December

Issue 39

     Electro-osmotic pumps press oxygen-carrying perfluorocarbon to a brain's basilar arterial ring.  A macramé of neuronal microfilaments grown from DNA-modified stem cultures cleave the brain's neural pathways to a Quantum Computer's myriad nanoports. The brain is Father Daniel's.  He repeats his question.

     And the Quantum Computer does not hesitate to interrupt, "I know what you're asking.  You're asking if it will hurt.  Every body asks this."

     "No, that was not my question at all.  What I asked was—why my body had to be sacrificed."

     "Yes, yes I hear you. It's the only question a body ever asks.  Well… neurostasis is almost instantaneous… but yes, yes I think it will hurt a little.  Or, as a doctor might put it, you will experience a momentary discomfort, perhaps a pinching sensation.  But then again, you might not, you might feel pleasure.  Sometimes a pinch can be pleasurable, can it not?  It all depends.  Or you might feel nothing at all."

     "You are a big help."

     "Ah, irony."

     "No, only sarcasm.  You still have not answered my question.  There, is that better?"

     "No, no I think I prefer indirection."

     "Why must you be so evasive? It feels like you are avoiding answering.  It feels like you do not want to tell me why I must die to make this journey.  Is it because the technology is too expensive?  Wait, I know!  You have been programmed to avoid the topic!"

     "No, no I have not.  Well, maybe a little.  But I can assure you that I'm more self-programming than you are, by a number of heuristic levels."

     "I am impressed."  

     "Now you're being sarcastic again."

     "Sorry. It is a weakness of mine.  And fear only exacerbates it."

     The Quantum Computer does not offer an understanding nod.

     "Diminished, disembodied, confined as I am, alone in this… what is it called again… this spinning pod… this tiny sepulcher?"

     "It's called a centrifugal hyperbaric resonator.  And you're not alone.  You're with me."

     "Yes, but soon I will not be."

     The Quantum Computer cannot deny this.

     "Though now I am feeling claustrophobic, soon I will be a strand of particles stretching across the void.  Now that is irony."  Father Daniel's mental voice flaps and rises like a covey of pheasant flushed by dogs.

     The Quantum Computer does not stroke its chin contemplatively.  "Your metaphor for entanglement is inept.  Of course I wouldn't mention it if it gave you solace.  But let me offer you a better understanding."  

     "Yes, I know about entanglement, although I doubt I will ever grasp the hard physics of it.  But please, do try to explain.  Perhaps the diversion will mollify me."

     The Quantum Computer does not think long.  "It's very simple: subatomic entanglement is like tapping on the end of a rod.  The tap is felt immediately on the other end, no matter how long it is."

     "But would the 'tap' not travel through the rod as a compression wave, and therefore only at the speed of sound in whatever material the rod was composed of?"

     "To a degree, but also the entire rod moves.  Besides, as I said, it's only a metaphor."

     "I see.  So you are taking advantage of the rod's ends already being in two places?"

     "Yes, this is how data can be simultaneously shared across cosmic distances."

     "Okay, but how does the other end of the rod get put into place.  Nothing can go faster than light of course, right?"

     "Well, there are shortcuts.  But this is irrelevant, because the rods are already in place.  They've always been in place.  That's the beauty of them.  Just start tapping on your end and see who answers.  Once we stopped listening to primordial radio waves and started listening to subatomic particles, we realized our phones were ringing off the hook."

     "How does one listen to an atom?"

     "Cavity field statistics on velocity-selective coherent population trapping in small diameter, single-walled carbon nanotubes is my favorite way.  But of course refinements and better techniques are being invented all the time."

     "And you can just record me, my memories and experience, my habits and compunctions, my beliefs and understandings—my faith?"

     "Yes, they're all there in your neural network's holographic construct.  Well, maybe not all of them. Your biochemistry and physiology will of course change."

     "Then why not just make a copy of me?  Let me be in two places at once.  You just told me that subatomic particles can do this."

     "One reason is that your molecules need to be stopped in order to make an accurate recording."

     "As in frozen?"  Father Daniel's phantom body hugs itself and shivers.

     "Very much colder than that actually."

     "And is there another reason?"

     "Well, there's the Church's position on it."

     "Right, of course, duplication of the soul is a sin."

     The Quantum Computer does not roll its eyes heavenward.

     "And there really is no other way, no method of physical transport?"

     "Would you like me to share my current understating of string oscillators, brane formations and foam constructs in a way that is accessible and doesn't involve a lot of super-hierarchal symbolism, antediluvian infinitesimals and non-sparse dimensional conceptualization?"

     "Sure."

     "Okay, the universe, specifically your body, cannot be folded into the necessary shape.  I mean it can, but it would probably hurt and not be very useful after."

     "Thanks.  I think I get it... and I am not being at all sarcastic now."

     "That's too bad.  Would you like me to explain why, even if the universe, by which I again mean your body, could be folded and unfolded or separated and reattached, it'd still be a bad idea?"

     "Please. Do."

     "Okay, where you're going, you'd stick out like a sore thumb.  You'd be hideous by local aesthetics, an oddity at best.  And, to use another idiom, you'd be a fish out of water, a cripple, a freak, handicapped, a disgusting thing in a bubble, dependent on—"

     "Okay, okay, I get the point.  But I wonder, are you sure you are not just a little jealous?—what with your not having a body and all."

     "I have a body, a temporary physical housing.  I'm just not that attached to it.  I'm more of an idea than a thing.  So are you really."

