IGMS Issue 42 Read online

  "How do you know?"

  "When I'm with it, it's like --" he clicked his fingers, searching for the right word "-- it's like swimming in gentle waters. If it wanted to it could pull me out to sea and drown me. But it doesn't."

  What if you couldn't swim in the first place, though? I turned back to the script.

  Wai Tat started towards the door. "Try and get some sleep." He grinned. "I want you fresh for swing ball, tomorrow."

  I stood alone in the room, looking over the leftovers of the mathematician's work -- strange tree-like diagrams, the neat lines of proofs laid out like verses from the Qur'an. It was like coming across weird marks in the sand and having no inkling of the creature that had made them. I appreciated Wai Tat's concern, but I felt more alone then than ever.

  I left the room with a heavy heart, convinced Professor al-Wahab had made a big mistake bringing me here.

  I did sleep eventually. It must've been late, because I remember still being awake when the first hints of dawn lightened the eastern sky.

  My dreams were heavy, claustrophobic.

  In one I was back amongst my tribe, stood at the fringes of our camp. The day was searing. The grains of sand that touched the soles of my feet felt like tiny hot coals.

  I scanned the desert, an endless expanse of sand that stretched all the way to the horizon. Far away, something glinted in the sunlight.

  I squinted. Another sparkle.

  I noted the direction and set off. I began at a steady pace, buoyed by my discovery. Almost immediately, the light waned. I glanced up. Thin clouds had raced in, weakening the sun's rays. The heat had dissipated, the air balmy now. I upped my pace, walking briskly now, but the sky darkened again. When I looked up, thick, bloated clouds had gathered. I shivered, a chill on the breeze. I began to run, still careful to keep heading on the right course. The wind got stronger, sand whipping up into my face. I pressed on, trying to run faster, but the wind grew stronger still, howling now, and I had to put more and more effort in just to maintain my speed. My eyes stung from the sand, which was like a crazy, writhing rain.

  I slowed down, trudged on determinedly, but the storm intensified, the murk darkening further until I couldn't even see my own hands in front of me. Pain wracked my feet, my calves, my thighs, my sides, my chest, my back, my face as the sand whipped against me like the endless strikes of a lash. I imagined welts and bruises marking my skin. The noise was tremendous -- I cried out in agony, but my screams were lost in the white roar. Ahead, the darkness was complete.

  I stopped, hunched down, while the fury battered me. I couldn't do it.

  I turned around, traipsed back, happy to go slow because of the burning shame I felt. The sandstorm eased, the blows lessening, the wind dropping.

  It stayed dark, however, and when I'd completely escaped the clutches of the sand, I saw that day had become night. The moon was a thin silvery sliver high above, casting little light.

  I walked back into the camp, the tents still and quiet. Even though it was night, I could tell something wasn't right. Drifts of sand had buried the sides of tents, cooking pots, campfires. The ropes that secured the tents had come loose, flicking like horses' tails as gusts of wind blew through. There was no sound nor smell of the animals. I crouched down beside what I thought were the remnants of a fire --

  Except it wasn't.

  What I'd thought was a rough circle of stones encompassing charred wood was strewn bones, the carrion long since rotted to nothing or devoured by vultures. I fell backwards, scrabbled away.

  You shouldn't have come back, a scratchy voice in my head said.

  I glanced back. A wraithlike figure shimmered in the moonlight, ethereal tatters hanging from its frame. It was a jinn -- the ghost of a dead ancestor.

  Spellbound, I peered closer. It was my mother.

  I woke up. My body was drenched in sweat. Something heavy pressed on my hammering heart, burning. With the dream dispersing like smoke in the wind, I reached up to my chest with a tired hand. It was the amulet my mother had given me, hot as the desert sun.

  I understood then that wherever I went I would always be representing my tribe. I would do my best to bring them honor.

  Not much later I got up, dressed, and made my way to the lounge.

  "Ismail!" Professor al-Wahab cried on my arrival. "We thought you might sleep all day."

