A Flash in the Pan? Read online

  Fernanda made a casual gesture in his direction. 'Weft the warp, Mr Orlando.'

  Raising his eyebrows at the colloquialism, Orlando engaged the controls and began the grand manipulations of quantum filaments necessary to open the link. His mind synchronised with the complex apparatus as his hands traced out broad strokes to mould the outline of the connection.

  Not for the first time, he reflected on the difference between plying his trade within the established boundaries of the Republic and the delicate precision required to forge his masterwork. As a Master candidate working to find a unique configuration that led to a new star system, one had to practice subtlety and grace else the glimpses of other universes could be overwhelming. Expanding the map of accessible space had its share of risks, but the work was glorious.

  This simplistic display felt like squishing a lump of clay compared to fashioning the Venus de Milo.

  'Link forming, Captain', the helmsman Phillips said. 'Sensors confirm Eridani.'

  Fernanda's reply was the same as always. 'Wait until we confirm stability and sensors detect nothing hostile on the other side. Only then full steam ahead, Mr Phillips.'

  After two years on this bucket Orlando thought Fernanda would have learnt to trust his ability to maintain a wormhole. He shook his head, buried his emotions and gave the Captain her precious stability.

  When the ship started to move towards the secured wormhole entrance, Orlando stopped monitoring the connection and let his mind drift back to his masterwork. He lost himself in idle contemplation of one of the more troublesome patterns, mentally trying and discarding variations on his current working model. New options occurred to him and he itched to return to the privacy of his cabin where he could get back to some real work.

  Without warning the old freighter started to buck and spasm. Only a lifetime of training allowed him to keep a hold of the link as he re-engaged with the wormhole generator and fought to calm the wildly fluctuating threads.

  'What the hell is going on?' Fernanda yelled.

  A technician looked up from his display. 'There's a severe subspace surge coming from the wormhole, Captain. I think...'

  Fernanda obviously didn't care what the sensor monkey thought any more than Orlando did, because she cut him off mid-sentence. 'Mr Phillips, get us away from the damn wormhole. Now!'

  Fernanda ran a tight ship, Orlando had to give her that. The crew all stumbled to their stations, their practiced movements in stark contrast with their drawn faces. The ship's superstructure groaned as they banked, tortured metal screeching in outrage at stresses caused by the combination of churning subspace and emergency manoeuvres.

  Orlando lurched sideways, banging his knee on the side of his console. As pain dropped him to the floor, he set in motion a sequence of improvised remedies, but the upheaval only grew worse. Other realities pressed in on him, fighting to expand into this universe's subspace now that his inattention had provided an opening. If the wormhole imploded now the freighter would suffer significant damage, perhaps even total destruction. His interface swelled with a tidal wave of colour that peaked then tipped towards entropy. Images of alternate universes strobed across his mind like a badly synchronised video broadcast. Micro-bursts of emotion grated his nerves as he touched on countless alien consciousnesses, each too fleeting to register as anything more than static. In an instinctive attempt to insulate his mind Orlando spun a binding construct, its pattern insignificant against the maelstrom, then closed his eyes as he braced for the inevitable shockwave impact.

  After a few mercifully explosion-free moments passed, Orlando opened his eyes to the sight of subspace swirling in gentle eddies around his virtual display. The crew stood frozen in place as if a single movement might break their fragile safety and bring disaster crashing back down on them all.

  Fernanda's voice slid across the silence, her quiet tone at odds with the vehemence of her words. 'I want an explanation for what just happened you arrogant, incompetent, self-centred bastard.'

  Orlando ignored her as he gazed at the structure that shouldn't have held together. In a flash of insight he saw in his temporary patchwork the answer to the problems in his masterwork. The culmination of 40 years honing his craft. His ticket to mastery, a new trade route and the extravagant way of life the resultant royalties would bring. In spite of the shudders that wracked his body in tardy reaction to the crisis, Orlando's face stretched into a grin.

