Charles Sheffield - Tomorrow and Tomorrow

It had never occurred to Drake that those original cryotanks might be left to wander wherever the winds of space chose to take them, but why not? It would not have occurred to Ariel and his composite to destroy the tank and the womb, since from their point of view the only important versions of Drake and Ana were the ones in electronic storage.

Drifting farther out to interstellar space — and farther yet. How many millions, or more likely billions, of years had it taken for the wandering flotsam of the cryowomb to find its way beyond the Galaxy, all the way to the Magellanic Cloud? How many millions more before it was found by the exploring crawlers?

No wonder that Drake had seen the discontinuity of technology development everywhere. It was not discontinuity — it was an independent development. The crawlers were aliens. There was no connection between them and human civilization. Drake was probably their first evidence of the existence of humans.

And no wonder, either, that the attempt at resurrection by the umbrella crawlers and the workers had produced such an ailing, sickly, and imperfect result. Without prior knowledge of human physiology or the correct thawing procedure, it was a miracle that the umbrella crawlers had done as well as they did. Drake had been revivified, even if only for a short time.

Or maybe they had succeeded as well as anything ever could. Drake had been downloaded to electronic storage precisely because cryotank storage was unreliable over long time periods. He had no idea how long it had been since he joined Ana in the cryowomb. Long enough for resurrection to be totally unreliable? Long enough to make his present disintegration inevitable?

The great thing was, it didn’t matter. This was not the end of all hope, the end of everything. The hollow shell beside him was not the only Ana, just as he was not the only Drake. Somewhere he and Ana still existed in electronic storage. Somewhere, at some time, they might be reunited. No. They would be reunited.

Drake ignored his pain and weakness. He laughed aloud.

It was a mistake. The decaying fabric of his lungs ripped under the stress like wet paper. His throat filled with blood, and he died.

“By a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney.”

There are worse things in the world than pain.

Pain can be channeled and concentrated, marshaled and molded, directed to draw some element of the world into bright particular focus. Harsher pain can force a tighter focus.

But panic, heart-stilling, gut-twisting panic, has no redeeming value. It dissipates instead of distilling. When blind panic roars and surges, all concentration is lost.

Drake awoke to that knowledge. Terror and horror howled at him from every direction. He had no idea of the cause. Worse, he did not know how to find out. He was blind to everything, deaf to all but the screaming of frightened minds. He tried to order the chaos around him and structure the questions that he wanted answered:

Where am I? When am I? How long was I dormant? How far in the future have I traveled this time? What progress has there been in restoring Ana ?

It was hopeless. He could form the questions, but a hundred billion replies came raging in at once. They said everything and nothing, individual vectors combining to give a null resultant.

He tried different questions: Why are you so afraid? What is the source of fear?

A hundred billion answers came in unison. The force of the signal was too much to handle. Drake made a supreme effort. He ignored the torrent of inputs from those countless billions of accessible minds, and looked inward to create his own working environment.

A sunny room, windowed and comfortable. The familiar prospect beyond it of a windswept Bay of Naples.

And in the seat opposite, ready to answer his questions -

Drake recoiled. Instinctively he had thought of Ana, and she sat waiting. It was the worst possible choice. In Ana’s presence, even with an Ana that he had himself created, he would not seek answers. Like the lotus-eaters, he would dream away the time.

Who?

People flickered into the armchair. Par Leon, Ariel, Melissa Bierly, Trismon Sorel, Milton, Cass Leemu…

None would hold. They appeared, and were as quickly gone.

Who?

Tom Lambert. Yes, yes, yes. Don’t go!

The outline of the doctor had been faint and wavering. Now his figure stayed and steadied. He shook his head reprovingly. “Dumb, very dumb. I don’t mean you, Drake. Us. Not your fault, but ours — the composite’s. We should have known better.”

“Better than what?” Drake saw that it was Tom at thirty, leaner than the paunchy and balding version of their last meeting.

“Than to expose you all at once to our situation.” The man in the other chair was so real, so tangible, that it was impossible to think of him as some ghostly and evanescent swirl of electrons. “Heaven knows, we’ve talked enough about temporal shock. We have plenty of experience with it. You’d think we would have learned to believe in it.”

“I’m not feeling temporal shock.”

“You will. Do you insist on this form of interaction, by the way? It will severely limit the rate of information transfer.”

“I can handle this. I couldn’t take it the other way.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to live with it. That is temporal shock, even if you don’t want to use the term. You’ll get used to the new reality after a while. I’d suggest we take this slowly, maybe have little practice sessions until you learn how to structure and sort inputs.”

“I’m ready to sort some inputs now, Tom, without any practice at all. Tell me three things. Can Ana be brought back to me? When am I? And where am I? And don’t tell me that I’ll have trouble understanding or accepting whatever the truth is. I’ve heard that line of talk every time I’ve been resurrected, and every time I managed.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Tom leaned back, pipe and lighted match in hand. He was still in his tobacco-addiction days, shortly before acute sinus problems and the anomaly of a physician practicing the opposite of what he preached had forced him to give up smoking. “You know, Drake, some of the questions that you asked are pretty damned hard to

answer.”

“I thought they seemed very basic.”

“Well, you asked about time again. I know what you mean: How many years has it been since your upload into the data banks? But you must understand that with people buzzing all over the Galaxy, or operating in electronic form, or sitting in strong gravitational fields, everyone’s clock runs at a different rate. We use a completely different technique for describing time now. If I told you how it worked, it wouldn’t mean a thing to you. I’ll give you an answer, I promise. I’ll find a way of showing you. But for the moment, why don’t we just agree that however you measure it, it’s been a very long time compared with your previous dormancies.”

A very long time — compared with fourteen million years? Drake suspected he would not like Tom’s answer, when it was stated in his old-fashioned terms.

“What about Ana?”

“Sorry. No real change since last time. We have confirmed the closed nature of the universe, so there is a possibility of ultimate resurrection close to the Omega Point, in the far, far future. Today, we can’t do a thing for her.”

“So why am I awake, instead of dormant in electronic storage? Have you forgotten what I requested?”

“Not at all. We have honored your wishes for a long time… perhaps too long. But we have our worries, too. Our own needs have finally reached a point of urgency that cannot be denied. More to the point, if we do not solve our problem, your own needs and requests will become academic. We have to save ourselves if we are to save you.”