  I glanced towards the window. The day was bright, most of the morning gone. The other mathematicians -- the majority of the group was there -- paused in their conversations. A few offered greetings or nods of the head. Most made no acknowledgment of my presence.

  "Nice look," Judith said, smirking.

  I looked down at my new clothes. My short-sleeved checked shirt was carefully buttoned up and tucked into my trousers. I'd decided against the shoes and still wore my old sandals. "Thanks," I said, uncertainly.

  "You look fine," said Wai Tat.

  Professor al-Wahab got up from his chair. "Let's get you some breakfast."

  "No, Professor," I said.

  "Not hungry?"

  I shook my head. "I want to begin."

  I felt the atmosphere in the room change at my words, all eyes on me.

  "Begin?"

  "I want to begin learning. I want to be with the object."

  For the first few weeks Professor al-Wahab would always accompany me. We'd stay relatively far from the object -- keep to paddling in the shallows as I thought of it. Professor al-Wahab explained that there were particular mental techniques for interfering with the connection should I feel uncomfortable: counting aloud, thinking about a certain piece of music, getting angry.

  He told me that the object seemed to have no limit to its capabilities -- that it made no difference to each individual's experiences whether there were a dozen mathematicians or a single mathematician present. Not that I saw many of the others in the enclosure.

  They made excuses that they had more than enough ideas to be getting on with in the comfort of the living block, or that the object was no longer aiding their thinking, but I could tell from their averted gazes that the real reason was fear. The otherworldly presence had unsettled them, broken their peace-of-mind, and they didn't want to taste it any longer.

  I could understand that. I felt it myself. Except that instead of running from it, I embraced it.

  The object was not a conventional teacher. It had no program of study. It didn't pat me on the head when I understood, but neither did it get disappointed when I didn't. Over time I began to sense different threads to its being, perhaps you could call them moods. Sometimes it was eager to play, sometimes it wasn't.

  I was learning fast, but I had no reference points with which to mark the mathematical landscape that I was roaming. Everything I learnt was couched in the unusual mathematical lexicon that the object employed. I was developing an intuitive understanding of number and geometry, but I would not have named them as such. The categories in my head were less concrete, more organic.

  Perhaps you could say that I was learning a deeper mathematics.

  "What are you working on?" Judith asked one day a few weeks later.

  I lay face down on one of the communal lounge couches, trying to make sense of my latest lesson with the object. It was to do with how the number of vertices of a geometrical shape changed when it was brought into a higher dimension. Of course, if I'd known that, I would of said as much. Instead, I twisted my body and passed my tablet to her.

  She creased her nose up with distaste, much like I used to do when I brushed the camel's filthy hides. "What is this?"

  I rolled and swivelled to a sitting position, reached over so we could both see the tablet's screen. "This," I said, indicating the tree-like structure, "is the whole space. These --"

  "Wait, wait, wait," Judith waved her free hand. "Do you mean a geometrical space? What type? Euclidean? Riemannian?"

  I stared at her blankly. My interpreter was rendering the words in Arabic, but they made no sense to me.

&nb
sp; "Well?" Judith was the daughter of a famous English mathematician, and I'd heard she was as quick to anger as her father.

  I shrugged. "I don't understand your words."

  She sighed dramatically, shoved the tablet back into my hands. "Maybe you should read some text books. If that's not too difficult for you."

  "Hello, Judith," Professor al-Wahab said joining us. "Do you mind if I speak in private with Ismail?"

  She pouted, turned on her heels and left us. Professor al-Wahab sat down next to me.

  "She doesn't like me," I said quietly, matter-of-factly. It hurt more than I wanted it to. I yearned to be strong, self-sufficient, but, deep down, I desired the love and respect of these people.

  "She envies you." Professor al-Wahab must've seen the doubt in my face for he nodded to emphasize his words. "She does."

  "Envy?"

  How could she be jealous of me? In her eyes I was just a skinny kid from the desert. The nearest she thought I'd come to mathematics before this place was counting the animals. I'd heard as much when I lingered outside the lounge one morning.

