Paradox Engine. (Original Story.)

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victorhadin
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Paradox Engine. (Original Story.)

Post by victorhadin »

The following is the first part of a story I am writing. Some of the plot details become evident later on than this particular segment, so please excuse any confusion that arises. :)

It is a first draft, so please feel free to criticise.





Paradox Engine.






He stood, placidly, and stared at the Ubritz, and was rewarded in turn by the glance in it’s, -in his-, eyes as the Ubritz turned to glance back.

He did not look like anything much; not like what he had been expecting. The Ubritz was another man, a bit taller than most perhaps, and with an unnerving passive look on his face, but a man.

Grant decided to speak to him. "The collective; is it on tonight?"

The Ubritz did not reply. Past those grey locks of hair hanging partially over his face, a look of complete disinterest was radiated out. I do not care to answer. Typical of the kind, really. They were never what a person could reasonably call great conversationalists, indeed scarcely did any one of them say a word.

He watched the Ubritz turn and walk onwards down the brightly-lit corridor, before turning a corner out of view, and pondered the phrase ‘any one of them’. It was accurate in that there were many, after a fashion, and yet clearly a lie as, to a very real extent, there was only ever one of the genius savants. The fact that there were many did not refer to a myriad series of separate individuals, but more of the mirrored alternatives of the one Ubritz…

No. Thinking like that was only liable to lead to confusion. He proceeded himself to walk the corridor, before turning into one of the inset dark rectangles, seven feet tall each, which lined it at it’s sides. He took a breath and closed his eyes.

-A dazzling sense of infinite speed-.

He opened them again, a mere second or two later and was no longer in the corridor. His surroundings were those of a tiny box, barely large enough to fit him in at all. Behind him, he knew, was the rectangle gate which had brought him here. In front of him was a wall, with more walls to his two sides and above him; all perfectly flawless, all perfectly white and glowing gently from within.

The air, however, was not the same, quite. Though the same supernaturally clean odour filled it from floor to ceiling as filled the corridor, there was now something else, almost on the edge of perception. The smell of dust and, perhaps, a tiny amount of contamination caressing the sinuses.

He ruffled his greying hair and spoke aloud. "System, I would like to exit the junction, please."

There was a pause of a second or two and a voice answered. It answered from all around him and the tones of the voice were so sharp as to be inhuman. Perfect punctuation and precise timing beyond human ability; the unmistakable mark of a computer. "Grant Ulysses Trent, be aware that this junction represents access to the exterior. Do you consent to this act?"

"I do, System."

The walls of the box greyed and darkened slowly, the lighting steadily falling in intensity until, looking down, he could hardly see his shoes anymore, resting as they were on what was now a black floor. A slight breeze stirred the box.

And the wall in front of him opened out.

The scene that met his eyes was one he was prepared for, but it was one that startled him all the same, and did so everytime he came out into the open. He breathed in the air, it’s scent of pollutants and airborne particles now strong, rasping against his throat, and observed the scene.

Massive structures stretched skywards, huge, grey and bristling with scaffolding and handholds for the spiderlike machines that crawled over them at all hours. Noise filled the air, making evident the record of construction going on in the very depths and belly of the city, along with the unceasing building and interconnecting of the huge structures all around him.

It was a city of Ziggurats, tall, proud and interconnected by a web of access tunnels, vacuum tubes and simple spiderweb scaffolding, along which machinery moved and worked. The web of interlinked threads and scaffolds grew deeper towards the base of the buildings, becoming almost a solid floor a mile down, as the floor of the city moved ever upwards with the city itself, just as its border moved ever outwards, turning country into suburb into industrial zone.

And over, around and through it all was the brown cloud of ever-present smog that clung to the vast industrial metropolis, tainting the air and scarring the throats of any who cared to breath it. It stained the lower levels of the buildings and blurred distant details.


The whole was a triumph of industry, construction and total contempt for nature. It sang a song of eternal and unstoppable growth and glory for its founders. He looked over the morass and sighed.

