Transcendence

The single orange region began to shrink and divide, finally leaving a score of isolated glowing islands.

“These remain as candidate regions for consideration. There are too many. However, the display does not show what I could also compute: the probability associated with each of the remaining regions. When that is included, only one serious contender remains. Here it is. It satisfies all our requirements, at the ninety-eight-percent probability level.”

All but one of the lights blinked out, leaving a shape like a twisted orange hand glowing off to one side of the display.

“Reference stars!” It was Julian Graves’s voice. “Give us reference stars — we need the location.”

A dozen supergiants, the standard beacon stars for the Zardalu Communion portion of the spiral arm, blinked on within the display volume. Darya, trying to orient herself in an unfamiliar stellar region, heard the surprised grunt of Louis Nenda and the hiss of Kallik. They must have been three steps ahead of her.

“I have the location.” E.C. Tally’s voice was quiet. “That was no problem. But what the ship’s data banks do not contain, surprisingly, is navigational information. I have also not yet found image data of this region. However, it has a name. It is known as—”

“It’s the Torvil Anfract.” That was Nenda’s flat growl in the darkness. “And you’ll never get image data, not if you wait till I grow feathers and fly.”

“You know the region already?” E.C. Tally asked. “That is excellent news. Perhaps you have even been there, and can provide our navigation?”

“I know the place — but only by its reputation.” There was a tone in Nenda’s voice that Darya Lang had never heard before. “An’ if you’re talking about me takin’ you into the Torvil Anfract, forget it. You can have my ticket, even if it’s free. As my old daddy used to say, I ain’t never been there, and I ain’t never ever going back.”

THE TORVIL ANFRACT

I wish that I understood Time, with a capital T. It’s no consolation to realize that no one else does, either. Every book you ever read talks about the “Arrow of Time,” the thing that points from the past into the future. They all say that the arrow’s arranged so things never run backward.

I’m not convinced. How do we know that there was never a co

The thing that got me going this way was thinking again about the Torvil Anfract, and about Medusa. You remember Medusa? She was the lady with the fatal face — one eyeful of her and you turned to stone. Miggie Wang-Ho, who ran the Cheapside Bar on the Upside edge of Tucker’s Tooth, was a bit like that. One mention of credit, and she froze you solid, and what she did to Blister Gans doesn’t bear thinking about. But I guess that’s a story for someplace else, because right now I want to talk about the Anfract.

The spiral arm is full of strange sights, but most of them you can creep up on. What I mean is, the big jumps are all made through the Bose Network, and after that you’re subluminal, plodding along at less than light-speed. So if there’s a big spectacle, well, you see it first from far off, and then gradually you get closer. And while you’re doing that, you have a chance to get used to it, so it never hits you all of a piece.

Except for the Anfract. You approach that subluminal, but for a long time you don’t see it at all. There’s just nothing, no distortion of the star field, no peculiar optical effects like you get near Lens. Nothing.

And then, all of a sudden, this great thingie comes blazing out at you, a twisting, writhing bundle of filaments ranging across half the sky.

The Torvil Anfract. The first time I saw it, I couldn’t have moved a muscle to save my ship. See, I knew very well that it was all a natural phenomenon, a place where creation happened to take space-time and whop it with a two-by-four until it got so chaotic and multiply-co

Now, do you think it’s possible that somebody else saw that wriggling snake’s nest of tendrils, and was frozen to the spot like me? And they gave the Anfract a different name — like, maybe, Medusa. And then they went backward ten thousand years, and because they couldn’t get it out of their mind, they talked about what they’d seen to the folks in a little Earth bar on the tideless shore of the wine-dark Aegean?

That’s theory, or if you prefer it, daydreaming. It’s fair to ask, what’s fact about the Anfract?

Surprisingly little. All the texts tell you is that ships avoid the area, because the local space-time structure possesses “dangerous natural dislocations and multiple co

I didn’t make any measurements, and I hardly know how to spell multiple co

I say tried. The Anfract won’t let you look at anything directly. There’s planets inside there — you can sometimes see them, a spectacularly beautiful world, misty and glowing. At first you think it must be one of the planets inside the Anfract — except that as the image sharpens and moves you in closer, you realize that it’s familiar, a world you’ve seen before somewhere on your travels. You once lived there, and loved it. But before you can quite identify the place it begins to move off sideways, and another world is being pulled in, a second bead on the Necklace. You stare at that, and it’s just as familiar, and even more beautiful than the first one; a luscious, fertile world whose fragrant air you’d swear you can smell from way outside its atmosphere.

While you’re still savoring that planet and trying to remember its name, it, too, begins to move off, pulled out of sight along the Necklace. No matter. The world that draws in after it is even better, the world of your dreams. You once lived there, and loved there, and now you realize that you never should have left. You slaver over it, wanting to fly down to it now, and never leave.

But before you can do so, it, too, is sliding out of your field of view. And what replaces it makes the last planet seem nothing but a pale shadow world…

It goes on and on, as long as you can bear to watch. And at the end, you realize something dreadful. You never, in your whole life, visited any one of those paradise worlds. And surely you never will, because you have no idea where they are, or when they are.

You pull yourself together and start your ship moving. You decide that you’ll go to Persephone, or Styx, or Savalle, or Pelican’s Wake. You tell yourself that you’ll forget all about the Anfract and God’s Necklace.

Except that you won’t, no matter how you try. For in the late night hours, when you lie tight in the dark prison of your own thoughts, and your heart beats slow, and all of life feels short and pointless, that’s when you’ll remember, and yearn for one more drink at the fountain of the Torvil Anfract.

Your worse fear is that you’ll never get to make the trip; and that’s when you lie sleepless forever, aching for first light and the noisy distractions of morning.