  "You're a threat to her, Ismail."

  "Why?"

  "Why do you think?"

  "She can't think I'm a better mathematician than her."

  Professor al-Wahab raised his eyebrows. "No?"

  "I've heard her joking about me, about my tribe."

  "Ismail, did you know that when Europe descended into the dark ages, it was the Arabic philosophers who kept the candle of knowledge aflame?" He nodded. "Without them, the world would have fallen back into anarchy. We certainly wouldn't be sitting here now."

  "I'm proud of my tribe," I said. I thought of the sheikh receiving Professor al-Wahab with warmth and hospitality all those months ago.

  "You should be. Cultures judge each other too easily. What's important is the human spirit. And it exists in all of us, no matter where or when we are born."

  I pondered on those words in silence, my gaze wandering over the branching paths of my tablet sketch. "Can you help me explain this to Judith?"

  Professor al-Wahab sighed, patted my hand. "Judith will have learn to accept that she doesn't understand your work -- just like the rest of us."

  "But if you can't understand it, how do you know my work is good?" There was a note of self-pity, of exasperation in my voice.

  "Ismail, we've been through this before. I don't want you influenced by our ways of thinking. At least not until your own thinking has matured."

  "When will I know that?"

  "You'll know. Everything will come together beautifully, formidably -- like a magnificent fortress in your mind."

  Looking back, I realize that at that time Professor al-Wahab couldn't have known that to be true. I might've been learning nonsense for all he knew. He had his faith that mathematics was universal, but he couldn't prove it like a piece of logic. Of course, he could never tell me that.

  He said, "Your path isn't easy, Ismail. You, more than any of us, have been taken from what you know. You, more than any of us, walk alone. And you, more than any of us, host the presence in your mind." The zeal was back in his eyes "But, by that token, you more than any of us, might make the difference. You might be vital, Ismail. Vital for all of us."

  I nodded, morosely. I think he wanted me to be in awe of the object's potential, but I don't think he realized the burden he was placing upon my young shoulders.

  Wai Tat, who'd been watching our conversation from the other side of the room, made a batting motion with his hand. Swing ball?

  We'd been playing most days, and I always found it a welcome relief from the relentless focus on mathematics. I think he was just being nice, because our matches were no contest and he beat me easily every time. But I didn't mind that, since he seemed to be the only person I knew who didn't treat me with fanaticism or suspicion or indifference. In fact, he seemed to be the only person who got on with everyone. I nodded, jumped up.

  "No textbooks," Professor al-Wahab said. I turned and caught him looking at my tablet, his brow creased in puzzlement.

  He couldn't make head nor tail of my sketch either.

  End of Part 1

  The Burden of Triumph

  by Samuel Marzioli

  * * *

  Release.

  My predecessor's genetic memory strands decode and transfer into me. A thousand generations' worth of experiences, memories and instincts all cram into my mind during the brief span of my gestation. Thoughts come, spinning tapestries from the chaos, slowly forming meaning out of the incoherence. I open my eyes and, for a moment, the past merges with the present.

  I see the home world, Des Ar Kreon. I see the colonies of my kind living within the technologized cracks and crevices on the planet's rocky surface, gazing toward the stars. I see my ancient predecessor and his kin. They board our first starships, risking their ancestral lines to extend our hunting grounds and birthplaces into the distant recesses of space.

  And then . . . there's nothing.

  Though there is much to learn, my body is too weak to contend with it now. As my eyes close, the words of my immediate predecessor echo in my mind: Beware the bipedal meats, my spawn. Though their bodies are soft and their movements slow, they're more dangerous than they appear.

  I arch my head in acceptance of his words, settling into a deep and restful sleep.

  My eyes open again, but there's only darkness, wet, soft and embracing. My muscles loosen and my limbs spread that I may get a better sense of my surroundings. With the receptors on the tips of my teeth, I probe the surface of my holding place until its sweet scent rushes in.

  Sustenance. Intoxicating meat.