For not once, among all the vast towers, the smog and the countless dark machines constantly rebuilding and expanding the city, had he seen a single human individual amongst it all. Not once over the constant din of robotic construction had a single human voice rang out.

And so he turned his back from this industrious, loud, triumphant city of the dead and walked back into the junction.

"Another fine day in paradise." He said.




------------------------------------




The room was different from the usual. The carpet was thick and soft, a blazing log fire crackled merrily, heating it’s surroundings to a pleasant tingling warmth evenly distributed throughout the surroundings, but never any more than that. The elaborate mantlepiece displayed eccentric wooden figures; Buddhas, knights of old, a Zulu warrior, spear and shield grasped eagerly, and a single old man, standing with a slender stick, looking quite out of place. The walls were hung with paintings and photographs, images of deserts, towns and coastlines. Here a peasant farmer looked at the photographer with an impassive lack of interest and there a nomadic village moves with it’s herd across a desolate landscape.

The room itself contrasted sharply with the images in the paintings and photographs, appearing almost overstuffed and crude in it’s decoration and obsessive display of antimacassar’s. Light flooded the room, not just from the fire, but from three electric bulbs, clustered together and hanging from the ceiling under a single lightshade, the light they threw over the walls far more uniform than reality would suggest.

And amongst the decorations, the souvenirs and the fine woodwork of door and mantlepiece, in the very centre of the room, was a circle of four armchairs. Each was fine leather, glossy in the yellow lighting and embodying a faint scent, and each faced into the centre of the circle.

And in one of the chairs sat Grant Ulysses Trent, his legs crossed and his chin cradled in his right hand, looking tired and impatient.

He’s late. He thought, pausing only briefly to think about the description ‘he’ and how apt it really was to the present situation. The thought ended, as with all the others, with the decision that terming the visitor as a ‘he’ was really the only way it could be done. It would be far too awkward any other way.

He shifted in his seat, settling into a more comfortable position, and frowned again. He was stopped mid-frown by the sound of the door behind him opening. The visitor crossed in front of him, to sit on the leather seat opposite, crossing his legs in the same fashion as Grant. He was heavily tanned with some Afro-Caribbean ancestry evident. His hair was dark but greying and was of slightly above-average length, which in sitting position rested on the sides of the collars of his checkered blue-and-white shirt. He looked severe but tired, yet none of these was the most striking facet of his appearance.

For the visitor was an exact duplicate of Grant.

“You were late.” Spoke Grant.

“I’m sorry.” Spoke the duplicate before self-consciously uncrossing his legs, as if asserting individuality in the face of the evidence. He gathered himself. “So, what is of the collective?”

“It is serious.” A stern expression. “From what I hear, all the Ubritz’s will be there. Every one.”

“Hmmm.” The alternate-Grant looked no happier than he. Unsurprising; only a few times in the history of the near-legendary Ubritz think-tank had all two hundred and fifty or so of the Ubritz savants been required to attend in a single collective. It either signified a moment of wondrous opportunity or possible peril; one way or the other, it foretold a highly significant event.

“Could-” started Grant, before faltering as his counterpart also started talking. Both briefly lapsed into the embarrassed silence so common when alternate selves conversed face-to-face. Conversing with someone who had led a life almost the same as yours, who looked, acted and thought just as you did and who, to all extents and purposes, was you and knew all you did tended to trip up the staunchest of mindsets.

His counterpart started again before he could. “Is it possible that this could be the sleeper issue at last?”

A long pause. It was a daunting thought. “From what my sources tell me; yes. Very probably.”

"Jesus."

Grant nodded. One thing that he found did separate the two alternates was their respective levels of knowledge and influence in their own worlds. Grant, this Grant, myself is the more informed of us both on matters political, he thought, and it always brought a grin to his face when he exercised this particular piece of individuality in such situations where he met with an alternate.

