Oblivion
Stephen W. Cote
Copyright Stephen W. Cote 2003
Published at Smashwords
First published by Inkblot Books, 2004.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
About the Author
Hello and thank you for reading. My name is Stephen W. Cote. I am a Software Engineer and Consultant, a United States Marine, a martial artist, and an author. You can find more information about my early creative writing and ongoing open source projects on whitefrost.com. I enjoy writing hard and whimsical science fiction, adult fantasy, and poetry. As an early advocate of Creative Commons licensing, many of my short stories and poems have been available online since 1996.
If you enjoy this story, or my other free stories, you may also be interested in my short story collections available on Smashwords, including Nothing Like Heaven.
If you would like to learn more about my writing, open source projects such as the Hemi JavaScript Framework, or inquire about unpublished manuscripts and shorts, please contact me at whitefrost.com.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work and I hope you enjoy it.
Part 1: Nothing Like Heaven
They were new. It showed. The youthful men strode in merriment, following an athletic trail that meandered through a park, skirting the edge of the Myrrh Desert. Newcomers were attracted to the desert by the magnificent color of the silty, reddish-gray sand. It was the only natural feature radiating color for as far as one could see. The single faint color was amplified by the molten blackness of the adjacent Obsidian Sea. The landscape cast its own eerie luminescence and no light shone from the pitch-black and starless sky. At the edge of the Myrrh Desert, the reality of all newcomers’ situation settled in when they checked their tour map and correctly identified their location. More specifically, the newcomers discovered why the sand had color. The sand was gray and the color bled from afterworld two hundred ninety nine, Human Christian Hell.
The effect had more meaning to Human Christians than anyone else. No matter the response, the newcomers were bound to notice another unnerving sight: the firm grip of senility engrossing the abandoned stares of most people lounging in the park. In the moment when a newcomer first witnesses those near-lifeless souls, particularly one of their own species, the germ of their destiny begins to fester. Ultimately, the newcomers realize they are looking upon themselves many years hence, when they have resigned to live an eternal afterlife without conscious thought and mental faculty.
“Droolers,” a passerby explained to the slack-jawed and awestruck newcomers. “After you’ve been stuck in a Ghost Box, captured in a spirit battery, visited a few of the afterworlds where you only see the world in black-and-white and can never stay, tried to kill yourself, overfed every vice you crave and in sheer boredom sought those vices you always thought were beyond your interest, you’ll find your way here.” The passerby nodded knowingly and looked upon a Drooler with a resigned and emotionally stunted expression. “One day you will give up completely. You will realize there is no where else to go and nothing else to do, and then you will plant yourself on one of these benches and start to drool.”
A newcomer waved his hand in front of a Drooler’s eyes. She appeared youthful and had a vibrant and healthy tone to her body, but she was hunched forward and her watery eyes sought a nonexistent point on the horizon. “I’ll never let myself be in such a sorry state!” the newcomer declared.
The air was filled with cynical laughter and the passerby left the newcomers to contemplate their next move.
A spastic twitch channeled through a tiny wrinkle of skin just below Tif Brown’s left eyelid. It was her first movement in over three months. The word Drooler entered her mind as a dreamy and sluggish abstraction of what she knew the word to describe. But she couldn’t bring herself to care, or remember what had captivated her attention. Her mouth was wet with spittle and her incessant, never-ending drool soaked the front of her shirt. Unfiltered nihilism was ground into her entire spirit and there came no further active thought or movement.
Tif had never known of a Drooler to return to active consciousness. She had not left the bench for more than five Earth years. Her eyes were unfocused on the utter grayness of this afterworld, blurring it into a bright sepia tone. She could not remember when she last saw that color, and was unable to contemplate the hazy faux-color tone being so far from self-recognition. It couldn’t be a color. Not here. Spittle blotted the corners of her mouth. She had no motivation to exist, held in the infinite grip of Oblivion.
Part 2: Brangot and Diotitus
Brangot heaved a heavy fist of tightly knotted roots against his neighbor’s apartment door. When no answer came, he rapped the door with two fists, his other two fists holding a towel around his naked trunk. Soapy water dripped from his bark and leafy skin onto Diotitus’ doormat. He knew there would be no response at Tif’s door. She was a Drooler in Myrrh Desert Park and hadn’t been home in several years.
Diotitus opened the door and gave a wry grin upon seeing the wet and mostly naked warrior. The hulking plant warrior appeared flustered and Diotitus offered, “Greek bath? It’s been a few millennia, but I’m sure I can recall those techniques that really curled your leaves.”
“We have to talk,” Brangot declared and pushed his way into Diotitus’ tiny apartment. He had to stoop so as not to bump his head-branches on the doorframe.
“Hold on,” Diotitus rushed past Brangot. “I just polished my ceremonial armor and you’ll get it wet. That hard water you like to bath in will leave mineral deposits.”
Brangot shot one of his long arms around Diotitus and forcefully shut the door. “We’ve got a problem. We need to get Tif. Now.”
As Brangot had expected, Diotitus was completely unphased. “She’s gone,” he said soberly. “Been gone for a while,” he twirled his finger at the side of his head to indicate insanity. “The managers know she’s at the park and are ready to reassign her room.”
Brangot shook his head, sending water droplets flying around the room. “I realize her situation. But, now we have our own situation related to hers.”
“What?” Diotitus exclaimed irritably, trying to herd the much larger plant warrior towards the door. “Why don’t you dry off and then tell me what’s got your leaves all wrinkled?”
“When a god sends you a message in the shower, you don’t stop to dry off.” Brangot explained in an exasperated tone, not letting Diotitus crowd him out of the room.
Diotitus sized over Brangot, trying to ascertain the context of what now sounded like one of his extremely dry jokes. “And?” he asked, unconvinced.
“You and I have been summoned to the Conservatory,” Brangot said, and waited for Diotitus to grasp the implication.
“You had better not be joking,” Diotitus said firmly. “Why would the two of us be invited there? Well,” he nodded in sublime arrogance, “I could see why I might be invited.”
“No,” Brangot snapped, “It has nothing to do with your five minutes as a Grick god with, how many worshippers did you say there were? Four?”
