The Maddening Time

Copyright © 1995 Jack Nimersheim

Originally published in Something Old, Something New... (Farthest Star Books)

I FEEL A STAR GO NOVA. Protons, neutrons and electrons erupt from the very core of My being, scattering an abundance of heavy elements across the vast universe, amnionic nutrients for worlds yet unborn. Concurrently, I sense the slight movement of gossamer-thin membranes. It takes Me only an instant to associate this gentle motion with a Monarch butterfly basking in the midday sun, casually flexing its colorful wings. Within another nanosecond, I have calculated that more than twenty-five hundred sentient beings, human colonists taming a planet circling a binary star, are destined to perish in the hurricane-force winds ultimately generated by this seemingly inconsequential event.
I do not mourn their inevitable passing; God cannot allow Herself to indulge in such emotional displays.
I have counted the grains of sand contained in all of the beaches on all the worlds comprising all of Creation. I know instinctively the number of angels that will fit on the head of a pin—should I ever deign to incorporate such ethereal supplicants into My grand design.
I understand enigmas great and small. I have unraveled secrets petty and profound. I am all-seeing, all-knowing...almost.
One truth still eludes Me. Try as I might—and a minute portion of My near-infinite intellect is forever dedicated to this pursuit—I have not solved the riddle of My own origin.
Hello....

I have been here, I have been everywhere, for all eternity. I have meandered through millennia and leapt across light years. Before anything else existed, there was Me. When all else came into being, it did so at My command, in response to My desires.
I have filled the void with matter and powered its progress with energy. I initiated the entropy that one day, countless eons in the future, will cause the celestial clockwork I set into motion to wind down and ultimately cease functioning altogether.
I am the catalyst for all of this, and yet I cannot fathom who I am.
Two million years have passed since I last consciously contemplated this question. And yet, My own genesis remains a mystery.
I am omnipotent. I am omnipresent. But I lack omniscience.

...dear...
The various heirs of humanity are progressing well. I observe them with curiosity but without sentiment, as any deity would.
Their evolutionary paths diverged eons ago. Each now reflects the unique environment it inhabits.
Were I to permit Myself the luxury of favoring one over all the others, which I do not, it would be the avian race of Kemiron IV. Their religious ceremonies, in which they worship Me as The Wind That Sustains All, are truly wondrous to behold. Three billion winged beings soar unfettered through the skies of their world, seeking My grace, beseeching Me to heed their trilled petitions. In unison, they begin their ascent to the very brink of the atmosphere. When the weak begin to falter and fall, the strong must decide whether to break away and rescue their plunging brethren or continue on—realizing that, even should they appease Me by abandoning those who have failed, they can approach, but never attain, salvation.
I savor this moment of indecision. Not out of malice, mind you, for divinity precludes such pettiness. Rather, I bask in the epiphany experienced by any who do not turn away from My presence. Those who persevere to the upper reaches of their planet's protective shroud know that God exists, and they believe they understand why.
I wish I could share their conviction.
Four thousand years ago a wayward comet struck Kemiron IV. The subsequent environmental disaster decimated the planet and eventually exterminated its inhabitants. I could have prevented the catastrophe. To do so would have required but a random thought, a fleeting gesture. And yet, I did not intervene.
I would like to claim that My lack of compassion was motivated by divine objectivity. I would like to, but I cannot. Truth to tell, I was preoccupied—a most un-godlike explanation, I realize. It is, however, the only excuse I can offer to justify My inaction.
...you?

The source of My preoccupation? I've been hearing voices. In addition to the secret of My own origin, a second mystery now tantalizes Me: What kind of being speaks to God?
"Hello, dear. How are you?"
It took Peter Lannigan ten seconds to type this polite greeting into his keyboard. Two galaxies within his wife's universe collided and separated again, the contents and configuration of each forever altered by the resulting gravitational perturbations, in the split- second required to press the Enter key.