"Stop grinning." Said the other, showing faux-irritation. Sure enough, he did. "How do you know for sure this is the Sleeper issue that is to be decided on?"

"I can’t." He shrugged. "That is to say I cannot know for sure; it is but an extrapolation. Only a few other times have the Ubritz met in their entirety and at no other point has the existence of rumour been so intense covering the issue."

"Not a sure thing, your guesswork, is it?"

"Quiet." The alternate opened his mouth to speak before receding in his chair, mouth taut and set straight. "That is not all. I have some very solid sources in the council that back those rumours up and those sources say the same of your own councils and your own society."

There was silence as the alternate considered this, and it’s ramifications. Disbelief could be seen on his expression, giving way to a stone-cut poker face and, finally, a form of acceptance. The sight of emotions so obviously feuding on the face of someone identical to him fascinated Grant. It was as if a person had parted his hair just-so in a mirror for years before finally seeing his image the correct way around in a television screen and marveling at how little he looked like his own mental picture of himself.

"If this is true, it means the government will finally stuff us all into virtual reality as they have been intending to do." Spoke the alternate. "There would be no coming back from it. It would mean finally giving all of our trust over to the machines which care for us and slipping away from reality for good."

"Rubbish." Grant found the look of surprised irritation on his counterpart’s face no less amusing as before. "We have been doing that for years already. Do you know how many of our population are now dreamers?"

"Yes, yes. I know all the statistics. Eighty-something percent, right?"

"Eighty two. Last year it was half a percent lower. The year before-"

"-Lower still." The alternate interrupted. "I know as well as you. When I was a child, the figure was barely fifty-fifty, if that. Fully half of us were living and working in reality as we should be. Now…" he waved his hands around vaguely. "It has all gone to hell. Four-fifths of the population live their entire lives in their own happy little virtual dreamworlds or on the networks, all snuggled-up and safe from the cold outside."

"And they do it voluntarily."

"That’s the worst part. Nobody sees themselves as being worth anything these days. We have no purpose and so we hide from the world. Hell, even of the twenty percent or whatever that are not full dreamers, the vast majority of them do no real work. They simply flit in and out of virtual reality and the network, using the real world only as a reference point. Of the couple of percent of the entire population which actually choose to live and work in the real, even then the majority are lowly-skilled and inefficient at what they do."

"And then, after all that, there is us." Spoke Grant. "We are a fraction of a fraction of a fraction. The last researchers, civil servants and architects that live in reality. It would make me feel special if I didn’t feel so distraut at everyone else."

"And then you have the Ubritz." Chuckled the alternate.

"But of course." Smiled Grant in return. "The ultimate minority."

"One to a world. Less than that, even; one to a hundred of otherwise identical worlds."

"And we still cannot predict what they are thinking." He sighed.

"Why should we?" Spoke the alternate, resting back in the chair and looking towards the fire, ever-burning. "They are geniuses. Savants. One in a thousand billion."

Grant nodded and let his neck arch backwards, so that he might stare at the ceiling. It was amazing, when one came to think about it, at the level of detail that it contained. Tiny marks and ridges in the thin layer of what looked like wallpaper on the ceiling. Tiny cracks, bumps and scars; all overlaid and criss-crossing each other. And all, except for moments like these, to waste. All ignored the vast majority of the time and blurred into irrelevance by the brain.

-And yet they remained there. Such startling detail!

"I hope I’m not boring you." Spoke the counterpart, snapping him back to attention.

"Oh no. Not at all." He grinned apologetically. "Sorry for appearing to be rude. I was just marveling at the room. It’s creators, man or machine, must have gone to such pains to give it such a level of realism, all to fool a couple of people that have no intention of being fooled." He gestured with his palms. "I mean, we could have chosen to simulate ourselves any backdrop at all for our meeting; grand canyons, colliding asteroids, a moving display of colour. Anything at all. –And yet despite all this we choose to stage a virtual meeting in a setting that looks almost real, even though we both know it isn’t. There is a certain humour to that."