“Greek god, and it was ten,” Diotitus snapped. “And it was for four months. At least three, anyway.” He picked up a half-polished circlet lying on a stack of clay-tablet magazines. “If we were not asked to the Conservatory because of my long-standing status as a god,” and Diotitus leveled his index finger at Brangot, “and because I was grandfathered in before the billion-worshipper rule was enacted doesn’t change the fact. Anyway, if not because of my status, then why would we be invited?”
“Tif,” Brangot said simply. “Something to do with Tif is all I was told. And whatever it is, we’ll eventually have to get her.”
Diotitus exhaled a lengthy sigh, turned the circlet in his fingers, and tossed it back to its place of prominence on top of the clay tablets. “They’re gods,” he said matter-of-factly. “They must know we can’t simply shake her a bit and wake her up.”
Brangot adjusted his towel and shrugged anxiously. “I told them she was a Drooler. I figured they would know what I meant.”
“What could they possibly want with a Drooler?” Diotitus mused. “And how would we get her back? She may be physically a couple of blocks away, but she’s long gone.”
Brangot shrugged. “I didn’t ask. When you get a message from multiple gods of significant stature, you don’t waste time asking.”
“More than one god? And you didn’t take the time to ask who they were or what exactly we were supposed to do with a Drooler?” Diotitus asked incredulously.
“No,” Brangot said, annoyed. “Like I said, I told them she was a Drooler, but they didn’t appear to understand. Maybe they were gods with a GeD. I didn’t get the impression they spent much time around here.”
“Great,” Diotitus said and became deflated. “So you want to come running because a bunch of bookworms with their God-like effect Doctorates called? They’re the only ones at the Conservatory anyway because they don’t have another afterworld of their own.”
“I don’t know who it was,” Brangot droned. “But when was the last time a god called you to the Conservatory?”
Diotitus didn’t answer. In the seemingly eternal amount of time he had spent in this afterworld, no god had ever summoned him. “So what did Tif do? Maybe some god she had a fling with?”
“Don’t get sour because she never had any interest in you,” Brangot said. He wadded the towel in his leafy knuckles and looked expectantly at Diotitus. “Well, are you coming?”
“What, now?” Diotitus asked.
“Yes, now. Right now. Get in your in-a-god’s-presence best and let’s go.”
Diotitus motioned at Brangot. “You’re not going like that, are you?”
“I don’t take half as long as you do to get dressed,” Brangot replied.
Part 3: Spirit Channel
Diotitus, clad in his brass and linen appointments, and Brangot, wearing a heavily woven bark uniform, trotted down the Channel Access Road towards the recently constructed Spirit Channel Station. Diotitus carried a small iron shield and a royal baton. Brangot’s upper arms were devoted to carrying a long cylindrical weapon used primarily for ceremonial display, while his two lower arms swung at his side. As they neared the station, they could see a crowd of people meandering aimlessly in the street.
Diotitus came to a halt and cursed. “New arrivals mobbing the station. What, they think they can get into some heaven?”
Brangot prodded Diotitus forward. “New souls now arrive from the channel instead of bulk freight delivery. Change of policy from a few months ago.”
“They need to get organized,” Diotitus snapped.
The two wove through the dazed crowd, ignoring the plethora of routine questions asked by new arrivals. They found themselves boxed in by a party of space explorers as they approached the channel and the crowd thickened.
One of the explorers raised a probe towards Brangot, and said, “We are explorers from the planet …”
Brangot gently pushed through the explorers without remark.
Diotitus was less kind. He stopped by the explorer with the probe and chided, “You’re dead and you’re stuck here for eternity. Go to the relocation center to get your flat assignment.” Without waiting for a response, he pushed through the explorers and followed Brangot.
Diotitus and Brangot walked through the entrance of the Spirit Channel Station, which was an open-air platform beside an ethereal river. The boarding line was short and the agent processed travelers at a brisk pace.
“Destination,” the agent asked.
“Conservatory,” Brangot answered.
The agent held up a scanner and waved it across Diotitus’ chest, and then Brangot’s trunk. “Are either of you carrying any spirit batteries?”
Both shook their heads.
The agent nodded and said, “So you’re aware, we’re checking those now.” The agent stowed the scanner and then rapid-fired a series of questions. “Are either of you agents of the Trans-Dimensional Nexus? Are either of you carrying artifacts or souvenirs from In-Life or Pre-Life brought to this world by someone other than yourselves? Have you ever been damned for a period equal to or longer than an eternity, and if so, when did you qualify for release?”
Both answered no.
“Have you arranged for accommodations at the Conservatory?”
Again, they shook their heads.
“The entirety of the Universe, including all known and unknown dimensions, is currently in a paradox recovery cycle. The Spirit Channel will travel out of Oblivion and through afterworld one to reach afterworld sixteen, the Conservatory, and you will be arriving fourteen hours in the past.” The agent handed them their boarding passes. “Since you will be traveling to a non-observation level of an afterworld, you will experience strong perceptions of color.” The agent pointed towards his eyes. “You may need to give yourself a few minutes to adjust when you arrive. Have a nice ride.”
Brangot and Diotitus walked briskly towards a car marked clearly for the Generally Unsaved, and boarded. They found two uncomfortable and cramped seats near the back and stowed their ceremonial appointments in an overhead storage vat.
Once seated, Brangot hunched forward so his head branches weren’t touching the overhead vat. “I hope this is a short ride,” he muttered.
“Okay, we’re arriving fourteen hours ago?” Diotitus asked. “It took me long enough to wrap my head around time not being linear, and segment repetition to resolve disputes. But this is the first I’ve heard of this paradox recovery nonsense.”
Brangot nodded then shrugged. “I gather when some idiot fusses with time and wipes out a part of the In-Life universe, they go into recovery mode. Or, maybe they’re replaying past events until time starts moving forward again. You do know In-Life time has not advanced in a number of years, right?” Brangot looked out the window and down into the ethereal river, momentarily wondering why a train would travel on a river. He mused, “I’ve forgotten when time was not in some sort of cycle and was moving forward.” He tried to look ahead in the direction the Spirit Channel would take them, saying, “It will be nice to see real color again.”
Diotitus sat back in his seat. “I’m in color,” he declared and looked down at the glossy orange and gold tones of his ceremonial dress. “And you’re in color,” he pointed at Brangot’s woven garment. “A muted flat green, I think.”
“But nothing else is in color,” Brangot said. “You know what I mean.”
