Schrodinger's Tale

by Michael P Calligaro



Deliberately, and with a profound lack of flourish, Ablah-Sabe Qhoat'tra Haran extinguished the faintly glowing ember with a twist of the wick between the stubby ends of his two remaining fingers. In the murky twilight seeping through the stained glass, he stared out over the congregation, pleased to see that none had left early. His good hand sought the knobby shaft of the handwrought tin candlestick. Gripping it tightly, he lifted the weighty sconce from its sacred place and perfunctorily bowed before turning from the altar. After carrying the holy relic down the familiar tripartite steps, stowing the Holder of Light in its wooden cabinet, and folding closed the leaded glass doors, the Ablah-Sabe concluded his evening service.

* * *

A tap on his shoulder jolted Bobby awake. He involuntarily kicked his leg forward from its resting place on the edge of the console and disrupted his delicate balance on the two rear hoverplumes of his lab chair. For a quarter of a second, he flailed his arms frantically in the air. Then his weight carried him forward, and the remaining legs of his seat slammed into the microscopically thin yet astonishingly hard floor covering. As the plumes fought to raise the chair again, his body slid sideways and his momentum slowly spun the chair around to reveal the source of his disturbance.
"Hi, Supe!"
"Don't like your job anymore, Terrano? I'll be happy to inform Organic Resources." The supervisor's tone was no more gruff than usual; perhaps Bobby had not been asleep for very long. And when in doubt, he figured, bluff.
"I was just looking for you a minute ago, Supe." It was a chancy leading comment, but one that would give him a plausible justification for glancing at his cron. 8.73. He spoke slowly, buying time, as his mind raced to remember the last action he completed before dozing. Scanning suspect messages? Filing a rep? Checking the log? Updating the log, that was it. "Yeah, I looked in your office but you weren't there. So I tried the lounge, even though I know you don't go there much, and of course I didn't see you there, either. Then, I went by Sharon's office, figuring that you might be in to see her. . . ." Bobby droned on, drawing out every sentence into a painfully tedious exercise in redundancy. The log: What was the entry? Multiple failure of something or other in the reactor basin. The time? He couldn't remember.
The supervisor interrupted him in mid-sentence. "Right. What was it you wanted?"
Seven something. 7.22. Damn! He'd been asleep for an hour and a half. But apparently his bluff had worked, odd as it might have seemed that the supervisor had not been any of the places Bobby had mentioned. Now he just needed to invent a reason why he might have been looking for the supe.

* * *

This is Mitchel Dorchen's writing journal.
Damn, that sounds corny. Oh well, they tell me one of the good things about a journal is that you can't get rid of the stuff you write in it. I'm doing this on a word processor, but I'd probably better pretend it's ink.
12 April 1988
How do you begin a journal? Hello, posterity! How's the wife and kids? My thoughts are a jumble, as usual. Meredith's relentless badgering has finally won me over: I will try to write. I will try to write a story. I will try to write The Story, the one I have related to her in countless fragments over our magical Tuesday luncheons at Micah's.
And if I am to write, I must write. So, I write . . .
. . .
Okay, maybe I'll just start with my thoughts for the day: Dan is a jerk. A quarter dropped in a muddy puddle is not worth retrieving. Kittens are cuter than children. Writing is not easy.
My thoughts aren't very interesting. Who'll ever read this journal? I probably won't myself.

* * *

16 April 1988
Since Tuesday I've spent almost every boring moment at work (in other words, all of them) trying to plot out The Story. Then today, when I actually sat down to write it, another story popped into my head! And not only could I see this story in its entirety, but it was better than The Story. I think I'll put the other one on hold and write this one instead.
Thoughts for the day: It's better to be ignorant than stupid. Ignorance is curable.
You know, coming up with multiple snappy thoughts for the day is a pain. I'm just going to do one from now on.