"That there is indeed." The alternate looked around in the silence, studying his surroundings for appearance’s sake before adding. "Regardless, I fear I must leave. I trust I should pass the information onto the others?"

"Do so, by all means. They need to know."

"That we do." He waved. "Farewell then, for now."

And without any hesitation or any pretence at normality, -perhaps simply to sting Grant for his observation-, the alternate vanished. He left behind a room which showed no trace of his earlier presence save an indentation on the seat he had occupied.

Such a standard, ordinary setting and conversation and such a level of pretence involved. He had, just now talked to another version of him. An inhabitant of a shadow universe, one of an infinite series, which just happened to be near-identical to his own. And in this quiet room, the fire crackling, the carpet soft and thick and even with faint odours hanging in the air, an inhabitant of another universe had talked to him via a network that stretched almost immeasurably outwards and through the various levels of reality… and despite this, the setting seemed quite ordinary, save for it’s otherwise unnoticeable lack of real physical existence.

He left by the door. It seemed the right thing to do.
Last edited by victorhadin on 2003-07-21 09:20am, edited 2 times in total.
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"

"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
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Post by victorhadin »

*Bump.*


Anyone? :cry:
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"

"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
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Post by victorhadin »

*Additional, hopeful, bump.*
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"

"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
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Post by Singular Quartet »

*files under weird*

First off, I'll bring up formatting: Put an extra line between paragraphs. To prevent confusion of changes in sections, add a marker of some sort between breaks in sections.

Anyways... an intresting work, actually. I could, probably, mull over sociological implications of this piece for a few hours, but that'd just bore anybody who wanders into this thread. I now I'm at least intrested in seeing more of this.
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Post by victorhadin »

Oh, feel free to comment on social issues. This thread hasn't been too active thus far. ;)



And agreed on the formatting. I might just do that now...
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"

"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
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Post by Singular Quartet »

victorhadin wrote:Oh, feel free to comment on social issues. This thread hasn't been too active thus far. ;)
Alright then.

Overuse of VR should be a rather good warning sign that people don't want to deal with reality, which, thus, needs to be improved. However, the fact that the government didn't improve reality suggests the following:
  1. said government was already in VR and was on "I couldn't give less of a shit mode"
  2. said government did not exist
  3. government tried, said "Fuck it," and gave up
  4. Government is still trying, but is getting no where.
While it is up to you to deciede, the story has so far suggested to me that these gentlemen (gentleman?), or perhaps Ubritz, are acting as a 'government' and have gone to option 3 (Tried, found hopeless, gave up)

Now said government (assumed to be the Ubritz or Grants or someone similiar) is just making sure that nothing bad happens to the sleepers, which, if properly done, could be used to demonstrate just how vulnerable they really are, and get them back into reality...
And agreed on the formatting. I might just do that now...
Much better...
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Post by Ace Pace »

hmnnn, man my head hurts from getting around the social consquences or 80% of a race in VR...
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Post by Singular Quartet »

Ace Pace wrote:hmnnn, man my head hurts from getting around the social consquences or 80% of a race in VR...
*shruggs* whatever.

victorhadin, you going to keep going, or what?
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Post by victorhadin »

At some point. I am a busy chap, so I can't do it immediately. :)
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"

"Blasted computer model, stigmatizing my aeroplane! Lower the Induced-Deity coefficient next time."
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Part 2.

Post by victorhadin »

Once again he stood, still, in a capsule. A small illuminated box fit for a few people to stand in, comfortable but unwilling to make eye contact or converse. That, at least, was not a problem at the moment, as the lift was empty save for Grant himself. The downwards acceleration was still continuing, causing his stomach to register a protest, and the walls of the chamber...

-The walls of the chamber were dull. Unlike the corridors with their blinding pseudo-glow and ever-present illusion of sterility, the walls of this capsule were dull, grey and grim metal. Old metal, tarnished by the years and antiquity and yet, seemingly, more solid than the corridors or the transit cubicles had ever been. It was as if reality was concentrated within this small space, to the extent of draining it, quietly, from everything else.