Diotitus rapped Brangot’s lower left shoulder, producing a muted knocking sound, and laughed. “I think you’re guessing about the recovery cycle.” He then shrugged. “I can never keep track of what is happening in the In-Life Universe. They keep replaying parts of it, or in this case, recycling it. They call it a paradox, but you know it’s all about the gods acquiring as many worshippers as possible.”
Brangot shifted in his seat in a futile attempt to maintain a passable comfort level, then looked at Diotitus and raised a leafy eyebrow. “Tell me again why you’re in the unsaved car and not traveling god-class?”
Diotitus muttered under his breath and held his knees against the back of the seat in front of him so his feet dangled above the ground. “I suppose if we’re arriving in the past this won’t take too long.”
Brangot laughed, “Not as long as the first time, I hope.”
Diotitus looked at him quizzically. “And how long was that? Did this contraption break down?”
“The channel wasn’t calibrated for traveling between time zones the first time it crossed between two afterworlds, and it didn’t show up for a couple years.” Brangot pushed a few leafy fingers at the window. “The station went unused for several years while the channel was lost in time. If you bothered to walk two blocks from our building you would have noticed.”
Diotitus shrugged. “I suppose whoever wants to meet with us will make sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen. But,” he added thoughtfully, “If this is so important, they could have sprung for better seats.”
Some minutes later, Diotitus mused aloud, “So, is it a train or a channel?” though Brangot offered no response.
Both men remained quiet and rode in silence as the Spirit Channel whisked them along the ethereal river. Periodically, the Channel swept out of Oblivion for a fraction of a second, and bands of bright star- and sky-wept colors flashed against the window. The Channel never left Oblivion or the empty, muted plains of afterworld one for more than a brief moment, though passengers were able to board and depart at the appropriate destination.
Brangot reached across Diotitus with one arm when the colorful bands struck the window and pressed his leafy fingers flat against the glass. He breathed in slowly, filling his mouth and throat with what he thought of as the air touched by the real and after worlds.
“Look,” He whispered into Diotitus’ ear and Diotitus stirred in his light slumber. “Color,” Brangot said, and Diotitus opened his eyes.
Diotitus imagined he could feel a playful caress of color splashing against his face. “How long has it been?” he asked, not looking away from the window.
“I don’t remember,” Brangot said in a tone encompassing awe and remorse. “I think I dreamed of my native indigo sky a few decades ago.”
Diotitus was on the cusp of asking Brangot more about his home world, a topic Brangot was particularly mysterious about. However, the Sprit Channel appeared to slow down, the world went white, and they were alone.
Part 4: The Conservatory
The entrance to the Conservatory was abstract. It wasn’t as much of a place as it was an architectural expression of its members. The entrance appeared to be a concave forum of silk and padding, surrounded by a mild convex plateau of flower petals. As Diotitus and Brangot recovered their sight, they found themselves immersed in bright palettes of pastels, deep reds, and light pinks. Though fully toned and brilliant, the light was nevertheless softly cast so as to produce no shadow.
Both men stood in awe of the color.
“How do I look?” Diotitus whispered. The din of their afterworld was gone, and he found his whisper boomed in the sterling silence.
Brangot quickly checked his clothes and appointments, and then surveyed Diotitus. “Fix your circlet.”
Diotitus groped the top of his head and adjusted the circlet to rest evenly on his crown.
“Where do you think we are supposed to go?” Brangot asked.
Then, a tower appeared as though Brangot’s words compelled it into existence. The tower was of such stature and opulence that Brangot swooned, and was overcome with vertigo. Its smooth form was pearl-toned and its presence lashed up at a brilliant sky that moments before appeared to be little more than an abstract ceiling with a soft and silky décor.
Diotitus looked up at Brangot, then back at the tower. “I see a door, I think.” He started walking towards the tower, and Brangot followed at his side.
The tower appeared larger as the men walked towards it, but they couldn’t determine how close they were. It kept growing bigger.
After walking for ten minutes, a voice spoke from behind them.
“An illusion,” the voice said, and both men spun round, coming face to face with someone they took for a god.
Brangot’s heart raced and he raised his cylindrical weapon in salute.
Diotitus was slow to follow, but he caught himself gawking and offered an affable salute with his shield and baton.
“Brangot, Diotitus,” the apparent god said. His presence was spectacular in its grace and form, and his voice was a sonorous experience closer to a symphony than mere words. “My name is Brian.” Brian looked at both of the men for a moment, and then asked, “Was it made clear you were to bring Tif?”
Diotitus raised an eyebrow and looked at Brangot.
“The subject was broached,” Brangot said, pausing to find an appropriate salutation. “Sir.”
“Tif isn’t available,” Diotitus responded with a measure of caution. “I thought that information would be passed on to you.”
Brian’s lips turned into a mild frown, and the once bright disposition of his voice changed to suit. “Should I conclude your presence is to trifle with my patience?”
“Uh, no,” Diotitus started.
“Then where is Tif?” Brian demanded. Clouds billowed in the sky and were tortured by a bolt of lightning. Cracking thunder rang in their ears.
“Sir,” Brangot said, and though mindful of the god’s show of pageantry felt otherwise unmoved, “She is not sound of mind, and is completely unresponsive to outside stimuli. Perhaps you might have better luck if you went to her?”
Brian snarled his lip, though his expression relaxed. “We don’t go there.”
Diotitus thought Brian’s tone snide, and he looked more closely at the god-like form. He stood as tall as Diotitus, who was much shorter than Brangot. His shoulders were hunched forward a bit, and as Diotitus forced himself to look less at his god-like presence and more at him as a person, he noticed Brian was fidgeting with his hands.
Brangot raised his lower set of arms in appeasement, “Sir, perhaps if I explained …” but Brian cut him off.
“I want results, not explanations.”
Diotitus grew less impressed and more impatient. Real Gods, the honest-to-goodness birthed-from-the-fires-of-the-universe Gods, didn’t hang around the Conservatory. He knew that much. These were academic gods. Bookworm gods.
Diotitus glanced sidelong at Brangot and a wry grin crossed his face. “I’ve got three spirit batteries that say he’s only a junior, with at least four thousand years to go.”
