A Handful of Earths, page 1
A Handful of Earths
Book 1: The Analogs
Sansoucy Kathenor
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any events, institutions, persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
Copyright © 2021 by Madona Skaff
(Executor of Sansoucy Kathenor’s Literary Estate)
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission of the literary executor, except for the use of brief quotations in articles or reviews.
Editor: Louise Koren
Managing Editor: Madona Skaff
Interior Design: Éric Desmarais
Cover Design: David Koren
Legal deposit, Library and Archives Canada, September 2021
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7778259-0-4
E-book ISBN: 978-1-7778259-1-1
Literary Executors: Madona Skaff and Valerie Kirkwood
MultiversePress42@gmail.com
Sansoucy once said, “If you write, you are a writer. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
On behalf of Sansoucy Kathenor, I’d like to dedicate this book to all of the struggling writers.
Madona Skaff
Character Sketches by Sansoucy. Top to bottom; Mayne, Ithleen, Jonno
In this universe, all the persons, places, and organizations in The Multiverse Trilogy are imaginary.
In their own universes, of course, they are all perfectly real, and we are imaginary.
Sansoucy Kathenor
Chapter 1
Infinity
A happy childhood. A traumatic adolescence. And finally, as his world’s most famous physicist, Jonnan Mayne had reached a triumphant maturity.
But his state of surface contentment had crusted over with an unacknowledged restlessness. A need which he sensed only as a craving for new experiences, fresh fields of study to explore. He no longer felt any struggle, or excitement, or sense of adventure in a life that had once been spiced with them. His life had gone unbearably flat.
He enjoyed his success, but he wanted to risk the unexpected again.
None of this lessened his absorption in his immediate task as he sat at a workbench in the main room of his lab, working alone after hours as usual. His two technicians would have cheerfully stayed overtime if he had wanted them to, but there was no urgency about the day’s pursuit. He scorned social activity; he had had more than his fill of it in earlier years.
In his teens, he had built a defensive wall around his emotions. Though trained in social ease, he had also learned to act impersonally, never allowing acquaintance to develop into friendship. Among his co-workers, he remained polite and pleasant, ready with his own help and generous with credit for others’ help; but he retained his reserve, rejecting the socialization he had come to despise, and devoting himself entirely to his work.
That work had been acclaimed the most impressive in the world. Though only in his early thirties, what was left now to achieve? He had added to his fame and prestige by further discoveries, but with ambition fulfilled, some of the challenge had faded from his life. His subconscious was seeking new stimuli, new risks, to counteract what he felt was mental stagnation.
Sitting this summer’s evening with the electrodes of the telekinetic micromanipulator — or TKM — at his temples, he was breadboarding an image circuit. Aside from an occasional reference glance at his designs on the display screen tilted up out of the bench top in front of him, he faced blankly across the room, his attention entirely on the mental process of experimenting with the circuit’s arrangement.
So intent was his concentration that his unfocused gaze rested for some five seconds without so much as a blink of surprise on the figure that formed and solidified in that time, well beyond the other side of the workbench. The height of a short adult human, and of appropriate width for one, it was sheathed from presumed head to presumed feet in a shimmering, silvery shielding, and stood completely still. Beyond height and width the apparition was shapeless, like a cloth draped over a pillar, or a stir of glitter particles flickering in a vial.
As the import of what his eyes were registering suddenly struck Mayne, the manipulator skittered out of his control and impressed a jumble of components into the ruined circuit; but he disciplined his racing pulse with habitual iron control and kept his outward calm as he slipped the electrodes off and regarded the newcomer.
“Greeting,” said the figure. “I mean you no harm, but I have the means to protect myself if necessary.”
A multitude of questions thrust and tumbled through Mayne’s mind. He pushed them all firmly down and said soothingly, “You’re in no danger here, so far as I know. What can I do for you?”
“We are seeking help in exploring the universes.”
Mayne cut off his rampant thoughts, and asked with assumed detachment, “Was that a plural on universe?”
“Yes. We do not know if their number is infinite, but we assume so.”
Without a referent, it would be useless to ask, ‘Which universe are you from?’ or even ‘What’s yours like?’ in an effort to gauge the visitor’s difference from himself. Mayne settled for, “How many universes did you have to work your way through to reach this one?”
“There is no need to pass through the universes one by one. In fact, it is not possible to touch the closest ones. In any case, since we discovered that the type of personality we are seeking can be found among the human-inhabited Earths, we did not consider it necessary to try to find a suitable closer species.”
“What’s your species?”
“We do not have names for either our species or for individuals. Among telepaths, a collective image for each person is possible and more expressive. Why are you surprised?”
“I hadn’t realized you were speaking telepathically,” Mayne said, excited at the realization. “Our only means of telepathy is by machine; and it’s very crude and limited. Your transmission is so clear my mind registered it as speech... Couldn’t you read all that in my mind, without asking?”
