Existence

and such would be conversing with cobblies, for centuries.

Not-looking was just part of it. A beginning.

Unless this is all just a practical joke. Like shouting at someone “Quick! DON’T think of an elephant!”

He wouldn’t put it past Hiram and Ika. Both auties and Neanders enjoyed tweaking the homosap majority, professing to have deep stores of “ancient wisdom” on tap, unavailable to the hordes of regular Cro-Magnon humans infesting Earth and nearby space-a con that seduced millions of the eagerly gullible.

I hear dolphins do it, too.

What if the claims were for real, and not just an act? Weren’t the combined branches of humanity going to need all the wisdom they could get? Alas, with a billion citizens demanding to be uploaded into crystal, another billion loudly renouncing science, and several billions more just scared, what chance was there of reaching consensus on anything?

At least there’s no lack of clever plans.

Like Emily’s unique idea for using the Mother Probe technologies. A scheme that called for taking an ancient dream, one that was a lie, and turning it into truth. A truth that might then help to expose liars…

Something about his thought-drift must have wandered in the right direction, because suddenly Gerald felt a creepy presence. A chill up the back of his neck that said he wasn’t alone in the quiet stretch of slightly curved hallway. And along with all that… a queer sense of approval.

Of course, the moment he noticed it, the glimmer started fading. So he veered quickly to another topic. Diverting away from the maybe-cobbly.

Why me? Why now?

Why are Ika and Hiram so insistent I try this, even as our ship plows deeper into dangerous territory? How am I a better candidate than younger, more mentally agile crew members?

Something about the nothing changed-it felt vaguely like a nod. He was asking good questions. Try conjectures.

Because he was the famous explorer Gerald Livingstone? Tested by space and time and alien demon-artifacts. The man who lassoed an ancient, star-voyaging crystal out of orbit, brought home dire news from the galaxy, then helped find new ways around the danger.

Venerable commander and warrior. Helping humanity to claim the solar system. Already with his visage on a dozen postage stamps… though with stronger jaw and straighter nose than he ever saw in a mirror, and no hint of the flawed, limited creature who lurked behind those eyes. Any single part of the legend seemed unlikely.

The whole thing? Preposterous!

But I already knew all that. I’ve been luckier than anyone deserves. Starting the moment I saw something fishy in that object Hachi and I snagged with our tether…

He recognized the same feeling now. A shiver near the base of the spine. A frisson of uncanny recognition. Still veering his attention and gaze away from that patch of hallway, Gerald thought hard.

Other generations would attribute it all to intervention by the gods… or God. Or apply the catch-all “destiny.” Human egos perceive convenient correlations that flatter our prejudices, our outrageous sense of self- importance, ignoring exceptions.

And so, science leans far the other way, training us to dismiss subjectivity. To shrug off observation bias. A good and mature teaching…

… but shouldn’t we keep one eye cracked open, just a little, for the fey and strange? For things that are too good-or too bad-to be true?

Movement in his blind spot.

It shouldn’t happen. He had no retinal cells aimed at that small portion of the corridor. But Gerald glimpsed something anyway, allowing it to form, without expectation-

– then recoiled from a sudden-strong impression-a momentary, electric imprint on his mind. The glimmer of a narrow, pointed face, fuzzy, with long whiskers, a looping tail and black eyes that shone…

“Porfirio,” he whispered. The rat god of the InterMesh. Mostly mythological, yet paid homage by countless groups, individuals, and ais across Earth and space, who tithed one-millionth of their bit cycles for use by the patron deity of uploaded beings.

Gerald broke the trance, rubbing his eyes before glancing at the corridor again, this time with full attention. Nothing was there. Nothing but scattered dust, held to the plastic floor by static charge and centrifugal force.

That was no cobbly. Rather, the famous little software rodent was exactly what his subconscious might dream up! An illusion born of imagination and fatigue. At another level, clearly, Porfirio represented a different explanation for Gerald’s life story. The usual obsessive thought-that all of this could be a simulation.

The next time I rouse, will I find myself living in some crystal world, doomed to drift across the vast desert between stars? Or already sealed in mud beneath some planet’s sea? Is this reality of mine, aboard a mighty ship where I’m a legendary hero-leader, the place where my mind goes in order to evade some awful truth?

In which case, should I be trying so hard to poke at “reality”? Or to wake up? Isn’t it better to leave things alone?

Good question.

But character is character. Personality is personality. And Gerald knew what the answer had to be, for the type of man he was.

Hell yes. Always try to wake up.

* * *

He chuckled.

Enough.

All he could allocate, for Ika’s cobbly hunt, were a few minutes here and there, while devoting all his strength to the fight at hand. The battle for humanity. For Earth. And maybe more.

Still, a person can do many things. Can be many things.

So I’ll be back, he told the stretch of hallway. And I won’t forget.

88.

LUNGFISH

She was running, tanned legs bare and gleaming with a soft sweat-sheen. Silk shorts and a halter top, bare feet pounding lightly across a surface that was richer between-the-toes than grass. And with it all came a voluptuous sensation of pursuit. One moment the chaser, then the chased. Knowing that, if she were caught, it would only happen by her choice. Bounding, leaping in the open breeze.

* * *

Now swimming. The flow of water velvety across her skin. Primordial but limitless. Almost prenatal in its innocence, but without the cramped confinement of a womb. Turning her head at just the right rhythm to breathe. Feeling the gentle burn of strength in use. Wanting or needing no protection.

* * *

And water became a lover. Roving across every sleek and fleshy curve, flowing along her legs and arms, hips