Brangot felt that his friend’s words rang true. Brian carried himself with an amateurish disposition, and demeaned himself as a bore. Brangot held up the business end of his cylindrical weapon, pointing it at Brian. “Care to settle our little bet? Do you have your degree?”
Brian raised his hand as though he planned to work some miracle, and Brangot smartly rapped his knuckles with the end of the long cylinder.
“Ow!” Brian whined and sucked the back of his hand. “I never said I was a god. You assumed.”
Diotitus pushed his way past Brian, and the two men continued walking towards the tower.
“What do you suppose that was about?” Brangot asked.
“He knew of Tif,” Diotitus said. “I would say it was for some lofty reason, but I’m partial to thinking one of the gods sent him to meet us if for no other reason than to be an ass.”
“Why would you think that?” Brangot asked.
“Because we’re from the sewer of the universe,” Diotitus said. “And these guys spent fifteen thousand years or more getting the most prestigious degree possible. They’re academics. What good is that if you can’t lord it over everyone else?”
Brangot nodded, considering Diotitus’ jaded view. “I find it curious they didn’t go see Tif themselves. Do you think being in our afterworld is a stigma?”
“Arrogance?” Diotitus offered. “Or maybe they can’t get in to our afterworld.”
“Maybe they can’t,” Brangot said. “I never thought about it, but perhaps there are places in the afterlife where gods cannot go.”
After a long though peaceful walk, they arrived at a large door leading into the tower. The door was constructed of black iron and aged wood planks. It was blocked open with a wooden wedge. Standing outside of the tower, they could feel the air inside was cool and dusty, smelling of granite, wood grains, and linseed oil.
Brangot, followed by Diotitus, entered and approached a large, simple wooden desk. A young man greeted them with a broad smile and bid them a good morning.
“You must be Diotitus,” he said.
Diotitus nodded and leaned over the desk to read the man’s name, which was scrawled on a sticker and applied to his nondescript uniform. “Rick?”
Rick looked up at Brangot. “And you must be Brangot.”
Brangot presented Rick with a lesser manual salutation befitting secretaries and concierges. Diotitus offered no salutation at all.
Rick narrowed his eyes slightly while looking at Brangot. “I can’t place your home world.”
Brangot didn’t respond, so Diotitus replied, “no one knows, and he never talks about it.”
“I see,” Rick said.
“Rick, we were called here on urgent business,” Brangot said. “I wouldn’t want anyone to be waiting for us.”
Rick continued to smile. “Not at all. In fact, they are waiting for you in the conference room on the thirty thousandth floor. You’ll want to take the elevator.” He motioned to a pair of black, polished steel doors set into a stone wall on the far side of the lobby.
The men thanked Rick and walked across the lobby to the elevator. The doors opened when they approached, then closed when they entered, and started moving.
“Weird,” Diotitus said. “This place, I’ve decided, is extraordinarily weird.”
“Actually, it’s making more sense now that we’re inside,” Brangot said. “It has all of the artistry of a college. Isn’t that what this is? A college for people studying to be gods?”
Diotitus shrugged. “I never had to study.”
“I like it,” Brangot said. “It is refreshing to not be surrounded by unnecessary technology and otherworldly machinations. Did you notice Rick used a quill and homemade paper?”
“It’s not a monastery,” Diotitus snorted. “I think they’re taking it too far.”
The trip was short, and the elevator stopped moving and the doors opened to reveal a large, open-air conference room. A sky at twilight illuminated a central desk with a soft glow, and Diotitus thought he heard crickets chirping and frogs croaking in the distance.
“Gentlemen,” a steely voice spoke. A man with thin gray hair, drawn features, and wizened countenance approached. “Gerard,” he said, pronouncing the first syllable as a silence-baiting consonant.
“Brangot,” Brangot said and offered his formal salutation using his lower arms to extend his cylindrical weapon and his upper arms to show he held no other armament.
“Diotitus,” Diotitus said and grudgingly offered his own formal greeting, though had started to feel academic gods didn’t deserve it. He only half bowed and didn’t complete the full salutary motion with the baton.
Gerard looked over both men, and a thin smile drew across his pasty lips. “I hope it hurt,” he said, glancing along the length of the polished cylindrical weapon held in Brangot’s lower hands. “Tell me,” he said to Diotitus, “how did you know he didn’t have his degree?”
“He showed us some nice parlor tricks, but he didn’t strike me as having a god-like presence.”
“Indeed.” Gerard said. He remained quiet for a moment and then beckoned them towards the large table. “Let’s sit and I will tell you why you were summoned.”
The two men set their appointments on the floor and sat down in the large and very comfortable chairs surrounding the table.
“This is a nice effect you have,” Diotitus said, nodding towards the ceiling that looked and felt like they were under an open sky. He fully appreciated being bathed in the soft, colorful light.
“I had thought you might like it. It’s a Greek sky from your lifetime.” Gerard offered another thin smile.
Diotitus, never much of a reveler of the sky when alive, now took a careful look at his surroundings for it then seemed very similar to the architecture and environment from his homeland.
Gerard sat down at the table next to Brangot, folded his hands, and placed them on the table. “I’m sorry your friend could not be roused, but I am aware her condition makes it difficult.” He nodded towards Brangot, “You were correct in thinking we cannot enter Oblivion, which is why we were hoping you would bring Tif here. Although, it doesn’t matter where she is since she is a repressed.” He paused, and momentarily appended, “I believe the popular term right now is Drooler. But she has become of significant import and I hope to task the two of you with the responsibility of waking her.”
“I never thought that was possible,” Diotitus said.
“She’s hasn’t completely repressed herself,” Gerard advised, and looking directly at Diotitus, continued, “and if you ever gave serious thought to making some positive contribution in her life, then you would at least try to help her.”
“Can you tell us why it is so important that she recover?” Brangot asked.
Gerard nodded. “First, I would like to discuss with you the reasons that brought you to the Conservatory.” He paused and looked between Brangot and Diotitus. “The main reason is both of you have known Tif the longest, and self repression is not an abnormality cured with a snap of a god’s fingers. It is a psychological ill, and she will need her friends, the two of you, to convince her that her afterlife is worth experiencing.”
“I’m surprised you can’t help her,” Diotitus said. “I always assumed gods to be omnipotent.”
