We travel over the huge area of the State of Matter, seeing wonders like a tourist resort named Cyclotron Falls, famous for its Hadron Collider Cars. But the most impressive – even terrifying – is a barren wasteland slashed by a dark crevasse extending deep into the earth. Our approach triggers a warning beacon – sirens and lights and a metallic voice saying that that the area is a no-fly zone.
A holograph of a penguin appears. The most striking feature is its eyes, banded in yellow, deep-set with the wisdom of the ages. In a voice which manages to be authoritative despite a bit of residual squawk, it introduces itself as the Guardian of Eternity: “You are passing into the proximity of the Abyss of Deep Time. This is a region of unstable matter employed in the quantum computing applications of the library. The presence of time crystals produces a variety of effects upon nul-energy, some of practical use but potentially hazardous to conscious beings composed thereof. Please detour around this region.”
That’s how the nul-cages work! I get the distinct impression from the erratic nature of Cüinn’s chatburl that he’s jumping up and down and screaming. I didn’t understand how something from Universe Prime could capture nul-energy – and I’ll bet that the predictive symmetry of the crystals is used in prophecy.
Ishan looks worried; Lakeland and Durant look confused.
Varen shrugs. « Let’s just change course. »
We head towards Erotica, capital city of the State of Affairs. It’s the sort of place where the breeze is just warm enough that your spirit floats in the air and seems suspended. But the breeze is coming off the ocean, and there’s a bit of the crispness of salt, and so it always feels invigorating, not lethargic. The trees are heavy with flowers, and the walkways snake through valleys of blooming vines, intoxicating with their heavy scent.
We’ve been travelling for so long; we need a rest. We stop at a cozy beachside cabin. There is champagne, chocolate, fresh flowers on the table. The wind blows through the floor length white curtains that surround the balcony door. The bath is full of lush tropical plants and lit with candles. It’s perfect, not the least bit tacky like some love hotel.
There is no pain here. This is a dream, a beautiful dream, the sort of dream produced by Gyre. But any dream which does not serve Tara is not worth having.
Since our exploration has successfully filled in the missing regions on the map of the pleroma, we might as well enjoy traveling as we like. We journey down the coast past Mutuality Village, across Plain Asday and over Filigree Mesa. We reach the Gulf of Bridging just as the oysters emerge from the water.
The dirigible slows inexplicably and begins to descend. « Emergency stop, » says a voice over the announcement system. « Please stand by for maintenance procedures. »
« I don’t understand, » says Ishan. « How does an imaginary airship in a mental construct break down? »
« Hurley told me that the pleroma operates according to the logic of dreams. Frustrating things happen all the time in dreams. It’s the subconscious mind trying to tell you something. »
« There’s a unique satisfaction that comes from repair, » says Varen. « In fact, some things are more beautiful once broken. That’s the essence of wabi-sabi. »
We might as well disembark. We stand on the shores of Confusion, watching the mollusks extend from the beaches both here and in the State of Shock, meeting in the middle of the waters. In the distance, I can see a troop of penguins coming across the bridge in our direction. « Magellanic penguins, » says Varen. « It’s our repair team. »
« They’d better get here before sunset, » I mutter.
« Why? » asks Ishan. « We’re not in a hurry. »
« The mollusks will retreat into the water, » says Durant. « It’s one of the few places in the pleroma where time isn’t stationary. »
Ishan looks even more confused. As one of the last ones left unrecognized, he’s so often out of the loop. For some reason, I don’t seem to share the camaraderie, the sense of belonging, of purpose that Lakeland, Durant and Varen felt instantly upon their incorporation into the pleroma. But at least, I know what’s going on.
I do my best to explain. « In the outer world, time seems to progress measurably along one axis. In here, there are no daily cycles in most locations. In some places, it’s always noon, in others, evening. There’s also no change of seasons. It will always be winter in the State of Amazement, always summer in the State of Strength. Time does pass – although in an irregular, distorted way – because we’re capable of acting in our own narrative, but the time we experience is highly subjective. Only musicians are able to accurately gauge how much time has passed relative to Universe Prime. »
But Ishan isn’t listening to me anymore. « They’re moaning, » he murmurs.
I had registered it at the periphery of my consciousness, attributing it to perhaps the wind. Now that I focus, it’s unmistakable, a dolorous sigh of agony.
« Maybe the penguins are too heavy for them, » says Lakeland. « I probably wouldn’t enjoy somebody using me as a bridge. »
Ishan shakes his head. He stoops, picks up an oyster, strokes its shell. « What’s the problem, little fellow? »
The oyster’s shell gapes open, revealing an enormous pearl. « Oh, that explains it. Pearls are actually an irritant. It’s like having a toothache. » Ishan removes the pearl, holding it up in the light of the setting sun. « It’s a nice one, » he says.
“Ishan del Shambhah’d, Shining Castellan of Shambhala, 83rd to emanate, 29 in the color scale, resonates to 109. 1.785 meters tall, cock size 16.12 cm when erect, apparent age 30. Treasure-hunter. Totem is Camellia japonica, camellia, fixed star is Sadalbari, the lucky star of the excellent one. Esoteric symbol is the geomantic glyph Acquisito, gain. Dessert is profiteroles with gold leaf and nau’gsh crème plombières. Function is combinatory empowerment, proto-conscious tendency is prosperity, designated Fortune. Blazon is sable, three bezants or surrounding a chevron quarterly countercharged royal gold and argent.”