"I can imagine your confusion, Catherine. You must be wondering where you are, what's happened. It only seems fair that I explain," Lannigan continued, unaware that a billion stars were born and died, a million races evolved and faced extinction, during the brief moment he required to communicate these thoughts.
"I know about you and Terry. At first, I couldn't believe it. No. That's not quite true. I didn't want to believe it. But only a fool denies the truth when it's laid before him like the results of a simple mathematical equation."
The universe expanded, force battling gravity, push fighting pull, until a fragile impasse was reached. Following a brief pause, gravity prevailed and the universe began collapsing in upon itself. Chaos reigned as effect preceded cause. Time ran backward, but it continued to run, nevertheless. Every million years or so, a single word of Peter Lannigan's typed revelations intruded upon a supreme being's solitude.
"Under different circumstances, I might have been able to forgive your actions. After all, as you so often pointed out, I've never been the ideal husband. But having an affair with my lab assistant! How shall I put this?...How utterly banal!
"You realize, of course, that I couldn't allow your infidelity to continue. I had to find some way to end it. I thought about killing Terry. Or you. I even considered, ever so briefly, creating a situation that would allow me to catch you together, at which time I could justify murdering the both of you. Such crimes of passion occur every day.
"In the end, however, I realized that violence is so uncivilized. I may not be perfect, but I take great pride in the fact that I am, for all my other faults, a civilized individual. I believe the course of action I finally settled upon was quite elegant—benevolent, even, given the nature and depth of your betrayal."
What is the sound of God screaming?
Catherine Lannigan knows.
Her husband's comments consumed billions of years, relative time, within her imploding cosmos. The anguished cry elicited by his revelations faded in no time at all.
An entire parsec of Catherine's infinite yet intimate universe vanished completely during this single, catastrophic instant.
"Digitizing your consciousness was quite simple, actually. I've been refining the procedure for nearly a decade. I may have told you about it; then again, maybe I didn't. We talk so rarely, you and I, and almost never about my work.
"I never resented your lack of interest. Honestly. I would not expect you to understand what it is that I do. How could you? Even my professional colleagues lack the vision required to fully appreciate my theories. I know I've discussed their indifference with you, apathy being the one reaction you can comprehend. How ironic that, having finally perfected the process, I find myself unable to disclose my success.
"You see why this is so, don't you? The scientific community—not to mention society as a whole—frowns upon one person taking such liberties with another person's life. For now, at least, I must content myself with the personal satisfaction of knowing that I have attained the goal I pursued with such diligence, for so long. Public acclaim will come later, no doubt.
"Shall I share a second irony with you? Terry's been quite instrumental in the project's success. He's extremely bright, your young lover. Not the genius that I am, of course, but he does have promise.
"I couldn't help but notice, however, that his natural abilities have suffered recently from a lack of focus. Initially, I could not determine the source of this distraction. Now, at last, I understand. Obviously, the young fool has fallen in love with you. And perhaps you with him, for all I know.
"I assume you believed the innocent diversion of a romantic tryst would be good for you. Maybe it was. Who can say? For Terry, however, such involvement could prove most unhealthy. Emotions tend to interfere with intellect.
"So, you see, my solution to our little problem ultimately benefits him as well. Without the diversion of emotional entanglement, I suspect that Terry will flourish as a scientist.
"Does this prospect not bring you joy? It will, if you really care about him."
"Oh, God!" a fallen god cried. "This is insane!"
Two billion suns, the few stars remaining in an imploding cosmos, blinked out of sight. Six billion worlds disappeared in the wink of a once omnipotent eye. Several hundred billion sentient beings and countless other life forms were forever silenced. They no longer existed.
In truth, they never did. But now they were gone, their virtual reality annihilated. Two billion suns, six billion worlds, several hundred billion sentient beings and countless other assorted living creatures suffered the deadly effects of an ersatz deity's madness, without ever knowing its cause.
The universe grew cold and dark, a lonely and solemn place. A place in which Catherine Lannigan suddenly found herself trapped, with only the taunts of a jealous husband and her own tortured thoughts to keep her company. It was a silent prison she wanted desperately to escape.