“Ah,” Gerard said, “A misunderstanding. Gods are omnipotent in their afterworlds, and have varying abilities to interact with In-Life and Pre-Life. Oblivion is a special case. It isn’t an afterworld. It is a nexus between all afterworlds. While the gods support moving the entire population to an afterworld, no god has the power to do so.” He spread out his hands on the table, “Gods have no power in Oblivion, and they can’t even enter it. They are only omnipotent in their own afterworld.”
“Everyone with a god degree is only a god at the Conservatory?” Diotitus asked.
Gerard nodded. “Yes. However, many afterworlds employ our graduates for research and administrative purposes. They are permitted to use some or all of their skills there.”
“Except Oblivion,” Brangot said.
“Correct,” Gerard said. “It is easier for you to cross between Oblivion and an afterworld than it is for one of us to enter Oblivion. Granted, you need credentials to get beyond the black-and-white observation levels. Even so, majority of afterworlds are not interested in Oblivion. They think it is another Christian Limbo.”
“Why do you want us to wake up Tif?” Diotitus asked.
Gerard said, “The moment Tif became a Drooler, she was thinking about something. We want you to finish her thought, and put it into motion.”
“Why is Tif’s last, half-finished thought so important?” Brangot asked.
“Unfortunately, I can’t elaborate why. I can only say she was thinking about a method to track every particle in the known universe over time.”
Diotitus caught himself before letting out a guffaw. “You think Tif was thinking about that?”
“It’s very important,” Gerard explained. “If you mutilate a body at the time of death, and spread the parts over a wide area, the soul is dispersed. What percentage of a soul is required to be claimed as a worshipper by a god?”
Brangot looked at Diotitus, who shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Fifty-one percent,” Gerard continued. “A god may claim a soul as a worshipper if they have fifty-one percent of it. Good for the god and the respective afterworld, and good for at least fifty-one percent of the soul. However, the other forty-nine percent will be missing. We surmise most of these soul fragments wind up in spirit batteries or stuck in Ghost Boxes.”
“Now,” Gerard went on, “imagine what would happen if an entire world was destroyed.”
“How exactly would that happen?” Diotitus asked, but was nudged by Brangot.
“Read the news sometime,” Brangot whispered.
“It happens,” Gerard said. “And, when it does, it is rare to recover a significant portion of a soul because all souls are scattered across the universe. Trans-dimensional fish food.”
He said, “We call this a Grand Disaster. If we track every particle, we could find the scattered souls.”
“How exactly would that work?” Diotitus asked.
“Tif knows,” Brangot said. “Right?”
Gerard nodded. “Precisely. No one ever worked out how this could be accomplished, except Tif. But, she didn’t figure it all out. There still remains the issue of how to record and access all of the data.”
“A lot of information,” Diotitus commented.
“You have no idea,” Gerard said.
“Haven’t the gods figured this sort of thing out?” Diotitus asked. “Isn’t this what creation mathematics is for?”
Gerard nodded. “Creation mathematics is a closely guarded secret. No one will give you the algorithms. All I can tell you is we need you to complete Tif’s thought. I will arrange for you to gain access to any afterworld you consider necessary. You already have access to the Quantum Stream in Oblivion.”
“Not a very exciting place,” Diotitus said.
Gerard smiled. “I imagine you’ll be spending a lot of time there.”
“And if we’re unable or unwilling to help?” Diotitus asked.
“You don’t want to help your friend?” he asked. “Universal Standard Time hasn’t moved forward in a very long time, and we can’t let it move forward until this matter is addressed.”
“Suppose we attempt this impossible feat,” Diotitus said. “What then?”
“I can’t promise there would be a reward.” Then, Gerard chuckled. “You want a mountain of gold bullion, or a fancy chariot?”
“Possessions are worthless,” Brangot said.
“Which makes a reward unrealistic,” Gerard said.
Diotitus sat back in his chair and thought about the request. Gerard wanted a couple unsaved lackeys to steal the thoughts of an unsaved and insane woman. Images of Tif crossed his mind and he felt helpless about waking her from her drooling state. Beneath a sky deemed to be his own, moments of In-Life fluttered across the recesses of his mind. He recalled his childhood of privilege, adventures as a Greek soldier, promotion to commander, and his brief ascension to the status of a god. In the handful of weeks as a god, he couldn’t even muster a rain cloud or enchant a rune. It was all a sham.
Now, seated alongside an academically certified god, Diotitus’ claims were laughable. At least Gerard and his peers had studied for many millennia. What deeds qualified him to be a god? And what remained except a few clay tablets advertising his ascension. His fall was heralded only by the migration of his few worshippers. No one had been left to finish the epic of Diotitus.
Diotitus wondered why Brangot and he were necessary at all. Because the gods don’t have any power in Oblivion. His spiral into depression took an immediate turn. It’s not what we can do, but what Gerard can’t do. They couldn’t enter Oblivion. They had no power there. Oblivion may have been the sewer of the afterworlds, but it was also the afterworld of the forgotten. There were no gods of Oblivion.
Diotitus touched Brangot’s arm to get his attention, and offered him a slight nod and a subtle smile. He looked at Gerard and said, “I think we may be able to work something out.”
Brangot raised a bark-crusted brow.
“I presume if we complete this task, it would have to be administered and maintained,” Diotitus said.
“Yes,” Gerard nodded. “The Time Stream is managed by some machine-people and I imagine they would take ownership of the finished product.”
Brangot said, “We can assign those tasks when we have a better understanding of the requirements.”
Gerard appeared want to argue, but said nothing on that subject. He smiled, albeit a forced smile, and said “Excellent. You may direct requests for admission to a specific afterworld to me, and I’ll see it approved. Make sure to list the person or persons you intend to meet.”
“Do you have a suggestion on where we should start?” Brangot asked.
“I’d start with Tif,” Gerard replied. The god excused himself to attend other matters, leaving Brangot and Diotitus alone.
The two men decided to return home, and left the tower and walked to the Spirit Channel station. The trip to the station was much shorter, and they walked in silence.
They rested at the station, waiting for the next Spirit Channel to arrive.
Brangot looked intently at Diotitus, and said, “During my In-Life, we had many enemies. This,” he hefted the cylindrical weapon with his lower arms, “is the greatest weapon my people devised.”
Diotitus nodded, having heard most of Brangot’s stories over thousands of years. However, if the moment of insight he experienced in the Conservatory were to come to fruition, their friendship would need to become closer.
