Distress

“Kill Mosala.”

My head swam from the stench; the smelling-salts effect had outlived its usefulness and gone into reverse. “If moderates want to kill Mosala, what do the extremists have in mind?”

Kuwale didn’t answer.

I stared out into the blackness. Back on the docks, ve’d insisted that the threat to Mosala had nothing to do with technoliberation. I said, “Do you want to clear up one small point of Anthrocosmological doctrine for me.

“No.”

“If Mosala dies before becoming the Keystone… nothing happens, nothing changes. Right? Someone else will take her place—eventually— or we wouldn’t even be here to talk about it.”

No reply.

“Yet you still feel responsible for keeping her safe? Why?” I cursed myself silently; the answer had been staring me in the face ever since I’d spoken to Amanda Conroy. “These people are not the political enemies of someone who just happens to be a potential Keystone. Are they? They’re a walking affront to every mainstream Anthrocosmologist— because they’ve stolen your ideas, and pushed them to their logical conclusion. They’re AC, just like you, except that they’ve decided they don’t want Violet Mosala as creator of the universe.”

Kuwale responded venomously, “It’s no ‘logical conclusion.’ Trying to choose the Keystone is insanity. The universe exists because the Keystone is given. Would you try to change the Big Bang?”

“No. But this act of creation still hasn’t happened, has it?”

“That makes no difference. Time is a part of what is created. The universe exists—now—because the Keystone will create it.”

I persisted, “But there’s still room left to change things, isn’t there? No one knows yet exactly which TOE is true.”

Kuwale shifted again; I could feel vis body grow rigid with anger. “That’s the wrong way to look at it! The Keystone is given! The TOE is fixed!”

I said, “Don’t waste your breath defending the mainstream to me. I think you’re all equally braindead; I'm just trying to come to grips with the more dangerous version. Don’t you think I have a right to know what we’re up against?”

I could hear ver breathing slowly, trying to calm verself. Then ve explained, reluctantly: “They believe that the identity of the Keystone is determined, preordained… along with everything else in history, including the killing of any ‘rivals.’ But determinism doesn’t take away the illusion of power—have you ever known an Islamic fatalist to be passive? It’s not as if the hand of God is going to reach out of the sky and make sure that they spare the Keystone—or some improbable conspiracy of fate will frustrate them, if they go after the wrong physicist. There’s no need for supernatural intervention, when the whole universe and everyone in it is just a conspiracy to explain the Keystone’s existence. Whoever they murder, for whatever reason, they can’t get it wrong.

“So… if they kill all the rivals of the theorist with the TOE they favor, then that TOE must be the one that brings the universe into being. And whether they’ve really chosen anything or not, the result is the same. The TOE they want, and the TOE they get, end up being identical.”

It hit me, belatedly. “And they’re in Kyoto, too? You think they got to Nishide—that’s why he’s sick? And they got to Sarah, before she could expose them?”

“Most likely.”

“Have you told the Kyoto police? Do you have people, there—?” I stopped; ve could hardly discuss countermeasures, when we were almost certainly being monitored. I said wearily, “What’s so wonderful about Buzzo’s TOE, anyway?”

Kuwale was derisive. “They think it leaves open a chance of access to other universes, seeded from pre- space by other Big Bangs. Mosala and Nishide both rule that out completely; other universes might still exist, but they’re unreachable. Black holes, wormholes, in their TOEs, all lead back to this one cosmos.”

“And they’re willing to kill Mosala and Nishide—because one universe isn’t enough for them?”

Kuwale protested sardonically, “Think of the infinite riches we’d be throwing away, if we chose a self- contained cosmos. Take a long-term perspective. Where would we flee to, when the Big Crunch came? One or two lives is a small price to pay for the future of all humanity, isn’t it?”

I thought of Ned Landers again, trying to step outside the human race, in order to take control of it. You couldn’t step outside the universe—but out-explaining every TOE theorist with Anthrocosmology, and then playing choose-your-own-creator, came close.

Kuwale said despondently, “Maybe Mosala is right to despise us, if this is where our ideas have led.”

I wasn’t going to argue. “Does she know? That there are ACs who want to kill her?”

“She does and she doesn’t.”

“Meaning what?”

“We’ve tried to warn her. But she loathes even the mainstream so passionately that she won’t take the threat seriously. I think she thinks… bad ideas can’t touch her. If Anthrocosmology is nothing but superstition, it has no power to harm her.”

“Tell that to Giordano Bruno.” My eyes were adapting to the darkness; I could see a faint strip of light on the floor of the hold in the distance.

I said, “Have I missed something—or have we been talking all this time about the people you call moderates?” Kuwale didn’t reply, but I felt ver move—slumping forward, as if in a final surrender to shame. “What do the extremists believe? Break it to me gently, but break it to me now. I don’t want any more surprises.”

Kuwale confessed miserably, “You might say they… hybridized with the Ignorance Cults. They’re still ACs, in the broadest sense: they believe that the universe is explained into being. But they believe it’s possible—and desirable—to have a universe without any TOE at all: without a final equation, a unifying pattern. No deepest level, no definitive laws, no unbreakable proscriptions. No end to the possibility of transcendence.

“But the only way to guarantee that… is to slaughter everyone who might become the Keystone.”

My clothes seemed to reach an equilibrium with the hold’s moist air at the most uncomfortable level of dampness possible. I needed to urinate, but I held off for the sake of dignity—hoping that I’d be able to judge correctly when the problem became life-threatening. I thought of the astronomer Tycho Brahe, who’d died after rupturing his bladder during a banquet, because he was too embarrassed to ask to be excused.

The strip of light on the floor didn’t move, but it grew slowly brighter, and then dim again, as the hours wore on. The sounds reaching the hold meant little to me; random creaking and clanking, muffled voices and footsteps. There were distant hums and throbbing noises, some constant, some intermittent; no doubt the most casual boating enthusiast could have discerned the signature of an MHD engine, propelling a jet of sea-water backward with superconducting magnets—but I couldn’t have picked the difference between maximum thrust and a crew member taking a shower.

I said, “How does anyone ever become an Anthrocosmologist, when no one knows you exist?”

Kuwale didn’t answer; I nudged ver with my shoulder.

“I'm awake.” Ve sounded more dispirited than I was.

“Then talk to me, I'm going out of my mind. How do you find new members?”

“There are net discussion groups, dealing with related ideas: fringe cosmology, information metaphysics. We take part—without revealing too much—but we approach people individually if they seem sympathetic and trustworthy. Someone, somewhere, re-invents Anthrocosmology two or three times a year. We don’t try to persuade anyone that it’s true—but if they reach the same conclusions for themselves, we let them know that there are others.”

“And the non-mainstream do the same? Pluck people off the nets?”

“No. They’re all defectors. They all used to be with the rest of us.”

“Ah.” No wonder the mainstream felt such a strong obligation to protect Mosala. Mainstream