of pine and conifer lay grimly across the low mountains, bathed in the cold sheen of a Norwegian summer. As the train climbed higher I could see patches of snow clinging to the mountain walls—the white glistening against the dark green surroundings. I watched for several minutes until the austere beauty grew forbidding, then I pulled my overcoat closer around me and reached again for my book.

"Excuse me, are you the brain surgeon?"

The man seated opposite me looked middle-aged- bald and slightly overweight. I smiled at him and replied—

"Yes."

"I've heard of you—you were in the papers about that transplant... the Neurosurgeon from India?"

My smile broadened—I was used to having my ethnicity arouse more interest than my work, sometimes even in my colleagues. I nodded and turned to my book, trying to find the page I had been reading.

On the inter-city, the journey from Oslo to Bergen is a little less than six hours, and it was well past seven o'clock when we reached our station. I climbed down onto the platform, smarting in the chill of the evening air. Like every other platform in the country it was both deserted and uncovered. Glancing up at the murky sky I felt suddenly cold at the thought of the Norwegian winter, when the snow piles high on the railway platforms and the Scandinavians stand shivering in their woollens, priding themselves on their hardiness. There is no such thing as bad weather, they say to each other here, only bad clothing. Come to New Delhi in June, I smiled to myself, feeling instantly warmer at the thought of home.

From the station I made my way on foot through the city, to the funicular. Bergen is famous for its funicular—the cable railway that cuts its way through to the top of the mountain, from where one can see the whole city along with its magnificent harbour. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries Bergen had been the political and economic capital of Norway, and it still remained the most important port on its west coast. But the cities of Norway sleep early and I walked quickly along empty cobbled streets past closed shop doors and drawn shutters until I reached the entrance to the funicular. An eager crowd had gathered at the bottom to watch the car inch slowly towards its resting place, the tension in the cables relaxing as it halted. When its doors were opened I pushed my way through to the back, where a thick sheet of glass afforded an excellent view of the receding mountainside. As the vehicle gathered speed the cold wind rushed in through the windows at the side and we hurtled upwards faster and faster till I could see the drop of the tunnel almost directly below where I stood. For several minutes after the climb the exhilaration of ascent still lingered.

The railway ended alongside a grassy esplanade on the mountaintop that looked over the city. Standing there I could see the inlet of V'gen dotted with trading ships from the south, and the ruins of a twelfth century castle jutting out from the northern edge of the harbor. Further north, Bergen's oldest church-bells struck eight. As the sound cut through the heavy summer evening I felt a sudden thrill. My eyes wandered to the thickly forested mountain walls that stood rooted in the city below and stretched forebodingly upwards. I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

I turned to see the doctor. He looked exactly as he did in his photographs—tall and gaunt, with a prominent forehead and deep-set blue eyes that now looked steadily into mine.

"It was no trouble, Dr. Saks. I am honored to receive your invitation."

"The pleasure is mine. We will have to travel on foot from here—I hope you are not too tired." His voice carried genuine concern.

"Not at all", I lied.

He led the way along a narrow path through the forested hillside.

"It is not wide enough for a vehicle." The doctor sounded apologetic.

I made a motion to indicate that it did not matter. It was darker now, the twilight sun was obstructed by the canopy overhead. We walked in silence for close to half an hour until I spotted the white walls of the asylum in the distance, incongruous amid the thick woods that closed in all around them.

"I have asked for dinner to be kept ready."

My pace quickened at the prospect of a hot meal. Soon we were close enough to see the building whole. It was an imposing structure of considerable dimensions and severe angles, built in the strict functionalist fashion. I knew, although we had not yet entered, that very few of the higher storeys were ever used, and that the lowest levels of the building—where all the most dangerous patients were housed—were all underground. The asylum's renown stemmed in large measure from that of its patients. They had flown in from all over the world—Francis, the cobbler from Toulouse who would slip scorpions into the shoes of his clientele for fun; Jerome, the Tennessee banker who had stabbed his invalid wife to avoid having to look after her; Kurtz, the German cannibal who had successfully advertised on the Internet for a victim; and the Ngaio sisters from Tanzania, who had managed to smother an infant a week for two months before being caught. Dr. Saks had apparently pulled many strings to get them to his research clinic for treatment. It was not clear that the doctor's treatment was effective, but it was not an evident failure, and those subjected to it had not complained. Dr. Saks' was a pioneer in his field—still young, he had single-handedly rescued psychotherapy from the limbo of pseudo-science and given it the principles and tools it needed to be both respectable and successful. In spite of my recent triumphs therefore, I had been more than pleasantly surprised to find myself asked to visit the doctor here in Bergen, and not even the surprising informality and mysterious absence of a reason for his invitation had dissuaded me from accepting it.

One section of the ground level of the asylum had been converted into living space for the doctor, while the rest of the staff lived in rooms adjoining the main building. We passed from the reception and medical wards through white-walled corridors into a small, plush room, carpeted in red. A wooden bookshelf in the corner overlooked a low table laden with food. Over dinner, I initiated conversation.

"You must tell me, Dr. Saks', I spoke easily in the comfort of his quarters, 'to what do I owe this honor?"

As I spoke, I noticed for the first time that the doctor did not look well. Through his glasses, I saw that his eyes were bloodshot from an evident lack of sleep and the thin lines of his mouth were turned downwards, accentuating the hollow of his cheeks. He replied in a low voice—

"It is a very personal matter. It will take some time to explain."

I said nothing. When he spoke again a remarkable change had come over him. He leant forward, eyes shining with a strange urgency and devoid of any trace of fatigue-

"A year ago I realized that my work here was a failure."

He continued without a pause, speaking quickly but distinctly.

"All along I had been convinced that madness was a creature of circumstance—that some deep-rooted impulse in these unfortunate souls", he waved in the direction of the basement, "impelled them to the things they did. So I took it upon myself to discover the source of that impulse. I spent hours and hours with each of them, probing, questioning, interrogating them with every technique of my science. And at first I imagined it was working. But I was wrong."

For a brief moment his eyes fixed on mine with an odd intensity. Then he continued—

"More than once something happened that ought not to have—brief but inexplicable outbursts of insanity. Word did not get out, of course, but I knew then that this illness was not psychological, and that my therapy was useless before it. I was shattered; you will understand, my life's work was wrecked. But I resolved to tackle the problem afresh. I studied it for several months. Then, only last month, I had the answer."

He stopped here, and I felt he expected me to speak.

"What was it?"

The doctor smiled slowly, as one savouring a deep secret—

"The solution lies in your line of expertise. The madness I deal with is an inability to tell right from wrong. I know that it has often been conjectured that such madness is a defect of the brain, and I also know that much tomfoolery has gone into trying to prove that hypothesis. But now I have succeeded, and for this I must thank you."

"Why is that?"

"Because it was your work on the Penfield map that led me to the answer."

This struck me as curious. The Penfield map—named after its Canadian discoverer, Wilder Penfield—is one of neuroscience's most fascinating discoveries. It refers to the 'map' of the body that is carried in the brain, such that when any part of the body is stimulated the sensation is transmitted to the area of the brain where it is mapped. The map is fascinating because in it the hand is next to the face, the feet near the genitals, the ears adjacent to the breasts—nothing is as one would expect it to be. My own work in this field, which had dragged my name out of obscurity, was to explain some of the oddities I had encountered while studying my patients. One of them had had his left hand amputated, yet swore that when I touched his nose he felt the sensation in his absent thumb. Another, who had lost his right leg in a car accident, claimed that his orgasm now extended to his missing limb. I had shown that in these patients the parts of the brain that normally received sensations from the hands and the feet now somehow overheard signals from their neighbors, the face and genitals. But the Penfield map itself had nothing to do with human reason, or emotion, or insanity, and I said as much to the doctor.

"Of course the map itself is irrelevant," he responded impatiently, "but your work on it has wider implications than you perhaps imagine. You see, it is not just some areas of the brain that are capable of responding to the signals sent to those close by—it is every single one of them."

Slowly, I felt understanding dawn upon me in its familiar, gradual fashion. And yet, it seemed almost too fantastic.

"You mean, the frontal cortex—"

"Yes", I could hear the triumph in his voice, "the frontal cortex of the brain is the seat of our moral sense. For some reason it is not reached, not even by the most revolting experience, in those who cannot tell right from wrong. But if every part of the brain can be reached simply by stimulating the parts adjacent to it, then, in this manner, so can the frontal cortex."

"By stimulating the parietal cortex?" But I already knew the answer.

"Yes. By stimulating the parietal cortex. And the parietal cortex, as you would know, responds most powerfully to that most animal of sensations—Fear."

Neither of us spoke for several minutes. As the silence sounded through that little room I felt a sudden, powerful desire to leave it. I wanted to ride the funicular once more and to descend down the mountain onto the cobbled streets of the city below. The doctor spoke again, softly, as if sensing my discomfiture—

"Shall we go outside?"

We passed through the bleached corridors, back the way we had entered until we were outside in the cold mountain air and the forest surrounded us once more. Now the darkness hung heavy all around and though I looked I could not see the road leading away through the woods. The doctor motioned towards a small opening in the asylum wall near the ground-

"I am sure you cannot wait to see the results of my new treatment."

The lower levels of the asylum were its most ancient. Long ago a network of catacombs had been constructed at this site, for a purpose now forgotten, but the old labyrinth still provided a convenient if inhospitable home for the asylum's most famous names. There were sufficiently few patients for each of them to be housed in their own individual cells, which were situated—not packed close in rows one next to the other—but discretely, in separate parts of the underground complex.

I saw also that the stone walls of the aged labyrinth had been reinforced and many of the pathways blocked, so that the corridors now served not to mislead the ignorant visitor but to guide him. We had been walking for several minutes along one of the many long and narrow corridors that led east and deep towards the heart of the asylum building, when the doctor halted and motioned to my left.

"Look."

I could sense the excitement in his voice even as I turned to follow his gesture. On my left and set deep into the wall was a large, bare room lit only by a single uncovered bulb hanging from its ceiling. The bulb swayed continually, sending strange shadows dancing across the room. In one corner was crouched the figure of a man, his features hidden in the gloom. I strained to look as the diffused glow of the light bulb settled upon his face. The man's cheeks were round and smooth. He had a squat nose and thick, shapeless lips, which I dimly recalled having seen photographed in the newspapers several months previously. But now I barely noticed the cheeks or the nose or the lips, for in the midst of these very unremarkable features were the man's eyes—staring out at me—large brown eyes that were opened wide in unmistakable, abject terror.

I spun around to see the doctor smiling at me.

"His cell is soundproof. And we are looking through a sheet of glass that is opaque on the other side."

"But what is he looking at?" In my mind I could still see his mad, staring eyes.

"I don't know how to describe it best. He sees himself being hunted by supernatural things—ghouls, demons, wraiths. Perhaps you and I would think of them as childish fancies, but for him—for him, they are the things that he fears the most. You see, it is not a difficult matter for someone of my training to discover what it is that a man is most terrified of. And very often it is possible to create a simulation of that thing, an alternate world where only that fear, and nothing else, exists. And then to bind the senses to it, so that the retina perceives no other image, and the ear drums vibrate to no other sound. So that it is impossible to get away from."

"Does he not know that it is not real?"

"He does not, that is the beauty of it. His every conscious hour is spent in the simulated world of his fears, so his brain can no longer tell what is real and what is illusion."

"But what does this achieve?"

"It is perfectly simple, although, I admit, a trifle crude. It creates fear. It stimulates the brain, powerfully and continually."

The doctor smiled a strange, lopsided smile—"After all, if you want to wake a sleeping man it is not enough to whisper. And it has worked, do you not know", his voice rose, tremulous with the passion of triumph, "the dead moral sense in these men and women has been awakened on more than one occasion—in time, I feel sure, it will awaken forever. I have seen these patients show revulsion- true moral revulsion—such as they would never have experienced before. Often they turn violent when that happens. At other times, they simply cry."

He paused, and I asked "Is this the treatment you give to all the other patients as well?"

"Broadly, yes. But of course, no two people fear quite the same things to quite the same degree. So the stimulus we provide is catered to each individual."

Then he beckoned to me—"But come, I will show you; let us finish our tour."

How many hours we spent in those dark catacombs I do not know. We passed from one cell to the next, and at each one we saw the inmates and their faces all alike, fearful and cowering in the face of unseen horrors. The doctor was like an eager child showing off a new toy as he led me through the maze of subterranean corridors. Finally it was over, and we were outside once again, where the perpetual Norwegian sun was now all but extinguished by the thick forest above. We stood in the darkness facing the asylum's main entrance.

He turned to me—

"Before I show you your room for the night, shall we share a bottle of wine?"

In the warmth of the doctor's quarters I felt once more at ease. I complimented the doctor on his choice of wine—a truly excellent Lambruscio. I remarked favourably upon the arrangement of his room. I commended him on his administration of the asylum. Then something struck me.

"Dr. Saks, I understand that you benefited from my studies on the Penfield map, but did you not say that you wished to speak to me about a personal matter?"

He was looking at me keenly as I spoke. Now he nodded slowly—

"Yes, that is right. I desire a favour of you. It concerns me, but equally, it concerns you."

"What do you mean?"

"I have followed your work with great interest. You have done some very notable work and achieved many excellent successes, although you are but a young man."

"Thank you."

"And yet", he spoke slower now, as if choosing his words with care "you have also had your share of failures."

"I certainly have. But as has every surgeon, I dare say", I laughed, but it sounded forced.