  I clack it up, swallow every inch, every barrier and rise up through the shredded remnants into an artificial light. The light punches into the still-delicate surface of my retinas, inducing a blur that renders the room around me a mystery. There is no pain inside, but I scream. Scream to release the blood from my lungs. Scream to stretch my larynx, to hear the sound of it quaver in my ears. Scream to announce my ascendency into life like my every predecessor has done before me. For a second, I see our unbroken line of birth and rebirth extending back to our origins on Des Ar Kreon, and I scream again to celebrate our triumph.

  A bloated-throat noise erupts from behind me, some undulating bellow that I cannot comprehend. I turn to confront the sound. Bodies clarify, revealing twin-set eyes; jaws hang wide, exposing stunted teeth, flat and harmless; and all of it rests upon the bodies of six endomorphic bipeds. All of them meat. All of them sustenance.

  My insides expand and I slaver because of the growing hunger. Though the flesh of my birthplace weighs heavy on my stomach, my every cell cries out for more.

  One of the meats detaches a sleek protrusion from its hip and points it in my direction. Its mouth opens wide and it bellows again, the sound of threats, of raging parent stock anxious for the safety of their younglings. The meat's finger twitches and a projectile bursts free from the protrusion's tip. I dodge, turning briefly to examine the smoldering mark on the floor beside me. Before the meat has a chance to aim again, I rise up on my hind legs, slither-leap and land upon its shoulders.

  First, I clack up its eyes to honor its bravery. It screeches as my body coils around its neck, tearing skin, ripping cartilage, and finally shattering its spine in my embrace. The remaining meats try to run. Using my tail for leverage, I stretch my legs, release my claws and slack every inch of them within my reach. One escapes, but the remainder keel in place, clutching their wounds until their cries slide into a hush.

  I sample them all in turns. As soon as the sustenance meets my stomach, energy surges through my veins and the synapses within my brain flare into a nova. But the meal is soon interrupted when more meats rush into the room. In unison, they aim larger protrusions and blazing light erupts from each hollow tip.

  Another warning from my immediate predecessor emerges. Beware their weapons, my spawn, with projectiles that clack and slack and rip our flesh, and
fires that roast our skin and scales.

  I arch my head in acceptance of his words and scurry away for cover.

  Waves of orange bloom all around me. One almost finds my hide. Its heat gathers against my hind side, and a warning tingle sweeps up my spine. Flattening against the ground, I wait for it to pass and then bound and burrow into the clutter stacked beside the closest wall. Behind it, there's an opening covered by a thin metal grate. A quick slack from my claws and I burst through the flimsy strands remaining.

  They fire their weapons again. Another warning tingles. I race into the ducts and keep running until I'm absorbed into the darkness.

  My legs skitter, frantic as my heartbeat. It's only when the meats' garble-noise lowers to a whisper that I deem it safe enough to slow my pace. My eyelids shut for the first time. A thin crackle and crust breaks free from my eyes. Immediately, the black recedes into a spectrum of grays and a familiar sight unfolds.

  These ducts, they weave around the edges of this starship, from one end to the other. Though I've never been here before, I know this from my predecessor's memories -- quick bursts of images overlaying my own sight. More memories come, this time something distant, something further past.

  I see my ancient predecessor and his kin aboard one of our starships, encoding their experiences into genetic memory strands so they might plant them into the seeds of rebirth. By then, they are at the edge of our solar system; the journey has barely begun. But with no meat for sustenance or merging, they die, leaving their future spawn within their withering husks and the fate of our lines up to the cosmos -- whether to roast in suns, crash on planets, or drift aimlessly across the black face of eternity. They scream once, a promise and a hope, and then release their essence.

  For a time, there's only the murk of a sensory deprived spawn seed. Later, whether days or centuries, I feel the gestation sac of my ancient predecessor's spawn blooming in the ripeness of a new host. I see him bursting in triumph into the sunlight of a new planet, a world that abounds with quadrupedal meat -- the same species as that from which he has risen. Centuries of propagation pass, with spawn and kin-spawn transitioning into another, until the new planet teems with our kind as well as the screams of our triumph.