66

E Pluribus Pluribus ... all together now ...

Less than four minutes had passed since Ritu and Beta and realAlbert entered the underground lab to stare down at a soulistic circus -- complete with swinging trapeze act, frantic magician-impresario, and a pair of garish clowns pinned to targets at either end. And in between? A growing tangibility distortion made space seem to ripple and flow, like some caged power, pacing and preparing to burst free.

During those few minutes, a battle raged over which personality would imprint the new godwave.

Who would gain ultimate control over the vast, fallow soulscape? The genius who pioneered the way? Or one whose raw talent seemed made for the job?

The combatants never considered a third possibility -- that the new frontier may not be as barren as they thought.

Somebody might already be there.

Like most of the audible meaning-squawks that are used by organic men, "already" comes laden with implications. Take past and present tense, for example -- narrative deceits that help perpetuate a myth of linear time.

Not for you, though. You who were/was/am/are/will be Albert. Your story is complex, looped, and fractally nested. It calls for a style that's flexible, confident, predictive.

So here, let me tell you what I foresee.

Before doing anything else, you will relinquish fear.

There. Wasn't that easy?

Fear is marvelously useful to biological beings. You won't miss it.

Next, you will realize that your life -- such as it was -- has come to an end.

Surely you didn't expect to survive all these experiences unscathed? No anchored mind can gaze upon the soulscape and remain unchanged.

Forget those symptoms that you once thought to be caused by plague -- by some war virus. Soon you'll realize there is nothing physically wrong with the clever animal that carried you around so faithfully, for so long. The sensations you mistook for illness will be recognized as natural separation pangs.

The body will live. Its embedded instincts won't even complain very hard when you move on.

Anyway, we have chores to do! Such as learning about the nature of time.

You'll notice that it seems frozen around us. Even Yosil's garish pendulum grinds to a halt, suspended in mid-slice, while the mad ditto's mouth gapes in an angry scream. This is the ortho-moment. The now of palpable reality. The narrow moving slit in which organic beings may move and act and perceive.

Great thinkers always knew that time must be a dimension, with inherent potential for travel, like any other. But living organisms can't abide a paradox, Albert. Incongruities of cause-and-effect turn out to be toxic. How could the creative genius of evolution work its slow miracle -- gradually stirring raw chemicals into soul-carrying beings -- without enormous numbers of trials and outcomes? The "real" world needs consistency and countless failures in order for natural selection to do its job, drawing complexity out of chaos.

It is the answer to the Riddle of Pain.

So we mustn't stretch time's fabric very much, Albert! Just a tweak, here and there, as we spiral back and forth, helping to create ourselves.

Confused? You won't be when we take our first small step back ... almost a week ... to last Monday evening.

No, don't try to navigate in normal terms. Follow affinities instead.

There! Pursue that trace of smugness, mixed with four parts stubbornness, plus some excess self-reliance and a dash of the romantic gambler. Track it and you'll find the green ditto that you were that night, wounded and reckless as he crossed Odeon Square, harassed by bored punks and chased by Beta's angry yellows, pelting you with stones.

Don't try to remember. Anticipate! It's much easier on this plane.

Soon you'll grasp necessity. The green must survive, but on its own.

Only the slightest interference will do. Enough to collapse the probabilities a bit. Something minor, easily dismissed.

Yes, go ahead. Experiment. Soon, at a crucial moment, you'll decide to reach out and nudge the mind of that waiter over there, serving dinner in a quayside restaurant, whose repeated clumsiness will offer distraction at a crucial moment ...

... but carefully! For even a nudge spreads ripples, as you'll see. Something about the way those dishes go flying --

Later it will bother one of your suspicious selves. He'll worry over it, like a sore tooth. As I said, clever animals get jittery around a paradox.

Yosil Maharal, amid his brilliance and his flaws, imagined that the raw material of the soulscape would be like simple clay for him to mold, to meddle with however he liked. But you will see -- it's far more subtle than poor Yosil ever imagined.