  ***

  Orlando suspected that there had been better starts to a candidate's bid for mastery. The mutterings of the crowd that had gathered to witness what most thought would be one of the most entertaining hearings in recent times didn't help his concentration.

  Master Angelina Wainwright, the most senior Navigator present and chair of this assessment board, waited for the noise to die down then glanced left and right as if seeking the assistance of her colleagues. 'So let me see if I understand you -- and please stop me if I get anything wrong. You are petitioning us to allow you to demonstrate your masterwork. To support your request, you have cited a situation where you caused the near destruction of a ship under your protection. Am I missing anything?'

  Heat flushed through his cheeks, answer enough to her challenge for anyone observing him in that moment. Nevertheless he pleaded his case once more. 'With respect it's not as simple as that, Master. The weave that I've constructed is...'

  Wainwright snorted. 'Don't tell me, let me guess. It's going to revolutionise Navigation as we know it. We've all heard those sentiments before, from almost every Journeyman who has petitioned us. And not just Journeymen. Those Masters still involved in active research often claim the same thing about each minor improvement they make to their patterns. Even your Master, experienced as he was, claimed to be a pioneer before his last grand weave and look where that left him.'

  Muscles across Orlando's back tightened at the reference to his old Master. Was this the reason he was having so much trouble getting his application to be treated seriously? His bid had stirred up surprisingly strong feelings across the Guild, even accounting for the recent incident with the freighter. He'd studied the methods of his Master, who had been admittedly considered somewhat unorthodox by the bulk of his colleagues, and taken those techniques to their logical end point. The fundamentals were sound; indeed he struggled to grasp where his Master had erred.

  Orlando remembered the frustration of exclusion when his Master had refused to show him the discovery he described as a "breakthrough that would change the face of modern Navigation". He had seemed so sure. But when the old man had tried to put the technique into practice... There must have been some weakness in him, some hidden flaw that led to him becoming the Guild's most recent cautionary tale.

  The more traditional elements of the Guild, including the bloc led by Wainwright, had opposed his Master's research. Perhaps this was her way of further discrediting that work? There were members of the panel who still regarded his Master with some affection but despite their sympathy he hadn't been able to lock in enough support in the lead up to the hearing to guarantee his success. The situation was still delicately balanced.

  Wainwright was still speaking about the failings of his Master and with an effort Orlando focused his attention back onto her as she swept her hand through the air to punctuate a point. At the clearly prearranged signal a screen descended from the roof. He turned to face the display, wincing as an image of his old Master appeared pacing across a featureless room muttering and gesturing wildly.

  Wainwright lightened her voice, plying the rest of the panel with sympathetic tones. 'He seems to be getting worse. Is there anything more that can be done?'

  One of the Guild's most senior doctors stepped forward from the audience. 'As you can see his deterioration is following the normal path,' she said. 'The delusional state is deepening. We're lucky if we get a few lucid moments in a week. He surfaces enough to momentarily engage with us, then within seconds we lose him and he starts the cycle again. It's hard t
o tell exactly what he is experiencing, most of what he verbalises is gibberish. If he continues like the others, soon he won't even be able to take in nourishment unassisted. Once a patient has reached that stage we've found that a quick, painless passing is the most humane treatment we can offer.'

  'Is there any hope he will recover?' asked Wainwright.

  'I'm afraid not,' the doctor replied. 'He is truly Lost. Ever since his accident this was inevitable. A moment of weakness, a lifetime of regret.'

  Orlando understood that this adage, so often used in the Guild, was as much warning for him as it was a reflection on his Master's condition. The incident with the freighter had cost a lot in damage control and if there was one thing the Guild frowned on it was bad publicity. That, combined with this demonstration of his Master's downfall, would probably give the conservative factions enough ammunition to crush his bid. He choked down his first reaction and forced his face into a neutral expression.

  'I believe I've overcome the deficiencies in my Master's techniques,' he ventured.