“I could, but prefer not to. My people have natural shields which enable us to maintain our division into individuals, a state we value. Since you humans do not have this ability, please continue using speech, or at least form conscious speech patterns. It clarifies your thoughts and gives me a means of restricting my attention to what you intend to communicate. If you want me to look deeper to understand something you cannot articulate, make a specific request for me to do so.”
Accepting that with a nod, and mentally filing his speculations about implied ethics and mores, Mayne went back to the previous question. “Since I can’t handle these concept-identifications, do you mind if I invent names for you and your people?”
“That has already been done, by our first full-contact human, who seems to think as you do. For my species, she chose ‘wexter’, and for myself, ‘Spen’.”
“Fine.” Mayne went back further to pick up another point. “Did you imply you’re limited to Earths, in all universes?” An infinity of other Earths, he thought, allowing his inner excitement a moment’s reign, would be scarcely less interesting than a universe of alien planets. If this being really meant to offer him a chance to see some of them...
“So far, yes. Some of them may have interstellar travel, but we do not. That is one of the many things we would like to know about.”
“We’re barely interplanetary in this universe, so we can’t help you there.”
“We think that you, personally, can help us in more than that one query.”
“How?” Mayne managed not to snap out the word in his eagerness.
“We are seeking an explorer, to collect data about the multiverse for us. If our reading is correct, you have the personality to relish meeting the unknown, accepting the risks which we prefer to avoid.”
Mayne kept his tone judicious, “Is moving between universes so risky?”
“Not the transplacement itself. But who can tell what one may meet in another universe? Our psionic instruments enable us to seek out personality types; but we cannot identify the circumstances in which they live. To actually explore a world we require a being who is intelligent, courageous, resourceful, and honourable. Our selector identifies you as such.”
“What do you hope to gain from the explorations?” Mayne asked, forcing his mind to consider the possibility of ulterior motives. His own Earth’s people had been exploitative for most of their history, and some still were. The impression he was receiving from the wexter was of readiness for nervous withdrawal rather than for aggression, and of hopeful friendliness rather than slyness; but how could he tell whether these were true inclinations or projected lies?
Spen was unhesitant: “We seek knowledge. It is so valued among us that we take the risk of offering you, in return, the possession of a transplacing device which you may use independently of our control — although we do ask that, on worlds where transplacement is not yet known, you limit even knowledge of its existence to carefully screened people.”
Mayne noticed a reservation: “You’ll give me the device itself, but not information about the technique?”
“We recognize that this may be a delaying tactic only: since we asked for a personality with high intelligence, we are aware that you may eventually work out the principles for yourself. But we also spec
Both their willingness to trust him with unsupervised use of interuniversal transplacement and their concern to avoid indiscriminate spreading of the technique argued that these people were trustworthy themselves. And at a subconscious level, the wexter’s formality of expression, matching Mayne’s own inclination towards precision, created a feeling of alliance in Mayne and disposed him to accept the word of the earnest and unaggressive being. So it was more curiosity than caution that now prompted him to probe further into motives: “Why are you so worried about unselected people getting into the other universes? Are you afraid unscreened people might invade your own universe?”
“We have arranged defence against that possibility, of course, but we prefer to avoid even the threat. Moreover, we are a responsible people, and do not approve of turning loose unsavoury personalities on any other peoples in the multiverse who may not be able to defend themselves, as we can. Nor do we wish to upset societies not prepared for inter-universe contact. So we will keep our knowledge exclusive as long as we can.”
Mayne absently ran a hand through his rumpled light brown hair. “Surely, in infinity, there must be many other people who have inter-universe travel; so your knowledge can’t be exclusive even now.”
“This danger is what we are most anxious to investigate — what made us decide to make this contact. We originally believed other transplacers to be unlikely, but the human theorist Ithleen has demonstrated a fallacy in our logic.”
“That’s the first-contact person you mentioned, the one who named you?” Mayne noticed a lack of any title with her name, as he was used to.
“Yes. We sought the best theorist within this part of the multiverse so we could obtain opinions on points of interest about the multiverse from someone of another species, whose thoughts would be bound by a different mind-set from ours. This being, Ithleen, is capable of extremely high-level intuitive reasoning, a form of psi talent; she is able to make a valid judgement on the basis of data that would be insufficient for ordinary logic. She has agreed to continue to aid us with independent studies; but she has also convinced us we need to have a different quality of data than our robot probes can collect, the kind that only a live investigator can bring us. If you agree to be our explorer, I will take you to the theorist Ithleen for any further information you may want.”
