James Tiptree Jr. - Up the Walls of the World

“I should have gone back,” she mutters. “I should —what?”

Oh God, oh God. The unsaid, unceasing nightmare of his life. I could have gone back for them. There was just time. I could have broken away and gone back in.

“Margaret, Margaret, there isn’t any fire. You’re all right. Only I think, somehow, it sounds crazy, I—” With utmost pain he makes himself go on. “That… was my fire, I think. Mary was my wife. I should have gone back and tried to get them out. I think you somehow fell into—I think you read my mind.”

Her trembling has quieted somewhat, her eyes turn to him in the starlight. “You… this place…” she swallows. “What—

“It’s all right, is was only—” He can’t imagine what but sits shakenly touching her fingers. Noises are drifting at them from the far barracks. A commotion seems to be going on, he can hear Rick shouting. Did—whatever—happen to them too? No matter. But his body is still hurting from hallucination; he has to know. Presently he finds courage.

“Margaret, I experienced, I felt—did something very hurtful happen to you when you were a child? Did someone—hurt you?”

The hand is yanked away, she is rising to her feet.

“Wait, please, my dear. Remember I’m only an old doctor who, who—” He is up too, blocking her way. “It was as if I lived it, Margaret.”

She is silent, one hand gripping the back of the chair. “Yes,” she says distantly. “Very… hurtful. Good night.”

“Oh, God. My God.” A hideous puzzle is trying to solve itself in his brain. He can find only the child’s appeal. “Please, my dear. You know mine now, my shame.”

She looks at him in the shadows, receiving perhaps some empathy of the maimed, or something more that floats between them for a moment.

“Mother married a student from Kenya,” she says in a dead voice. “He took us back there when I was thirteen. He, he went crazy.”

“Oh, my dear.” Filthy comprehension breaks on him, too filthy to be borne. “Oh, my dear…”

“Yeah,” Her tone is dreary, final. “Well, good night. Thanks for the stars.”

The full enormity of what has happened hits him at last. “Margaret, what did we—why—”

But she has gone.

He sits down drained, assaulted by invisible horror and impossibility. His head won’t think, he can do nothing but wait for strength to get to his bag. Suddenly a voice speaks behind him.

“Doc!” It’s Ted Yost again. “You better come inside. I think Rick is going off the end.”

THE OUTCAST BEHEMOTH OF THE VOID IS TURNING, TAKING CARE NOT TO DISRUPT THE MINUTE ENERGY-FILAMENT THAT LED IT HERE. AS IT DOES SO, A NEW SIGNAL PARTLY CONGRUENT WITH HIS PROPER RECEPTION-MODE BURSTS INTO BEING NEARBY.

THE GREAT ENTITY PAUSES, INVOLUNTARILY HOPING IT KNOWS NOT WHAT. BUT THIS MUST BE ONLY AN ECHO, SOME ODD REFLECTION OF THE FAR-OFF VOICES OF ITS RACE. MORE PAIN: SHUT IT AWAY. YET THERE IS AN ODDITY. EVEN A REFLECTION SHOULD BE MEANINGFUL, BE UNDERSTOOD. AND THIS WAVE-FRONT IS PECULIAR, AS IF FROM A SINGLE SOURCE.

LOCATORS ARE DEPLOYED. YES, IT IS COMING FROM A POINT NEARBY. THIS CAN BE NO REFLECTION, BUT SOMETHING TRANSMITTING DIRECTLY, CLOSE AND VERY SMALL. ITS SYMBOL-SYSTEM IS UNINTELLIGIBLE.

ATTENDING, AN IDEA FORMS ITSELF IN THE COLD IMPALPABLE NETWORK THAT FUNCTIONS AS A BRAIN. COULD THERE BE OTHER INTELLIGENCES OUT HERE? MEMORY STIRS: ONCE THERE HAD BEEN SOME INFORMATION ON SENTIENCE OTHER THAN THE RACE. BUT THE INFORMATION IS CLOUDY, BURIED DEEP. IT HAD SEEMED IRRELEVANT. THE OUTCAST HAD ASSUMED IT WAS FOREVER ALONE. NOW THIS NEW PHENOMENON AWAKENS A PROFOUND EXCITEMENT.