“It is marvelous in its simplicity,” Brangot went on. “It may be used on its own, or it may compound with multiple weapons.” His thick bark skin masked emotions, but Diotitus was able to read the subtleties in Brangot’s eyes. “One of our greatest victories was over an entire armada of space-faring warships with this weapon.”
“But,” Brangot continued, “Although diplomacy and negotiations are desirable, I have seen them used to greater effect than this weapon.” He looked at Diotitus, and his eyes were glassy.
“Over the infinite years we have been neighbors, I have known you to have a good heart.” Then, his brows furrowed. “But that god,” and he jabbed the tip of his weapon in the direction of the tower, “spoke nothing but academic deceit.”
Brangot lowered the weapon and planted it on the station’s wood planked floor, raising a sharp echo. “Tell me, my friend, what deceit did you hear and see, and what plans did you concoct, in that god’s lair?”
Diotitus set his baton and shield on the station. “Do you think this is the best time and place to have this discussion?”
“Let him listen if he can,” Brangot said. “The Spirit Channel station is an extension of its own afterworld. I think his power stops at the door.”
Diotitus nodded. “Maybe. I’ll tell you what I was thinking. They want to control us. If we follow Gerard’s suggestion, we would have to go through him to get approval for anything. Assuming we figure out what Tif was thinking, any success we had would be turned over to the machine-people. Rousing Tif doesn’t matter to them. It’s a distraction. We finish the first part, and maybe they already finished the second.”
“I guess I’m greedy,” Diotitus continued, “Because I kept wondering what was in it for us. Maybe we can wake up Tif, and that would be great. But that wouldn’t change her mind,” and he paused looking away from Brangot. “She never had feelings for me. I don’t believe anything I do would change her heart. It would be nice to be rouse her and have our friend back, but Tif isn’t a reward.” He shook his head. “So, what benefit is there for us? We wouldn’t be saved, that’s for sure.”
“What do you have in mind?” Brangot asked.
Diotitus smiled. “We complete Tif’s thought without their help. We find out what we can about this Grand Disaster, which afterworlds it affects, and we make sure we are the only ones able and knowledgeable to administer the solution. We find the secret of Creation Mathematics.”
“Ah,” Brangot said, “But the objective may be for the Conservatory to learn the algorithms instead of some theoretical device. Perhaps all they are interested in is ancillary information.”
“Maybe,” Diotitus admitted. “Therefore, we would have to maintain the secret. Either way, if we do create a solution, then we will have something of value.”
And Diotitus’ eyes sparkled, “Brangot, this is like discovering a lucrative mine. All we have to do is work the mine ourselves, and not sell out.”
Brangot said, “I understand. At the moment, we are of no consequence to any afterlife. With this solution, we would provide a valuable service.”
“Yes,” Diotitus said.
“Where do we start?”
“We should start at the beginning,” Diotitus answered. “We need to find the secret of Creation Mathematics. I think I know where to look, and my grandfathered status as a god might get us a day-pass.”
“Where?” Brangot asked.
“The afterworld reserved for gods.”
Part 5: Brangot, Diotitus, and Dober Jung
When Brangot and Diotitus were ready to leave the Conservatory, the Spirit Channel materialized at the station. An agent, this time a machine-person, beckoned them to board. “Spirit Channel to Oblivion now boarding,” it called.
Diotitus and Brangot approached the agent. “We were hoping to change destinations,” Diotitus told the agent.
“Your schedule is specific for a single round-trip between the Conservatory and Oblivion,” the agent said.
Brangot loudly tapped his foot. “Then rebook it.”
“Where do you desire to go?” the agent asked.
“The afterworld of gods,” Diotitus said. “Afterworld eighteen, or eighteen A, I think.”
“Eighteen is Bliss, and eighteen, adjunct A, is the mock-afterworld, Bliss Whip,” the agent explained, though was apparently amused thinking about it, and its mood lighting changed. “That’s one strange afterworld. The Tribold god’s idea of a joke, before the afterworld restrictions took effect.”
“And the afterworld of gods?” Diotitus asked. “Nineteen?”
“Damnation,” the agent responded. “The one you’re looking for is in administrative afterworld fifteen, adjunct D. Since there is no observation level, you can only enter by appointment and if you were made a god by worship. A god degree is not valid for entry. It’s a very cliquish afterworld.”
The agent waited for a moment, then asked, “Am I to take it you’re a god?”
Diotitus bowed. “Check your records. I’m filed under Earth, Greek gods, Appendix J, section two, titled Exceptions.”
“Er,” the agent said, this time making a whirring noise. “I’m not sure that counts.”
“He’s a god by worship,” Brangot said, “which was the only condition you mentioned.”
“The only condition besides being invited,” the agent corrected.
“At least ask,” Diotitus said. “I need to meet with the god who manages Creation Mathematics.”
The agent looked incredulously, its lights blinking this way and that, at Diotitus. “Alright, I’ll ask. But if they get annoyed for being bothered, I’m blaming you.” The agent consulted a small hand-held computer and spoke in a machine-people dialect. After some time, the agent looked up with a surprised expression, denoted by brightly flashing headlamps. “You’ve been granted a two-hour pass to meet with Dober Jung.”
Brangot and Diotitus were directed to board the Spirit Channel. “After two hours, you will be automatically relocated to the Spirit Channel scheduled for Oblivion.”
Brangot and Diotitus boarded the Spirit Channel, and headed towards the afterworld of gods.
As they rode, Brangot asked, “Haven’t you ever tried to enter an afterworld before now?”
“I used to try all the time with the old delivery service. However, no afterworld would approve a temporary pass because the facilities to automatically kick the soul out didn’t exist back then. Anyway, I guess that is why all the afterworlds said no. I think I tried all of them, even the Hell pits and Damnation.” Nothing stunted faith like being rejected a visitor’s pass to Hell.
“Do you think this Dober Jung is going to give use any details about Creation Mathematics?” Brangot asked.
Diotitus shook his head. “No. All I’m interested in is the name. If we can get elementary schooling on Creation Mathematics and find out who invented it, then I have an idea on how to get the rest.”
“And that is?” Brangot asked.
Diotitus shook his head. “I don’t think it is wise to talk about it right now.”