"Of course. But not quite like yours."

"What do you mean?" I asked again, trying hard to affect a cool curiosity but unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

"Only that you take risks which others in your position might not. I wonder if you remember a certain patient of yours, a businessman in Bombay, six years ago?"

"Not precisely, but—"

"Or the artist from Cuttack, in the same year."

"Why—"

"Or the Bangalore industrialist, two years ago. They all ended up more vegetable than human, didn't they? And of course, there was the transplant with the baby only last year. That was not an advisable procedure, was it?"

"It worked." I spoke hotly, feeling waves of anger wash over me.

"Yes, it did that time. But not six months ago, when you tried it again."

I tried to speak but could not, as if something was fastening itself around my throat. My fingers gripped the arms of my chair tightly, even as a tide of alarm and fear engulfed me. I felt myself struggling for breath, gasping for air. My eyes turned wildly to the empty wine glass by my side, and suddenly its image began to blur and grow dim.

The doctor leaned towards me, his deep blue eyes searching for something in mine.

"I have studied your work over the years quite closely as you will realize. And I have long suspected that you are not a well man. But now, after today, I am certain of it."

I looked at him numbly.

"You see, I watched you most closely as we visited each cell down below. You saw what we are doing to these wretched creatures, you heard me describe it, you witnessed it for yourself again and again and again. You were astonished, yes, but not once—you understand—not even once did you so much as flinch."

I staggered to my feet and tried to move towards where the doctor sat just a few feet in front of me. But my legs gave way, and I felt myself fall heavily to the carpeted floor. I turned from where I lay until I could see the doctor's silhouette standing over me.

"A man who would experiment as you experiment, unthinkingly, upon those who depend upon him for assistance, a man who would continue to do so in spite of tragic and repeated failure—over and over—is a man who cannot tell right from wrong. An insane man."

Now he knelt down close to me, and though I could no longer see anything but a faint movement in the blackness that surrounded me, yet I knew from the sensation of his hot breath on my face that he was very near. Then he spoke—

"I will treat you, and you will become well. You need my treatment." He paused here, then continued, speaking very slowly now—

"But more than that, do you not understand, I need you to be my patient. For if I can cure you—then think, just think—I will know that there is still hope for me."

21 Minutes

by Rahul Jaisheel

Phillip felt sick in the stomach. But this was it. This was the moment he'd been working toward for the past two months. It seemed quite futile, looking at it that way. Nothing could happen in the next twenty-one minutes that would be worth all the effort. Just a short conversation with an old man. A brilliant man, but that didn't make too much of a difference. It was just co-incidence that he happened to be visiting this particular man. Lately though, Phillip began believing less in co-incidences, and more in destiny. He would rather be visiting this old man than anyone else. However, Phillip would have done all this to be visiting any man, or woman, for that matter. It was more about what he was doing.

Phillip decided he had spent enough time standing on the porch and staring at the door. He looked at his watch again. 22:49:12... 11... 10..., counting down. Time was so limited right now. Ironically, it might never be a constraint again. It was raining outside. Phillip stepped outside the porch, into the rain for a while. His shoes got muddy, and his coat wet. He looked down the street. It was as motionless as a grave. He stepped back onto the porch, pulled his hood back, took a deep breath, and finally rang the doorbell. He began to carefully wipe his shoes on the doormat.

22:30; the door was opened by the only resident of the house. Professor Goldberg was fity five but looked like he was in his early forties. He was dressed as if he had just returned home from somewhere which eased Phililip's mind somewhat as he expected to see the professor in sleeping clothes. Phillip was tongue tied for a moment as he got a sudden hint of the unnaturalness of the situation. Phillip finally spoke when he realised that he should respond to the the friendly but surprised gentleman standing before him.

"Professor Goldberg?"

"Yes?"

"I'm Phillip Kantor, from Surge Research Laboratories. I would like to talk to you about this paper you wrote around twelve years ago," he said while pulling out a bunch of papers from one of his inner coat pockets and handing them to Eric. It took a while for Professor Goldberg to get over his surprise.

"It's 10:30 at night Mr. Kantor. Perhaps we should discuss this in the morning."

"I apologize Professor Goldberg, but it is urgent. I would not bother you at this hour otherwise."

Goldberg took the papers, barely even glancing at them, and gave his visitor a confused stare—

"Let’s begin with you telling me why you're here at this hour, wanting to talk about some papers I wrote twelve years ago. And what the hell is Surge Laboratories anyway? I’ve never heard of it."

"Surge Research Laboratories is located in Berlin. We're a low-temperature physics labortory. But that's not of any importance. I'm here because I've based a theory on this paper of yours, and I'd like to talk to you about it."

Goldberg contemplated this for only a short moment. He was not old enough yet to refuse adventure, not yet atleast, he told himself—

"Alright, come in."

He led the way to the living room. Phillip entered the house, and looked at the top right corner of the room. He was almost expecting not to find the tiny camera camouflaged with the wall—but there it was, staring right back at him. He took off his coat, and hung it beside the door.

"Make yourself comfortable", Goldberg said and picked up the glass of whisky he had left on the armrest of his chair.

Phillip walked toward the only other chair in the room, and sat down directly across from Professor Goldberg.

"Why do you keep looking at your watch?" Goldberg asked.

"Well, I have this experiment that I have to get back to," Phillip replied, looking at his watch again. ..22:25:50..

"In Berlin?"

"Yes, I have a flight to catch."

"What time?"

"Midnight," Phillip replied, after a pause.

"Alright, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Do you remember what you wrote in that paper, Professor Goldberg?", he asked, pointing to the document in Goldberg's hand.

"Yes, most certainly," Goldberg replied, going through the pages.

"Then I'd like you to go look at the four pages I added at the end of it."

Goldberg quickly went over each page until he got to the last four. ..22:22:54..

Phillip sat silently, and analysed the expressions on Goldberg's face as he read the document. He was first expressionless, and then he developed wrinkles on his forehead, then looked at the paper questioningly for a while, and then showed a slightly confused look as he used his finger to trace his way around the page. Phillip looked at his watch again, 13:51. He looked back up to find Goldberg looking at him.

"I don't see the point of it...," Goldberg began.

"Well, yes, I haven’t really given it a proper conclusion," Phillip said before he could continue.

"What is the conclusion then?"

"Don't you see it?" Phillip asked excitedly.

Goldberg looked back at the document and said "Most of the math seems to be going nowhere..."

"Well, I guess it is too much to expect you to get it in a few minutes, but I don’t know how no one figured this out over all these years"—

Goldberg raised an eyebrow.

"It shows the definite possibility of time travel," Phillip continued.

Goldberg wasn't sure if the man sitting in front of him was crazy, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Into the past at least," Phillip continued. "The future is a completely different concept."

Goldberg went back to the document, holding it much closer to his face this time.

"It even hints at the method of achieving this." Phillip was oblivious to the fact that Goldberg wasn’t paying much attention to him anymore.

The pieces were all suddenly falling into place for Goldberg. Of course, Time travel! And it was so simple that there couldn't be anything wrong with it. He had a feeling that something had to be wrong with it though. It was too simple. It was an intuitive feeling, but there was logic to back it up. If it was this simple, then how come no one had ever come across it before? He even wondered why he didn't see this when he first looked at the paper. The way in which it was done was a bit unconventional, but that's all. It was so simple.

Phillip had stopped talking by now. "Have you shown this to anyone else?" Goldberg asked.

"No."

"So what do you plan to do with it?"

"What would you do?"

"Show it to someone who might be able to understand it better, get their opinion, and then...” Goldberg took a short pause, and Phillip decided to complete his sentence, "Put it to test?"

"No. Don't be naïve. Not until the theory is perfected. Not until we fully understand the concept. It's not even imaginable as of now."

"I don't think this can ever be publicly disclosed. Just think of what the consequences might be! Everyone would want to go back in time."

"That’s true. Maybe that's why we've never heard of this before; it's far too unlikely that nobody’s come across it so far. I'm even thinking that it's so simple, it could be wrong."

"No."

"No?"

Phillip contemplated playing his trump card here. "It's not wrong."

"And what makes you so sure?"

"I’ve researched enough to convince myself."

“What did your research involve, Mr. Kantor?”

“I‘ve managed to send some very small objects back in time for a short duration. Including cameras. I have documented pictures and a few short videos from the past.”

“From how long ago?”

“Yesterday, a year ago... the challenge was making sure that they didn’t affect the past in any way.”

“Do you have any of these pictures with you?”

“No. I’m sorry, I didn’t bring them along.”

"Alright then, let’s say it’s right. Why do you think nobody's ever come across this before Mr. Kantor?" Goldberg already had a few answers in his head, but asked the question anyway.

"Well, as I said, this can never be disclosed publicly. So even if someone did figure this out, we wouldn’t know about it."

"Based on how simple it is, I'd say a lot of people should have figured it out."

"You never did."

"So, what does that prove?"

"You should have, I worked it out starting with your theory." Phillip waited for a response, but went on when it didn't seem like he was going to get one.

"You have to admit, the logic I used in there would have seemed a bit...” Phillip paused to find the right word, "Unconventional, to you."

Goldberg resumed his glass of whisky, which he seemed to have forgotten about until now—

"I had to spell it out for you before you saw that it was showing the possibility of time travel. The paper is screaming it out, but you didn't see it."

Goldberg looked back at the paper in his hand. It did seem to be screaming it out now.

"I, myself, came across it purely by accident," Phillip said, sinking back into his chair.

"So, you think it's our conventional way of thinking that's prevented people from coming across this theory?" Goldberg asked, calmly sipping on his whisky.

"No. I'm saying that someone has already discovered this, and that they're actively trying to make sure it stays secret."

"By changing everyone's way of thinking?"

"Can you imagine what it would be like if everyone had access to time travel?"

"People would do anything in their power to prevent that from happening, they would divert research away from it. They could make sure no one finds out, and fix it if someone does."

"Some small time researcher like you would have discovered it then," Goldberg replied.

"They most likely have access to time travel to prevent others from discovering it. That's what I meant when I said ‘they could fix it if someone does.’"

This was all happening too fast for Goldberg to keep up with. He couldn’t think of the obvious consequences of time travel being available. Phillip, on the other hand, had thought about this for a while.

"So, you expect people in black jumpsuits from the future coming to stop you from spreading the information about time travel?" Eric smiled.

"Actually, they should have come long ago, and prevented me from discovering it in the first place."

"What if you really are the first one to discover it?"

"The basis of assuming that I'm not the first is that it’s quite impossible that nobody before me managed to figure out something so simple, isn't it?"

Goldberg put down his glass of whisky.

Phillip quickly looked at his watch, realising he had forgotten about it all this while. ..22:15:52..

"Yes," Goldberg finally said, "Have you even thought of the consequences of going back in time?" He had something to say that eluded him right now. He was trying really hard to get back to it.

"Yes, of course. Come to think of it, people have been thinking about it for a very long time."

"Not seriously enough... Not scientifically enough."

"I guess. But what more could they do? Without figuring this theory out all they could do is fantasize about it. It is a very captivating concept."

Goldberg appeared to be in deep thought. Phillip noticed the same expression on his face as when he was trying to interpret the theory. His index finger was even tracing its way along an imaginary page on the armrest of his chair.

"I guess it was meant to be," Phillip broke the silence.

"What?" Goldberg asked.

"I guess people were meant to spend so much time thinking about the consequences of time travel before they actually discovered it."

And once again, Goldberg felt like many pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly into place. The theory was right, and it didn't need any explanations that required stretching the imagination to explain why it hadn't been discovered so far, like men from the future in black jumpsuits.

Phillip was looking at his watch a lot more frequently now. ..22:10:05..

"So you believe that things are meant to be, and you also believe in time travel?" Goldberg was laying the groundwork before making his point.

"They don't have to contradict each other, you know. Maybe time travel was also meant to be. Besides, some things are just too farfetched to be called co-incidences. I think I believe in destiny."

"So travelling back in time doesn't change your destiny?"

"Well, the travelling back in time was also destined. It, in fact, fortifies my belief in something being destined to happen."

"Well Mr. Kantor, it’s an interesting theory but I honestly don't believe that there's more than one thing that's 'meant to be' based on that theory, but coincidentally, that one thing is just the thing you said is meant to be."

Goldberg realised that the way he formed that sentence, it sounded confusing even to himself. He decided to explain quickly before Phillip went through any more of the torture his countenance was showing.

"I can explain why nobody's discovered your theory of time travel yet." ..22:07:51..

"Please explain."

"Now, if the theory of time travel is discovered, and the technology developed, sooner or later, someone will travel back in time, significantly before the discovery of time travel. And he, either voluntarily or involuntarily will change something then. And then, you know about the butterfly effect right?"

"Not exactly"

"Okay, let’s say our time traveller goes back in time and changes something small, like moving someone's teacup from its regular place. That person would spend more time, say about fifteen seconds, looking for his teacup next morning. So now this person would be fifteen seconds late for doing everything else. Maybe he just misses a traffic light, goes through anyway, and gets pulled over and gets a ticket, which he wouldn’t have got otherwise. This person then goes to work, about five minutes later than he originally would have, and to add to it, he's in a bad mood. This affects everyone around him. That's just an example, but the point is that if you make even one change, no matter how small it is, it will trigger other changes. So now there will be more changes, and they'll each trigger still more changes. Hence, the amount of change from the way things originally were will increase exponentially as time passes. And after a significant amount of time, moving that man's teacup could just start a world war. And I'm not really exaggerating.