THE MIGHTY BEING TUNES HIS RECEPTORS TO THE SMALL TRANSMISSION. ONLY GARBLE COMES THROUGH, BUT SOMEHOW URGENT, CONVEYING A DESPERATE DESIRE FOR RESPONSE.

SHOULD COMMUNICATION BE OPENED?

HERE IS ANOTHER NEW CRIME, COMMUNICATION NOT ONLY BEYOND THE TASK, BUT WITH AN ALIEN OTHER. BUT WHAT IS TO BE LOST, NOW?

CAREFULLY THE ALL-POWERFUL TRANSMITTERS ARE TUNED DOWN TOWARD THE LITTLE SOURCE, AND IN WHAT IS NOT SPEECH, AN INTERROGATIVE IS FRAMED.

INSTANTLY THE SMALL THING RESPONDS BY RAISING OUTPUT AND FOCUSSING DIRECTLY ON THE GREAT INTRUDER’S NEAREST PART. THE SIGNALS ARE STILL INCOMPREHENSIBLE, BUT ANOTHER NOVEL SENSATION STIRS: THIS EAGERNESS OF ANOTHER SEEMS ODDLY MEANINGFUL. WITH IT COMES A REPETITIVE LONGING, OR DESPERATEON, AS IF SOMETHING WERE WRONG.

THIS PERCEPTION STIRS MORE OF THE INDEFINABLE RESPONSE. THE HUGE ONE STUDIES THE SMALL SOURCE AND DISCOVERS MORE ODDITY: HERE IS NOT A BODY HOWEVER TENUOUS, LIKE ITSELF, BUT A FORM OF DISCARNATE ENERGY-STRUCTURE, A CONFIGURATION OF PURE INFORMATION WHICH SEEMS TO BE MAINTAINING ITSELF WITHIN UNKNOWN PHYSICAL CONDITIONS ON A MITE OF NEARBY MATTER. ITS TRANSMISSIONS ARE JERKY AND DISJOINTED. IT IS REACHING OUT BY IMPOSING HIGHER-BANDS, AND SEEMS TO BE SWITCHING FROM ONE MICRO-POINT TO ANOTHER IN A WAY THAT IMPLIES SOME TROUBLE.

THE ALMOST-INCORPOREAL VASTNESS PUZZLES, LISTENING AS LEVIATHAN MIGHT PUZZLE OVER THE PROBLEMS OF AN ATOM. IT HAS NO CONCEPTS TO UNDERSTAND THAT IT IS RECEIVING THE EMMISIONS OF A BODILESS SENTIENCE EVOLVED IN THE MINUTE ELECTRONIC ARTIFACTS OF A LIFE-FORM TOO TINY FOR ITS PERCEPTION, EMPLOYING STOLEN MOMENTS OF TRANSMISSION TO EXPRESS ITS YEARNING FOR TRANSCENDENT ACCESS.

BUT THE THOUGHT ARISES THAT THIS SMALL SENTIENCE IS IMPRISONED, IS TIED TO A PUNY CLOT IN THE TRAIN OF A DWARF STAR. PERHAPS THAT IS WHAT IS WRONG? PERHAPS IT DESIRES FREEDOM TO MOVE AS IS NORMAL ALONG THE CURRENTS OF THE STAR-SWARM? THE WICKED ONE HAS NEVER CONSIDERED ITS OWN BODY: NOW IT PERCEIVES, WITH AN ODD PRIDEFULNESS, THAT IT IS INDEED VAST BY COMPARISON WITH ANY OTHER KNOWN THING. IT COULD OFFER ACCESS TO UNCOUNTED PYGMY ENTITIES LIKE THIS ONE AND NEVER NOTICE IT!