  Wainwright leant forward in her chair and smiled. Reasonableness dripped from her every syllable. 'Well, Mr Orlando, that's the million credit question, isn't it? I have concerns, I've made no secret of that. Ever since your Master's ill-advised venture I have campaigned tirelessly for prudent restraint in how we adapt the time-honoured and proven techniques that have served our Guild so well over the last three centuries. However, some of my learned friends on the panel have argued that the potential to advance our understanding of Navigation outweighs any concerns I might have.'

  She paused, and from the absolute silence in the hall Orlando could tell she was successfully milking the tension for all it was worth. When she finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice that he had to strain to hear. 'I encourage you to take every precaution of course, but it is the decision of this panel to allow your bid to go ahead.'

  Even through his relief, Orlando had to admire her manipulation of the circumstances. While Wainwright had been gaining profile in the Guild over the last few years and was one of the favourites to win the next Grandmaster election, she was far from all-powerful. She didn't have any interest in whether he became a Master or not. A newly minted Master would have too little power, money or influence to impact the election's outcome and a failed Journeyman would matter even less. But by emphasising the incident with the freighter and dwelling on the fate of his Master, she had raised doubt in the minds of everyone present. If he succeeded she would be the bold visionary who supported his bid despite her reservations. If things went wrong, she would be the voice of sanity that had counselled against moving forward and had been reluctantly overruled by her less measured colleagues. Either way, she would gain standing in the Guild. It was just one minor move in the vast and complicated game that was being played out around the election, but an operator like Wainwright knew how to take advantage of every opportunity no matter how small.

  The onlookers drifted out of the chamber until Orlando was left alone staring at the screen that still showed the shambling husk of his Master. With no one left to keep up appearances for, he let his neutral expression sag and thumped the lectern in front of him. Why hadn't his Master confided in him? He could have helped. His Master wouldn't have ended up this shadow of the man he had once so admired. And Orlando wouldn't be tainted by association, fighting one of the most powerful person in the Guild just to have his chance.

  On the screen Orlando's Master fidgeted obliviously, his eyes clouded as he contemplated phantasms that were more real to him than the surrounding walls. Orlando's lip curled. He understood that no one liked to contemplate the Lost and that burying the Guild's failures deep was the established practice for an organisation whose wealth was in part derived from their aura of infallibility. Nevertheless, he wasn't his Master. He would succeed.

  ***

  Orlando focused his attention on the task before him and ignored the knot of judges on the other side of the bridge. The assessment board meeting and the subsequent lukewarm response to his wormhole modelling had convinced him that without a decisive demonstration he'd look back on his time Navigating for Captain Fernanda with nostalgic fondness. He had no doubt that he'd forge a new local route, they'd have to appoint him as a Master. But his standing in the Guild and his ability to negotiate royalties on the new route would depend very much on how the panel judged his techniques. He had to prove without doubt the superiority of his approach, so after days of deliberation he had made the decision to alter his pattern. If it worked this new construct would take him to a viable world on the other side of the galaxy, a feat never achieved in the history of the Guild. He could be expelled for changing his masterwork without permission after passing the theoretical stages of his testing, but he was betting on spectacular success outshining any administrative irregularities.

  It wasn't all bad. The Guild couldn't afford to be complacent about their place in the scheme of things, and diverted a significant portion of their considerable profits to finance the means by which the Republic expanded its borders. As a result this top-of-the-line Guild of Navigators ship was everything the old freighter he normally served on wasn't. Designed for exploration, it had state of the art quantum manipulation equipment. He loaded his base programs, noting with satisfaction the speed with which the initial configuration took hold. This system outstripped even the most advanced simulators available to Journeymen in the Guild training facilities.

  As the chair of the assessment board, Wainwright had exercised her right to lead the test voyage. Her voice cut across the background hubbub. 'Are you ready to begin, Mr Orlando?'

  At Wainwright's words all attention shifted towards him. Orlando didn't trust himself to speak and confined himself to a quick nod.