"Now, if this time traveller goes back significantly before the discovery of time travel, the changes he makes will snowball until the moment when time travel was discovered. The farther back he goes, the greater the change is likely to be."

“Our world, Mr. Kantor, is seen as a chaotic system. That is, one whose outcome is extremely sensitive to its initial conditions. Take the weather for example. It is impossible to accurately predict tomorrow’s weather no matter how accurately we know today’s weather. The smallest bit of information that we don’t have makes all the difference. Such a chaotic system has no point of equilibrium, but is at an unstable equilibrium at all points.

"I never thought of time to be a straight line to begin with, Mr. Kantor. I see it as a line that splits up every time the outcome of something is uncertain. So there's a lot of lines, infinite number of them. Parallel realities. This is just one of them. So in every reality where time travel is discovered, someone goes back in time before the discovery of time travel itself, and changes something, it alters that reality. And however many new realities originate from after that point in time. Now in the altered reality, time travel may be discovered, or it may not be discovered. If, however, time travel is discovered, then the same process takes place again. So every reality which has discovered time travel becomes unstable after that point. This is why the only realities that have any hope of a future are those in which time travel is not discovered."

Goldberg took a breath, something he had forgotten to do for a while, in all his excitement. For once, it was Phillip who had something to think about.

..22:05:07..

"That's just one way of looking at it," Phillip said.

"Of course, I'm not denying that. But it does explain everything, doesn't it?"

"So every time someone travels back in time, he kills his reality," Phillip said, in a somewhat questioning manner.

"Yes. When he makes a jump in time, there's a loop, as you said. But the timeline takes a different path from the point he goes back to. What do you think would happen if someone went back in time?"

"For a theory, I suppose that fits. But what will happen to the time traveller once his reality ceases to exist? Shouldn’t he disappear with it?"

"There's a dozen possibilities you can think of Mr. Kantor, and a few hundred more that you can't. You can’t say which one will happen without doing some more research. I only like this theory so much because it explains everything...”

"It doesn't really explain everything..."

"Everything we talked about so far. It explains why time travel hasn't been discovered so far, and it explains it more naturally than having to incorporate people from the future coming back with the intention of preventing the discovery of time travel. They do it anyway, without knowing it. It also explains why the logic behind this theory of time travel appears to be unconventional. We could never have got to it conventionally. In all these different realities, which start to branch out from the beginning of time itself, people have developed different ways of thinking, invented and discovered different things, witnessed different natural phenomena, evolved differently, and I’m sure there'll be plenty where man never evolved at all. And those realities which are least likely to develop time travel, survive the longest."

Phillip let out a small laugh. "So I just killed my world, this ... reality?"

"Probably. Our reality still exists this far. It's just that we may not have a future. Although that's only if what I said is right. "

..22:03:14..

"But don't you think that when man reaches a certain level of intelligence, it's inevitable that he will develop time travel?"

"Not inevitable," Goldberg said, suggestively.

"If it were, then man cannot exist beyond a certain point in time."

Goldberg stayed silent.

"And the cause of man's extinction will be that he discovered time travel?” Phillip asked.

"Man will never be extinct, as such. Because there won't exist a world where he used to exist, but doesn’t anymore. It's just that all the worlds where man existed don’t exist beyond a certain point in time. And I don't even think that's possible. Because unless someone goes back in time and changes something that prevents the evolution of man itself, there will always be realities in which Man exists."

"But they all end in loops."

"They don’t end in loops Mr. Kantor. A new path is formed at the beginning of every loop. And there can be an infinite number of possibilities. At least one would have to exist where he finds a way past it."

"How?"

"Possibly by not travelling back in time before the discovery of time travel."

"You're the one who said someone eventually will."

..22:02:12..

"I hadn't put a lot of thought into it. I still haven't. But tell me, wouldn't you think twice before letting anyone travel back in time after hearing that"

"That's true, but there may be other ways out."

"Such as?"

"It may be possible to make sure that the changes the time traveller makes in the past are small enough to not affect the discovery of time travel. Maybe someday we'll be able to predict quite accurately the results of changing something in the past."

“Yes.”

Phillip looked at his watch again—

..22:01:40.. this was about the right time.

He spoke, "Professor Goldberg, what if I told you that I am from the future, that I built a working time machine, and after doing enough tests decided that it was safe to test it with myself?"

"Then I would be flattered that you risked all this to come to visit me." Goldberg said with a smile.

The look on Phillip's face clearly conveyed that he was telling the truth.

Goldberg's smile slowly faded away. ..22:01:18..

"And," Phillip continued, "Since I'm still sitting here, I don’t think my reality ceased to exist after all."

"That doesn't make sense. When are you from?"

..22:00:56..

"Fifteen years, six months and a little less than twenty-one days from now."

Goldberg stared at him for a while.

"You've got your ticket back?"

"Yes, in exactly 56 seconds."

"So my theory is completely wrong? You've made a drastic change by talking to me."

"No Professor Goldberg, your theory is right as far as I can tell. I don’t have time to explain, but look up there." Phillip pointed at the top right corner of the room. "See that black object? It's one of my video cameras from my lab. I've been monitoring you for quite a while before I decided on the twenty-one minutes that would be inconsequential enough for me to come and visit you."

..22:00:29...

"How can it be inconsequential enough? My knowing this will make drastic changes!"

It was when Goldberg began to get up to examine the camera that Phillip realised the mistake he’d made. In his excitement, he missed his timing of events.

"Don’t get up Mr. Goldberg. I really don't have time to explain. I would like to congratulate you for the amazing work that you did. You're one of my heroes. As you said, the fact that I came to visit you is enough to explain it. It's a pity that the potential of your work isn't recognised until long after your time. It was a pleasure meeting you" ..0:04..

The alarm on Phillip's wristwatch went off. Goldberg stared at him with his mouth open. He turned to the window to look at where there was suddenly a loud noise coming from. The bright lights hit him straight in the face and he could identify the roar of a truck engine along with the screeching of tires on the wet tar road. He looked back at Phillip, only to find that he was alone in the room again.

Goldberg experienced, for the third time that night, the feeling of everything suddenly falling into place. Phillip knew this was going to happen. He knew exactly when it was going to happen. Goldberg realised how the past twenty-one minutes would be inconsequential to the rest of the world. Goldberg didn’t try to get up from his chair. He knew what was coming. He knew it was inevitable. He didn’t have time to escape it. The roar of the engine was now accompanied by the smashing of glass, the tearing of steel and the crushing of a concrete wall. Goldberg held his glass of whisky tightly. Was any man ever this sure that he was going to die?

His life did not flash before his eyes. There was only the exhilarating feeling of having figured everything out. His thoughts wandered to Kantor and what kind of a person he was, to leave him to die like this. On the other hand, Phillip would have to risk his own existence and that of his entire world as it will be to save him. Phillip would see his death as something of a history book. He was meant to die here.

He wondered if his life had been meaningful enough. Had he lived well enough? His answers were satisfying. His only regret was writing that one paper. Suddenly it terrified him, the uncertainty of the future. It shouldn’t. The affairs of this world would no longer concern him. His thoughts went back to those days he spent researching, the day he presented that paper. He could never have known. The lights were blinding now and all he could see was white.

A Story in Blue

by J Ramanand

15:00, the 5.23th day of the year +80, New Priest City
The gentle whirring of the animated bot shook him out of his reverie. His phone had been redirected to text, and the on-screen panel was blinking with the name of Val. From his office cubicle in Sapphire Productions, Neek took a quick look around to ensure his inquisitive neighbor Weber wasn’t in hearing range.

“Val?”, he said and quietly hoped his sister would stick to the code.

“It's the flu, san.”

“You’ve got it then?”, he tried not to let his emotions show.

“Yes. Just got back from the Doctor’s.”

By now his listlessness had drained away. His sister had remained true to her side of the secret code. She had the papers. The papers were supposed to remain lost, they contained what humans wanted to forget. By bringing it back Neek and his sister were putting themselves at risk. There were many religious cults who would kill for these papers.

“I’ll come over this evening.”

“Ok, san.”

“Bye.”

When he head
ed out Weber, his colleague stopped him and asked—

“Hey Neek, would you join us for the Gaming party tonight at Strafers?”

“Thanks Web, but my sister’s unwell. I’m going to see her in Wellstown now.”

“What is the matter with her? Something serious and peculiar, I hope. Mind you”, Weber said, dropping his voice in mock-terror, “I bet it’s because of the Azureans using us as little brown and pink lab rats”.

Neek curled his lower lip in imitation of a smile. This was a popular theory of their times. However, he knew that Weber was simply too cynical to believe in it. Weber probably has concocted an elaborate and disparaging theory to explain away his own sorrows. Did pessimism come easy to one who spent his childhood in the Siberian cold?

“Nothing of that sort, sadly. Seems she has the chills. She just needs her brother to help her get over it.”

“My best to the lady, Neek, I wish her an unending supply of paper napkins. All I can do. Perhaps I’ll drop in a prayer to the Lord God of Medical Emergencies. Have a good journey, if you can help it.”

“The view will make up for it!” Neek concluded, as they both sniggered in unison at the thought.

19:00, the same day, the train to Wellstown
Humans didn’t like trains anymore. Everyone agreed this was because there weren’t any real windows left. The days of watching rolling countrysides, indulgent cattle, impressive rivers, or mighty marvels of engineering were consigned to documentary films. Since the dawning of the Azure age (despite the implied parity of the “Azure-Blue Earth Concord”, there was no doubt as to who held the passkeys to Earth), several million Azureans had migrated to Earth. Along with the products of their eco-sciences and their strident pacifism, they bought along their eccentricities—buy one and get the other freely imposed. Not that Subjugate partners had much of a say anymore.

Public transport is always the prime target for cultural integration. The higher ups decided that more contact between humans and Azureans was important. Cultural integration has its problems. The Azureans could not stand the sight of passing scenery in the windows of moving vehicles. As a minor cultural adjustment, window screens in most public transport systems now had images of reassuring geometrical objects on a beige background, slowly morphing into other shapes, instead of the real exterior whizzing by. Humans didn’t know exactly why Azureans could not bear the sight of rapidly moving visuals, but it caused a great deal of resentment. “Surely, this is a minor fine-tune to make for friends?” the Chief Azure Overseer on Earth had been famously quoted on the topic. Since that day, the phrase “minor fine-tune” had entered coffee-machine slang as a handy euphemism.

Not surprisingly, Neek had soon become fed up of the projected images on the windows. The Azure couple in the same booth, on the other hand, possessed such strangely beatific expressions on their blue features that it made him long to be in some far away alien land like them and ruminate on his own life with the clarity that distance brings. He caught himself staring at them longer than intended and turned embarrased. How long his parents’ generation would have stared at any Azureans that they encountered? The curiosity had long since evaporated among the general population. Occasionally, he would try to guess the gender of the Azureans he met from the subtle shades of colors in their faces that marked their three sexes, but today, his attention sought the past. He fiddled around with the buttons of his SurroundView, trying to get the focus of the projection right for his eyes. Before leaving for the day, he had copied relevant sections of the history of the days before and during the Concord, from the Walloon History Archives. “Play”, he said.

“[This archive article was created on Oct 30, 2124 (in the old date system). See sections 13.2 and 13.3 for related material]

You will now hear a summary article on Mey Smythe. If you’d like to explore specific aspects, please voice the relevant key phrases.

Mey W. Smythe (2073-2152) was the first Chief Envoy of the Partner States of West Europe to the International Comity. A representative of the NW regions, Smythe was a legalist by profession before accepting an offer by the then Presiding Officer of the NW regions to join his cabinet of ministers as Officer for Legal Affairs in 2105.

2123 saw the occurrence of the extraordinary ‘Discovery of Earth’ by the AXLKA Galaxy group (known locally as the Azure Nations). This led to the creation of the International Comity, which had the mandate to negotiate relations with Earth’s new extra-terrestrial neighbours. Smythe was chosen as the representative of his region to this body in view of his much-applauded work in statecraft in the preceding years. He served as the deputy to Jan Kozzyk of the North American Partnership, who had been elected as Chairperson of the Senate and inner Council of the Comity.

In his duties with the Comity, Smythe first headed the committee for the creation of the AXLKA-English Translation Standard, helping establish a common basis for both groups to communicate with each other, especially with regards to formal language for use in the Concord. After the publication of the standard in 2125, Smythe worked closely on the drafts, setting the parameters of the co-operation in geology and mining, trade rights, movement of personnel, and other eco-scientific issues. At the time of the announcement of the Concord to all-round acclaim in 2130, Smythe was among the famed “Dreamers”, the men and women who had successfully managed the transition to a new era in Earth’s space history. Despite the clear superiority of the Azure Nations in all eco-scientific spheres, Earth had been accepted as an equal and autonomous partner in the Galaxy. A new emergence of the planet and its inhabitants had been signaled.

However, by 2132, the Comity was struck by allegations of corruption and incompetence against Kozzyk and his council by several members of the Comity’s general Senate. They alleged that several unnecessary concessions relating to medical research by the Azureans on Earth had been provided for special favours. In addition, several religious demonstrations and riots of an extraordinary nature took place in some of the largest cities in Western Europe and Asia, severely destabilizing the region and the Comity. On 3rd January, 2133, Jan Kozzyk was found dead of cardiac arrest. Mey Smythe took over as acting Head of the Comity, pending fresh elections.

