Weapons of Discretion
by Robert Reed
What he needs is an appropriate body and a suitable face.
"You should make your own selections," his companion urges. "This will be your existence, after all."
"I want to be human," he declares, snatching up one of the candidates floating among a multitude of choices. Suddenly he is a young man, small and brown with hair like a thicket of black wire and happy bright eyes as dark as good earth. His legs wear trousers, his trunk is covered with a short-sleeved shirt, and the cotton fabric and brilliant dyes match a specific point of time and location deep inside the multiverse. The sandals are chemically identical to sweat-stained leather and slices taken from an old tire; those new feet could use a good cleaning and perhaps a nail clipper. The voice is as human as any, boyish and a little smug. Grinning, he asks his companion, "How large will it be?"
The answer is given in the standard units. In human terms, this means two tenths of a kiloton.
"That's not very big," the youngster complains.
His companion responds with silence and a hard glare.
In other words, he should accept what he is given. But isn't every child this way — a dense body of raw potential, fighting the limits of adulthood, and sometimes even contesting the reasons for his existence?
"I'm ready now," the boy declares.
His companion says, "Hardly." Then urging him forwards, it adds, "You must first study what your siblings have done."
The structure surrounding them is fabulously complex, occupying half a dozen popular dimensions that are defined by partitions and infinities as well as subtle beacons to help visitors navigate. Passing through a doorway, they enter a realm possessing only three simple dimensions and the rough illusion of time. The boy stops before a stranger's face. Every visitor stops here. Peering into the soulful eyes, he asks, "Who is this?"
His companion offers a name.
The boy nods, repeating, "Albert," with pleasure. Brown fingers touch the chalky flesh of the face and the big eyes, then the shaggy graying hair and playful jutting tongue.
"He looks like fun," is the boy's assessment.
"Walk," his companion advises.
The first full exhibit is only a few miles in circumference — a patch of barren desert surrounding a small brilliant blister of newborn plasmas. No time passes inside the exhibit. Except for their presence, this place is entirely authentic. And like every other slice of reality, this moment is independent from every other moment — a significant and unique arrangement of forces and particles, the entire concoction as inevitable as any other configuration found within a multiverse that recognizes no credible ends.
The boy walks across the scrubby desert and kneels beneath the fire. Clinging to a short metal tower is a very small, very red ant, one of its antennae making contact with the plasma. Peering at the ant, the boy says, "I know him."
He knows all of them. But a more significant point needs to be made.
"This is a good friend of mine," he claims.
And always will be, at least in a multitude of past moments — circumstances that stand forever inside the great good Creation.
His companion waits.
Sensing impatience, the boy says, "I understand," and stands again. "I have more to see."
Returning to the three-dimensional hallway, they make for the next exhibit.
"Ask," his companion insists.
"What did my ant-friend do?"
"Your good friend didn't mention his plans?"
"Mathematics fascinated him," the boy admits. "There was a small, stubborn problem that he was thinking about exploring."
"Which problem?"
"He never quite said."
His companion laughs. "If you knew, would you copy his inspiration?"
"I don't like mathematics that well," the boy admits. Then he dismisses the entire subject, asking instead, "What is this place?"
The city's name is offered.
The boy repeats the name. Unseen by the immovable people, the two of them walk beside a quiet river, pausing directly beneath the very tiny, still distant fireball. A single airplane catches the sunlight in the otherwise empty sky. Staring at the plane and then at the pinprick of nuclear light, the boy's face reveals curiosity mixed with admiration.
He is not the first child to say, "Beautiful."
His companion allows it.
Then the boy studies the people enjoying the day — pale faces and dark eyes, women and children outnumbering able-bodied men, everyone busily going about their routine affairs, unaware that their world is about to end.
This is another genuine moment, eternal and important.
"She was a singer," his companion offers.
"A good singer?" he asks.
"It is not my place to say."
"What was she?"
His companion lifts him into the sky. The still-living body of a tiny hawk hovers beside the newborn sun, sleek and beautiful in its own right. The hawk is reaching into the fire with its beak. This is the picosecond when contact is made. This is when a portion of those wild energies will be tamed, manipulated and then directed along careful lines, a lovely and enormous melody produced before it is carried off into the unseen dimensions.
"Would you like to hear her work?"
"No thank you," the boy says.
They retreat to the hallway again. The next exhibit shows a second city caught beneath a blossoming fireball. Following that is a sequence of deserts and cold tundra locations. The same terrain is used for multiple detonations, and once the weapons grow in power, coral islands and underground caverns become the preferred targets.
Important humans have been snatched from key moments. Critical players in the story, each one. The boy stops before a particular face, a general's face, staring at the half-smoked cigar that juts out of the grinning mouth, something about those fleshy cheeks and that wide smirk making the warrior appear boyish despite the load of years.