You'll find our next stop even stranger, skipping forward one day to a patch of desert road, far outside of town, as someone hefts a bulbous weapon preparing to ambush the occupants of an approaching car. Yes, the silvery ditto bears a soul-imprint of Aeneas Kaolin. Also note the biting stench of dread. Everything isn't going to his liking.

But don't probe too deeply! Never mind about such mundane mysteries as who or why or what or where. Forget motives and crimes. Leave the real-world detective work for your successor to solve.

That's no longer any of your concern.

Here's what I predict you'll choose to do. You'll watch as the ambush unfolds.

Notice and appreciate the feral-mammalian gracefulness of real Albert Morris as he swerves the automobile, trying to avoid collision ... then guns the accelerator when he sees the platinum take aim ... and fire! Ah, it all happened days ago in linear time, yet the urgency feels so fresh.

Can you anticipate remembering what to do next?

Soon, you'll find there's no one conscious down there, under the desert stars. Albert and Ritu, stunned inside the Volvo's cab, won't notice as you take over a small fragment of ditKaolin, hanging on the car's window. You'll use the remnant, reaching inside, taking the vehicle's tiller ...

... and yes, guide it to a narrow ravine, hidden from all those civilized eyes out there that might feel pity or concern, bringing rescue much too soon.

You're about to be distracted.

Some information still pours into you through realAlbert's organic eyes and brain, pinning your concern back in the frozen ortho-moment of Friday morning in the underground lab. You will wonder, for instance, what is happening to Yosil Maharal's great invention? Which personality is winning control? Will the glazier beam shoot forth as predicted, soaring above both the real and spiritual planes?

You'll ask about the missiles -- did realAlbert succeed in stopping them with his final sabotage? Will the people of the city be saved? Or will backup systems kick in, sending death bullets flying after all?

There is satisfaction in realAlbert's feral heart, having swung that metal chair a final time, smashing the computer controller to sparking debris. Yet, through a corner of his eye, he sees both slender Ritu and a much larger Beta rushing toward him. For once, the two seem united in purpose. Isn't it amazing how siblings can overcome rivalry when faced with threats and opportunities to the family at large?

Time jutters forward a few notches before sticking again. Those quick seconds bring the pair closer. A few more such jumps and they will be upon poor Albert.

Only now, far across the room, Al's eye detects another figure entering. This golem wears a beige spiral dye job, garishly corkscrewing from the top of its head all the way down. Its expression, surveying the vast chamber filled with expensive equipment, is one of towering anger!

At first you will imagine that it's yet another version of Beta. Then you'll realize that looks are deceiving.

Why?

Why is all of this happening? What is the context for all of this meddling?

That will be your question soon. And I'll answer, to the extent possible, after a few more errands.

First we shall move to coordinates a little closer in spacetime. Make it about half a day ago ...

There! Albert Morris is alone in the great underground defense armory, sifting through computer records of the military base, tracking the secret thefts and treacheries of Yosil Maharal. Not far away stand columns of blank-eyed soldiers -- sealed-to-preserve-freshness -- ready to bake at a moment's notice, whenever their country needs them. Or when someone clever enough comes along to hijack them.

Shall we help ourselves? You will need just one.

First, look around for Ritu. An earlier version of that wounded-confused soul. You'll detect her soon, filled with self-loathing as she surrenders to an inner craving beyond her control, laying her shaved head between the poles of a high-capacity tetragramatron while autokilns warm up nearby, preparing several dozen giant golems built for war.

Come, while she's still fighting the compulsion, still showing some spirited resistance to that inner pressure. Beta never had to overcome such active opposition before! That means the imprint he makes upon the very first copy will be weak. You'll slip between the cracks and take over that one, pushing Beta aside. Yes, the ditto may be damaged. But it will be good enough -- yours to command -- first out of the oven.

Ready? Have you done it? Then bring along your warrior and we'll go find Albert.

What's that? Are we going to rescue him?

No, I don't expect Albert will call this much of a rescue. Not when he still winds up herded into that awful tunnel. And yet, time loops can be surprising. Even after an infinite number of recursions, they are never exactly the same. Maybe this one will amaze us.

No matter.

I'm sure that when the critical moment comes you will know what to do.