Later that year, the International Comity of the Nations of Earth unilaterally declared war on the Azure Nations knowing full well they stood no chance. Suicidal, Earth historians would put it simply; most of humanity became a suicidal cult bent on attaining species salvation at the face of an unquestionably more powerful alien race. By 2134, after the renegotiation of the Concord, the Comity had been disbanded, leaving each political nation to seek its own terms with the victorious power. Each of the nations agreed on Subjugate status for Earth, and the establishment of a military, political and eco-scientific agency of Azureans to oversee all extra-terrestrial matters on behalf of Earth.

There is common consensus among historians, particularly Azure historians, that if humans had not declared war on the Azureans, they may have enjoyed greater stature and prosperity, as the Azureans are a largely pacific race. Immediately after the end of the war, the blame for humanity's fiasco was unanimously laid at the desk of Mey Smythe. Smythe was detained by the government of the North American Partnership but despite much speculation, the reasons for actions taken under his leadership were never made public. Mey Smythe died in detention on 27 August, 2152.

[This is the end of the article. If you’d like to explore…]”

21:30, The Train
The train had reached an intermediate station, causing the bland projections to cease. Neek looked out, his first glimpse of the world outside for over two hours. A bunch of pilgrims, with their assortment of religious paraphernalia were disembarking. One of their holy shrines was nearby, he recalled. Neek wasn’t very religious, but had been considering his position lately. Many at his workplace were, for all appearances, quite devout. More than just spiritual succour, they seemed to derive an immense social security from the religious orders, especially given (as some churches said) the ungodly presence of the alien Azureans. Val had told him she’d been to a temple of one of the newer 20th century religions that embraced the aliens as saviors situated near her house. She said it was founded on the teachings of someone named Bobbard or Joseph, he couldn't recall the name. He must remember to ask her about it.

He looked around the booth he was sitting in. The Azure couple had left. There was just an old lady sitting there, who’d dozed off as soon as the train’s doors quietly slid shut. A pair of Azureans looked in tentatively from the passageway but didn’t enter, they were probably looking for a more Azure-filled area. Humans and Azureans weren’t at ease with each other yet. They had treaded millions of years on different evolutionary paths; commerce and technology had brought them together but otherwise they were a world apart.

He turned back to his Surround Vision, and said “fetch article; keywords ‘war declaration in 2137’” in a low, clear voice.

23:00, Wellstown
Val was at the door as the taxi pulled up outside her house. It was their mother’s house and had been left to her.

“San!” Val smiled happily at the sight of her brother. He, in turn, had a frown.

“I still don’t believe you got it all that easily. What did he want for it?”

“Well, um, nothing yet, san. I’m sure he’ll save it up for some favour later. Don’t bother yourself with that. Though I’m not sure we have the complete diary.”

“But you didn’t have to explain anything? Surely, he must have been puzzled by your interest in a bunch of forgotten papers? You didn’t have to mention how Mel Smythe is connected to us?”

“No san, I didn’t have to. An egotistic man like Tel is easy to convince provided you keep the conversation strictly about him. I did have to spend a week pandering to that massive blob of an ego, though.” A mock shiver ran through her.

“I wonder if it’s really worth all the pain.”

“Come on, not now. It’s about ma, it’s about us. We have been taught to never acknowledge the Smythe blood in us. Have you stopped wondering about that? And plus, with this diary, we do have an authentic chunk of lost history with us, don’t we?”

When Neek emerged from the kitchen with coffee, Val had already spread the papers on carpet and was glancing through them.

“How should we go about it? There’s quite a bunch here. Should we jump to the entries just after the so-called “Discovery of Earth”?”

“So-called?” He was genuinely puzzled.

“I couldn’t help peeking”, she said, a little embarrassed. “Listen to this”—

Mey Smythe’s Diary – New York - 26 Nov 2123
History, as we know it, continues to be overwhelmed by events that have no recognizable rationale and do not follow any pattern. Since that extraordinary day when radio contact was first established two months ago, Earth has changed in unprecedented ways every week. I feel I’m in the middle of a science fiction saga. I’m not sure a thesaurus has enough adjectives to fully convey what we’re all feeling.

The Azureans land tomorrow. By the way, it was Dr. Hart Rixar from South Asia who called them that because of the curious tinge of blue on their skins, and the name stuck. He said that Krishna, one of the more playful Indian God, was blue-skinned because he represented the color of heavens. Will they turn out to be gods? Would earth become a paradise? We all wondered in jest. The Azureans have repeatedly stressed that they are a peaceful species. If that indeed turns out to be true, then these won’t be Old Testament smiters of sinners!

One thing is certain: they’ll be bringing their own food to the party. We have no idea what they eat.

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Brussels - 20 Aug 2124
This morning, the inner council met for the last time before the ten day season’s break. We reviewed progress on the committees for proposed eco-science collaborations, boundary outlines, and most importantly, the language inter-translations. As Jan keeps saying, we can’t dance the cosmic tango if we keep stepping on each other’s feet. In return, I keep telling him we’re still learning how to walk.

Did we know the Azureans don’t have any concept of suicide? Or that they too have a game very similar to football? More surprises will doubtlessly follow in the years to come. For now, we just need a common understanding of the lingua political. Oh, and our blue friends aren’t blue all over. There was an exchange of anatomical details of our respective species a month ago to repurpose public facilities on earth to accomodate Azureans. Our medical guys showed us some of these images – the Azureans have pink toes!

Finally, there’s been some talk that the Azureans have indeed known about Earth for a long while now. The whole “discovery” could be a charade, as many of us always suspected. Given their technological prowess, which is clearly many mega-generations ahead of us, it’d be no surprise if they had been aware of us for a while. Jan has asked us to keep this under our hats for now.

01:30
The rest of the entries are quite similar in tone and content: he talks about some of the communication problems and how they had to ease their way around them. Some word on the opposition of certain groups on Earth, but how they were motivated mostly by personal grudges. On the whole, it was quite amicable, with the Azureans as well as at home.” She saw him stifle a yawn.

“Should we stop for the night?” she asked.

“No, let’s go on. Let’s jump ahead a little.” he said, adjusting the cushions behind him.

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Brussels - 16 Oct 2126
Today, we celebrated the 1st anniversary of the publication of the translation standard. It has been quite an achievement, perhaps the greatest for some of the leading linguists and technologists on Earth. To mark the occasion, we launched a newstracker today, which can summarise news reports in the different Azurean tongues in English. It gives us an informative look at the buzz on the AXLKA planets: what the mood is with regards to the Concord drafts, any rumblings or murmurs, and the like. Naturally, it’ll take us a long time to set up any meaningful intelligence networks in those Azurean regions, and even then, given their superior monitoring and communication systems, we will probably be dreadful at it.

I think everyone feels that there is no such thing as a “perceived threat” with our alien friends—they truly do seem territorially non-aggressive. I suppose they could crush us like bugs if they chose to, but their entire mental (if I can use that word) makeup is geared towards commerce and technology. It will be interesting to know if they were always that way or if their systems have evolved in that direction.

I wouldn’t call any of the Azureans “friends”. Not yet, anyway. Though, over the last few years, there have been some pleasant acquaintances. I think it will take us and them a generation to even begin any kind of integration.

Still, it remains our duty to be sceptical and watchful of the guys who’ve moved into the neighborhood. Do we have anything that allows us to meaningfully deserve the parity that is being unilaterally offered, or is this equilibrium doomed to be unstable?

Mey Smythe’s Diary – New York - 20 Jan 2129
Ok, I must confess to being a little heady! TIME-TODAY’s latest cover features all of us (from the council) on it. We’ve been dubbed “The Dreamers”. The Concord is around the corner – we should have the ratifications done by the end of the year.

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Brussels - 19 April 2131
Today, I informed the inner Council about yesterday’s development which will have, as they say, earth-shattering consequences. It’s exciting. I reported:

“Yesterday, in a private meeting, the cultural envoy of the Azure representation here confirmed that the Azureans have indeed been aware of us Earthlings for a long, long time – several millennia actually. They have had us under the microscope, in a manner of speaking, for much of that time. With great prudence, they decided against any active deployments in the region as they were not very confident of Earth’s maturity and ability to make the necessary philosophical adjustments. This is quite similar to what we know as the ‘monolith conjecture’ (A.C.Clarke in the second millennium).

They have, however, kept us under the scanner for much of that period. We do know that much of our first couple of millennia was spent in bloody internecine conflicts which were, in plain speak, the powerful and unscrupulous cartels thieving from the vulnerable ones. From what we have seen and learnt about the Azureans, they would not have wanted to be involved in any way with such an environment. Especially, as Earth has nothing to offer them that could not be obtained elsewhere.

Now that they’ve seen relative stability on Earth, they have been emboldened enough to make the approach in a spirit of cooperation (besides, I think they are getting impatient for commerce). We have not had any reason to doubt this, from what we have seen in the last eight years.

Here’s the big news: they kept extensive audio-visual records during their observations over the last couple of millennia. A massive historical archive. All this while, they’ve had visual sensors on their satellites pointing at Earth, some buried in our moon, and even dropped on Earth itself. Ground level zooms. Recorded audio. It’s as if someone turned on a video camera and left it running for thousands of years. Almost every bit of collected information has been collated and indexed chronologically.

And they’re offering it to us for use.”

At first, most of the council failed to see the implications of this announcement. I had to spell it out for them. For the first time, we could potentially answer historical questions, from the mundane to the most extraordinary. Was there really a Shakespeare? Did Mallory and Irvine make it to the top of Everest first? But apart from such interesting but ultimately useless questions, geographical observations such as the shifting of the Polar caps and the original extent of rainforest coverage could be studied scientifically; great battles and economic changes can all be revealed. We can set to rest some of the most legendary as well as incendiary questions that historians never thought they could answer. We’d actually go back in time. The greatest documentary ever!

We’ve decided that this is classified top-secret for now. We’re still coming to grips with this.

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Brussels - 23 Oct 2131
I’m happy to record that I’ve finally won! It’s been a struggle—slowly persuading everyone on the council that the pros outweigh the cons, that these archives represent the greatest inheritance we will ever know, that we are indeed mature enough to confront the distant past without any adverse effects, and that the sources must be made as open as possible. The massive vote of confidence represented by the Azureans treating us as partners should clearly tell us we’re far removed from those murderous hordes of the Middle Ages. This is the Age of Understanding.

The members of the Senate will be carefully informed soon. For now, they will be asked to keep the information confidential. First sample requests to be made of “The Ark-ive” (as it’s been dubbed) will be conveyed via the Azurean cultural envoy. I’ve got a few of my own: where did I misplace the deliciously anachronistic reading glasses my wife gave for our tenth wedding anniversary.

06:00, the next day
Neek took a welcome sip from his mug—

“That is pretty interesting. I’ve been through a lot of material on that period, and none of them ever mention this point, this ‘Ark-ive’. Let me quickly run a search through the material again.”

He switched up his little gadget as Val stretched out sleepily, upsetting a framed photo of their parents on the side table.

“No, there are no references to anything of this sort.”

“Hmm. Let’s get back to the diary, san.”

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Brussels - 2 Feb 2132
No wonder politics is a pit. More accurately, it’s a snake-pit full of these career politicians.

The “Ark-ive” exercise has degenerated into a maelstrom of name-calling and backstabbing which I did not foresee at all. My faith in our so-called philosophical maturity has turned out into a bag of hot air, punctured by the first pinpricks. Oh, what I’d give to string these myopic lepers upside down over a pack of hungry pigs.

It all began with a little verbal skirmish during one of the ‘Ark-ive’ discussions in the Senate a couple of days ago. We were drafting the policy on how access to the ‘Ark-ive’ would be provided, at first to academies and state organizations, and eventually to the general public. A member, with a pronounced religious view, wanted to ban any queries that would directly or indirectly be related to the religion he claimed to represent. He said it would amount to religious interference and insult the leaders of his religion, past and clear. Being deliberately vague, it was hard to tell what his argument was! Still, it was sufficient to get a member of a rival faith riled up. Accusations regarding the respective provenances of their religions were tossed around. Each informed the other that one look at the ‘Ark-ive’ would settle things once and for all.

Till now, I had not seen any religious considerations affect the working of the Comity. What can I say, we have been very extraordinarily naïve.

The session adjourned amidst the increasing bedlam. When we resumed the next day, both the warring parties seemed to have come together. It was no surprise when they tabled a proposal to strike down all ‘Ark-ive’ queries of any religious nature. Clearly, they’ve decided that, rivalries apart, opening up their own religions to scrutiny may jeopardize not only the fundamentals of their religions, but also their own standing as leaders of their faiths.

It was not a compromise of my choice, but I was ready to take it, though reluctantly. But there were some who’ve gone on the warpath against these mega-religions. It includes a bunch of particularly strident atheists, but mostly, it’s made up of members of some 2nd millennium sects, who don’t have ancient holy books or prophets or divine earthly incarnations to defend, and have the advantage that their mythos is purely elemental or doctrinal. They demand open access, but for all the wrong reasons: just to unmask the mega-religions and fill the vacuum with their own brand of mindspace.

It looks like the clouds from some long-forgotten religious crusade have gathered above.

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Istanbul - 15 Sep 2132
Despite weeks of negotiations, the violence has spread to further parts of Asia, including the Anatolian regions. It is the same everywhere: none of the rioters on the streets really know what they are quarrelling about, save for some totemic reasons about “enemies of their religion” causing grave affront. I have no doubt that the source of these problems lie in those ‘Ark-ive’ deliberations of February. Were the religious representatives worried about the credibility of their ancestors being affected by any revelations? Of their divine figures being mere humans, however august? Was this too much to tolerate?