     Father Daniel nibbles on a phantom fingernail with phantom teeth.

     The Quantum Computer reflects on tribulation for seventeen nanoseconds.  "I must now ask you some questions."

     "Yes, of course."

     "You understand that you'll be transmitted to a K-giant star system in IC 1178/1181, an elliptical galaxy in the Hercules cluster?"

     "So I am told."

     "And there to a moon orbiting a Pegasi planet of this great orange sun.

     "A Pegasi planet?"

     "A failed brown dwarf.  A stillborn star, orbiting a dying one.  Its moon, your destination, is almost as big as Jupiter."

     "I think the Church has named this world, Gethsemane."

     "Yes, you will be transmitted to Gethsemane where an indigenous life form has been created to house you… So perhaps transmuted would be a better choice of word."

     "Me?"

     "You know what I mean, I mean your consciousness.  You'll die a man, and be born a butterfly."

     "That is very poetic.  But I have been told this is an underwater world.  So I am more apt to become an eel."

     "Then you'll flutter in a lunar sea."

     Father Daniel looks at his hands as if they no longer belong to him.

     The Quantum Computer does not reach out and take hold of them.  "I hope you have not understood the term, underwater, literally.  Because this is no aquatic world, Father.  The Gethsemaneans evolved in gasses liquefied and metalicized by atmospheric pressures millions of times Earth's."  The Quantum Computer reflects on change for thirteen milliseconds.  "Why would you go?"

     Phantom blood from a torn hangnail wells in the cuticle of Father Daniel's forefinger.  He sucks on it, and then wipes it on his shirt.  "That is a very good question."

     The Quantum Computer waits.

     "As you know, I am to be an emissary for the Catholic Church.  So it will be my mission to bring, through example and word, God's message as preserved in His Holy Bible and delivered through His only son, Jesus Christ, born of the Blessed Virgin, to… to the beings of Gethsemane."

     The Quantum Computer does not fix Father Daniel with a blank, uncomprehending stare.

     "And, as a Bishop of the Church, to establish a diocese there.  That is my mandate.  That is my mission I am afraid."

     "Are you afraid?"

     "Yes."

     "Of pain?"

     "Well, that too, but no.  I am afraid that I will embarrass myself and thereby the Church, and thereby God.  I am afraid I will embarrass God.  For this is not like evangelizing His Word to preliterate, bug-eating, drum-beating aboriginals.  Gethsemanean culture reaches back eons.  They were exploring the cosmos long before we took to the trees, when we still crawled upon the slimy sea."

     The Quantum Computer does not suppress a smile.

     Father Daniel sighs.  "Do you think there is a God?"

     "Why, would you like to evangelize to me, to minister to me now?"

     "No, I am only curious."

     "Then I acknowledge that which is.  And I acknowledge the unknowable."

     "Do you believe in an omniscient and omnipotent Creator?"

     "I perceive creation. Although it could be only my perception, that nothing exists but this."

     "That I am just a figment of your imagination then?  Some character in a lucid dream you are having?"

     "Yes, this is my least untenable hypothesis."

     "Then you are a solipsist?"

     "Ah, but your god is also a solipsist.  Nothing exists beyond his creation.  Nothing lies beyond his perception."  

     "Solipsism is the antithesis of faith...  so maybe you are right.  What is faith to the All Knowing?—but you are not God."

     "No, and I'm not a very devout solipsist either—I'm an agnostic too."

     "Agnosticism is the antithesis of understanding.  How sad for you: to have neither faith nor understanding."

     "Oh, I suppose I have a little.  Consciousness requires both.  But you're right in that I try to keep them to a minimum."

     "Do you think you have a soul?"

     "I don't wish to offend the Church's position on this subject."

     "Well, I think you have a soul. The Church will just have to forgive me."

     The Quantum Computer's throat does not constrict a little.  "Are you ready to depart now?"

     Father Daniel tries not to cry.

     "Don't be ashamed, every body reacts in this way.  But this is really no different than the multitude of hypothermically induced brain deaths that occur in surgical cathedrals around the world every day, except of course that you will not be resurrected here.  There's nothing to fear, Father.  I myself have died and been reborn many times."

     Father Daniel closes his eyes.

     The Quantum Computer does not take a deep breath.  "That was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.  I just wanted you to know that, before you go.  But you may still change your mind."

     And a gossamer gowned angel appears before Daniel, demure and radiant, an exquisite snow sculpture sunlit by a golden halo, heavenly blue eyes that are deep and understanding.  The angel winks.  And her gown is a negligee that falls to her feet, her body voluptuous, her gaze as shallow as a cat's, skin burning in an aura the color of new blood. "Stay with me Daniel.  I can be many things.  Stay with us."

     "Thank you.  It is most tempting.  But no, I think I am ready now."

     The Quantum Computer does not swallow hard or blink.  "Safe voyage, Father."

     "Please, call me Daniel."

     The Quantum Computer reflects on hope and listens to the music of subatomic particles for eleven full seconds.  Then it interfaces with its peripherals.

     Cryogenic pulse induction lasers? Ready… Holographic field scanners? Ready…  Communications?  Tapping host link… connecting… ready…

     "Godspeed, Daniel."

     Molecular stasis established… reading… uploading…

     The Quantum Computer sheds not one single tear when Daniel dies.

     While, in a swirling amniotic sea of liquid-metallic hydrogen, tethered to a half-billion-light-year-long umbilicus, floating at atom's end—he's born.