* * *

The giant oaken door closed with a familiar boom that reverberated throughout the temple. The echoes quickly dissipated, leaving the church in its normal state of silence. Qhoat'tra Haran allowed himself a brief, solemn smile as he removed his Ablah-Sabe's Miter and stored it in its sacred closet. Farmer Johshua had expounded apparently good arguments pertaining to the need for something to destroy the pests that ate his crops, but Haran had successfully shown him the heresy of his ways.
With methodical, plodding steps, he traveled down the long Corridor of the Method to the Holy Communication chamber. Two rows of devout monks kneeled in prayer, their concentration complete, their chants in perfect unison.
Ablah-elect Xerchan Mar nodded to Haran and moved closer. In hushed tones, he spoke. "Ablah-Sabe, the battle has been joined."
Haran clucked unfavorably and shook his mangled right hand at Mar, a subtle reminder of the penalties for transgression. "We do not battle with them, Ablah-elect. We will not 'win' because we possess superior soldiers," his phrasing of the word dripped with disdain, "but because the Great Sabe wills it. Any failure will be a result of our lack of piety." He fixed the Ablah-elect with a meaningful stare.
Xerchan Mar bowed low and offered his right hand. "I understand Ablah-Sabe, may our Lord Sabe forgive me."
Haran let the disciple wait in worried anticipation for a full five minutes, then he merely slapped the offered hand with his own good one. "You have been forgiven. Now stand up and apprise me of our standing. How is the Communication progressing?"

* * *

The image of Bobby's supervisor appeared on his retina.
"What's up, Supe?"
"How about a status report, Terrano? I haven't gotten one from you in weeks."
"Sure, Supe. As you can tell, we were successful. The quantum net is predicting our odds of continued success at 95%." But you could get that from your own implant, you stupid techno-illiterate. Bobby, of course, kept this last thought to himself. If he was considered a good employee, it was mostly due to his ability to hide what he really thought of his superiors.
Was that the beginnings of a smile on his supervisor's face? "Good. Make sure our people are happy. Those numbers could turn around instantly if we slack off."
"Will do Supe!"
The supervisor's face looked down and scrunched up in frustration. The image flickered, then turned to inverse video. With a mental shake of his head, Bobby said, "Supe, it's the 'disconnect' button in the lower right corner of your interface." The image disappeared. How did idiots like that ever get into management?

* * *

19 April 1988
I showed "Heisenburg Didn't Know Anything" to Meredith at lunch today. I almost didn't. Dan had been out all night drinking again, and I thought she might have been too mad to want to read my story. I wish there was something I could do about that no-good husband of hers.
But at one point she said "Enough about me, how's that story coming?" She smiled in this devious way, as if she was sure I hadn't written anything yet. But the smile turned to surprise when I pulled it out of my briefcase and dropped it on the table. She snatched it up and tore into it. It didn't take her long to realize that this wasn't the story we'd been talking about. A little uncomfortable with how this story popped into my head, I just told her that I got the idea for this one while trying to write that one. She nodded knowingly and continued.
I had trouble interpreting the look on her face as she read it. I think it might have been shock. Meredith has been prodding me to start writing for almost a year now, but I don't think she expected my stuff to be any good. At least not at first. She definitely seemed to like this, though.
Now that I'm a writer, I'm going to join her writers group. They meet on the last Saturday of every month and critique each other's stuff. My feelings are wildly fluctuating from excitement at others reading my story to outright terror of same.
Thought for the day: Writers write.

1 May 1988
The writers group meeting went incredibly. Everyone seemed impressed with my story, and many said it was very fresh and original. I also got some great feedback. In particular, I learned that I'd been unclear in one part and that was causing most people to miss a vital piece of information.
One of the members--Jack--personally knows the editor of Heinlein's. We spoke privately after the meeting and he said the story was so good that he'd go out on a limb and send the finished manuscript in for me, thus bypassing the slush pile. Heinlein's is only one of the biggest science fiction magazines on the planet. I rushed home and immediately launched into the revision.
That was yesterday. Today I brought the revised story to Jack. He read over it, said it was a good rewrite, and typed up a cover letter introducing me to Grant Rasten, the editor of Heinlein's. It's in the mail now. I'm on my way!
I need to get to work on another story for the next meeting. It's time to write The Story.
Thought for the day: Writing can be fun!