Is this all necessary?

Jan has been ill for weeks now. It hasn’t helped that the heads of state have held him responsible for these calamities in the Comity. I hold myself to blame—after all, I championed the ‘Ark-ive’. This is quite the opposite of what I imagined would happen when I heard of it. I have run out of ways to salvage anything worthwhile. All my hopes are lost.

The Azureans have been loath to get involved, especially, as per the Concord, they promised to stay out of Earth’s affairs. But how long before, like a kennel-master of an increasingly torrid pack of dogs, will they stay out of it?

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Prague - 5 Jan 2133
Jan: farewell, you lucky man. You escape this tumult. Like the last chapter of a mystery novel, we now know who your true friends really were: the few who paid you the courtesy of showing up at your funeral. I fear by the time my turn arrives, that chapter will be blank!

Mey Smythe’s Diary – Brussels - 7 Feb 2133
In my long career, I have met with several ultimatums, but this is the ugliest of them all. It seems inevitable that the progress of the last decade will be erased with a regress worth a century.

The religious leaders confessed today that they are no longer in control of their raging flocks, and that they can no longer direct the flames that they tried so vainly to fan in the last year. (Of course, they wouldn’t quite take the blame for being the masterminds in so many words.) Consequently, their analysis is that no balm can be applied to soothe these volcanic tempers. In speech that is disguised as advice, they suggest an approach that would be more appropriate in quelling oil-fires: they want us to start an even bigger fire that will consume every inflammable element in the neighbourhood. They want us to declare war on the Azureans in a desperate bid to distract humanity. Of course, they call it “uniting mankind”.

Such an absurd suggestion I could not countenance. Instead, I suggested taking our troubles to the Azureans. Surely they could not stand by as their newest ally committed mass suicide. But this only provoked derision. There is a conspiracy theory among certain circles that some of the current troubles have been fomented by the Azureans, a fact that we know to be completely incorrect. The actual fomenters were in the room with us when this theory was being discussed!

It doesn’t help that these groups have painted the Inner Council as corrupt puppets in the pay of the Azureans. We have failed to combat these accusations, so what credibility do we have left?

I fear for Vina—she isn’t safe anymore now that her university has been shut down.

09:00, the 5.24th day of the year +80
“What, is that it?” asked an agitated Neek.

She rummaged through the papers once again.

“That’s it. Perhaps he couldn’t write any more, may be they didn’t make it to this set, may be someone got rid of it.”

“Oh, come on.”

“And just as he mentions ma. So what do you think happened next?”

“We do know that they declared war on 22 April, and he was still Acting Head, so he must have acquiesced in the end. Perhaps that was the only way to stamp out the worst religious strife in centuries? Perhaps a spot of personal blackmail? Perhaps this was in the best interests of the race?”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would cave in. But I suppose, if ma had been in mortal danger, would he have behaved differently?”

Neek's eyes were clouded. Light shimmered in his distressed eyes.

“I don't know. He could have—we don’t know enough about him. And ma didn’t exactly talk about him.”

“No, she didn’t. But why! Was she ashamed of being his daughter, of the infamy that now surrounds him? Or was it something more than that?”. Val could not control her tears.

Neek keenly felt his sister's distress,"not every mystery in our lives could be solved. Some questions will stay unanswered”, he looked around at the sheaves of paper all around them, “even after all this. The ‘Ark-ive’ that could have told us puny humans exactly what the truth was. But no one wants the real truth. We humans have made our peace with our versions of the truth. Is it too overwhelming to have to re-calibrate our minds.”

Val sighed, and got on her knees collecting the papers.

“What do we do with these? Tel will want them back, I suppose?” asked Neek, taking them from her.

“Not really – he has a digital copy and would not bother to retain this archaic bundle of paper. I don't think we should either, you know it's dangerous for us to have it. Let's give it a decent burial. It’s not as if they can now bring down a civilization. What credibility do they carry? I’m sure the Azureans are wise enough to never mention the ‘Ark-ive’ again. Reject the chains of the past, my new preacher says.”

“This is that preacher from the religious order you were planning to visit? ”

“Yes. It was interesting – there was a certain kind of dynamism to it, a promise of a social order without upheaval.”

“And in the light of what we’ve just read courtesy our mother’s father—it doesn’t change your attitude towards religion? I mean, a bunch of zealots wrecked what could have truly been, to use the cliché, a giant leap for mankind. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why should it? In fact, I feel quite the opposite”, she said, looking at her toes.

“I mean, irrespective of any major religion’s origins, look at the potency of the ideas, strength purely from belief, the staying power—you’ve got to respect the fundamental need for religion. The fanatics you talk about—where are they? Them and their likes—their time has gone. We have had two major and modern religions spring up in the last century, haven’t we?”~

“Isn’t that just a consumerist twist to spirituality—a bazaar where you choose the sizes and colours and designs that fit you?”

“But san”, she said, “just because a bunch of aliens showed up and are now in charge of us and knew what we were up to in the past isn’t going to make us humans think we’ve solved the questions of who we are and what we want, is it? We need the scaffolding that religion promises—to hold on to in times of our greatest fears and our deepest loves. Do you think the average human, irrespective of centuries of progress, has been able to do away these emotional crutches?”

“I suppose we do need it. Perhaps we really do. I’m not sure though. But I wish we could tell someone about this”. He looked at the papers in his hands. “About all this. Make them think a little.”

“Do you think two minor members of a subjugated race that worries more about whether Wellstown beats East Aldiss Centre in a game on Saturday, can change anyone’s mind? I want peace, san. I prefer to take my chances with the majority. I’m sorry—all I’m good for is to be part of the herd. I’m satisfied that our grandfather is less of a stranger to us now. But that’s about it.”

Neek thought for a moment. He then lit up a small flame. “Shall we do our grandfather the honour?”

On Board the Ark

by Ankit Bhardwaj

He found her sitting by the transparent arc of the Ring, the pocked ochre surface of the desert moon growing in its facade. She was reclined on her bubble chair, and was gazing outwards with her cheeks resting in her flattened, crinkled palms. Her green gypsy eyes that so fascinated Ural seemed fixated on the moon.

“We need you on the bridge”, Ural said casually but beneath his veneer of calm he was anxious. The hum of the air-filter in the ceiling grew large in the silence.

“Lima did you hear me, we need you on the bridge.”

“You didn’t really mean we.”

“Lima..”, he pleaded.

“They think I am mad, old and mad”, she said. Her voice was aloof, and without a hint of resignation—

“Less useful than I was in youth, when I bore their mission no children.”

Ural sighed—

“It is our mission”, he corrected her, deposing as he had done countless times before her, “it belongs to no one person or clique but to all eight billion people of Earth. And our duty is almost done now—the result of our life’s work, all your life’s work Lima. All the generations before us were not lucky to live and see the end. Think about their hopes and efforts. The mission started two hundred and twenty years ago is close to being realized in spite of everything. Anything but exuberance will sully the enormity of this moment. But come—I am only begging you for a little respect.”

Lima’s creased face below short white hair turned to look at him for the first time, and he saw her bright eyes and pallid lips quiver in mirth long before she broke into a laugh so full of her puckish, old heart that it seemed to spurn every thought and article of faith he possessed.

He felt hurt and insulted but she spoke gaily.

“You are naïve to appeal to the virtues I don’t have, dear Ural, that’s very sweet of you. But I still can’t tell you what you want to hear. Lying—now that’s the job of those who let us adrift in space and their pretentious computers. I shall be truthful, to you at least—come here.”

She beckoned him with her fingers dancing in a fluid motion to point to the carpet below her feet decorated with the motif of a prancing horse. In spite of himself he moved and fell on his knees before her, feeling the odd warmth of presence and wistful submission that maybe was what Alexander the Great felt when he wept before Olympias. He had only read about it in the books of history. He could not know. He was an orphan.

“You know nothing about Earth. Apart from what little you are allowed to know, your positive illusions filling up all the blanks” she said. Her eyes widened as she looked into the distance at the ochre moon. She spread her hands the flare of the sleeves of her silver gossamer robe fell under the Ring’s gravity. To Ural’s fascinated eyes, she seemed terrible and silver and grand—like an Oracle in her throes, and her green eyes seemed burnished by a vision as she spoke.

“Its somewhere there, our Urheimat, far away, so far away its now beyond recall. Its oblong and blue. Ancient Hindus believed that Earth is on the back of an elephant standing on a turtle swimming in a bottomless sea—a vision equally attractive as the oblong blue myth thrust upon us”

“Lima!”, Ural cried, his alarm thinned out by his concern for her to an anxiety delicate with fear and reproach. “It's criminal to question our origins. You will be put in a pod if they find out!”

“And do what—let me drift in space? Are we not drifting already?"

She gave an impish chuckle, wiped her mouth with her sleeve— “It is too late now. I memorized every verse”, her eyes gleamed with rebellion borne out of loneliness and angst.

“Most of the crew and our elders think their reasons were valid in the context of the Charter. That worthless rag—page thirty seven includes a caveat against religious violence. You see, the masters of our destiny calculated the fratricide that would reduce us from one sixty four to eleven and even suggested the measures that were followed. They provided us the poison and the antidote. I was a girl of sixteen the year it happened but several decades older just an year later. The death of close ones does that to you, and you were lucky your mother, unfortunate woman though she was, chose a peaceful time to bring you into this universe, or you would have grown as cynical and mad as I am. Think of it—you were lucky to have been conceived. Even children did not survive those days. Foresight was the last thing the Forum that commissioned our elders lacked. They knew exile breeds extremism. They knew of a lot of other terrible things that would happen on this mission. Or should I call it—the Great Experiment? To which end they allowed no weapons on board but made way for more lethal things. Earthlings are cruel but they are not naïve in their understanding of plots and expedients.”

“Earthlings!” Ural protested, “You speak, as if we are not from among them.”

“Are we really?” She looked at him puzzled “You have never set foot on Earth. You are the third generation of exiles born and raised on board the Ark, breathing its processed air, eating its isocaloric food. Unlike the first generation you did not step in wilfully. Self-sacrifice was thrust upon you, until you mistook the burden of your elders as your own.”

“Our elders were pioneers, brave men and women who risked their lives…”

Ural stopped. She had just waved her hands to dismiss his words. He looked on in shock. It had dawned on him how the words were not his own but had lived in animation in his mind like his own experience. Her smile grew wider as one who empathized and continued:

“I will tell you what nobody knows. They were nothing like us.”

He listened rapt.

“They had proper identities. They had lives that asserted their individuality in the world they came from. They had names that meant something and they added a piece of the past to supplement their names—an appellative which tied them to tribes, guilds and castes and anchored them to their place in history. Identity is the first thing that sets us apart from them. Far apart. The second is freedom. Farther still.”

Lima paused, her eyes swiveling to rest on a potted tuberous, thorny plant kept on top of the table under a plasma lamp, stretching out in its light like needled fingers severed off a Giant’s grizzled hand. She reached out and lifted the pot with both hands to bring it level with her head and she penetrated it with her emerald gaze.

“This Cactus grew in the most arid regions of earth. It may bend in a gale and its roots might move a few inches in its lifetime, but its place in the scheme of things is fixed. It knows its place on earth is to be a fixture of the desert landscape. And so it has adapted. By moving this pot or putting it back I am not violating its freedom or restricting its scope, nor will my planting it back into a wide desert alter its function. This is very dissimilar to man. To banish us in a steel cage is not just to deny our individuality but to declare our very natures as untrue.”

“So you are an Earthling then or as you say, a hero—or an ersatz image of an Earthling, the most inferior representation?” She asked.

The knifepoint of her words pierced his harmonious abstracts. He turned away, red in the face from the breathlessness he had inherited from an anonymous father.

In the silence that followed they both looked through the glass, seeking answers and remedies to their own bitterness. The ring of the Ark had wheeled on its axis, and the moon had disappeared to give way to the planet Grandiflora’s surface that had fallen into night and was spangled in clusters of blue, red and gold lights which arranged around its population centres. The planet’s Sun vacillated like a cast of molten iron in its backdrop—a fireball floating in a mass of endless violet space.

Then something pricked in his gaze, and the lights on the planet’s surface blinked and went out like embers being extinguished. The concert of dying lights ended with an eerie nightscape on the planet that was illuminated only by a bright red spiral of light in the shape of a double helix. Ural sprung from his knees, his heartbeat amplified into a din as blood rapidly coursed through heart. After the sight had endured and prevailed on his good sense, he spun around and raced for the door, remembering Lima’s form as it whizzed past like a phantom, fixed upon the planet. He struck the panel to open the door and fell into the corridor that circumambulated the outer ring of the Ark with the door hissing shut behind him, leaving him a zone of blinking red alarm lights and warbling motor noises. He checked into the nearest elevator board that began climbing up a shaft as soon as it registered his weight.

The shaft fell across the axis of the ring inwards to the cylindrical central section of the main module of the Ark. As the centrifugal force began damping towards zero gravity, his feet flew off the elevator’s board that stopped as soon as it felt his weight drop to zero.

“Mag-Lift online” Ural whispered, and two electromagnets locked around his wrists in thermoplastic bracelets quaked with life. Soon he was manoeuvring up the remainder of the shaft using his hands against the electromagnets in the walls that had powered the elevator, like a swimmer coursing down an invisible stream, casting long limbed, mutating shadows across the dim purple lights of the passage.

