Terry Pratchett - The Long War

He walked ahead willingly. The elevator sealed up around him and descended.

Even now that disembodied voice spoke to him. “This facility used to belong to the US government. Since being bought by trans-Earth, somehow it’s slipped off the map. Governments can be so clumsy…”

The elevator door opened to reveal a kind of study, perhaps a rather English design, complete with fireplace and dancing flames—obviously artificial, but crackling fairly realistically. He might almost have been back in one of the grander of his parishioners’ houses in St. John on the Water.

A chair shifted, set beside a low table. A man of indeterminate age stood to meet him, wearing a monk’s orange robe, head shaven, smiling—and holding a pipe. Somehow, like the fire, he had an air of artificiality.

“Welcome, Nelson Azikiwe!”

Nelson stepped forward. “You are Lobsang?”

“Guilty as charged.” The man waved the pipe vaguely towards another chair. “Please sit.”

They sat, Nelson taking an upright chair opposite Lobsang.

“First things first,” Lobsang said. “We are safe and discreet in this place, which is one of several such support facilities I own across the world—indeed, the worlds. Nelson, you are free to walk out of here any time you wish, but I would prefer it if you never spoke about this meeting—well, I believe a fellow Chestertonian will be discreet. Grant me the liberty of confirming your favourite novel— The Napoleon of Notting Hill , was it not?”

“The source of the railings quote.”

“Exactly. Personally my pick is The Man Who Was Thursday , still an excellent read and the precursor of many spy romances over the years. A curious man, Chesterton. Embraced Catholicism like a security blanket, don’t you think?”

“I found him as a kid, when I was digging around in a Joburg library. A stash of ancient books, a relic of the days of the British presence. Probably not been read since apartheid…” Nelson ran out of steam. He supposed the idea of a bongani like him sitting in a dusty library absorbing the adventures of Father Brown had been surreal enough, but this situation took the biscuit, as his parishioners might have said. What to ask? Where to begin? He essayed, “Are you part of the Lobsang Project?”

“My dear sir, I am the whole of the project.”

Nelson reflected on various searches he’d run. “You know, I recall gossip about a supercomputer that endeavoured to get its owners to accept that it was human, a soul having been reincarnated into the machine at the moment it was booted… Something like that. The nerdosphere consensus was that it was a red herring.” Nelson hesitated. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Lobsang dismissed the question. “By the way, would you like a drink? I understand you’re a beer man.” He stood and crossed to a walnut drinks cabinet.

Nelson accepted the drink, half a glass of a heavy, flavoursome brew, and persisted with his questions. “And are you somehow connected to the Mark Twain expedition?”

“You have me there. That was the second time I found myself close to the glare of public scrutiny, after the circumstances of my miraculous birth, and it was rather harder to escape. I’m afraid poor Joshua Valienté ended up taking more of the resulting attention than he wanted. Or deserved, actually. While I receded to the comfort of the shadows.”

“And isn’t transEarth some kind of subsidiary of the Black Corporation?”

Lobsang smiled. “Yes, transEarth is partly owned by Black.”

“Tell me why I’m here.”

“Actually you came to me, remember. You’re here because you solved the puzzle. Followed the clues.”

“The link between you and the Mark Twain ?”

“Quite. But of course you have your own underlying personal connection to Black, since your scholarship days. You won’t be surprised to find that the Black Corporation has been watching you for some time. You’re one of Douglas Black’s longer-term investments, in fact.”

Lobsang leaned over his table, tapped its surface so that a screen flipped up, and Nelson watched disturbingly familiar images of himself, his family, his life slide past one by one, beginning with his own smiling face as a two-year-old.

“Born in a Johannesburg township, of course. You first came to our attention when your mother put you forward for Black’s ‘Searching for the Future’ programme. Scholarships and various other contracts followed, though you were never directly employed by Black. Then came your rise to modest prominence as a palaeontologist of the Long Earth. Exploring the stepwise past, yes? It was something of a surprise when you took your own sideways step into the Church of England, but Douglas Black believes in allowing those he values to find their own way. He trusts them, you see. And now here you are, well spoken of by Douglas’s good friend the Archbishop of Canterbury—yet seeking new directions.” He smiled. “Did I miss anything significant?”

Nelson felt needled at the idea he was being manipulated. “And what are you , sir? Are you anything more than another ‘long-term investment’ of a rich and powerful man?”

Lobsang was oddly hesitant. Nelson was reminded, surprisingly, of some of his more theologically doubting parishioners. “In a way. In fact, literally, yes . Technologically speaking, I am a product of Black technologies, beginning with the gel that supports my consciousness. Legally speaking, I am a business partner, a co-owner of a Black Corporation subsidiary. Yet beyond that Douglas gives me great—well, untrammelled freedom. What am I? I believe that I am a reincarnated Tibetan motorbike repairman. I have clear if somewhat erratic memories of my former life… Some call me a deranged if highly intelligent supercomputer. But I know I have a soul. It’s the bit talking to you, correct? And I have dreams—do you believe that?”

“That’s all rather muddled. Are you in need of counselling?”

Lobsang smiled ruefully. “Probably. But more specifically, I need—companions—in my quest.”

“What quest?”

“Simply put, I am researching the Long Earth phenomenon and all its implications for mankind, and I have come to understand I cannot do it by myself. I need different perspectives—such as yours, Reverend Azikiwe. Your unusual mix of the rational with the mystic… You can’t disguise that you too have always searched for truth. One only has to glance at your online activities to perceive that.”

Nelson grunted. “I suppose there’s no point in discussing my right to privacy.”

“I have a mission for you. A quest, a journey across the Long Earth—and indeed across this one. We will be travelling to New Zealand, on Earth West number—well, the numbers scarcely matter, do they?”

“ New Zealand? And what will we be travelling to see?”

“You saw the records of the Mark Twain expedition, I believe. Those that were made public at least.”

“Yes…”

“Did you come across references to the entity known as First Person Singular?”

Nelson stayed silent. But his curiosity was like a fish-hook in his flesh.

Lobsang shifted in his chair. “What do you say?”

“It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it? I need to think about it.”

“The twain will be here tomorrow.”

“Fine.” He stood. “I’ll sleep in my vehicle overnight. That will give me time to consider.”

Lobsang stood too, smiling. “Take all the time you need.”

That night there was a thunderstorm, a real humdinger coming in from the west, and rain that made the Winnebago sound as if it were a target on a firing range.

Nelson lay in his bed listening to the barrage, and considering the world in general and his current situation in particular—including a sidebar on the nature of souls. It was strange how many people he’d met who had no use for orthodox Christianity yet nevertheless unthinkingly believed that they had a soul.