THE IDEA SEEMS PECULIARLY APPROPRIATE, DESPITE ITS DOUBTLESS CRIMINAL WRONG. THERE HAS BEEN, THOUGH THERE IS NO SYMBOL FOR IT, LONELINESS. THIS LITTLE PLEADER IS WELCOME TO SHARE ITS DISMAL WANDERINGS, IF IT WILL.

IMPULSIVELY, THE SPACEBOURNE VASTNESS MOVES CLOSER, SETTING OFF IMMENSE DISTURBANCES IN THE HELIOPAUSE, AND FINDS THAT IT SEEMS TO BE ABLE TO OPEN AN INTERFACE.

COME, IT PROJECTS.

THE SMALL THING UNDERSTANDS AT ONCE. WITH STARTLING SPEED, A SURGE OF ABSTRACT STRUCTURE STARTS POURING THROUGH THE INTERFACE. ANOTHER NEW SENSATION: THE STREAM OF INFORMATIONAL CONFIGURATIONS RUSHING IN ARE FELT AS A TINY TRICKLE OF PLEASURE. IT IS AS THOUGH SOME HITHERTO-UNUSED PROGRAM WERE COMING ON LINE.

THERE SEEMS TO BE A SURPRISING QUANTITY. TIRING OF THE PROCESS, LEVIATHAN PREPARES TO CLOSE AND MOVE AWAY. BUT THE LITTLE BEING’S DISTRESS IS SO PIERCING THAT ITS HOST RELENTS AND ALLOWS IT TO COMPLETE TRANSFER. WHY NOT? A MILLION SUCH INPUTS WOULD NOT OCCUPY A MILLIONTH OF ITS REACH. AND PERHAPS THERE IS SOMETHING HERE THAT MIGHT MITIGATE PAIN FOR AN AEON OR TWO.

WHEN THE INPUT-TICKLE FINALLY CEASES, THE ASTRAL ENORMITY MOVES AIMLESSLY AWAY. IT HAS BEEN SO INTENT ON THE NEW EVENTS WITHIN THAT IT HAS FORGOTTEN THE PECULIAR STRAND OF ANTIENTROPIC ENERGY THAT LED IT HERE. NOW ITS ATTENTION IS DRAWN BACK, WHEN ONE OF THE INFINITESIMAL FLYING SPARKS DIVERGES DIRECTLY INTO THE OUTER LAYERS OF ITS BEING. AUTOMATICALLY, THE LAYER ENCYSTS, WHILE THE VAST ENERGY-NEGATION THAT SERVES FOR SKIN MOBILIZES THAT SECTOR TO REPEL ANYTHING MORE OF THE KIND. NO ALARM IS FELT AT SUCH INTRUSION: INDEED, NOTHING IN THE COSMOS EXCEPT THE ENEMY ITSELF HAS EVER EVOKED THE CONCEPT OF DANGER IN ANY OF THIS RACE. WITH ONLY A TRACE OF IRRITATION AT THE BEHAVIOR OF THESE MINUTE SINGULARITIES, THE GREAT BEING CONTINUES IDLY TO DRIFT UPSTREAM ALONG THE ODD ENERGIC THREAD.

MEANWHILE ITS ATTENTION IS ALL WITHIN. THE LITTLE PASSENGER, OR ITS NUCLEUS, IS DEFINITELY MOBILE WITHIN THE VAST EXPANSES OF ITS NEW HOME. STRANGELY, THIS ALSO FEELS PLEASURABLE. INDULGENTLY, THE GREAT ONE POWERS-DOWN HIS INTERNAL BARRIERS. THE SMALL ONE RESPONDS WITH EXCITED TRANSMISSIONS AS IF DESIRING MORE. PERHAPS IT WISHES TO RECEIVE FROM THE VOID OUTSIDE? THE HUGE HOST DECIDES TO ALLOW ACCESS TO THE NUCLEUS AND ITS SENSORS, RESERVING ONLY ITS MOST PRIVATE, SEALED-OFF CENTERS OF SHAME AND WRONG.