"I'm sorry, Peter. I truly am. Can you forgive me?"
These words appeared instantly on Peter Lannigan's terminal. The electronic impulses that now defined his wife contemplated and rejected several million alternatives before settling on a simple apology as the best approach for possibly mitigating Peter's anger and convincing him to release her.
"That's very touching, dear..."
Absolute isolation.
"...but not good enough."
Interminable solitude.
"It's too little...
Infinite nothingness.
"...too late."
Impossible to tolerate.
"Don't say that, Peter. Please. I know now that what I did was wrong. I realize, as I could not before, how much it must have hurt you. Surely there must be some way I can make it up to you, something I can do to make things right between us again?"
The delay dividing Catherine's latest plea from her husband's reply was even longer than before. Or so Catherine believed. She could not be certain. In truth, the duration was impossible to measure—time being defined, in absolute terms, as the interval separating two events. Because no events occurred in her now-dormant universe, Catherine Lannigan no longer had a reference point against which to calibrate time's passage. She swore it took Peter forever to respond. Relatively speaking—time also being a relative term—she may well have been correct.
"I must admit that I derive a certain satisfaction from seeing you grovel, Catherine. Quite honestly, however, I don't feel that I can answer your questions immediately. I've found this entire incident to be extremely upsetting. Indeed, I have publicly displayed an appropriate amount of grief over my loving wife's sudden and unexpected `illness.' You're in a coma, in case you don't realize it. Complete cessation of all brain functions—a tragic condition, but not necessarily irreversible. Or so the medical experts in charge of your treatment inform me. Your body is receiving the best care the Mayo Clinic can provide. And we both know your mind is safe, don't we?
"In light of this recent tragedy, I've been granted a month's sabbatical from the lab. I plan to get away from it all and take a short vacation. Everyone's been quite sympathetic. They wish me well and understand my need to withdraw for awhile. They also express the sincere hope that you recover soon. Maybe you will. It could happen, you know. It may happen shortly after I get back. Who can say?
"I'll tell you what. Why don't you take advantage of my absence to ponder further the repercussions of your actions? I'll do the same while I'm gone, I promise. We'll talk again, after I return.
"And now, I must be going. I have a plane to catch. But don't worry, darling. I'll be back in no time at all."
The universe, our universe, began with a bang. Most contemporary theories suggest that it will end in a whimper. Like the reality it defines, this scenario implies a certain symmetry. It allows us the comfort of believing that we inhabit a logical cosmos.
Could we accept so readily a universe birthed in the desperate scream of a demented deity?
Two planets revolving around a tertiary star system collide with one another. Complex gravitational influences cause their trapezoidal orbits to intersect once every five thousand years. A split-second following impact they reappear, reconstructed almost immediately from the fine dust left in the wake of their violent annihilation. Each resumes its celestial passage, seemingly unaffected by the catastrophic events of mere instants earlier. The native life forms of both worlds, also reconstituted after the disaster, recall in explicit detail the days, the weeks, the months leading up to their destruction. They curse whatever gods allow such insanity to continue.
Near the outer rim of the Andromeda Galaxy exists a planet called Kemiron V. Its winged inhabitants live out their lives in dank and crowded caverns. They have never seen the sky, these avian creatures who are denied the joy of flight. Nor have they ever felt the warmth of the sun's rays upon their beaked faces. The population sustains itself on what little nutrient-rich water leaches through the permeable clay that forms the ceilings of their underground dwellings. From birth to death their wings remain unfurled, folding in upon themselves in a cruel parody of the fetal position. During primitive and barbaric ceremonies, their religious leaders sacrifice newborn females by the thousands. They spare only as many as they deem necessary to perpetuate the race. The prophets have proclaimed that such selfless acts appease The Darkness That Envelops All.
On a trivial world called Earth, which circles an inconsequential star referred to as Sol, an insignificant human named Peter Lannigan dies and is reborn a hundred times every day. Each death is more painful than the one preceding it. Each time he dies, this feeble human begs God for mercy. She ignores his cries, of course. Both life and eternal rest, he fears, shall forever be denied him.