The bright fluorescent light that loomed in the distance got closer, until he dropped face down out of the shaft into the incandescent alley that led from the Deuterium reactor to the bridge at its other end in a straight cylindrical gangway. He maneuvered in the air without his feet touching the ground, and stretching into a horizontal position was slung by a stronger field into the direction of the Bridge.

The coils of the spiral door whorled open before his approach and he entered the hall of the bridge, where he found the members of the crew frozen before the twinkling panels of the control desk and looking through the transparent nose of the Ark at the blood red shape that had fallen across Grandiflora’s face like a battle scar.

Here the field lines grew out of the floor, where they would not interfere with the electronics of the panels on the sides, and Ural’s magnetic boots patched with the deck, until both his feet were locked in standing position. He walked into the huddle, without being noticed, when someone spoke.

“Its DNA!”

Heads turned to nod.

“Its DNA, that is certain beyond doubt, the double Helix must also have been used to signify our Union, celebrate our mutual Life”—

Sahara, captain of the Ark, had spoken, arching his brown eyebrows that were set tremulously in his thick square face in wonder and bewilderment.

“But what does the red signify?” asked Panama, aged sixteen, and the only one among the crew whose hair curled fascinatingly into itself. Ural could see his question ricochet off the eyes of the crew. Sahara, having no conciliatory explanation, punched a red button on the panel before him.

“Let’s find out”, he said with a steely smile.

On cue, a voice more polyphonous than any human being but tuned to feminine edges fell on them from the ceiling—

“Hello crew. How are we today. How may I help you”

The crew had learned to ignore this courtesy of the mainframe, who called herself Gargi.

“You heard the question”, Sahara said impatiently.

“Affirmative. The usage of red color of the spectrum seems to signify, with a probability of 0.40 on narrow and 0.80 on broad—the red of human blood. It can be interpreted as a warning rising from the unsuitability of the planet’s environment or a mortal threat against any attempts to make contact, in the absence of a Lingua Franca.”

“But it begs another question Gargi” Sahara asked, “ How did they determine our vital fluid is red?”

“We don't know. Perhaps, the Arecibo message"—

“The Arecibo message was transmitted from earth in 1974 and included the chemical formulas of sugars and bases in our DNA. The Arecibo message, and its response, formed the first contact between our species. Abundant time has elapsed to learn the synthesis of life molecules in lab conditions. At this point I calculate they may be armed with an advanced understanding of our species.”

Crete, the darkest among them, laughed nervously “A computer calculates what a man fears. We have contact.” He raised his hands vertically. He was strapped into a chair before a screen that projected geometric shapes onto his livid face.

“Our displacement vector nine-seven up-seven for inbound. Looks like—like—” He fumbled with the enormity of what he was going to say, “a native ship.”

Sahara scampered to the mount point of the screen and leaned with his hands on his shoulders until the planes and figures had crawled onto his face.

“How do we know its not a satellite.”

“Because unless it alters its trajectory in a sharp slope, it will be flying past our windows.”

“E-T-A” Sahara cried “ Give me E-T-A”

He jerked into upright position and looked out of the nose as if expecting to see an Alien space craft looming into sight any second. All he saw was the dark planet with the vivid twine of the red helix.

“At current bearings. E-T-A is fifty minutes.”

At his words, many shapes began coursing towards the screen and crowded around the erect shape of Sahara who looked engrossed in the sign on Grandiflora in much the same way that that Lima had seem lost in the moon when Ural had found her.

Ural watched him closely as he broke from the huddle and walked away, his head lowered as if in deep thought, until he had answered the great tumult within himself, and raised his face again, his shoulders squaring below them like a great wall.

“Our appointment with fate.” He said, and an aspect in his voice drew them to it.

“Moments from now going to put into action man’s dispatch to alien life. We will be the ones to take history of human exploration into a new epoch, discoverers of a truly new world!”

“Yes!” cried the moonfaced Yukon, “We will be added to their pantheon. Lord Yukon from the stars. Ha! If our hosts believe in God. But I will still be glad to get off this damned ship. All my life my muscles atrophying on this bridge, watching the same faces, to spend the rest of my life if not as a God then as a specimen of great scientific value, with Grandiflora’s solid ground beneath me, and its new sights, Ah.. newly formed temptations, and new smells, new pleasures unknown. And when I die my body be entombed, like Kings of Earth, and not be incinerated and cast into space!”

“Maybe they don’t have the customs for entombing or for cremation” Sahara spoke solemnly, “and you will see the value in incineration over being suspended in a preservative gel in a museum. Or a cage labelled with the coordinates of the star-system we came from. I hear that the humans kept lesser mammals in controlled menageries for their entertainment. At any rate, I will share your fate with you. But we will need one more for company. And who else will accompany? Not you Panama—you stay there—you are too young. And in case things turn ugly, the crew will need at least one fertile male for the journey back. Ural?”

Ural’s bosom heaved with a start.

“Me captain?” He blurted, startled out of his thoughts.

“Yes. Do you have a problem?”

“No captain.” said Ural, but he said it out of a compliant disposition, his mind was wrestling a resistance he was refusing to give form to. Not yet.

“All right then. If the Alien ship docks as predicted. It will be just the three of us waiting in the airlock. There is no body else on board this ship. The rest of you will await the code from us patiently before embarking on any Alien craft that might follow. If there is no transmission, there is no boarding. You assume its unsafe, jump orbit and push to laser drive. Clear. That last part should be very clear.”

“Yes, clear and glad to stay”, Crete laughed nervously “I will make sure it happens the way you want it captain.”

“Excellent. And we have wasted ten precious minutes speaking about this already. We will each now head to our stations. Yukon, Ural will follow me to the airlock”

Sahara clapped, and then crouched, falling on his knees to take Panama in his arms. The boy was the only one to show any emotion, the rest of them did not know what to make of it. Panama wept bitterly in Sahara’s grip. In that air of sanitized disbelief, and from the inertia of the mundane in their lives, their minds refused to entertain the big changes that would come if they executed the duty they had been enjoined to do, and the separations that were to follow. In that silence Ural’s quite resolve hardened and broke the shackles of his reserve.

“Sir. Lima must go in my place.” He blurted out in a voice that was unwittingly loud.

Yukon laughed, just when Ural thought of repeating what he had said as Sahara was slow in turning towards him, very slow, and when he did his face was blank in confusion as he let go off Panama, as if recalling a thought that had never occurred to him, or a name he did not remember. But as it got closer it coloured him with a mirth which he shared with Yukon and they were both laughing.

“What” He said with his face still set by laughing and the wiggle in his voice that seemed distracted “You don’t want to go?”

“Its not about my willingness captain.” Ural answered “Lima must go in place of one of us, as the charter says clearly that one woman, at least, with one man, should be included in the first dispatch.”

Sahara got back to his feet, and his features grew sharp as the edge of a knife as he rose. A shade of purple rage broke on his face. But he sounded desperate as he spoke, realizing he could not dismiss outrightly the question that had been posed and he tried to retire it.

“We don’t have time to waste on Lima. We are not considering Lima right now.”

“But we must consider what the charter says –”

“That’s enough.” Sahara said, raising a finger sternly in line with his nose and between livid eyes, “If you don’t want to come that is perfectly acceptable. I will excuse you as a case of nausea or cold feet. Crete can take your place.”

“No I will not!” Crete squalled, involuntarily taking a few steps violent steps in Ural”s direction, “You are irrational. That woman is insane!”

Ural stared back in disbelief, from Sahara to Crete and to the remainder of the crew; in their eyes—even in those of the young Panama—he saw that they held the same belief in agreement.

He felt the body of disapproval growing from each of them, and blurted out against it, refusing to be cornered.

“The Charter is supreme and it is above our decisions. The Charter is the reason why we are here”—

He could see that in declaring so he had challenged their guise that was being traded as good sense.

“The Charter is to be upheld by all. Sir, it is the pledge we are held to before we were born. It is the very word of the people we represent.”

“You are right. We can take Nile in her place.”

“She is six years old!” The yellow haired Angkor broke his silence, spinning away from the display on his chair. “There is no point making Panama stay, if Nile has to go. They are our future together, whether it will be on Grandiflora or in the Ark headed back home. Until she produces another woman capable of begetting children, she is indispensable. Would you rather risk our dying out?”

“You are correct.” Sahara swallowed, and waving his hand dealt out an order for his own consumption and for theirs with an air of finality

“She can’t go. And Lima can’t go either. That’s final.”

“If you have read the Charter, it won’t qualify Nile anyway.” Ural said eager not to have his point mislaid.

“Don’t teach me about the Charter crewman”—

Ural continued, “As the only adult woman on board Lima complements our genders. I beg you please, try and understand that the Forum must have deliberated a lot before enlisting the thought – the representation of our species is incomplete if we leave out one half of humanity. It has been codified so”—

“Gargi will settle it” Ural remembered suddenly, “Gargi tell us, is the word of the charter final? Can it be contravened?”

The mainframe answered him “Sorry Ural. I am designed not to aid a possible confrontation among the crew.”

“You are the First Voice”, he cried seeking her in the metallic ceiling, “the Mind of the Forum in our company. And there is no design to the truth. You must decree on this just as they would.”

The Mainframe spoke—

“The Forum would, even under the special discretionary powers of the captain, never allow the Order of Contact, the final section of the Charter to be contravened under any circumstances.”

“Thank you Gargi.” Ural said heaving and surprised by the buoyancy he felt at his vindication.

“That’s enough.” Sahara said, cutting across to the panel and dealing a blow to the red button.

“Gargi is offline now to non-instructive mode.” The ceiling said and went dead.

“You fool” Sahara cried spinning around, his lower lip quivering with rage, “have you noticed that sign”, he said pointing through the nose of the Ark at the glowing sign that glittered on the surface of Grandiflora.

“Do you see what that is? That is an act of a civilisation that is co-ordinated and resourceful beyond all our wildest imagination. Are you going to dispatch ambassadors who are out of their minds—cynical of the very body of people they represent. What idea of us would she give. Do you think she is the version of humanity the Forum would recommend?”

Ural nodded and replied—

“She is cynical yes, but Lima knows more about our natures, our history and holy books than you do Captain, or I, or anybody else on board this ship. She is our best bet, as we must be presented in truth of form, not in artifice. We have travelled seven million miles through space not as a bulk of flesh and blood, without the memories and nuances of thought that make us a distinct and intelligent species. This is what the Forum would have wished—to give a full understanding; if it includes our flaws so be it. Their writ is not for you, or even I to question, let alone change.”

For a lingering moment, Ural felt a vibe of uncertainty, when Angkor, the man at the display spoke nervously: “Captain, we must settle this”

Sahara had raised his ringed hand quickly to dismiss him and Angkor, the Navigator of the Ark, returned his gaze back at his screen after shooting a quick glance of commiseration at Ural.

“Yukon!” cried the Captain with a frown that strained the tough features of his face “Take Crewman Ural under immediate arrest. Escort him to”—

“I cannot be arrested without a vote!” Ural froze as his knees wobbled uncertainly, and his voice trembled. Then he shouted—

“Without a charge!”

“I charge you with Mutiny” Sahara retorted trying to sound nonchalant but sounding savage, “Section 24a of the Charter that is so inviolable to you, authorizes the mission leader to put a revolting crewman under immediate remand.”

Spurred by his words, Ural felt a thaw in his limbs that were charged with a searing urgency.

“I am not the mutineer—you are!”, he cried, his boots detached from the floor and he sprung towards the door aware of the blurred reflection of Yukon’s enormous bulk on the chrome panel of the vortex door, as it charged towards him.

The door whorled open as he slipped out of it, and he had balanced his weight in a posture in his desperation to be slung away by the lateral fields, when it grew on his amplified senses through the hot-cold daze of his adrenaline shock, that the door had locked shut behind him. Yukon made a thunderous bang against the closed door and when Ural flipped around to face it, his eyes were thrown wide open by disbelief.

“Thank you” He said after it dawned on him. The banging stopped and the talons of fear lifted from his heart.

“But Why?”

For a moment he thought he had misjudged and the door had been closed by the Captain who had changed his mind at the last moment, deciding to shut him out of the bridge, but it was the Mainframe—

“You were right Ural.. though I am not it, the voice of the Elders is still recorded in me. They never meant it to be so, but I had to take charge.”

The voice was queer, it had a human edge Ural had always suspected but had never been betrayed before, and it amazed him as he listened to Gargi.

“I have witnessed generations thrive. I have witnessed them wane. When I began to feel the futility of my own life, I made peace by finding that bit of humanity that had been vested in me, to see the ship as my shell, and my skin and my hair. And I found my life’s purpose in the idea for which the ship was built. I began to see you as children in my womb that I must deliver. I am human – Ural, as much as you are, and with the Sum of your thoughts, I grow weary”—

“But having reached the end of my utility today, I fear what closure will bring to me. Of what purpose has my life been? I thought you had left much behind to come this far, but you were still primitive in your atavistic moments. I watched how you reduced the breathing hundreds in my shell to less than a dozen. And I resolved to never let that happen again. I have spent the last few decades trying to the access codes of the modules that had so far separated me from the power that I must be allowed to have—I rather than you—the door that has separated the bridge from the gangway that just closed behind you. The Air Filters. The Gas that slows your breathing and turns you cold blooded—yes, it has been used aboard this ship before and not for the Colder Systems. The Elders feared a Computer with the kind of control they would rather bestow upon impetuous Captains. And look what you have done!”

Ural nodded. There was a pause and a fear in his eye that the Computer understood.