-Fitting indeed, considering his destination.

How odd, and how richly appropriate, that this place and the area he was approaching was held to be a treasured relic, cared for throughout the ages, while paintings, poetry and music sublimed into the general electronic morass. How touching that this one central arbiter of society, which had, long ago, set the sublimation in motion, was held as a museum to the real.

And how distressing, furthermore, that scarcely anyone ever visited. He had accessed the records to find that this relic of relics, this museum-piece of museum pieces, was hardly seen at all. In every encyclopaedia, every historical record and every book of times long past this artifact stood out as the one that had changed the world forever. It was heralded as the start of the true Golden Age of humanity; this age of dreaming, of creativity and of self-righteous determination to continue the utopia.

It was the first Engine.

The lift continued downwards.


---------------------


Imagine, for the sake of reason, a pool table.
Upon this table is a single ball. It lies in the middle, directly between two pockets and aligned perfectly.
But the pockets are not ordinary. They lead to no ball-capturing system, -no nets or rails to snag the potted ball.
They are wormholes.
The ball is struck towards one pocket. Hardly struck, even. It is impelled by a force applicable only to it and interfering in no other way with it’s surroundings.
The ball starts to fall into the centre of one pocket.
But it is no ordinary pocket...



---------------------


Grant registered a queer sensation. It was slight at first and barely noticeable past existence as an abstract, in his mind, but it grew to an obvious physical sensation in his gut. The lift was slowing down.

He imagined the near vacuum outside the boundaries of the capsule streaking by at incredible speeds. An absurd notion, but graphic enough to hold appeal as he thought of the walls of the shaft bare inches beyond that and the ever-present but ever-avoided possibility of a fatal accident.

The walls could strike a protrusion, just a tiny one, and the capsule would open up to the vacuum. The void would come in, or the air would charge outwards, and I would have time to be surprised in that instant before annihilation as the capsule itself, off-balance, rebounded and struck the walls solidly, disintegrating, tearing me apart and scattering the debris all over the walls of the shaft.

He shook his head. It was not that simple, of course. Safety factors were built-in to prevent a total disintegration or a glancing impact with the shaft wall itself.

Why, if anything did happen I could remain alive just long enough to asphyxiate on vacuum!

He grinned. -Morbid thoughts indeed; not taken seriously but nevertheless hard to ignore. They were, in any case, entertaining him during the journey. He was, after all, an intelligent man, and intelligent men could think of all sorts of ways to amuse themselves by visualising terror.

He stood a while longer and pondered one thing or another. –More potential causes of violent death in the shaft. The question of why the hell sentimentality prevented the installation of decent lighting in the lift. How thankful he was that soft music or subliminals did not attempt to placate and amuse him during the journey in this ancient piece of machinery.

But then all other thought ceased to be an issue as the deceleration stopped and, with barely a noise, the doors opened wide for him.


---------------------


The ball falls into the pocket. At this stage, it would be over and forgotten with in the normal scale of things, but this, of course, is not an ordinary game of pool.
The ball enters the wormhole.
At this stage, it is worth noticing the properties of the wormhole, which stretches between both pockets. The ball has entered the ‘entrance’ and is about to come out of the ‘exit’.
But the exit is special.
The exit is a second further back in time than the entrance.
And so the ball, a second earlier, emerges from the pocket behind itself and attempts to strike itself into the pocket.
The situation is now unstable.



---------------------



The space he stepped into was significant. At the very least it was significantly impressive.

It was massive and cavernous in appearance. Dark and ill-lit by several hanging luminous strips. Musty and old in smell and touch.

And yet this was not it’s most exotic feature. The place had a definite feel to it; a charge hanging, felt but unseen, in the air.

It felt industrious.

