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E. Mark Mitchell is a loquacious maximalist. To his mind, there’s never a sentiment expressed in 6 words that can’t be equally expressed in 60. Therefore, short story writing is difficult, but if boiling a story down to its essentials makes it more powerful, then that’s a worthwhile effort. Mr. Mitchell has many unrelated nicknames in use amongst his friends, who are scattered across several countries on several continents. He currently lives in Chicago with his lovely wife and his adorable and brilliant giant mutant daughter. 
This story first appeared in the June 2005 issue of Analog. |
A face-full of cold air and wet snow roused Bill as Greg pulled him from the vehicle. “Come on, Binky, get up,” Greg shouted over the wind, “Kubla is almost on top of us.” “You’re thinking Coleridge, not Mongolia,” Bill said blurrily. “Pleasure-domes and whatnot. And don’t call me Binky.” “Geez, even with a concussion, you’re a cranky bastard,” Greg said, as they stumbled through the blizzard. Snow-muffled hoofbeats approached behind them, and adrenaline helped Bill regain his senses. He couldn’t see more than a few feet away, and there didn’t seem to be any sort of cover. Greg, however, pointed ahead and yelled “Over there!” “I can’t see it!” Bill yelled back, even as they waded in the direction Greg indicated. “Me neither! Wind sounds like it’s going across something, though. Might be shelter.” Aerodynamics was another of Greg’s interests. A large mass, a pile of snow-swept rocks, became visible. Bill was too concerned about getting killed to feel the cold, but his teeth were chattering by the time they reached the pile. “At least we can put our backs against something when they kill us,” Bill said, glancing about for a stone small enough to heft. He was a lawyer, not a medieval warrior, but he wasn’t going to go down without a pathetic show of resistance. “Was that really a mastodon back there? “Yeah. I almost stepped in a dropping earlier. I think there’s a cave over here,” Greg said, moving along the side of the pile. Bill charged after him, wading through the accumulating snow. Yes, it did look like a cave, or at least a sheltered indentation in the rock. They heard the snorting of a horse behind them. Dull powdery thuds announced the coming of the warrior. Bill stole a glance, and nearly panicked, the man was so close. He found himself unable to breathe as the sword blade, glinting in the distant light from the tilted SUV, swung inexorably toward him. Then Greg grabbed him and half-jumped, half-toppled toward the cave entrance. The Mongol’s sword whistled past Bill’s face as the pair fell into the cave, and he closed his eyes in relief.  Of course, it became a problem when they kept falling. The quasi-weightlessness of being in mid-air never went away. Bill opened his eyes and saw daylight first, then a wide, flat, misty surface far in front of him second. He realized it was the Earth, as seen from a great height. The falling sensation was thereby explained. It made perfect sense. He felt like he was falling, because he was. Skydiving without—yes, indeed, he wasn’t wearing a parachute. It made at least as much sense as encountering the Mongol horde. He tried to imagine the look on the warrior’s face when he and Greg had disappeared; it must have been pretty amusing. He found himself giggling, and then realized he couldn’t stop. He spied his trout floating—no, falling—in the air not far from his head, falling at the same rate, and that made it funnier, somehow. Greg, of course, snapped him out of it by grabbing hold of his arm, and swinging around so they were facing each other. “I’m beginning to think you have a point about the Probability Device.” Bill’s vision faded out for a moment, and when it returned, he was throttling Greg, the scientist’s face bright red while he pried Bill’s fingers off his windpipe. Reluctantly, Bill let go, and glanced around. The ground was coming up awfully fast; they didn’t have much time left. Neither man panicked—they had been through so much in such a short time, their impending deaths merely filled them with resignation. “I wish we had more time to get to the bottom of this,” Greg said, barely audible above the rushing of air past them. Bill forgave him the regrettable metaphor. “Well, maybe we’ll hit something soft, give us a few more seconds to think about the problem,” said Bill, though part of him wished the opposite. As the ground got dizzyingly close, Bill shut his eyes against the inevitable. They landed hard on the lumpy cushions of a horrible pink brocade couch. Contrary to their expectations, they were not immediately smeared and/or ground into the upholstery. They actually bounced a moment and settled, as if they had fallen from the top of a coffee table rather than the top of the cloud layer. They sat and savored their salvation for a moment. Then, with a wet, meaty thwock, the trout landed squarely on the most sensitive region of Bill’s lap. He crumpled forward in silent pain, falling off the couch. “Some kind of cavern,” Greg said, looking around while Bill whimpered softly. “Don’t know where the light’s coming from.” He looked up. “I also don’t see the hole we fell through. Did we just pass through the ceiling?” Bill was lying on a metal plate, and as he slowly recovered, he noticed it was vibrating ever so slightly. He pushed himself up, slipping the trout into his jacket