When the Spirit Channel delivered Brangot and Diotitus to afterworld fifteen, adjunct D, a scruffy god waited at the station to greet them.
“I’m Dober Jung,” he said. “Gerard said you would be stopping by. I can’t help you, though, and wanted to be courteous about it rather than refusing your request without a visit.”
“He didn’t waste any time,” Brangot said.
“We were wondering if you could tell us more about Creation Mathematics,” Diotitus said. “We had hoped you might have some information to work with because neither of us knows if we even need Creation Mathematics.”
Dober Jung shrugged. “It’s quite simple. I invented a set of theories and algorithms for creating and interpreting DNA sequences. At this point in the universe, there are many intelligent civilizations that can decode DNA. What they are missing is the equation to create the DNA sequence from a complex set of data.”
“I thought that algorithm was known to In-Life species,” Brangot remarked.
“It’s known now. I planted some of the theories in select individuals. It was encrypted in such a way that no one is able to decode it, but anyone may use it.” Dober Jung made a crooked smile. “The equation is necessary for time travel, and the gods desired certain civilizations to develop said technology.”
“Could we use the encrypted version?” Brangot asked.
Dober Jung shook his head. “Based on what Gerard told me, and assuming his information was accurate, you’ll need the unencrypted algorithms, which, as I said, I am unable to give you.”
“Out of curiosity, what did Gerard tell you?” Diotitus asked.
“Same thing he told you, I imagine. Same thing all the gods have been told. All time lines are being recycled in order to delay a Grand Disaster which will destroy many afterworlds, including this one and the Conservatory.” Dober Jung showed little emotion as he described the possible end of his own existence.
“And Oblivion?” Brangot asked.
“Oblivion cannot be destroyed,” Dober Jung answered. “Gerard told you the Grand Disaster affected the afterlife, right?”
Diotitus nodded, though glanced at Brangot. “Yes. We wanted to compare notes. All afterworlds are in danger, and they need Tif’s idea to save them.”
Dober Jung squinted and fell silent while considering his answer. “I think there is a disconnect here. Tif only knows part of the solution, and Gerard, you, and most recently myself, are aware of her idea. Another principle part of the solution will be communal between the three of you, and then you will be able to act on Tif’s idea to solve the problem.”
“The problem of souls,” Brangot tested.
“I’m not sure how Gerard described the problem, but it’s not really a secret between the gods.” He winked at Diotitus, evidently pleased at slipping in the joke.
“When your kinsmen,” he motioned towards Brangot, “move to invade afterworlds two hundred ninety nine through three hundred two, they will not be able to pass through Oblivion itself, and will tear through every afterworld, starting with afterworld number one, which is where the Spirit Channel operates.”
Diotitus looked at Brangot. “Those are the human afterworlds. What would they want with those?”
Dober Jung smiled slightly and raised his hand don Brangot to wait for his response. “You’re asking about an ugly affair afterworld history. The human gods wanted to expand their afterworlds, but the administration wouldn’t grant them additional space. Not that they needed it since they had access to the infinite amount of space in afterworld Seventeen, which is the Void, and in their own infinite void, afterworld Seventeen adjunct A, which is Limbo. The Void and Limbo are very limited versions of Oblivion, and the gods can control them. You need extra room, plan accordingly and build in one of those areas.”
“But, the humans didn’t want to build there?” Diotitus asked.
Dober Jung motioned to Brangot.
Brangot shivered and shook his head. “No, the human gods wanted to keep Limbo a complete void. My world was in another dimension.”
“An unreal world,” Dober Jung interjected. “A universe spawned of a universe, and which seems utterly fantastic to the parent universe. In his case,” Dober Jung indicated Brangot, “his unreal universe was spawned from the universe that includes humans.”
“The human gods, who had power over their own In-Life universe, were able to tap into our universe and started extending their afterworlds into it. Eventually, my people’s universe was consumed. My people, only aware that humans were responsible, but not humans of the afterworlds, fought back.”
“They started an In-Life war with humans, and the Earth was destroyed,” Dober Jung said.
“What?” Diotitus cried and turned to face Brangot. “You blew up Earth?”
“Have you been living in a hole for the last hundred thousand years?” Dober Jung asked. “It’s old news. Besides, the humans blew up their own planet. They were very underhanded in their diplomacy, his still nameless race destroyed Earth’s entire fleet of warships, and humans accidentally blew up their own planet.”
Diotitus shook his head. “The story you told me was about humans?”
Brangot nodded solemnly. “You understand why I never talk about it? After-Life humans don’t want to hear their heavens and hells stole space from my universe.”
“No long-term harm done,” Dober Jung told Diotitus. “Humans and Brangot’s people colonized other planets and, for a while, all was well.”
Diotitus discovered himself remarkably dispassionate about the news. “Why are they now coming into the afterlife if they got satisfaction from the Earth being destroyed?”
Dober Jung said, “They didn’t get satisfaction. In all fairness, In-Life humans had no idea why Brangot’s people were upset. Humans haven’t had any real contact with their afterworlds or with their gods since the beginning. However, there are some gods who believe Brangot’s people have been manipulated by an insidious foe who seeks to claim Oblivion for itself.”
“It seems like a long time to carry a grudge,” Diotitus said.
“Yes,” Dober Jung agreed, “which is one reason why some of the gods don’t think Brangot’s species is responsible at all. Operating on future trends is a bit of a gray area.”
“And how is tracking pieces of souls going to make one shred of difference?” Diotitus asked. “If they’re going to destroy the afterworlds, the various bits of soul will wind up in Oblivion, but there won’t be an afterworld to claim them”
“That is why the Time Stream is so important. If someone could track every particle during a Grand Disaster, then such a process could be used to reassemble the particles immediately following the disaster.” Dober Jung looked at Brangot.
And Brangot concluded, “Making the afterworlds invulnerable against an attack.”
“Precisely,” Dober Jung said.
“So this has nothing to do with souls and worship counts at all,” Diotitus said. “There shouldn’t be any problem if a god goes on a worship-whacker tour because the souls don’t matter at all. The gods are covering their own asses!”
Dober Jung shrugged. “That’s one way of putting it. Of course, eventually, the assailants in this Grand Disaster will find their way into Oblivion and destroy everything. Granted, Oblivion itself is safe from harm, but everything in Oblivion is fair game.”