"Who is this fellow?" the boy asks.
A name is offered.
"Curtis looks very happy," the boy remarks.
"Because he believes that his bombs will be used," says his companion. "Large numbers of them, thrown against his sworn enemy."
A swaggering, joyous man is what the portrait shows.
"Does it happen?" the boy asks. "Are his weapons used?"
"Not in this hallway," says the voice.
"Good," he says.
Although there is no end to the chambers or hallways, which means the weapons will always be used somewhere. And there is no way to count the smiling men who suck on a warrior's cigars. The boy knows this perfectly well. Yet it seems important to hear a wise soul tell him, "Not in this reality, no. And at this juncture, that is a little more than you should know, my young friend."
A young woman stands on a street corner.
"What are you thinking?"
"Pardon?"
"You're thinking something. I'm curious what."
The woman smiles shyly. She knows better than speak to a perfect stranger. But there is a beguiling quality about this young boy. Maybe it's the eyes. He has a bright, open gaze that makes her relax. Maybe it is his age, which is younger than the boyish men who can make life difficult for a solitary woman. Whatever the reason, she admits, "I was just telling myself that this turned out to be a very nice day."
She isn't being entirely truthful, nor dishonest.
The boy nods, apparently satisfied. He doesn't stand too close to her, and for the moment, he says nothing.
Hands at her sides, the woman watches for the bus.
Then the boy asks, "Are you going ask me?"
"Ask you what?"
"What am I thinking about? Are you curious?"
On its surface, the question is odd, but harmless. And his tone isn't injured or angry — nothing hinting at a disturbed personality. But she stares at him for a long moment, guessing what she can about him. About his age and background. He might be fourteen or a very youthful sixteen, or maybe he's only twelve but overly mature. She has a little brother like this. Whoever this boy is, he's probably very smart and a little too fearless because of it — the kind of male destined to cause trouble in the world, which is exactly the sort she has always been attracted to.
"All right, I'll ask it," she says charitably. "What are you thinking about?"
"A problem," he replies.
"What sort of problem?"
He glances at her, apparently uneasy for a moment. "I'm supposed to do an important job," he admits. "But I'm not quite sure how to accomplish it."
"Somebody gave you a chore, did they?"
"It seems so."
"Who? One of your parents?"
"That's how it feels, yes."
She cobbles together a story and tells it to herself: The boy has been sent away from his friends or his computer, or most likely, both things. Somewhere in the city, a mother has grown tired of her son's presence, and she wants time to herself, and that's why she sent her little man out on a makeshift errand.
"You should do your chore," she advises.
"I know."
The bus has finally appeared, rounding the corner at the bottom of the hill. Stepping closer to the curb, she says, "That's my advice."
"Oh, I'll do what I'm told," he says. "I just don't know what I want to do when the time comes. Do you know what I mean?"
The bus is long and silent, powered by a superconductive rail buried in the pavement. It stops before her and opens one armored door, and she steps inside, two detectors and the security guard recognizing her immediately. She rides this bus almost every workday, making the long commute across a great and ancient city to labor away at her very unimportant job.
"We haven't seen you for a few days," the guard mentions.
She smiles shyly, admitting, "I haven't felt well. Some kind of bug."
"But you're doing better?"
"Mostly."
"That's good," he says, waving her inside.
For eleven months, the young woman has stood on this corner and waited for this particular bus. Today she woke early, feeling tired and very empty. It was raining hard at dawn. But now the clouds have cleared and the morning could not be more pleasant.
The boy has a ticket and an ID. But the guard doesn't recognize him, and he takes the trouble to give him a second slower examination, using a wand as well as instincts born from a lifetime spent riding the buses.
The woman claims her usual seat.
The boy throws her a smile as he walks past, settling several seats to the rear. But at the next stop, one of the passengers stands — a fat, sour woman who always sits directly behind the young woman, and in all of these months has never once spoken to her fellow traveler.
The boy slips ahead to claim the sour woman's seat.
"I'm still thinking about the day," the young woman reports, laughing softly. "It's quite pleasant, isn't it?"
"I'm not allowed opinions about that," says the boy.
It is an odd, unexpected response.
Then he leans forward, and with a voice both clear and soft, he tells her, "Did you know? With the proper structure and guidance, and with adequate sensors in place, a nuclear firestorm creates a powerful, if extremely temporary computer. A fierce intellect capable of wondrous thoughts, if it is handled correctly."
Her surprise is total. She glances over her shoulder, asking, "What are you talking about?"
"I just told you," says the boy. "I'm thinking about my chore, trying to decide the best way to manage it."
"You're odd," she whispers.
She means it.