pocket. “It’s humming. It’s a machine!” “It’s the Probability Device,” Greg said solemnly. And it was, of course. They stared at it for a while. It made no sense for it to be here, but then again, Bill thought, what had made sense since this whole thing started? They climbed down and stared some more. “Okay, now what?” Bill asked. “Should I try to make any adjustments?” “Don’t touch it! We don’t know what would happen!” “Maybe if I shut it off, everything will go back to normal.” “On the other hand, maybe everything will be locked in as it is, unable to change back again.” “Shouldn’t we test that theory?” Bill threw up his hands. “Test the theory, test the theory... I swear, if I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that...” He trailed off, staring at his right hand. After waiting a moment for the rant to continue, Greg sensed something was wrong. Bill was gazing at a stack of crisp, new dollar bills sitting in his palm. Greg snapped his fingers and laughed out loud, startling Bill so much he almost dropped his money. “That’s it!” “What’s it?” “We’re the observers! The quantum indeterminacy is affected by our knowing it’s going on; that’s one theory we weren’t taking into account!” Greg practically danced a jig. Then he swooped over and gripped both of Bill’s arms, smiling. “The observer, Binky, the observer! Nick Herbert, Roger Penrose! Von Neumann may have had it right after all!” “Schrödinger, I thought. And don’t...” “Well, yes, the cat too, but it applies to Von Neumann’s theories. An observer affects the outcome.” “But we may be the only two people who know what’s going on,” Bill said slowly, “so we’re the only ones really qualified to observe...” “Which means we have a certain amount of control.” Greg looked up toward the ceiling. “I imagine I’ll find a box of jelly donuts around the corner of the machine.” He half-jogged, half-skipped around the corner and shouted for joy, returning with half a jelly donut hanging out of his mouth. “Point proven,” he mumbled, spraying crumbs. Bill felt a surge, but as his thoughts continued, it drained away. “Hang on. I didn’t dream up Mongols, nor skydiving. Nor the trout, for that matter.” He touched his pocket reflexively; yes, the trout was there. “So we may have influence over what happens, but we aren’t originating it. So we can’t fix it unless we can figure that out.” Greg stopped smiling, though he kept chewing. “Honestly, I don’t know if we can do that. I don’t know if it’s possible.” “Me neither.” “Excuse me,” said a tiny muffled voice. Bill and Greg looked around wildly. When it spoke up again, it sounded like it was coming from Bill’s pocket. “Excuse me, please.” Bill pulled the dead trout from his pocket, and peered at it. Yep, still looked dead. “Um, hello?” “Yes, hello,” the trout said. It didn’t move, remaining as dead as before, but the soft, androgynous voice issued forth from its gaping mouth, nonetheless. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I think I might have an answer.” “But you’re a dead fish!” Greg objected. “At this point, are you really surprised?” Bill said. “Exactly. Reality is so chaotic by now, I’m the least of your worries,” the fish said. “You’re both concerned that you can’t figure out how to control it, but the effect itself gives you an out, if you’re willing to ask for help.” “So,” Bill said slowly, “we can ask to speak to a friendly intelligence that can provide us with answers...” “...by using our position as observers to make it possible,” Greg finished. “Of course!” “You’re a very smart fish, you know,” Bill said to the trout. “I can’t take credit,” the trout said, “it’s this whole mess that gives me the capability. Plus, I’m dead, so I have a certain perspective. But thanks.” “I’d imagine, if we were to find a door over there on the opposite side of the cavern,” Greg said, “that it would lead to a friendly being sympathetic to our cause who would be able to help us shut this effect down and return everything to normal.” “I agree,” said Bill. “Lead on.” They walked around the Probability Device, and found a portal. It wasn’t a door as they recognized it, but rather a metal iris in a black frame. They looked at each other, then Greg shrugged and stepped toward it. It slid open from the center as he approached, releasing a blast of chlorine-scented air into the chamber. Greg lurched back, coughing, and the two men fled to the far side of the cavern. The iris closed smoothly. Bill shook his head. “I suppose we should be more specific. That door should lead to a friendly being sympathetic to our cause, able to help us put everything back, who we can talk to and whose environment won’t hurt us.” “Seconded. Do you think it’s safe to go near it?” “You’re the scientist. But considering how it smells like a pool in here, I’ll bet the chlorine has dissipated enough. Tell you what, I’ll go.” “Should I hold on to the trout? You know, just in case?” Bill arched an eyebrow. “It’s dead, Greg. You think air is going to hurt it?” “Good point.” Bill walked across the chamber, stepped up to the door, and held his breath. One large step, and the iris opened. A cautious sniff revealed nothing more than cool, sanitized air, not unlike the atmosphere inside Greg’s research building. The passage curved left after the first dozen or so feet, but it looked safe enough. Bill waved to Greg, and the two of them stepped through the portal. |
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