“Can they destroy the Time Stream?” Brangot asked.
“They can try,” Dober Jung said. “You really must visit the Time Stream to appreciate how well the machine-people manage it. There are all sorts of filters and by-ways built around the Stream. The Stream itself is absolutely invulnerable, the same way Oblivion is invulnerable. However, the inhabitants of Oblivion do not share the same protection. And, if the filters are destroyed then a lot of bad things will happen - again. Paradoxes caused by time travel would not be caught. One day you wake up and discover you never existed. And that’s a weird feeling. Experienced it myself a few times in the early days.”
“Why don’t you tell us the algorithms to Creation Mathematics so we can solve this problem and defend the afterworlds?” Diotitus asked.
“Because,” Dober Jung said, “the one thing I’m sure you have in the back of your head, and something I certainly know Gerard wouldn’t tell you, is whoever solves the problem and implements the solution will have god-like power across time and all afterworlds.”
“Probably why Gerard wanted us to tell him everything,” Diotitus said.
Dober Jung shrugged. “Everyone has an agenda.”
“So, you’re not going to tell us the algorithms?” Diotitus asked again.
Dober Jung shook his head. “I’m not going to hand a secret of the universe over to two unsaved souls. Doing so would require agreement by many, many gods, none of whom think it’s necessary, let alone that you’re worth saving.”
“Then why did Gerard say it was needed?” Diotitus asked.
“I’m not sure,” Dober Jung replied. “Why do you think Gerard spoke with me before you arrived?”
Their pass expired, and Brangot and Diotitus did not have a chance to thank Dober Jung for his assistance. Instead, they found themselves on the Spirit Channel headed for Oblivion.
Part 6: Particle Line
Metallic ribbons intertwining, splitting and splintering, fusing and twisting, were the foundation of the Time Stream. The ribbons, small and finely crafted, had the viscosity of syrup. Some believed touching the streams of time produced an electrically charged vibration that was the soul of all that ever was and may be. A few believed the Time Stream itself was a god.
The machine-people administering the Time Stream knew otherwise. Their description was decidedly vague but included the noteworthy point that it was not the construct of a god, for one could trace the Time Stream back to the birth or first appearance of any god. Those portions of the Time Stream were encrypted and protected from public purview.
With permission from the machine-people to perform a data acquisition test, Brangot watched as Diotitus reviewed his own hand-scribbled notes taken during a brief meeting with the machine-people earlier in the day. The two spoke excitedly over the previous day about how to build a device to track every particle in the known and unknown universe using the Time Stream, but there was still tension over the revelation that Brangot’s people had been at war with the humans. There was also a more overt tension; neither really knew what they were doing.
Diotitus set his notes down and looked up at Brangot with a drawn face. He felt tired from sitting through the meeting with the machine-people, and realized he had not been to his apartment nor slept in more than three days. “Brangot, look, I don’t really feel one way or the other about what went on between your people and humans. It would have been nice if you had told me, but I guess I understand your reservations.”
Brangot nodded. The slightest of smiles crossed his lips. “It was a difficult time for my people. But were I to answer your question regarding my home world and I pointed to human heaven and said, there, my home world once existed where human heaven now stands, I think it would have been hard to accept.”
Diotitus said, “I want you to know there are no hard feelings coming from this side of the Time Stream.”
“Are you ready to tell me how you plan on finding the secret to Creation Mathematics?” Brangot asked.
“No, sorry,” he said. “If I give any hint or indication, the gods will know about it. Even if they aren’t spying on us, I’m sure the machine-people are. I suppose it’s really a simple thing.”
Diotitus smirked and cocked his head. “You know, I think I’m starting to spew the same babble Tif was saying.”
Brangot shrugged. “May I be of any help then?”
Diotitus nodded. “Yes. I hope you were listening this morning. We need to create a by-pass, so I have the by-pass module here,” and he held up what resembled a simple, bent pipe. “We need two time filters, two entity filters, and two engram filters.” He held up three different sets of small disks.
“Those look like they would be the ones,” Brangot said. “They’re clearly marked, anyway. Is this going to cause any problems?”
Diotitus shook his head. “These are beginner filters and have some sort of built-in safeguards against creating a paradox, and they won’t allow us to make any significant changes.”
“I suppose all I need to do,” Diotitus started, “is add the by-pass to the Time Stream.” He touched one end of the bent-pipe to the Time Stream, and it remained in place even as the metallic ribbons representing time flowed around it. “Next, we add a filter for a specific person at a specific time,” he continued, and affixed two of the filters to one end of the by-pass. He paused, and then after some thought, turned the pipe around so the filtered end was in the stream. “Add the same to the other end,” and he affixed the other set of filters to the opposite end. “And, now, the really clever part.” He added one engram filter to each end of the pipe, and then pushed the by-pass fully into the Time Stream.
“What now?” Brangot asked.
Diotitus shrugged. “I have no idea.” He picked up the by-pass and turned it over in his hands, examining the engram filters on each end. He narrowed his eyes, searching for some indication of change, and then removed one of the engram filters and set the by-pass down on the ground. Excited silence overwhelmed him and he held up the filter for Brangot to see. “A bit horrific how simple that was.”
Brangot scrunched his eyebrows down. “You have it?”
“Next, we need to construct this,” Diotitus said and held up the scrawled drawing they had made.
“The machine-people have equipment to automatically construct tools and other machines,” Brangot said. “I suppose we could solicit their help. What else remains?”
“We need to figure out where to store so much data, and how to access it,” Diotitus said. “And I wonder if the answer is the idea we are supposed to share with Tif. So, we can ask the machine-people to help build the device, we can add in the contents of the engram filter, and then we can concentrate on Tif.”
The machine-people were receptive to helping Diotitus and Brangot build blueprint. Diotitus had the impression the machine-people were glad someone took an interest in their work, though Brangot remained wary of their motivation. In less than four hours, the majority of the device was finished by many thousands of spider-legged machine-helpers. Their spherical white bodies and cartoon-like legs moved quickly and responded to everything from abstract thought to specific details. At one point, one of the bots took the engram filter from Diotitus. He didn’t think to voice his concern, though hoped that if the machine-people were aware of the contents they would keep the information secured.
“It’s amazing,” Brangot remarked while the device was constructed. “I’m amazed we’ve lasted this long.”
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