It was the moment of commitment or withdrawal. Infinity... and the chance to exchange ideas with a brilliant mind from a wholly new culture, if everything Spen said was true. That or a safe but routine life of ever-diminishing achievement, examining the corollaries of his major discovery... this was exactly the sort of excitement his restlessness craved.
The wexter remained as still physically as ever, but Mayne caught the mental impression of discomfort over the duration of the visit to this strange world, and an intention to end the interview. Almost without awareness of making his decision, Mayne said quickly, “Let’s go see this theorist, then.”
“You agree to our conditions?”
“Yes, certainly; they’re reasonable. Where’s the transplacing device?”
“The one for you is just being made. It had to be designed to suit the human mind. For now, I will transplace you any time you need to move.”
“When do you want me to start the independent exploration trips?”
“We are eager, but have no immediate urgency. Since yours is a world without advanced psionics, it is one where you must restrict knowledge of the multiverse. Ithleen said that means you must conceal your absence from your Earth. How long will it take you to arrange that?”
“No time, I’m not accountable to anyone. I’ll just leave a note for my lab assistants.” Mayne flicked off the telekinetic micromanipulator, turned to a computer on an adjoining desk, and typed: “Away indefinitely. Will call when I return. J.M.” He hit the print-out key, retracted the computer neatly into the desk, and stood up. “Let’s go.”
***
The sensation of transplacement was not intrinsically unpleasant. The scene about him faded out in about three seconds, to an impression of white opacity lasting just long enough to sense. Then another scene faded in around them, taking about five seconds, during which time they found themselves positioned exactly at floor level in a clear area. Mayne let out the breath he had been holding in spite of his determination to accept this intoxicating development as merely impressive.
The large room was furnished half as a study, half as a lounge. At one end were thickly upholstered chairs and sofa, draped in throws of sea-green with swirls of misty white, grouped around an elegantly shaped wooden looking table. At the other end, amid floor-to-ceiling shelves of disks and books, was a curved desk, like a chunk of torus, fitted with an elaborate computer keyboard, several monitor screens, and other peripherals.
“Greeting.” Spen’s telepathic announcement of their presence seemed to be on general broadcast, so Mayne caught it too.
The woman at the desk, who was facing one of her monitors, startled slightly, but spoke with a casualness that Mayne suspected covered a keyed-up anticipation. “Hello, Spen. Did you find him? Did he agree?” She finished a few keystrokes, pressed a final key, and turned with a smile, before coming to her feet in a definitely startled movement. Obviously, she had not expected the wexter to bring “him” here immediately. She drew a quick breath, then crossed to join them.
Mayne’s first impressions of her were of graceful movement, brown hair with a soft wave, worn in a short, brushed-back style that needed no attention, and a thigh-length green jacket over matching slacks and a white, silky blouse.
The wexter announced unnecessarily, “Here is the explorer.”
Mayne noted with a touch of amusement that Spen had forgotten that humans liked to use names and hadn’t even thought to ask his. “I’m Jonnan Mayne.”
The woman extended both hands in greeting, and said warmly, “Welcome, Jonnan Mayne.”
As he took her hands, Mayne observed with greater precision that she was in her mid twenties, tall, less than a head below his own one-ninety-one, and had grey eyes. From her ease of movement he judged her to be slim and athletic, but could not tell directly, for her clothes were loose and much bepocketed. A pocket-stuffer himself, Mayne smiled at their common taste.
She was looking at him with equal interest, and he wondered fleetingly what she was making of his own body — its strength masked by his well-tailored clothes — his face with its habitual expression of distant politeness, and his aging grey-green heather jacket which, his early training belatedly reminded him, he should have changed before going visiting. He was out of the habit of giving consideration to social niceties. The thought was fleeting: a habit he did have was self-assurance. And anyway the situation was too interesting to leave time for trifling matters.
The woman smiled back at him, her own flustered moment past. “My name is Ithleen Danir. We no longer use titles of any sort, but we used to. I take it your world still does; what’s the correct one for you?”
“I’m a plennor.”
Adapting politely to his world’s customs, she said, “I’m looking forward to hearing about your world, Plennor Mayne, and to showing you some of mine.”
The wexter, still immobile, let an impression of restlessness interrupt them, and abruptly said, “I will leave you to your discussions now, and collect your reports as usual. If the explorer remembers anything that must be done in his own world to ensure its ignorance of the multiverse, I will come to transplace him.”
Ithleen nodded casually, and said, “Thank you, Spen.” The wexter faded out, and Ithleen, with a sympathetic smile, murmured, “Poor old Expendable.”
“That’s what you derived the name Spen from? Why Expendable?”
“As a penance for precipitating the wexters into their quandary over the multiverse, Spen’s been assigned to be their contact with the outer darkness, which is to say, us — and is shivering under ner shiny silver shield every moment because ne knows they’ll cut nem off from the wexters’ home universe if anything threatens that universe.”