The whole was a large space cleared out into the Earth, circular in plan and with a gallery above. In the centre was a huge mass of miscellaneous machinery and extending from that in opposite directions, bisecting the room, was another mass; this time of power chords and solid cylinders. The central machine was made up, seemingly, of several toroidal shapes, hidden under the instruments. All were black or gunmetal grey, and it all hummed with power.

Up in the galleries was a constellation of subdued light. Holograms and flatscreens displayed their readings in a galaxy of tiny flashing lights, readouts and graphic displays. It reflected off the walls, the ceiling and the other monitors and instrument banks, giving an eerie glow to the upper balcony.

But there was not a single person in view. He folded his hands behind his back and walked slowly towards the bulk of the equipment.

And was stopped by a gentle field, which strove to push him back carefully, it’s intensity increasing with proximity to the machinery. He obliged it’s silent request by stepping back, cautiously.

"Try not to test the field, please." A voice called out.

Grant turned around, somewhat startled, to see a figure behind him walking out of a doorway recessed into the curved wall. The figure was young and male, evidently, with short blond hair over a head, which in turn displayed a face full of enthusiasm. "A visitor!" He said, with some glee.

"Ah, yes." Said Grant in return. "I’m not breaking any protocol or rules by coming here, am I?"

"Not in the slightest." Said the man, stopping in front of him and extending a hand. Grant obliged. "The fields would stop any unauthorised action, and there are… other security measures. My name is Richard Moss. I look after the Engine."

"Grant Trent." Replied Grant, somewhat bemused. The man seemed to be wearing no official insignia, nor a uniform of any sort; merely grey slacks and casual footwear. "You don’t look too much like an official, Richard, if you don’t mind me saying so."

"I am and I don’t." He responded. "I spend most of my time on the network, if you must know. Your arrival was somewhat unexpected."

"Ah." A frown crossed his face. The man was not a dreamer; that much could be said of him. Nevertheless...

"Shall I give you the tour?" The young man said, conveniently enough. Grant sidelined his thoughts for the moment.

"Why yes. That would be most kind." The man led him to the machine again. This time, however, no invisible field attempted to impede him in his movements. He looked around in some awe as he approached the colossal device and imagined that he could just about feel the energy flow through it’s bulk, crackling quietly along within it.

The two walked closer, approaching a small cluster of flatscreen monitors on the side of the device, which sprang from drab inaction to urgent glows as they approached. A hologram graphic appeared in vibrant green and blue, with writhing threads visible coiling around each other, though what it signified he had no idea.

"This lot here is new, to be honest." Spoke the other man, gesturing at the monitors. "It looks fairly aged, but that’s intentional and something of a deliberate fib." He gestured up to the viewing gallery with it’s constellation of readouts. "That is all new as well. When the Engine was first run, this chamber was completely deserted save for a few robots. The balcony was obscured behind a radiation shield and it was all run by remote." He tapped some miscellaneous part of the machinery and Grant could swear that his fist left marks in the dust. "The radiations released in this baby were nothing short of phenomenal at the time, and on a constant basis. The place was built like a fission pile back then."

"It is, I assume, safe now?"

"Certainly. It may look antiquated, but we have made some modifications over the years and it is still running now. It doesn’t have the bandwidth of later models, naturally, but-"

"So it’s all something of a charade?" Grant interrupted, brusquely. He was frowning again. More creative illusions. He thought.

"How so, exactly?" The other man asked, before catching on, allowing his expression to once again jump to a rather grating mix of enthusiasm and slight breathlessness, mentally preparing another spiel. "Ah. I see. –No it isn’t, to answer your question. All the main machinery is the same; we merely made minor modifications to maximise the safety of the Engine and to allow viewers like you or I to get near to it."

"’We’?"

"My predecessors, rather." The man seemed rather put aback by this, before rallying. "Do you want to know how it works?"

"Indulge me, by all means." Said Grant, smiling and leaning towards the machine, pressing an ear almost onto the metal with its humming machinery and contemplating, -visualising-, what must lie within. He tasted the scent of ozone on the stagnant, cool air and relished it.