He nods as if pleased with his quirks. "When the universe was young and exceptionally hot, the first artificial explosions were set off. Of course you didn't know that, did you? Most of those early blasts were generated when pure hydrogen was compressed against tiny black holes. The entities of that era used those short-lived computers to test every conceivable theory about their universe, and later, to investigate the infinite multiverse. Most of the explosive energies were lost, wasted on electromagnetic displays and helium ash. But because of their labors, those entities, the First Souls, were able to decipher the true shape of Creation. And later, they were able to bend the universal laws and borrow the hidden dimensions, creating homes for themselves that would keep them happy long after their birthplace evolved into a frigid, unlivable state."
Breathing quickly, the woman glances at the guard, then the robot driver.
"The First Souls abandoned our universe," the crazy boy continues. "New intelligences evolved here, in a very slow uneven process, and for their own harsh reasons, they mastered fusion as well as its heavy-metal cousin, that clumsy, inefficient fission tool."
"You're telling me a story," she hopes. "Is that it? Is this some science fantasy that you just read?"
He says, "Yes."
Then he laughs and says, "No, actually. This happens to be the truth."
She crosses her arms and weaves her fingers together in a special pattern, and looking out the windows, she calculates the time left before her stop.
"In most cases, modern nuclear implements are used as weapons. Either in wars or as demonstrations."
She swallows and sits perfectly still.
"The First Souls never stop watching from the high dimensions. They can dance forward and backward in time, as necessary. And they are generally good-natured creatures. With their tricks, they measure the carnage from each blast. They count the dead, the maimed. They watch the ripples passing through the endless futures. But very early in their studies, they grew bothered. In a detached, intellectual fashion, I mean. Being terribly wise, they couldn't be surprised with what was happening. The carnage and misery were inevitable. But when they built their fireballs, back during their childhood, the universe was tiny and dense and far too hot to consider those explosions as being serious hazards. But these new intelligences live in a chilled, rarified realm, impoverished in many ways. Creating just one nuclear device wastes a considerable portion of the very meager resources. Of course, some voices talk about adapting the weapons to act as high-grade computers. But there are too many stumbling blocks in the way...practical limitations that slow, cold entities like them will never defeat..."
"You are crazy," she mutters.
He doesn't seem to notice. "With their honest, all-seeing eyes, the First Souls measure the death and foolishness, the pain and all the ugly aftermaths. And while the multiverse is infinite, it is their little portion of the Creation that is being hurt. Not much can bother them, but this does. This is their birthplace, after all. And do you know what they do about it?"
Did he expect her to answer that ludicrous question?
"Miss," he says, and with a small hand touches her on the shoulder.
There is only one stop before her stop. If she can just sit still and do nothing—
"Do you know what the First Souls are doing?" the boy asks again.
"No," she manages.
His hand lifts off her shoulder, finally. "They devised a means to make this sorry situation more bearable. New souls are created — small, highly inventive entities — and each one of us is injected into one of those critical moments, put into your world just before the weapon detonates."
The bus slows, but no one wants off and no one is waiting to board. So the engine borrows energy from the buried rail and hurries into a district of colorless government offices.
"There is just one circumstance where the First Souls let themselves interfere with humans. They will send a new soul to embrace each weapon and bend its enormous power, wrenching a good, even noble effort out of what would otherwise be utter waste."
The final stop approaches; the woman's arms remain crossed.
"And do you know what I think, miss? About this solution, I mean. This accommodation." The boy leans across the back of her seat, his face beside her face. "I think the First Souls are cruel and sorry excuses for intelligent life."
She uncrosses her arms.
A tiny charge buried in the floor of the bus detonates. The superconductive rail feels the blast and transmits a warning forward to a control node, and corrupted software causes a cascading pulse of energy to return again, at the speed of light. Where the woman's stomach used to reside, several kilograms of shielded uranium are set inside an explosive envelope. The pulse runs into her belly. The collapse to critical mass is swift and painless. But strangely, the woman remains aware of sitting on her seat, listening to a close voice, very young and very sad, telling her, "Relax."
Saying, "Soon, this will be finished. Soon, this moment passes."
The dark-haired boy with dirty feet stands outside the bus, studying the newborn fireball. Then he looks at his companion, asking, "What is this one?"
"A long poem," the First Born answers.
"I like poems."
"Read a portion, if you wish."
He reaches through the wall of the bus, touching the plasma with the tips of two fingers. And after an instant, he looks again at his companion, asking, "Have you ever read this poem?"
"I have not, no."
The boy concentrates, pushing his entire hand into the firestorm.
"Do you think I should read it?" the First Born asks.
"No," says the boy. And then again, smiling with the purest pleasure, "No, I don't think you'd like it very much."