« Achievement #26. He found the pearl, » says Varen. « The pleroma provides. » Ishan barely seems surprised. He’s the embodiment of fortune. Things will fall into place for him – dirigibles will serendipitously break down, unseen doors will open.
The moaning intensifies. The oysters beneath us are all gaping, revealing that they are infested with pearls. « We’d better collect these, » says Ishan.
« You’re kidding. There are thousands of oysters – maybe hundreds of thousands. We couldn’t carry them all, and they’d weigh down the dirigible. »
« We can’t ignore their suffering, » says Ishan. « We can fill our pockets while we wait. »
The penguins arrive. « Engine running rough in the left nacelle. Shouldn’t take long. If you’d just fit her up with nanobots, there’d be no need for service calls like this. »
The pearls are lovely, reflecting lustrous highlights of silvery gold and blue in the afternoon light. I jam dozens of them into the pockets of my peacoat, but it doesn’t seem to diminish the torturous chorus one bit. This is so typical of Ashtara, an embarrassment of riches which becomes a burden.
Varen pauses and frowns. « Perhaps we should notify the merchants of Renfaire. They’re probably better set up for a harvesting operation than we are. »
Those pearls will be worthless at Renfaire, chatburls Ross. They’re common. In Universe Prime, however, they would be worth a fortune.
That doesn’t do us much good.
On the contrary, says Ross. Now that we understand the properties of blue moth silk, I’ve set up a bit of an export business. Meet me in my office – I’m leasing space in the Yggdrasil Tower.
Pleroma Exports Ltd. is located on the 44th floor of the tower. It’s exactly as one would expect – all marble and chrome and deep leather executive chairs. Ross’ desk is enormous, and he looks good behind it, by which I know I’ve been sucked into the sort of ancient male-dominance ritual irresistibly attractive to beings like myself.
He places a bowl upon the table. Ishan empties his pockets. Ross chooses a particularly large, lustrous pearl and holds it to his nose. « Ah, the subtle scent of the calcite center, » he murmurs. « They’re natural, not cultivated, which means they have significant value in their raw state. They’d be worth even more if Quennel could incorporate them into his jewelry line. »
Varen is gazing towards a corner, where a holo depicts the Brrrrrrrrrrrrvvbh homeworld. I suppose every executive office needs an expensive fishtank – it’s archetypal. It’s rare for outsiders to see more than half a dozen of the fish together, but this shows thousands of them swimming in concert, the whole school changing direction at the flick of a flipper. They impress en masse in a way they fail to do individually. I suppose there’s a lesson in that.
« I’m studying them, » says Ross. « Each individual can anticipate which way the group will move. They’ve turned it into an applied science – it’s the reason Floatfish are so good at marketing. Humans are demonstrably bad at prediction because they take everything personally, colored with fear and desire. That’s why the industry standard is to use AIs for market predictions. »
Ishan is clearly uninterested. « So how does this work? » he asks. « You’re going to sell these pearls for us? »
« I’ll buy them wholesale and credit the money to your account in Universe Prime. It will be included in your disclosure. Which, of course, means that the money technically belongs to Tara. »
Ishan seems happy enough at his good fortune. That’s what he is. « Treasure hunter, » Ross says to him. « I think this is the start of a profitable friendship. »
For some Cu’enashti, that’s important, being a good provider for their Chosen. Tara has money of her own, and property, and Ross to manage her businesses. Pointless, then. « I’m not really into money. »
Ross smiles archly, shrugs. Details of finance and law matter to him; no, they are what he is.
« I’ll keep my share, » says Varen, the embodiment of discipline. « It’s wise to have a bit of a nest egg. »
We are what we are. Then why don’t I feel like a rough and ready dirigible pilot? Why do I feel like I’m missing the point?
There’s a knock at the door – two branches I’ve never met before, but it’s easy enough to identify them as Julian and Selby.
« Here they are, » says Selby, placing a box upon the desk. Ross sets aside the lid, revealing a set of eight whisks in varying sizes. Selby takes the largest whisk, raises it, pings it with a finger. The tines vibrate with a satisfying hum.
« He asked me to help him tune them, » Julian explains. « It’s not unlike bringing an emanation into synch. »
Noting the look of absolute bafflement evidenced by Ishan, Varen and myself, Selby adds, « The rate of vibration is everything – the whisk should respond to the gentle agitation of the wrist, some more stiffly and others with flexibility, but always with a pure and constant resonance. Only the perfect whisk will achieve the perfect meringue or mayonnaise or even whipped cream – and they’re all quite different. »
« But can we really sell them? » asks Julian.
« Market research indicates that there are enough fanatical chefs and religious devotees in the Domha’vei to issue a limited edition official Archonist Church Whisk Set, » says Ross. « It’s the perfect Restoration Day present. »
But Selby’s eyes have fallen upon the pearls. Something about his expression tells me that he isn’t evaluating their worth, like Ross, or even their beauty. He is weighing their utility.
But pearls are useless.
« I need those, » he says.
« You can have mine. » I pour the contents of my pockets on the desk – several dozen pearls and an envelope.
His entire face lights up. « Now if only I can keep Granville from using all the grapes. »
« Grapes and pearls? » asks Julian, baffled.
« Nacreous vinegar, » he replies. « The condiment of queens since the time of Cleopatra. »
Ross is saying something about marketing a luxury product, but I’m not listening anymore. There’s something I can almost grasp, something about beauty and uselessness and the pleroma provides. That everything here, everything, is intended for Tara, eventually. Maybe more so if at first it seems to have no purpose at all.
I put the gift certificate back in my pocket. Because who knows what shoes I might need to fill?