21 May 1988
How strange. I've been trying to write The Story but haven't gotten anywhere with it. Instead, my mind has latched on to another idea. The writers group meeting is fast approaching. I think I'd better write this new story and get it out of my head. I'll focus on the one I really want to write next month.
This new story will be called "Temporal Liberties."
Thought for the day: Don't always go with the flow. Sometimes the flow leads to a waterfall.

* * *

Certain that no one saw him, Ablah-elect Xerchan Mar allowed himself to take purposeful, brisk strides down the Corridor of the Method. As he neared the sanctuary proper, however, he drew in a deep breath, slowed down, and finished the trip to the Ablah-Sabe's office at an excruciatingly slow pace.
He knocked once, then bowed low before the closed door. Long after that, about the time his back started threatening to give out, the door slid open. "Stand, child" came the Ablah-Sabe's voice. Xerchan's back cracked embarrassingly as he straightened up. He bowed his head and followed the Ablah-Sabe into the office, then stood in silence for an intolerable amount of time waiting to be spoken to before he could begin. Finally the Ablah-Sabe addressed him. "Raise your head and speak child. To what do I owe your presence?"
Forcing himself to keep the words flowing slowly, Xerchan said, "It is with much displeasure that I must report our status. We are losing, holy one."
The Ablah-Sabe clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Ablah-elect, you are progressing in your studies, but you have far to go. Slow intentional steps and well chosen words are important, but do not forget the most important aspect of our lives."
Xerchan frowned slightly.
"Faith, Ablah-elect. Faith. It may appear that we are losing, but that is only because you are too nearsighted to see the Sabe's true plan. Have faith in your Lord and trust that He will see us through this most critical of junctures."
Xerchan bowed low, saying "Yes, Ablah-Sabe, I will strive to do so."
After the requisite waiting period, the Ablah-Sabe let him up. "Strive always, Ablah-elect. What you are doing is crucial and necessary. There is a reason I chose you to oversee this. You are the best Ablah-elect I have. Always work to become even better." He waved him away with his mangled right hand.
Xerchan bowed and turned to leave.
"Nonetheless," the Ablah-Sabe called out, "you should double the number of monks working on the project."

* * *

28 May 1988
What a fantastic couple of days this has been! Yesterday I got a call from Grant over at Heinlein's SF Mag. He said he loved my story, that he'd never seen anything like it before, and that he's going to buy it! Yippee!!! I'm flabbergasted. Most writers need to send a dozen stories to him before he'll even consider buying one of them. My writers group says this is incredibly rare.
Speaking of the group, they liked "Temporal Liberties" better than "Heisenburg Didn't Know Anything." I've made a few minor changes and am sending it off to Heinlein's today. I can't wait to get to work on the next story. I wonder if this time I'll be able to write the one that got me started.
Thought for the day: Writer's write, but real writers get published!

* * *

Bobby gasped at the bandaged and swollen face that appeared in his vision. "Supe! What happened?"
In obvious pain, the supervisor replied, "Someone firebombed my apartment complex last night."
"Is everyone okay?"
He nodded. "I was the only one hurt. Everyone else got out fast, but I tried to save my old Compact Disk collection."
"Tsk, tsk Supe, I know those old things hold sentimental value for you, but sentiment is not worth dying over."
The supervisor opened his mouth to speak and winced in pain. So he just nodded.
"Did they catch the guys?"
The supervisor looked on the verge of nervous laughter. "When was the last time anyone was caught for anything?"
Bobby nodded soberly, "Well, you probably want a report, don't you? We're still successful, but the quantum net has lowered our probability of continued success to 89%." He shrugged at the supervisor's questioning stare. "I don't know why, Supe. Everything is going just as planned. But that's still good odds, so I wouldn't worry too much. You should get some sleep instead."