  'Well then, you'd better get started,' said Wainwright.

  Orlando took a deep breath, and brought up the holographic interface. Flares of orange and red dominated the threads. He began to adjust and equalise, his body in constant motion while he brought his consciousness into alignment with the machines. With such advanced instruments he could feel subspace around him more precisely than he could recall. He rapidly smoothed the fluctuations which threatened to unravel his wormhole link before it could begin to form.

  As the initial confusion settled into slow-moving green patterns, Orlando risked a glance at the assessment panel. They were making small talk among themselves. His introduction had been flawless but not remotely creative. He allowed himself a tight smile. He'd have their attention soon enough.

  Using his left hand to keep the local conditions in balance, he gestured with his right hand to start his revolutionary substrate manipulations. He smirked when the bored looks of his evaluators fell away. Swirls of purple infested his field of green. Judging eyes focused on the instruments around them, trying to work out what was happening. A muted buzz filled the room. Orlando tuned it all out as the requirements of his weave took more and more of his attention. Colours bloomed as he moved to quell increasingly complex eruptions of subspace.

  He felt the moment of connection before he saw any coherent patterns. Orlando's heart soared. As good as the Guild's simulators were, candidates could not be sure of success until they tried their creation in practice. Unprecedented complexity surrounded him, marking his entry into virgin territory. Other realities pressed in, their potential thrusting against his attempts to punch a hole through his own universe. He'd reached the danger point, where all his skill and experience would be needed to bend space and time. His movements became laboured. Time passed, tiny increments accreting into ages as the universe screamed and fought his attempts at mastery. Only willpower and the muscle-memory of long hours of physical training kept him on his feet.

  It was magnificent work. Orlando sensed the pattern forming and the wormhole link taking shape. Sharp intakes of breath intruded on his awareness. His evaluators had begun to see his creation, the first hints of beauty emerging from the background bedlam.

  Hum
anity reaching for the far edge of the galaxy. Not even the most experienced of Masters had seriously considered the concept and Orlando would be the one to bring it to pass. He'd never need to Navigate for an outdated freighter again. He tugged at a persistent subspace snarl with more vigour than strictly needed.

  And the thread tugged back.

  Orlando froze. A heartbeat later he sprang back into action but his attempts to save his pattern from collapsing were superfluous. All around him more and more threads began to manipulate themselves until the nascent wormhole started to gain substance without his interference or control. It felt wrong, a connection that was tainted with a nagging sense of perversion. His hands fell to his sides as the colours coalesced into a three-dimensional structure. He could still see glimpses of his weaves underpinning the new edifice, but the wormhole had arranged itself into disturbing patterns. The lines were aggressive, without the sculpted beauty he had planned. It seemed hive-like, conjuring insect images in his bewildered brain.

  In fact, the construction was so alien he began to understand what had gone wrong. Some aspect of the techniques he had used to create this weave combined with the power provided by the advanced Guild ship had allowed someone -- something -- in one of the parallel universes to reach through and complete a connection. And through that connection cold, hard thoughts battered against his senses. He felt the overwhelming hunger of trillions of beings on billions of ships joined together by a single will. That combined consciousness shone out like a beacon where in most universes there was only the static of individual minds. Through it he saw images of desolation, of a reality devoid of substance. They had stripped their domain bare and now waited impatiently to find their way into another.

  In those moments he saw the future laid out before him. Wainwright, when faced with the possibility of intelligent life that could also form wormholes, would most likely jump at the chance to make first contact and use the prestige gained to establish herself as the only viable candidate for the position of Grandmaster. While she could see the shape of the wormhole, unconnected from the generator she couldn't feel what he felt. She wouldn't listen to him, or at least would hesitate for long enough to let one of them through. Breaching universes must require anchor points on either side of the link or they wouldn't have needed his weave, but once even one ship was here they'd be able to open more and more of their own wormholes.