the Bulge in orbit.
‘Well,’ said Milena. ‘The area of focus is huge. So the Consensus is going to help map it out for me.’
‘How?’ said Mike Stone.
‘With an Angel,’ said Milena.
Suddenly there was a tingling underneath her scalp, where she had been made Terminal. ‘It’s about to happen,’ she said.
Information was presented to her, not in words. The information was like an iron weight, very delicately placed in her frail flesh. It was as if the weight of the universe was whispering to her. All the bones of her cheeks and temple seemed to crackle and ache.
The Consensus had spoken.
As if it had breathed out a bubble, something was released. It was small like an orange pip, and Milena felt relief. The great voice had been withdrawn. Milena had the impression of somersaulting, of something rolling towards her. ‘It’s here,’ she whispered. ‘The Angel.’
Something seemed to open up in her head.
It was like a curtain going back. The suede walls of the Bulge, the lens of its window, the stars and the Earth all seemed to part, and she was in another existence.
There was no light, no sound, only sensation. The sensation was something like touch. But the touch ran in lines, taut lines between things. Consciousness was extended along them, and whenever thought moved, the lines were strummed, like the strings of a musical instrument.
The Earth was a carefully wound ball of lines which led out from the Earth in all directions. The lines of touch went out to the stars and curved inwards towards the heart of the sun, a nexus of them eight minutes away. The lines pierced Milena’s body and the body of the Bulge and held them both, falling, falling always towards the Earth, as the Earth fell away.
The lines were gravity. In the fifth dimension, the mathematical description of gravity and electromagnetic phenomena are identical. Infra-red, and ultra-violet, weight and thought. They were all the same thing. The universe was a pun as well.
A web, thought Milena. The universe is a web, like a spider’s.
‘Hello! Hello!’ cried a voice. There was no sound, but words had resonated like music out of the lines. Rising out of the lines, part of the lines, was another consciousness, a personality, imprinted on gravity, where thought and gravity are the same thing.
The Angel rolled towards her, across the lines, making them throb. The Angel laughed, and the laughter thrilled its way through the lines. The laughter felt like the strings of a cello being struck by a deaf child.
‘Light waves, the Angel said. ‘X-rays, radio waves. They’re all here. So what do you think? Isn’t it lovely?’
‘You were human,’ said Milena aloud.
‘Well ta,’ said the Angel. ‘Better than being called a spider, I expect.’
Milena saw a face in memory. The Angel was showing her a memory. Milena saw the face of a cheerful man with red hair and a creased face, an ageing face. He was wrapping a blue tie around itself, one hundred years ago.
‘Your name was Bob,’ said Milena.
‘Got it in one,’ said the Angel. ‘Bob the Angel. It’s an honour and a privilege, Milena, an honour and a privilege. Ugly-looking geezer, wasn’t I? Mind you the wife was no oil painting either.’
Another memory was spun out of gravity. Milena saw a cheerful, pink-faced woman with a double chin and clean false teeth.
‘But you enjoy it,’ said Milena, with relief. He enjoyed being an Angel.
‘Ah wouldn’t change it for the world. One thing though. I wish my kids could have known how their old man ended up.’ He strummed the lines of gravity.
He had wanted to be a musician. He played in bars after work. He had had three children and had kept their photographs on his desk as the world collapsed. Milena saw the photographs as well. Three cheerful, blonde children, with pre-Rhodopsin faces the colour of a photographic flash.
Milena sensed something else. Behind all the memories, between the words, something else swam like a fish in dark water.
‘You’re a composite,’ Milena realised. They had given Bob part of someone else’s personality as well.
‘That’s my mate George. Strong silent type. He was a nuclear astrophysicist.’ Bob the Angel imitated a popping sound.
He keeps talking to reassure me, thought Milena.
‘That’s right. You’re sure this isn’t all too much for you?’
Milena shook her head.
‘Say hello, George. See? Silent. I do all the talking. George never says anything. So it’s not too strange, having him all tangled up inside here with me. It’s just that from time to time I start talking in parsecs. You ready to go on, Milena?’
She nodded. She felt his pleasure.
‘Just look at this. I want you to see this.’
And the Angel flung himself out again, into the lines.
He passed along them, like a wave through rope, accelerating. He hurtled himself along the lines, a disturbance in them. Milena could feel that there was a traffic in Angels. They were all sighing up and down the lines, speeding away towards the stars. Bob shot past them, through them. They tingled in greeting.
There was a traffic in light as well. Milena didn’t recognise it at first. She simply became aware of something in the lines, sizzling its way out of the sun. They struck the earth and reeled shimmying away from its surface, scattered back out into space, like tiny wriggling arrows. Milena could feel those too. She felt them sputtering into space. Light was part of the lines.
And Bob was swinging from line to line, slipping, somersaulting, shaking himself with the silent laughter of Angels. He spun, as if on tiptoe, and suddenly, made of gravity, he gathered the lines of gravity tightly in towards himself. The lines snagged the light, pulling them inward as well.
‘Open your eyes, love,’ said the Angel.
Milena had not realised that her eyes had been closed. She opened them and saw, with human eyes, the Earth.
She saw the Earth through a gravitational lens. It was as if she looked at it through the bottom of a wine glass. Its blue seas and white clouds, its thin and flimsy cloak of air, were seen as a series of halos, rings of light.
And the Angel let all the lines go, and the universe seemed to boom.
Milena’s mouth was hanging open, and she was laughing as if drunk. Her eyes she knew were sparkling, giddy with delight.
The Angel spoke. ‘Not bad, I’d say.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Milena, shaking her head.
‘That’s the spirit. I love it out here, really, I do. Can you imagine if everyone down there could see this? There wouldn’t be any meanness would there? None of this grubbing, get your number 92 and stay in line. None of this, 'Here you' if they knock your coat off the hanger.’
The thought was the lines, and the lines were pulling the stars and the sun, the Earth and the Bulge, holding them together through the forces of attraction.
‘We’re concepting it,’ said the Angel. ‘By which I mean… oh here,’ He passed her a kind of telepathic diagram. It showed Angels rising up from the Earth and travelling the vastness between the stars. There were caravans of Angels, like drops of water sliding on a cobweb. Those in front passed the sensation of where they were to those in the back, one to the other, all the way back to the Consensus. They were making a mental map of the lines.
The map was on a scale of one to one, and overlay reality. For all intents and purposes, it was reality. The fact that the lines had been conceived so far out meant anyone in the net could feel that far out. Milena was touching the stars. She felt them flicker, as if against her fingertips.
The map had an end. There was a boundary beyond which the Angels had not travelled, though the map was