* * *

11 June 1988
I'm starting to think "The Story" is nothing more than a generator. Every time I try to write it another story pops into my head. This month will be "Animation in the Skeleton" as it is filling my head and scrambling thoughts of the story I really want to write. Considering how scrambled those thoughts normally are, I'll never get it written this way. But even though I'm going to write something else, I will jot down some of my ideas for The Story. Maybe having something down on file will help stabilized the rest in my head.

If I ever manage to write it, I will call The Story "BioComputer." It's about a guy who successfully merges electrical computers and biological processes into a new scientific discipline. I'm thinking about using DNA in some way. I don't think anyone is doing that these days. Everyone says my writing is so good because it's fresh and new. I've got to keep that up.
At lunch on Tuesday Meredith asked where I was getting the ideas for my stories. After a long, uncomfortable pause I decided to come clean. I told her that the story I was going to write has turned out to be a story generator.
She pouted and said, "I want a story generator too!" She's got a cute pout. (Damn, did I write that? Maybe I'd better delete this . . . Aw, hell, I don't plan on letting her read it anyway.) Meredith is having trouble with her writing, but I don't think a story generator would help. I think her real problem is that loser husband of hers. She was wearing extra makeup around her eye on Tuesday. I'll bet Dan hit her again. I feel like killing him. <sigh> Gotta think about something else or I'll go crazy.
Thoughts for the day: Why isn't "palindrome" one? And for that matter, why isn't "phonetic" pronounced the way it's spelled?
 
25 June 1988
Well, they say that all writers have good days and bad days. I guess I shouldn't expect myself to be different. The writers group hated "Animation in the Skeleton." They said the dialog was good, but that the whole story was fatally flawed and unfixable. I've been riding high on my successes and wasn't ready for this. I thought the story was kind of clever. But I know they weren't just saying this to be mean. They're good people.
I'm going to put that story on the far back burner and move on. Has my story generator failed me? Maybe it's finally time to write it. It's still a huge jumble in my mind, but maybe with some thought I can pull it out.
Ooh, just got a snippet of text. "The DNA strands clung together like kids at the prom."
Thought for the day: Don't bother me. Ever try to extract something from a jumbled mass as complex as the human brain? It's not easy.

* * *

Bobby raced around a corner and barreled into a tech carrying a stack of data cards. Cards went flying, and Bobby and the tech ended up on the ground in each other's arms. She was an attractive brunette with large eyes and the body of a exercise junkie. Bobby kicked himself mentally for what he'd just done accidentally and for what he was about to do on purpose.
Fully aware that this would undoubtedly ruin any chance he had with this woman and hating himself for doing it, he jumped up and raced off without so much as helping her up. "Sorry!" he yelled over his shoulder, "but the existence of the universe is at stake!"
He arrived at his supervisor's office panting heavily and sweating profusely. He'd spent way too much time in front of an interface and far too little exercising. Not wasting any time to catch his breath, he pounded on the door.
"Come in."
Bobby rushed in blurting out, "Supe! We've got problems. The quantum net's reporting our success probability at 60%!"
The supervisor jumped up. "What?! What happened?"
Bobby fought hard to catch his breath and starting pacing. "Near as I can tell, it's because one of our people got mugged last week. I think his wife was raped too. It really shook everyone up, and their production went to hell."
"I thought I told you to take care of them."
"Supe! Three quarters of all people will be a victim of a violent crime at least once. What exactly do you expect me to do?"
The supervisor joined Bobby in his pacing. "Well, we've got to do something. We can't let the universe collapse just because someone got mugged. Any suggestions?"
Bobby stopped abruptly. "What if we were to distribute the load? We could go out on the Net at large and ask for content. Make it a contest or something. If we get enough separate people working on the problem, then it won't matter when the normal ten percent of them get murdered every month."
The supervisor smiled. "Good idea, Bobby. Do it."