Terry Duval did not mind working alone. Loneliness was a sensation he experienced frequently these days, even when immersed in a crowd. He felt most comfortable when his surroundings reflected his disposition. During such times, at least, he was spared the additional burden of having to pretend that he was happy.
It might be different, were he able to share his grief with someone. But, of course, he could not. Only he and Catherine knew of their relationship. Before they ever consummated their love, she had sworn him to secrecy. Terry would never betray her trust—not even now, when the argument could be made that Catherine's condition freed him from this obligation.
Terry was relieved when Peter announced that he had decided to leave the country. He knew enough about the deteriorating state of the Lannigans' marriage to see through his boss's feigned anguish. Having to play along with this charade, as he did during that first week following the onset of Catherine's mysterious illness, was almost more than he could bear. Peter's absence meant he no longer had to offer false solace to his lover's husband, a man whom he felt certain was secretly celebrating Catherine's infirmity.
With Peter on vacation, he had a lot of work to do. Much more than his normal share. This, too, proved fortuitous. The work kept him occupied enough so that, ever so often, he was able to block Catherine's condition from his mind—at least for a few brief moments.
Take today, for example. Terry had decided to test the subroutine designed to control a critical step in the conversion of neural impulses into a digital format. This particular procedure wasn't on the list of tasks Peter left behind when he departed, but Terry remembered the suspect data generated during its last test run. Even with the other work assigned him, he knew that enough extra time was available for him to attempt to identify at least some of the bugs in the code before Peter returned home.
The initial report started rolling off the printer as he was pouring himself a cup of coffee. Walking across the room, Terry removed the top paper from the printer tray and glanced over the figures it contained. He expected to see results similar to those from the previous test.
"What the hell?" he muttered as he scanned the page. Grabbing a second sheet off the pile, he studied its contents a bit more carefully. It didn't make any sense.
One by one, he examined each page of the test results. They matched perfectly the projections from the theoretical models. For this to be true, someone had to have already modified the subroutine to eliminate the conversion problem. And, Terry realized, the only person other than he who was capable of doing so was Peter Lannigan.
But why would Peter not inform him of this breakthrough? At the current stage of their research, the unreliable subroutine was the main obstacle standing in the way of success. That Peter would not have announced, even celebrated, its elimination seemed highly unlikely.
Unless, he thought, there was some reason Peter felt it wise to conceal his accomplishment. But what could it be?
"Oh my God!" Terry Duval shouted, as the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place. "Catherine!"
The mad god laughed as she watched Kemiron V implode. Creating a black hole possessing the appropriate mass within the planet's core required nothing more than a snap of her ethereal fingers. Good! This was all the effort she felt obligated to expend on those pathetic birdies who never learned how to fly. For five billion years she'd suffered through their congenital shortcomings, waiting for them to escape the interior of their world and take flight in recognition of her glory. Even a god's patience has its limits!
Okay. So maybe she had forgotten to provide the winged people suitable egress from Kemiron V's underground caverns. Was this her fault? Of course not! She bore responsibility for an entire universe. It was perfectly understandable that she might overlook a few minute details here and there. If her subjects believed otherwise, they expected too much of her and, therefore, deserved whatever fate befell them.
I've...
A word suddenly popped into the mad god's mind: Alchemy. She could not identify its source, or the manner in which this word might relate to her current activity. It was a pleasant sounding word, though, she mused, as she plucked one electron from the outer shell of all the carbon atoms on a planet near the center of the Sombrero Galaxy. The world's indigenous life forms had no opportunity to scream before they perished, the carbon in their bodies instantly transmuted into boron.
The bemused god thought of a second, somewhat familiar word, one for which she also could not recall a precise origin: Jacks. What an interesting diversion! A game the whole pantheon can play. Of course, the competitive potential of such an activity depended upon the availability of a pantheon to participate. None existed in this universe. Even the mad god was not mad enough to create competition for herself. For better or worse, a single insane deity claimed exclusive rule over this demented domain.
