It was uncomfortably chilly on the night we saw each other last. I remember the methane snow flakes and the carbon ice, the first time around. The landscape around the Plume had unusually eerie feeling. Even a really long displacement such as the one I was going through now could not approximate the feeling. The memory somehow made the hair on my back rise. A distant, logical and pedantic part of my troubled, aching mind sought to inform the other part – the instinctive, impulse-driven part – that technically, I had no hair. No back for that matter either.
If I really had to be true and faithful to that stream of thought, I should have insisted on telling myself that I had no brain either, no corporeal existence of any kind. In a sense, it wasn't even me waiting to re-integrate across the other end of the Plume. It was just a taste of me, or rather an idea of me, a gestatum of awareness: a complete mental state, a simulacra of my mind in even the tiniest brane-induced wormholes and superstring matrices that made me who I effectively was.
Sometimes I thought it funny that I could be described as a really long list of probability equations. Some of the math actually had to be invented just to describe me. New disciplines were born just because I existed and half-crazed almost absurde and fringe scientists became Nobel Prize winners. I never understood how it worked.
Yar had said on our first meeting that I shouldn't worry and fret about the process much: I had no soul to displace, so even if he was the devil he could do me no harm. I'm still not sure whether or not it was only a joke. Can't really tell; the Olon seems wonderfully impervious to serious talk. It feels like being able to talk to God, a God with a sense of humor and an immodest amount of dislocation from the universe. For one thing, the talking makes the process endearing. It's almost fun. But the waiting ... I sometimes feel it will drive me mad.
Oh, the terrible waiting. The long, sleepless waiting – the nanoseconds that stretch into infinity and twist and bend and bog me down every single time. Inescapable, terminal boredom when every thought can be counted and analysed, repeated, rinsed of logic and sentiment, leaving nothing but a dull echo in my mind. Was that what everyone felt like across the plume?
I asked Yar about that in numerous occasions; he simply said that it depends on the person. It seems that even if I am the only one in thirty-two billion human souls that can confer with Yar across the Plume, I'm not especially suited to the task. Sometimes I wish I wasn't at all, other times I wish I could just turn the switch and displace as if it was as normal as breathing. Sometimes I wish I could just steer away from the Plume, get lost somewhere where I could not be found, somewhere beyond the infinite I have so casually embraced. I wish I could roam free, beyond the Plume's imaginary walls; take a sabbatical. Go on vacation. Lose myself in the greater neighborhood of the cosmos. But I couldn't.
Yar had cautiously advised against that. It was probably because he believed I couldn't do that, and as with pretty much anything, he was right. I couldn't, the smart boys and girls in the lab coats couldn't, the massive computational grids couldn't. The technical term the collective of Nobel prize winners, multiple patent holders and ground-breaking scientific prodigies had come up with was 'double glazing'.
You can look, but you cannot touch. That space in between, that space beyond the abnormal space of the Plume that I could feel or 'see', wasn't even space they said. It was a medium, a conveyor, but not like the Plume. It was a kind of appropriately demure punishment for amounting to little more than a flee in the larger scale of cosmic evolution, to ride on the same subway across the stars, everyday, to the same place, talk to the same person. What a job though. More than that: what a ride, to ride the plume.
It was long, and arduous, and for the better part boring. In essence, a real job. I played out a lot of fantasies involving myself. It was an advice Yar had given me and had paid off handsomely, saved some of my sanity. It was an inherent property of the plume: the lab monkeys had gone apeshit with all the data they were getting.
I simply had to imagine it, merely think about something solid and irrefutably real, and it would make sense and appear. I could grow limbs, swim in oceans of lava, fly like a unicorn across the rainbow. There were no bars or limits: in the realm of transluminar wave-particle inference entity projection, I was more than king; I was God. It was my domain. And without all the moments I had wished I was dead, I could not have cherished the moments when I felt myself oscillate in tune with the universe, or at least what little of it I could feel and see through the Plume.
Outside, in the real world, I was the envied treasure of the human species, the sole human being capable of communicating with a higher intellect across the vast distances of the stars, bringing back science, lore, truth, and answers. They only cared about the answers, though. They rarely paused to stop questions. At least not once they had room temperature fusion, teleportation, cellular rejuvenation and a whole new bag of tricks. There was a singularity effect; the world would never have been ready for such big news. Small wars were fought between ancient mindsets and cutting-edge weapons. I saw none of that.
They told me we had won, and effectively ended any serious threats to our so-called great and luminous Union. The lab monkeys got drunk that day, which was a first in oh, so many years. It looked like the people on Earth were getting used to all the fancy technologies and science leaps everyday. It was only so much they could absorb, so little time to care. It didn't really matter to me what the people thought: they told me stories about people thinking I was a demon, that I was the devil incarnate.
That I had made up everything Yar had freely taught me. That I was some sort of cunning alien, that I was a cyborg or a machine. People do that all the time I guess, trying to put into words and familiar circumstances that which is completely new and unexplainable, that which language fails to capture wholly. No-one could understand the Plume. Not me, and I rode the damn thing.
The hotshots believed me though. At first, they thought I was just another mental patient with some weird brain issues. An idiot savant yet to be included in the literature. Then someone dug a little deeper, and found out I couldn't simply know the things I scrawled everywhere when I went into catalepsis. And then they called in the real money pushers, and they brought their government friends along. And they set up a labyrinth of machines and experimental arrays.
I have hazy memory nowdays, more hazy than I'd like to, but I some things come to as clear as sunstreaks through a clowd. A general had asked me, while I still retained the capability, 'Do you know we've put more resources into you than in all of recorded history?'. I think I grinned and said something eloquent like 'Who's the crazy person now, motherfucker?'. Perhaps I still thought there was someway out of there, that I could go back to the asylum once they were through with me.
They knew I was for real. So when they fired up the test, they couldn't understand the details, and couldn't exactly comprehend or describe the mechanism, but they knew that in those few seconds, my mind had been displaced for an unknown distance, and when it had arrived, it was a completely different kind of monster.
.... There is more of this story ...