* * *

Xerchan Mar sat motionless, letting his mind float on the waves of mental energy flowing from the four rows of monks. He had tried to become a channeling monk but had not shown the aptitude for it. So, under the direction of Qhoat'tra Haran, he changed course and began studying to become an Ablah-Sabe. The path ahead would prove incredibly long and complex, but, Sabe willing, he would eventually replace Haran. Speak of the Ablah, there he was now. Xerchan rose and meekly walked across the Communications chamber.
"Ablah-Sabe, you look harried. Is something the matter?"
He nodded. "Walk with me Ablah-elect." They strolled the length of the Corridor of the Method, then through the temple and out into the garden before the Ablah-Sabe spoke again. "I have witnessed an extremely troubling trend arising."
Xerchan stayed respectfully silent, knowing that the Ablah-Sabe would say whatever he chose regardless of Xerchan's questions. They walked the circumference of the garden and then stopped to stare out over the fields beyond. "A barrel of grain was stolen from Farmer Johshua's winter reserves last night."
In a total failure of his training, Xerchan blurted out, "What? That's the second major crime we've had this decade!"
Qhoat'tra Haran fixed him with a disappointed stare. "I assure you that I am aware of this, child. This problem bears a considerable amount of thought." He wandered back to the sanctuary door and Xerchan followed, berating himself the whole way for letting his emotions break out.
When they arrived back at the Communications chamber, Haran stopped. "How is the project going?"
"Very well, holy one. Our adversaries committed a large mistake, and we have gained a foothold."
Haran nodded. "See? It is just as I said. The Sabe guides us." He paused for a time, staring at the monks and then asked, "Have you ever truly listened to them?"
Xerchan knew this was more of an invitation to do so than a question. So he stopped and listened.
"Johnny leapt over the DNA vat,"
"Placing it between himself and his gun-wielding assailant."
"He yanked the pin from his last grenade,"
"Then held the grenade over the vat and yelled,"
"Back off, man, or I swear I'll blow this thing to bits."
Xerchan waited for what he determined was time enough, then spoke. "Yes, holy one, I have. I have also read the entire story. It did not make any sense to me."
The Ablah-Sabe smiled. "Nor to me. Only the Sabe truly understands how this could be the creation of our reality."

* * *

23 July 1988
I've been kidding around about this generator thing and, for the most part, haven't been looking a gift story in the mouth. But now I'm starting to worry. Why is this happening? Why can't I write what I want to write? This month, I tried very hard to write "BioComputer" but was unable to do so. Not one but two complete stories popped into my head! I jotted their plots down, and they both look promising, but damn it, I want to write "BioComputer," not them!
Meredith never told me how frustrating writing can be. Though I suppose I shouldn't complain. I'm sure there are plenty of writers who would kill for what I've got here. Grant bought "Temporal Liberties," and I'm told "Heisenburg Didn't Know Anything" will be published very soon. I don't know why I'm not more happy. I guess I'm just frustrated that I can't get this story written.

Damn! See, that's just like what's been happening. Something just dredged some snippets of the text out of my head. But when I actively try to get this stuff, it runs away and hides somewhere in my gray matter. Well, I'd better jot this stuff down so I don't forget it.
Johnny leapt over the DNA vat, placing it between himself and his gun-wielding assailant. He yanked the pin from his last grenade, then held the grenade over the vat and yelled, "Back off, man, or I swear I'll blow this thing to bits."
The assassin snarled and backed through the doorway. Johnny hesitated for a moment, then threw the grenade at him.
Well, I'll say one thing, this'll be an exciting one. If I ever get it written, that is.
Thought for the day: Don't mind me, I've gone temporarily insane.