...figured...
It was time to scoot over to Earth. She did not understand her fascination with this petty planet. Once every billion years or so, however, she felt the sudden urge to concentrate a small portion of her consciousness in the general vicinity of its current location. It was an inexplicable impulse she had already experienced on several occasions.
Nothing of any obvious significance ever occurred during these periodic forays, but she came away from each encounter feeling slightly more enlightened about both the nature of this universe and, of equal curiosity, her role within it. Besides, her intermittent visits to Earth provided the perfect opportunity to observe the latest hideous death of that pathetic human called Lannigan—another obsession associated with this intriguing world that she could not explain.
...Catherine.

Catherine? What's a Catherine? she wondered. The word struck a resonant chord.
Catherine. That word—no, that name, for she suddenly realized this is what it was—held some special meaning for her. For some reason. Somehow. At some time. So many eons ago. If she could only remember.
"I've figured out what Peter did, Catherine."
Suddenly, she understood. She was Catherine. The lunatic god in a mad reality disappeared, replaced by a woman driven to madness. An insane and irrational universe blinked out of existence, leaving a disembodied consciousness once again alone and facing oblivion.
"Terry? Is that you?"
Time slowed down even more, if this were possible. Each letter took forever to form, each word consumed an eternity, as she awaited a response.
"Yes, it is, my darling."
Long-forgotten emotions flooded Catherine's consciousness. Relief. Joy. Anticipation. Excitement. Hope. Exhilaration. Love.
Well, maybe not love.
She had to be honest with herself. Peter was correct. Terry had been little more than an innocent diversion. She did not truly love him, although she had succeeded in making him believe otherwise. Now, however, he represented her best hope, probably her only hope, of escaping the madness in which her husband had trapped her. If she could mislead him for something as frivolous as a romantic tryst, as Peter had called it, surely her current situation justified additional deception.
"Oh, Terry, my beloved! I had given up hope of ever seeing you, ever kissing you, ever touching you again."
She realized how absurd these words must look, appearing as pixels on a video display. Such physical pleasures as "touching" and "kissing" were denied her—for now, at least. But if she had learned anything about Terry during the time they had been lovers, it was that he was an incurable romantic.
"Chin up, Catherine—I'm here. Peter said that you..."
"I know, Terry. I know," she interrupted. "Peter has already explained to me what he's done. I'm just glad that he decided to punish me, rather than you, when he found out about us."
This was a lie, of course. Catherine would have sacrificed anyone, including Terry, to have avoided her current fate. Especially Terry. He was, after all, largely responsible for her predicament. Still, she figured, a little guilt might galvanize him to act even more quickly to liberate her.
"Oh, no, Catherine. No! Don't ever say that! I'd have let Peter do whatever he wanted to me, if this could have spared you any suffering. I'll find some way to reverse the process. I promise. I would have started on it right away, but I wanted to let you know that I was here, with you. And I won't leave, darling. That's another promise. You just sit tight, until I get you out of there."
Catherine grew weary, waiting the twenty billion years or so, her time, that passed before Terry contacted her again. Out of sheer boredom, she began exploring her strange and wondrous surroundings. Having a virtual universe to manipulate however she pleased was almost enjoyable, now that she anticipated an end to her electronic exile.
The first thing she did was resurrect the bird people of Kemiron. This time, however, she demanded no worship from them. The opportunity to observe these magnificent beings in flight, their translucent wings slicing the wind, free to soar through the planet's azure skies, offered ample reward for once again granting them life.
Equally gratifying was her personal vision of an idyllic Earth. She recreated her home world not in her own image, as the majority of gods conceived by man professed to have done, but as the Utopia a younger and more innocent Catherine once believed it could be.