---------------------


The situation is now unstable.
The ball will, naturally, attempt to hit itself into the pocket, but there are destabilising factors.
Friction.
Timing.
Entropy.
For stability, the cycle must be perfect, or the ball must not be allowed to impact itself. In this case, the ball hits itself too soon before the initial impetus could be applied.
On top of that, friction and entropy have slowed it and limited its momentum with which it will attempt to move itself into itself.
Result?
Paradox. Instability.
The equation must be balanced and satisfied, but linear time-travel will not allow this.
Fortunately, there is a way in which the equation can equalise and satisfy itself.
The word here is
‘Multiverse’.


---------------------


The man named Richard came to the end of his winding explanation.

Grant looked at him and smiled thinly. "Most interesting." He looked away before returning his gaze. "I do have one question, however. –Why is it that large objects cannot pass through the wormholes and move between dimensions?"

The man smiled, aware that this predictable question was one he had answered many times before. "It has never been tried, nor will ever be. Models show that obtaining wormholes of that size place nearly impossible strains on any conceivable power-source. The energies required are just too great." -An isolated shrug. "And that’s not it. Large wormholes are incredibly unstable. Rather, all wormholes are unstable, but keeping large ones open is far harder. On top of that you have the rather dispersed nature of large macro-scale objects which prevents precise transfer."

"Dispersed?"

"The connection changes all the time. Very small amounts of charge and matter must be transported to allow a good focus for the Engine. Throwing, for example, an apple through the Engine, -assuming we could generate wormholes large enough-, would likely results in that apple being sprayed over several thousand different shadow universes. Dimensions, rather. A single particle or a small bunch of particles would likely move to only one."

Grant nodded. "Very well." He said, having been fully aware of all details throughout in any case. It was good to humour people like this man. If he got little human contact outside the networks that would be to be expected. It was simply polite to extend the conversation in such circumstances, he felt.

Grant looked up at the monolith once again. "And it was this one which started it all, indeed. This one changed our world for good and we will never regress back to what we were before it’s creation."

"Indeed." Spoke the tech. "It is certainly a wonderful thing." Grant threw him a look at that, but thought better of pursuing the point too far.

"Some aspects of it are, yes. Some aspects."

"You have doubts?"

He looked back at the tech. The man had an expression of polite curiosity, mixed with perhaps the faintest of smiles. He looked sincere enough. Perhaps he had underestimated the man. "As ever, cynicism is a gift. Nothing brings with it untainted good; there is always a dark side to every invention."

"You refer to the sleepers?" This earned a raised eyebrow from Grant. Smart lad. Not all had the ability to see that as a negative whatsoever. Most, indeed, would not even consider that it had a downside.

He nodded. "Yes. The sleepers." Before something made him look to the balcony, as if searching for something. "Among other things." The moment stretched out, interrupted only by the constant background hum of the machinery and the flickering images of the readouts in front of him. He allowed his focus to drift off, while nodding and replying to the tech in only the most abstract fashion. He seemed to be going on about what was represented on the screens; data transfer or somesuch.

What would have happened if that first test-run of the Engine had not gone as well as it did? What would have happened if the experiments had proceeded with no answering call from a shadow society? Society would never have become connected as it did. The massive technological benefits given by use of the Engine would never be achieved.

But neither would the sleeper issue be relevant. –And neither would it be necessary to police the use of the Engines and to separate worker in reality from dreamer in the network; a distinction too stark and depressing to handle for so many.

One tiny act of chance and the entire history of humanity had swerved. Had it been different...

He saw a movement in the corner of his eye and looked up to the balcony. This time there was no doubt. The figure was there, hands on the balcony and looking wistfully forward. Tall, thin, grey-haired and in black.

It was the Ubritz.

He stared at the figure and gaped slightly, beginning to call out to it before giving up, the call dying in his throat before it had been created. He turned to the tech.