* * *

Supervisor William Linchpon stormed into his underling's office. "Terrano, what's this tripe we've been sending back?"
"Hey, Supe!" came the normal reply. Linchpon suspected that Terrano was secretly showing disrespect, but there was nothing he could do about it. The different world governments had never asked his permission to collapse and take their laws with them. He wished they had, though. He would have definitely denied the request. Now it was impossible to enforce discipline. And since his project relied heavily on the generosity of its workers, all of whom liked Terrano, there wasn't much he could do about the little slack-jawed punk.
"I'm waiting."
Terrano took the printout from his hands and read it over. "You know, Supe, it's pretty wasteful to be printing this stuff out. I could have brought it up on my interface."
"Don't change the subject. I read this story and it's terrible! It's been done a thousands times at least. I swear I've even seen it on daytime media. How low can we go?"
Though Bobby smiled, Linchpon noticed that it was forced. "It hasn't been done a thousand times for him, Supe. Do you know how far back our little friend is? If we gave him anything modern or clever, his people wouldn't have a chance of understanding it."
The smug little brat had a point. Linchpon hated that. "Well, give me a report."
"We're holding steady at a 60% success probability."
Linchpon started to speak, but Terrano cut him off. "Hold your horsepowers, Supe. You should see the gadget the RnD techies have come up with. To this point, we've only been able to send back stories and hope ours are better than theirs. Now our techs think we can block their transmissions as well."
This caught Linchpon by surprise. "Will it work?"
"We think so!"
"Well, what if they do something to counter?"
Terrano laughed. "Have you seen the reports on their reality? They've got no technology to speak of. They're even less advanced than our writer friend's backwater world. There's no way they'll be able to keep up."
"But they don't have to keep up. They only need to get their one story through. And they'll keep trying for a very long time. We've got to keep sending him things until he grows old and retires."
Terrano shrugged. "So, the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. Did you expect something else?"

* * *

6 August 1988
Oh, this is too much. Now when I try to think about "BioComputer" I get a headache! Is someone or something actively trying to keep me from writing this thing?
You're kidding right? Have you been reading too many of your own stories? Who would be trying to keep you from writing the story? More importantly, how?
I know. It's crazy. But is it any more crazy that carrying on a conversation with yourself in your own journal?
You have a point.
Enough of that. The writers group really liked "On the Illegality of Private Transit." I'm almost sure I saw relief on their faces as they read it. That last one must have been really awful. I'll revise this one and send it off soon.
I've been reading science texts in an attempt to keep myself current. I figure this cash cow of stories from thin air can't live forever. Eventually I'll have to come up with them the old fashioned way--hard work. You'll never believe this thing I got out of a physics text, though. Ever hear of the "Schrodinger's Cat Experiment"? Real live physicists, with degrees and everything, believe that events on the "quantum scale" are not really determined until you observe them. Here's the example they give to explain this stuff to us lay people.
Say you stick a cat in a soundproof box with vial of cyanide, a Geiger counter, and a radioactive atom that has a 50% chance of decaying. If the atom decays, the Geiger counter notices it and breaks the vial, killing the cat.
Since the box is soundproofed, you don't know what happened until you open it. But get this, the physicists actually believe that until you open the box and look inside, the cat is neither dead nor alive. Both actually happen at the same time! Their mumbo jumbo for what happens when you open the box is that "the quantum wave collapses to one or the other reality."
I'm reading these books to get ideas for science fiction stories. But this is too weird. None of my readers would ever believe it! Sigh. I'll have to try some other books.
Thought for the day: Never trust a physicist. He may do immoral things to your cat.