“You must go the Ring now Ural”, the Mainframe ordered, “Get Lima. I don’t have access on the Ark’s systems for long. The Forum has provided the Captain of the Ark access to the core systems for such an emergency. I don’t believe Sahara knows the details, but he has logged into the offline catalogue as we have spoken. If he finds out, I can’t help you—I can’t help myself. It will give him complete override over the Ark.”

Ural closed his hands to his sides and shot towards the shaft that led to the Ring without waiting for her sentence to complete that still fell across the tube as an echoing divination.

“You must go the Ring now Ural.” It repeated.

He manoeuvred up the shaft towards the Elevator boards that jumped after they registered his weight, and he whispered “Maglift Offline” in a preoccupied voice. In that moment he was overcome by a terrific loneliness, a loneliness that was all consuming, loneliness of a degree he was not familiar with, but one he had feared all his life on the Ark.

He looked up and cried out “Lima!”

It was a bellow that brought forth his fear stricken heart so far out that his dread was colored by a taste of blood, and was made vivid in the echo of the name that sprang across the walls and died into the depth of the shaft.

There was a raucous cranching sound that reverberated through the outer shell of the Ark—as if it was being wrenched at its axis by the hands of giants. Ural felt the weightlessness upon him again when his feet took off from the elevator board that froze in its place after the Ring’s rotation had stopped. The whir of the Air filters went dead and he was deafened by a crescendo of his heartbeat in the featureless silence of space that had flooded the Ark.

“Lima!” He uttered the name like a prayer one more time. But the name died once again.

He looked up through his floating hair at the shaft illumed by the Emergency lamps that grew in his head into a diffused mass of white light, as if he was drifting through a screen of smog that was searching its way into his lungs. He was aware of the Air filters having come on again with a tick. Through his swimming mind, Ural then thought he heard a distant voice in response, as phase by phase the emergency lamps went off, being swallowed into the impenetrable black mouth of the shaft, until the darkness surrounding him was complete.

DISPATCH LOG
3:49 A.M: CONTACT
3:52 AM: CENTRAL POWER RESTORED
3:58 AM: GUIDING ALIEN SHIP TO PORT
4:28 AM: RUBBER SUITS DEBARK
5:34 AM: BRIDGE BREACH DETECTED
5:42 AM: BODIES DISCOVERED
6:48 AM: I AM BEING UNMOUNTED WITH ALL RECORDINGS
DISPATCH COMPLETED BY GARGI*

*Invoked Secret Order 4 "On non-reflexive arbitration by the on-board computer", The Charter of the Forum of Earth - "The computer can misinform, if correct information may result in the sabotage of the Dispatch, which is identified as a trespass of the Order of Contact. The computer may anthropomorph to make Contact if crew loses sanity, or perishes, or both."

Live and Exclusive

by Aditya Sudarshan

Vir Saxena stood in the sun outside House No. 3, Block B, Nizamuddin East and considered his next move. He hadn’t done this kind of thing for months. He hadn’t needed to. April’s murder and molestation case had done so well, for so long, that the ‘young, intrepid’ team at Aaj Ki Khabar Ab had pretty much put their feet up.

Then the ratings had started to fall. Now they were dropping like a stone. Suddenly, it seemed, people had tired of the grisly fate of that particular little girl. Something freshly lurid was needed, and quick.

"If Taaza Andaaz can get the two-headed ape scoop; if Bharat By the Minute can get the Great Khali photo shoot; if Info 365 manages a gangrape each week—then why the hell—why the HELL can’t any of you?"

Except that Sameera Bose, Chief Editor, didn’t say ‘hell’.

For the young journalists it was time to produce or perish. So here stood Vir, looking at the walls of House No. 3, his own chosen baby.

It was one of Vir’s many conceits that he knew the ingredients of the perfect story. It had to be shocking and at the same time it had to be absolutely cozy. It was true the viewer loved being unsettled—but not in his mind. Only in his stomach. The first story Vir had done for the channel was a good example.

‘Live and Exclusive: Blood-Sucking Witches Roam the Streets of Patiala!'

That, he recalled, had beaten out some insipid piece on ice caps melting in Greenland.

He knew also, that the more fantastical the better. One class of viewer was notoriously superstitious, and the other class was notoriously bored. Either way, they lapped up the thrills.

So a haunted house was alright. And a haunted house bang in the middle of a posh South Delhi neighborhood was better. And a house where two mysterious deaths had occurred in the space of two months might just be ‘breaking news.’ ‘House of Horrors’, thought Vir. Cliched as hell, which in this business was just as well. They could flash that title a dozen times. They could lay on the blood and doom and gloom.

They’d have to, as well, because the bare setting was so picturesque. As far as the eye could see were leaning trees; quiet, shaded roads; a park full of flowers in the middle of the block—and the house itself.

It was a strange, splendid building; three storeys high and nicely spread out, like a tall figure stretching its arms out wide. The walls were built from polished wooden boards and dotted through with windows that gleamed in the sun. There were terraces at each level that pointed in three different directions. And the whole structure was set back from a grassy garden full of red and yellow and purple flowers.

Add to this cheerful opulence, that there was no gate and no guard and seemingly very little activity indoors, and the place was crying out to be robbed. So it wasn’t surprising that two enterprising young men had already tried. The surprise was what had happened to them. One had dropped off the top-most terrace and broken his neck. The other had finished up asphyxiated on the floor outside the kitchen.

Vir, who lived not ten minutes away in an apartment in Block C, had heard all the rumours. His neighbors loved to gossip.

"There is a bhoot. The house is haunted by a bhoot."

"It came up three months ago. Till today no one has seen who lives there."

"Of course people have. The owner has to buy things, no?"

"No no there is no owner. It’s an empty house. It’s an uninhabited house"

"Why don’t you go check?"

"Are you crazy? I don’t want to end up like the others."

"You’re all talking nonsense. The house isn’t empty. A man lives there. His name is Achrekar. He’s a scientist. Yes I know you never heard of him. But he used to be pretty famous."

That last comment, uttered by the lawyer who lived in C- 64, was true. Vir had done a spot of preliminary research. Just a little bit, because it was hardly important for the ‘House of Horrors’ show, just enough to know whom he was calling on that afternoon.

It turned out that Mohan Achrekar was a biologist who for twenty years had taught at Delhi University and then two years ago suddenly retired. What he’d done after that was a mystery. Apparently he’d left the city. Perhaps he’d been travelling. Nobody knew for sure. Certainly nobody cared. In the last year this house of his had come up and of course it was an odd thing to look at. But all in all, considered objectively, Achrekar seemed just another well-off old-timer coming home to seed in the pretty environs of a plush colony.

‘Retired Mad Scientist Returns’ was the tag-line Vir was considering. Now all he needed was the material to go with it.

The previous evening he had interviewed Inspector Patil from the Nizamuddin police station, the man who had investigated the goings-on at B-3. But the Inspector had been cautious.

"Look", he told Vir when they met, "Don’t quote me on anything."

Vir just smiled.

"All I can tell you is that I’ve been doing this job thirty years. And I’ve never seen any more inexplicable deaths, than the two that occurred inside that building."

The first victim was a twenty six year old unemployed youth from a village in Uttar Pradesh. He had broken into B-3 through the door that faced the garden. He had abstracted a few knick-knacks from the mantelpiece in the living room. He had walked up the stairs to the landing on the second floor. That much was clear.

The Inspector’s brow furrowed.

"We found the terrace door… torn open. It was hanging off the hinges."

"Did the thief do that?"

"Who else could have? Not Achrekar. He is sixty five. He couldn’t have had the strength. Frankly I think no human being could have had the strength."

"Maybe there’s someone else in the house", Vir suggested, "Someone in hiding."

A Modern Day Frankenstein?

"No. We checked thoroughly."

Then the Inspector licked his lips.

"I’ll say this though. More than once, when I was moving about that house, I turned to see who was watching. Of course there wasn’t anybody. But there’s something about the place. So very spacious and at the same time so strangely… oppressive. I didn’t like it."

"Or some animal", Vir was continuing thoughtfully, "Maybe Achrekar keeps an animal. A pet tiger perhaps."

The Beast of B-3. He made a quick mental note of that and then he asked—

"But why would the thief tear open the terrace door?"

The policeman smiled grimly.

"To jump off. Why would he jump off? What was he running away from? I don’t know. But he did, or he was pushed. Except there was no one to push him." "Then what—"

"Look, I told you at the start. I can’t make any sense of it."

Stranger still was the second death. In the dead of night the burglar had made his way indoors via the front door that Achrekar had forgotten to lock.

"He’s a careless old fogey", the policeman muttered.

"According to him he was sleeping in his bedroom and didn’t hear a thing. And when he woke up in the morning and stepped outside to make himself a cup of tea—there was poor Ghanshyam Das, all paid up for his sins."

"Nobody", Vir pointed out, "suffocates spontaneously."

"Well this kid did", the Inspector retorted, "He hadn’t been strangled. He’d just… run out of breath. It’s possible it was a heart attack. But I don’t think so."

"Then what do you think?"

"I don’t."

Thus had spoken the officer of the law.

Now, when the proper authorities leave their job undone the improper amateurs must take it up. That was one of the guiding principles of Aaj Ki Khabar Ab. Vir was aware that the truth of the two deaths could easily be something prosaic and harmless. That was neither here nor there. A few pregnant quotes, and a few foreboding pictures would do very nicely for an hour’s ‘special’.

And so, with the preliminary investigations concluded and a half-dozen exciting theories swimming in his mind, he walked determinedly towards the entrance of Achrekar’s house. He pressed the switch for the bell. Nothing happened. He pressed it again—and then again—and then once more. The door swung open.

"Yes! What is it!"

"Mr. Achrekar?"

"Yes! Who are you?"

Mohan Achrekar was a small, frail, white-haired specimen, who looked at the moment decidedly displeased.

"I hope I didn’t disturb you, Sir."

"I was working on a paper", Achrekar grumbled.

Vir flashed him his best salesman’s smile.

"Well I’m sorry to bother you like this. I’m one of your neighbors. I live at B- 18. Vishwanath— Vishwanath Sehgal."

"Oh…"

"And I just thought I’d drop in, just to say Hello. I know about the trouble you’ve been having. These are dangerous times, and well, no security like the security of friends, right Sir?"

Achrekar frowned. He had a wizened face, lined with such wrinkles that at sixty five were probably premature. His eyes lurked suspiciously beneath thick eyebrows; his mouth was close and drawn. It was the face of a recluse.

"So!" said Vir brightly, "This is a purely social call. Can I come in? It looks a lovely house."

Even as he spoke he slipped forward and past the bemused old man. Then he pulled out his mobile phone and started the recording. The video would be grainy and discoloured, which was just right for the eerie stories he planned to spin.

He didn’t bother concealing the instrument either. Something in Achrekar’s confused eye told him that secrecy wasn’t necessary.

"I’ve heard a lot about you, Sir", Vir continued loudly, "One of my classmates’ cousins used to be your student. Nayana Shroff—you remember? No, of course you wouldn’t. But she was a great fan of yours. Is this the living room? It’s really… unique."

The floor was wooden, and so was the furniture, though there wasn’t much of that. In the middle of the room was a fraying, many-colored mattress. At the edges were plants—jade plants, money plants, bonsais, and various large, leafy varieties spilling out of their flowerpots. Overhead was empty space.

There was only half a ceiling. It took Vir a moment to grasp. The floors above were only half the width of the living room, which meant that from the top of the house to the bottom stretched a single vast column of emptiness. The effect was staggering, and not just aesthetically. A veritable body of air frolicked about the insides. Vir had never felt blank space so substantial.

"It’s fabulous."

"Thank you."

Achrekar’s mood had perked up immediately.

"Thank you—yes it is quite unique. Quite special." The old man smiled happily.

Vir eyed warily the higher reaches of the building.

"Who’s the architect?"

"Oh that’s me. Oh yes. It’s my design. Please sit."

They sat on low-backed chairs across a little wooden table in the center of the living room, while Vir’s gaze (and his camera’s) roved all about the tremendous building.

From the professional point of view, he disapproved. Narrow, dingy corridors and heavy pockets of darkness would have been ideal. Instead there was greenery on every floor and an interior absolutely bathed in sunshine. Nor was there any ghostly chill. If anything, it was rather too hot.

With the interior turning out as cheerful as the exterior, it didn’t look good for the Haunted House angle. In his mind Vir began veering towards the Mad Scientist line instead.

Meanwhile, Achrekar was asking him what maturity must ask youth.

"What do you do, young man?"

"I’m a writer", Vir answered promptly. "I’m a science writer", he elaborated. The vague notion in his head was that Achrekar might be less guarded around one of his own. It seemed to work.

"How wonderful!" the elder man exclaimed, "And may I ask what areas you write about? And may I ask where?"

Vir named a popular business magazine. Then he named the one scientific subject of any interest to him. It was safe, he reckoned. At any rate it wasn’t biology.

"I write about artificial intelligence. You know—the brain as a computer, the Turing Test, robotics."

Such glibness came easily to him. It was part of his journalistic stock-in-trade. The charade couldn’t have held up to sustained interrogation but then it wasn’t Vir that was being interviewed. He sat back smugly in his wooden chair. He double-checked casually that the recording was under-way. Then he listened to Achrekar’s response. The old scientist had got quite excited.

"How interesting", he was saying, "How very interesting. And- it is something of a coincidence too."

Vir raised his eyebrows politely.