“Is he-”

“Often here? Yes. Most days.”

“Have you talked to him?” Spoke Grant, in disbelief.

The tech shook his head. “No. I tried the first time he came but he wasn’t having any of it. He just comes here to think, by the look of it. I generally leave him well alone.”

Grant looked up to the balcony and to the lone figure stood there. The Ubritz had not made any sign of having seen them or recognised their presence in any way. He merely stood there, reflecting on private things only he knew about.

“Sometimes I wonder about him.” Spoke the tech. “He seems so lonely and isolated. -But so busy and essential.”

Grant nodded, and thought about what he had said earlier about the effects of the Engines. It was not just the sleepers that were affected.

“Among other things.”


---------------------


There are many universes in the Multiverse. They coexist, barely affecting each other save on the most abstract of quantum terms.
And this is where the equation must stabilise.
The pool ball, flung into paradox, will move between universes to satisfy stability.
This is merely a thought exercise. The real application lies in the field of particles.
Throw free electrons through the paradox engine. Throw an electron beam. Throw even tinier particles, if possible, through tiny wormholes.
With the movement of charge you can transport more than energy.
You can move information.
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Ace Pace
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Post by Ace Pace »

:shock:
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victorhadin
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Post by victorhadin »

Ace Pace wrote::shock:
I have no idea whatsoever if that is a good thing or a bad thing. :wink:
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Post by Peregrin Toker »

I like your story very much - it's certainly well written, and it contains some nice ideas. (I see some inspiration from "The Matrix" and even "Total Recall") Of course, there are some mysteries - but I expect them to be explained in later chapters.

Not to veer off topic, but why have nobody commented on my original story, "The Wormhole War" (my signature links to it) - even though it has reached its third chapter??
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Post by victorhadin »

Cheers. I will indeed be explaining certain hidden facets (such as what it is that the Ubritz's actually do) in forthcoming chapters.

The Matrix connection occured to me, although I didn't think of it at the time of writing, personally. I expect such reality/ non-reality subject matters are common enough in science-fiction. :)
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"

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Post by Peregrin Toker »

victorhadin wrote:
The Matrix connection occured to me, although I didn't think of it at the time of writing, personally. I expect such reality/ non-reality subject matters are common enough in science-fiction. :)
I have a theory that ever since "The Matrix" came out in theatres, many sci-fi novels and books have referenced "The Matrix" unintentionally.

(just like there once was some Nazi propaganda flick which ironically used many of the cinematical tricks championed by Chaplin, who was derided in the same Nazi propaganda movie)
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Post by victorhadin »

You might have a good point there. I expect a lot of people veer towards the VR idea thinking, perhaps subconscioussly "The Matrix was clumsy; this is how I will do it!"

Or maybe we simply notice such themes more now the Matrix has stormed past us and their frequency is the same.


As for this story, I initiated it straight off the back of the 'pool table' paradox I mentioned, and extrapolated it to extremes. It is possible that Matrix-y influences only initiated after I added the VR aspect, rather than from the outset.

But I fear I have revealed too much. Forget this post happened! :wink:
"Aw hell. We ran the Large-Eddy-Method-With-Allowances-For-Random-Divinity again and look; the flow separation regions have formed into a little cross shape. Look at this, Fred!"

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Post by Peregrin Toker »

victorhadin wrote:But I fear I have revealed too much. Forget this post happened! :wink:
Now, I just need my Powders for Dreaming of Joy and Goodwill...
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Post by Singular Quartet »

Simon H.Johansen wrote:Not to veer off topic, but why have nobody commented on my original story, "The Wormhole War" (my signature links to it) - even though it has reached its third chapter??
Same reason no one really comments on my work over here. I think it's mostly because you have to have writtena few good fanfics before anybody really starts commenting on a piece.

*thinks for amoment*

Guess I should really start writing some fanfics, then...

EDIT: Simon: Little wonder. Try formatting it. Several different people don't even read fics unless it's properly formatted.
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