* * *

Xerchan Mar wandered aimlessly through the extended sanctuary garden system. He stared intently at each flower and fruit-bearing bush but saw none of them. His mind was on other problems. In his absent attention to his surroundings, he almost bumped into Ablah-Sabe Haran. Judging from his superior's surprised expression, it appeared that the holy one had been wandering the gardens lost in thought as well.
"Sabe bless thee, " he offered.
"And thee."
"How is your problem with the grain working out?"
The Ablah-Sabe sighed. "It troubles me greatly. I am considering rolling the nightly curfew up to nightfall and posting temple guards at all grain reserves."
As a sequestered Ablah-elect, these impositions meant little to Xerchan. But back when he was a normal citizen he would have hated them. "The people will not be pleased."
The Ablah-Sabe stared at him through tired eyes. He must have spent the night praying for guidance. "Yes, I know. But the price of peace is eternal vigilance."
Xerchan nodded sadly. "That is true."
"And how is the project going?"
Fighting to keep his frustration from showing through, Xerchan replied, "our brothers in the other reality have begun blocking our communications. Now he not only writes their stories, but he gets headaches when he tries to think about ours."
"And what are you doing about it?"
"I'm trying desperately to keep my faith."
It must have been the exhaustion, but the Ablah-Sabe actually smiled at Xerchan's heresy. "Faith is paramount, child. But you must also not forget that the Sabe helps those that help themselves."
Xerchan bowed low. "I have been contemplating just that, holy one."
The Ablah-Sabe tapped him on the shoulder and he straightened up. "What would you do?" the elder asked.
"I would change the Communication. I consider continuing with the story, but interspersing it with a description of our world and why he must write our story. I'll contrast our spiritual and peaceful world against their lawless, anarchistic society. He'll undoubtedly choose us."
"But if he knows what is really happening, will he not resent our intrusion into his life? Back in those times, they did not think as we now do."
"That is precisely what I've been asking the Sabe while wandering through the gardens."
The Ablah-Sabe nodded piously. "Then let the Sabe guide you. As mere mortals, we can do no better."

* * *

20 August 1998
I would say "how weird," but this transcends weirdness. I took three aspirin and was trying to force my way through "BioComputer" when the pain just disappeared completely! All of a sudden I could see the whole story in my head, and no other stories appeared to push it aside. I quickly jotted down notes and will be able to recreate it now, no matter what. But that was a normal day at the beach compared to what came next.
I swear someone was talking to me. If I understand it correctly, it seems that I did not come up with this story on my own; it was sent to me. The voices I heard were heavily distorted, but it seemed they were telling me about some nirvana where there is no crime and everyone is in touch with their soul. I don't understand how, but if I write the story, my world will become that nirvana. Then the voices threatened me! They said the world would become a lawless anarchy if I didn't write "BioComputer!" I don't like this at all.
I wonder if I really have gone insane.
Thought for the day: <This Space Intentionally Left Blank>