With a single wave of her omnipotent hand, she banished forever war, famine, hatred, ignorance, prejudice—an endless and depressing litany of social malignancies humanity had permitted to fester just beneath a thin veneer of civilized behavior, throughout its long history. In Catherine's imagined reality, one country no longer battled another merely to extend its influence beyond artificial borders, arbitrarily created centuries earlier; one race did not elevate its own stature by standing on the backs of all others; even individuals subordinated their personal wants and desires to enrich the lives of all creatures, great and small, with whom they shared their bountiful world. For one five-thousand year period, Catherine did nothing but sit back, metaphorically speaking, and admire her handiwork. In her new role of benign deity, she saw that it was good.
"Darling? Are you still there?"
Catherine had been counting how many neutrons there were in the pulsar at the center of the Crab Nebula. About the size of Manhattan, this collapsed star, once a massive red giant, now rotated around its axis thirty times a second. She appreciated the challenge of analyzing such a swiftly moving target. It gave her something to do, a way to kill time. And time, expansive as it was in this pocket universe, was her greatest enemy.
"Terry! You're back! Oh, I'm so glad. I feel myself starting to go mad again. Tell me. When will you be able to get me out of here?"
"I'm..."
A million year hesitation.
"...sorry, Catherine. I won't. I can't."
A pulsar stopped spinning. The inhabitants of Kemiron hung suspended in an azure sky, frozen in mid-flight.
"Oh, no. Don't say that. Please!"
"There's nothing else I can say, darling. I've torn this place apart over the past two hours." (Not two hours, you fool! Ten billion years!) "I haven't been able to find any information on how to reverse the conversion process. I know Peter was working on it, but there's nothing here about how he was going about it. He must have removed all of the records, everything relating to his progress up to this point, before he left."
"But, Terry, surely you know something? You were his assistant!"
"No, darling, I don't. Peter had me concentrating exclusively on the download algorithm, the process used to transfer consciousness to the computer. I have no idea what approach he finally settled upon for initiating an upload procedure—that is, moving data in the opposite direction. And without access to Peter's notes, it could take me months, maybe years, to replicate his work.
"But don't worry, darling. I plan to start on it right away. I'll work around the clock, if I have to. I'll get you out of there, I swear I will."
Years? No. A trillion millennia! Even months stretched out into infinity, within Catherine's mad universe. Either alternative was unacceptable, a choice that represented no choice at all.
She considered a hundred scenarios, contemplated a thousand options, before Terry had returned his fingers to the home keys of his keyboard. Only one seemed acceptable.
"No, Terry. I can't last that long. I'm not that strong. I'll go insane again—and again, and again—a Mobius loop of recurring madness—before you even begin to make progress."
"Don't talk like that, Catherine. We'll get through this."
"Maybe you will, but I won't. I don't even want to try."
"What are you saying, darling?"
"I'm saying that I want this to end. I want you to pull the plug, or whatever you have to do, to destroy this program, if that's what it is—if that's what I have become—and stop the madness. I want you to put me out of my misery. And I want you to do it NOW. Not in a month. Not in a week. Not even in a day. But now, Terry. Please! I'm begging you!"
"But that would be murder!"
"No, Terry, not murder—mercy! It would be salvation. It offers me blessed oblivion, the only hope I have of escaping the insane existence to which Peter has condemned me."
She needed Terry to make up his mind in a second—a matter of moments, at most—to spare her another eternity of uncertainty. Three million years later, she received his reply
"I'm sorry, Catherine. I can't do it. Not even for you. Especially for you. You're despondent now. That's perfectly understandable. But it will pass. You'll see. And I'll find a way to reverse the process. I'll work harder than I ever have before, day and night, for however long it takes."
There are those who believe that an infinite number of realities exist, each one slightly different than the rest. They could be correct.
Perhaps, in one reality, a young man named Terry Duval strives desperately to fulfill a desperate promise he made, once upon a time.
And in another? Perhaps—just perhaps—an old god screams, over and over again, each scream the harbinger of a new universe.
A mad universe? A sane universe? Some combination of the two?
Only God knows for sure. And She stopped caring several eternities ago.

- End -

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