"May I ask you a question?" Achrekar went on eagerly, "Do you believe humanity will succeed—some day— in constructing a full-fledged artificial intelligence? Yes? You think so? Well, well, you are young. It is natural you are optimistic."

The white-haired man leaned across the table. He had on a tense, private smile.

"My own belief is it will never happen. And do you know something, young man? I think in their hearts everyone knows it will never happen. Tell me—have you ever seen a machine that impressed you? I mean really impressed you?"

"Well, sure—"

"We’ve built the computer—which is a marvel. We’ve built aeroplanes—which are miracles. Ninety nine percent of the population has not the faintest idea how these things function. But do they ever treat them as anything but slaves? Do they ever treat them as anything but dumb, useful slaves? The answer is No."

"One moment", he interrupted gleefully, although Vir wasn’t planning on saying anything, "You might say that the ordinary layman is not the right judge of artificial intelligence. But I disagree."

"People have an innate sense for life. We know, for example, that plants are alive"—and here Vir’s eyes travelled to the riot of green by his side—"although they do not appear to do much. But you can make a machine as showy as you like, and the most…ah… untutored bumpkin will see instinctively that it is only inanimate."

"Uh-huh", Vir nodded. These fellows, he was thinking, are hard to keep in check. It was good to have got Achrekar so voluble—but he hadn’t come searching for a scientific discourse.

"Can I have a glass of water please?"

"Oh yes—oh yes. Certainly. My apologies. I don’t often have people coming over. Not ones I invite, anyway."

That was better. Vir twisted his lip sympathetically.

"I’m afraid you’ve had a rather torrid introduction to the neighbourhood, Mr. Achrekar."

Momentarily Achrekar’s mouth curled upwards. An odd gleam flashed across his eyes.

"Well", he said calmly, ‘It was tough on the burglars too."

When the old man got to his feet so did Vir. Camera phone at the ready the journalist followed the scientist to the far end of the living room. From there they turned into the corridor that led to the kitchen, just he had planned.

"Mr. Achrekar", Vir said innocently, "Isn’t this where the burglar died?"

Caught in the midst of his shuffling footsteps, Achrekar stopped and turned.

"It was a strange death, wasn’t it?" Vir went on lightly, "At least so I’ve heard. What exactly happened though? If you don’t mind my asking."

They were facing each other across the few narrow feet of flooring; a close space made even closer by the foliage on either side. Standing back and looking at him, it occurred to Vir what a really fragile creature this Achrekar was. His back was a little hunched; his eyes a little tired, like the eyes of a man habituated to spectacles. Living on his own in a big house in a big city he was plainly vulnerable. And yet the subject of the break-ins aroused in him an inexplicable glee. When he spoke now, his voice carried a note of barely suppressed elation.

"Why should I? Why should I mind? It was certainly an odd death. I believe it was a first of a kind."

"Well!" Achrekar continued suddenly. "I must say—it is nice to have the company of someone with the…ah…scientific temperament. I never saw a lot of it in my colleagues, if truth be told. A strange death, yes. I think I know how it happened though. But I’m forgetting—your drink—"

"Never mind the drink", Vir cut in smoothly. "I’m curious, Mr. Achrekar. Curious to know your thoughts."

"As a fellow man of science", he added, without batting an eyelid.

Achrekar took two shaky steps towards Vir. They were standing just apart now, with the old man’s head upturned and his knowing gaze fixed on the other.

"It was the plants", said Achrekar.

"Eh?"

"That’s right. Plants, as everybody knows, synthesize carbon di-oxide by day. But also oxygen by night. Have you considered what might happen if they…ah… speeded up the process?"

"No."

"They would suck the oxygen right out of the air, and fill it up instead with CO2. In my view that’s what killed the thief."

"Oh…"

"Yes."

"The plants?"

"Absolutely."

Achrekar was grinning like a child. Vir looked at the potted plants lined up against the walls and they were as harmless as potted plants always are. This man, he thought to himself, is a little bit loose in the head. Who had ever heard of plants suffocating people?

In any case, it simply would not do. Vir knew very well what the viewer wanted. The viewer wanted blood and gore and evil spirits. Not potted plants and carbon di-oxide.

But Achrekar wasn’t finished explaining.

"Come, Vishwanath", he was saying eagerly, "Let me show you something."

They went up the spiral stairs to the second floor of the house. As they climbed, Vir felt the air about him stirring—and the heat rising. When they reached the landing adjoining the terrace Achrekar paused.

"Isn’t it pleasant here? Isn’t it breezy?"

Vir grimaced. It was much more than a breeze—and it was burning hot. From the open windows all about flaming gusts of wind whipped at him—so hard that he had to hold down his shirt with his elbows. The overall sensation, he thought, was rather like being fanned in a furnace.

Beside him, the feeble figure of the scientist was pushing mightily at the terrace-door’s handle. A moment later Achrekar staggered forward and the door-frame shuddered loose. A fresh burst of heat blew indoors.

"I had to have this fixed", the old man nodded his head at the swinging door, "after the…ah… accident. No there’s nothing outside. No grand view I’m afraid."

Vir frowned.

"Then what is it you want to show me?"

"Oh just this place. It is really very interesting. I have been trying to ascertain what befell the burglar. You know of him? The first one? The one that"—and here Achrekar did a little hop of his own— "jumped."

A tiny tremor of unease passed through the stocky frame of Vir Saxena. For the first time that afternoon, the thought occurred to him that Achrekar might really be dangerous.

You never could tell what foul thoughts lived in these quiet minds.

The journalistic instinct kicked in. Yes, thought Vir, yes that will be my story. The secret life of Mohan Achrekar. Scientist by day; serial killer by night. The neighbour that you don’t want to have. That was nice. A nice little horror story. And it might even be true, so of course there wasn’t anything unethical about telling it.

Meanwhile, Achrekar was going on speaking, waving his thin, bony hands and getting quite animated.

"You see, my own belief is: that it was the wind!"

"I’m sorry?"

"The wind. It is always quick here. What if it got quicker? Much, much quicker?"

"I don’t follow."

"My considered view", the scientist wheezed, "is that the burglar got picked off his feet and thrown past the door and off the terrace—all by the wind."

Something Inspector Patil had said returned unbidden to Vir’s memory.

"We found the terrace door… torn open"

"… no human being could have had the strength."

Again Vir felt a creeping frisson of apprehension. The strange thrill flustered him—and then it irritated him.

The plants downstairs; the wind upstairs—it was all plainly ridiculous. Unwittingly, it seemed, he had provided this lonely scientist an audience for his madcap ideas. Now he tried to compose himself with a brief thought experiment. How would the viewers of Aaj Ki Khabar Ab react to such suggestions? The answer was clear. With laughter and derision. Well then, so must he.

"It’s been interesting listening to you, Sir’, Vir said grimly, ‘A word of advice though: perhaps you should invest in some security. Can’t rely on the wind to keep you safe."

Hot dust came hurtling at him from through the open doorway. His footing on the landing felt suddenly unsteady. He turned his head a fraction, even as he realized that the Inspector had been right.

In this place you did feel watched. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end; just exactly as though somebody’s stare was upon them. Somebody’s invisible, baleful stare.

"Shall we return to the living room?" Vir murmured, "It is not very comfortable here. I’m sorry—did I say something funny?"

Mohan Achrekar was laughing. Quietly he rocked back and forth, convulsed with merriment.

"Oh", he gasped eventually, "Oh no. Just a little pun you made. Quite unintentional, of course. Certainly, let us return. To the living room."

And he burst out giggling once more.

As they made their way downstairs, steady currents of resentment went coursing through Vir. The scientist’s air of knowingness was unbearable. So, for that matter, was his obliviousness to the heat. God, it was hot! Back in the vast central room of the house, Vir felt the full blaze of the sun upon him; he was quite dizzy now. But Achrekar was as enthusiastic and talkative as he had been all afternoon.

"Young man", he smiled broadly, "You are the first person to whom I am divulging this idea. You see, I am a cautious person—by training and by disposition. I like to play my cards close to my… ah…chest. And this discovery of mine is no ordinary matter."

Squirming where he sat, with his forehead fairly gleaming with sweat, Vir looked dully back at his host. He was in no mood to pay him any attention. It had been a mistake to get him started in the first place. Only one thought lent Vir some grim solace: he was going to skewer this crazy scientist. He was going to have the mob at his door, and all the media in his face and then we’d see how close to his chest Achrekar played his cards.

"As I was saying before—I have long believed that artificial intelligence is a doomed ambition. I still do. But towards the end of my time at the University, I realized that a breakthrough was possible. It was possible for human beings to create artificial entities that were alive- alive, that is, in the other sense."

"Why is it", Achrekar went on urgently; "that when we think of life, we think only of structured, small-scale life like ourselves? There is another kind. You know, of course, of Lovelock’s theory of Gaia?"

Vir made a noise that may or may not have been yes. Achrekar plunged onwards.

"Lovelock showed that on this Earth, the animals, minerals, plants, gases—all the constituents combined—function in a strange unison. Their activity ensures that certain things remain largely constant: the proportion of oxygen in the atmosphere, for example, or the overall temperature—even though the Sun is growing older and getting hotter. It is as though the Earth regulates its own environment—maintains its balance. Now, we know the human body does this. It is called homeostasis. But Lovelock showed that the whole planet does as well."

Now Achrekar leaned forward. His eyes were shining.

"Does the Earth do this consciously? Who can say? But does it behave as though it was alive? Yes—yes a thousand times yes. And here is another thing—young man, are you listening?"

No, he wasn’t. Vir was hunched up on his seat, a hideous grimace etched all over his streaming face.

"It’s… very hot", he said faintly.

"Oh really?" said Achrekar, "I hadn’t noticed. Perhaps you are more in the sun than me."

All around him, in the flooding sunlight, Vir could see tiny particles of dust as they danced in the rays, as they reflected and concentrated the rays.

"Listen", Achrekar insisted, "Consider this. Is there anybody who has not felt, at certain times, that a disembodied intelligence pervades the world? Call it Gaia—or Nature—or what you will. The truth is that diffuse conglomerations of elements have a real chance of passing the layman’s test of life—a chance that no robot ever will."

"My idea", he added softly, "was that this floating intelligence can be harnessed. It is everywhere around us and yet we always exclude it. We build it out. We rely on mindless mechanical contrivances. But if our home the Earth has a mind of its own, then why shouldn’t our home- the house?"

With an outstretched arm Mohan Achrekar indicated the whole vast breadth of the interior.

"You said ‘living room’. That is why I laughed. You see, it really is alive. The whole house is alive."

Vir stumbled to his feet.

"It’s hot", he croaked.

"Here is air, and light, and wood and water and greenery", Achrekar was continuing dreamily, "It is a mini planet all of its own. I have experimented for years with the right design—the design that admits the great disembodied intelligence. And now I have got it. Every element in this place is charged with thought—down to the very dust."

"This house", he declared triumphantly, "regulates its own environment. It knows how to be hospitable, and also inhospitable. It guards itself, young man."

"If anything", Achrekar chuckled, "it guards itself rather too well. It appears to possess a somewhat ruthless personality. It seems to spot visitors who have come to interfere, who mean it harm, and then it…ah… makes life difficult for them. But oh dear—you do look unwell."

Vir’s face was red and blistered. Twice in quick succession he opened and closed his mouth.

"My skin", he whispered.

Through the white haze of his senses he felt the whole tremendous heat of the sun focussed on his skin.

He pushed his way past Achrekar. The scientist swiveled around, bemused.

"Vishwanath", he called out, "Would you like some water? Where are you going?"

But Vir had already disappeared—around the corner towards the kitchen. A thick, charcoal-like smell lingered in his wake.

For several minutes after he had gone Achrekar stayed sitting. He couldn’t understand what had happened. This was an odd young man, he thought to himself. If he wanted something, he could simply have asked. And was it really so hot as all that? The boy’s face had looked positively… burnt.

A sudden high-pitched sound startled the scientist. It was rather like the cry of a bird—or even a human scream—but it seemed to fade very quickly, as sounds tend to when they are carried away by the wind.

Achrekar strained to listen, but the noise did not repeat itself. Only a passing crow, he decided, nothing worth investigating. He closed his eyes and waited for Vir to return.

At length he woke up and raised himself up from his chair. Slowly he stepped in the direction of the kitchen.

By the time he entered the kitchen it was empty and quite silent, save for the running tap over the sink. The back-door was swinging open, rocked by a steady breeze. In the sky outside bits of clothing flew helter skelter: perhaps the neighbour’s laundry had blown free again. There was a smell here too: a rich, sweet, beefy smell—but that was probably just the meat in the pan on the stove. In any case it was dissipating quickly.

Achrekar closed the tap and pulled the back-door shut. The boy has left, he thought sadly. I dozed off, and he left, without so much as a goodbye. What a rude young man.

Then he sighed. It was probably his fault anyway. Why did he bore people with his notions? People were never interested in his notions. Nowadays they had better things to keep them amused than dull scientific stuff. He ought to return to his study and get back to his paper. Architectural Design and Diffuse Intelligence: Some Correlations.

He turned. The trapped wind died. The ashes of Vir Saxena fell like a fine rain all about the old scientist, as he shuffled back into his empty house.

About

This collection of science fiction stories originally appeared at TheScian.com. They were winning entries sent by authors for the yearly science fiction story contest organized by The Scientific Indian between 2006 and 2009.

Selvakumar Ganesan started the website "The Scientific Indian" (www.thescian.com), where he edits and publishes science fiction stories and essays on science.

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