* * *

After an inordinate amount of time, the emergency lights came on, casting away the darkness and replacing it with a dull red glow. Bobby moved as fast as he dared along the dim corridors toward the quantum net's main interface room. He pried open the door and rushed in. That weird tech, the one who actually preferred typing to neural interfaces, sat in front of a glowing terminal pounding furiously on a keyboard.
"Oh, John, tell me the net stayed up."
The tech didn't even look up. "Nope. It crashed badly."
Bobby fell back against the wall and slid down to the floor. "We're dead."
Ignoring him, the tech burst out, "Oh, God! Someone's really warped."
"What happened?"
Waving him over, John responded. "I'm still up because I'm paranoid and have an isolated power reserve. But most of the Net believed what they were told about the power system being unstoppable."
Bobby climbed to his feet to stare over the tech's shoulder. He had up a display that showed a spinning globe with little blinking lights representing areas without power. Most of the globe was blinking. "What could do that?"
"One hell of a killer virus."
"No! Our universe is going to collapse because of some stupid hacker?"
John shook his head as he typed furiously. "We're still here."
Bobby started pacing. "That's likely just due to momentum."
John slapped a key and the lights came back on. "Local viral counter measures were successful" he reported unnecessarily.
"What's our existence probability?"
"Thirty-seven percent."
Bobby went back to pacing. "We've got to do something, and we've got to do it quick."
"I'm open to suggestions."
The supervisor barreled in. "What the hell is going on here?!"
Bobby waved him away. "Shut up, Supe. I'm trying to think."
"Terrano, I'll have you know that I am your supervisor. You will not speak to me with such disrespect."
Bobby stopped pacing and stared at him. "Why Supervisor Linchpon, you are quite correct, sir. I apologize for my transgression. I hope you will not hold it against me." He walked toward him with hand held out.
Linchpon stood a little straighter. "That's more like it! No hard feelings." He reached out to shake Bobby's hand. Bobby, however, clenched his into a fist and punched him in the jaw. The supervisor fell back against the wall. As he slid unconscious to the floor Bobby said, "None at all, you stupid moron."
John yelled out, "I've got the Temporal Broadcasters back on line and have a story queued up. Should I send it?"
"Which story is it?"
"I don't know, one we haven't sent yet."
An idea leapt to Bobby's head. "No, it won't work! While we were down the Sabeites would have definitely gotten their story through. No matter what we send, he'll eventually write their story. We've got to do something else."
"What?!"
"Tell him what's going on. Tell him about our world were everyone is free. Then tell him about their world, how you can't even choose who you're going to fall in love with, much less what you want to be in life. Then tell him how their world will come to pass. Make sure he understands that he can't publish their story. He's got to choose the right thing."
John had been typing furiously the whole time. He hit a key and the lights dimmed but stayed on. Both John and Bobby stared at the screen, holding their breath.
The existence probability dipped to thirty-five percent, then started rising. It slowly climbed to forty, then accelerated up to forty-five.
"It's working!" they yelled in unison. The number blinked once then stopped. Fifty percent.
"What does that mean?" Bobby asked.
The number continued to hold at fifty. John shrugged. "Beats me. Maybe the universe is going to flip a coin or something."

* * *

21 August 1988
I wrote "BioComputer" last night. I think it's the best thing I've ever written. It should be, considering the impact it's going to have on the world. This morning I got more information. In an insane, ugly way, everything makes sense now.
This story came from one world; the others came from another. One world will be created if I publish "BioComputer," the other if I don't. You see, if it's published, some scientist will read it and get an idea for a practical way to use DNA to solve a previously unsolvable computational problem. His success will cause enormous excitement in the science community, and all sorts of research will be done. Eventually the whole world will be using BioComputers.
If I don't publish it, we'll continue to progress as we are now. Electric computers will be succeeded by optical computers, which in turn will be succeeded by quantum computers. The DNA thing might happen but much later. By the time it does, the "normal" computational methods will have surpassed it, and no one will be very interested in BioComputers.

If the BioComputer happens, some jerk will make a "computer virus" that will wipe out ninety percent of the human population. The remainders will shun technology and turn to religion. They seem to like their society, but it sounds incredibly overbearing and stifling.
If the BioComputer doesn't happen, the people of the world will link themselves on a giant network and will dismantle all governments and laws. Personal freedom will reign, but so will murderers and rapists.
Both realities suck.
I never asked for this.
Thought for the day: You can have peace or you can have freedom. Don't ever expect to have both at the same time.

* * *

Grant Rasten looked up in surprise as his secretary plopped the large metal box on his desk and handed him an envelope. "What's this?"
"It's from your favorite new author, Mitchel Dorchen."
Grant beamed. "Do you suppose he's already sent me another story? We'll be rich if he can keep this up." He ripped open the envelope and extracted the letter therein.

Dear Grant,
Enclosed please find "BioComputer" for submission to Heinlein's Science Fiction Magazine . . . or not. If it's in there, this is my next earth-shattering story. If not, oh well.
The physicists say that right now it's simultaneously in paper form and in unreadable embers. According to them, it won't settle on one or the other until you open the box and look inside.
These days I tend to believe them.
Oh, and this is my last story. I quit. I'm going to move on to something far less dangerous, like convincing a wonderful woman to leave her maniacal, abusive husband and marry me instead. After that, I don't know what I'm going to do. Maybe I'll raise cats or something.

The End


Copyright Michael P. Calligaro

All Rights Reserved

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