Visitors (Pathfinder 3)

“They weren’t sent on this mission because they were the chattiest of mice,” said Noxon. “And I don’t imagine they’re rejoicing that I’m not going to have you kill them here, but instead I’m going to take them to die with me in oblivion between stars and between millennia.”

“Or they weren’t expecting to die even if you decided not to take them. You forget how much of my programming they understand.”

“Now there’s something it’s easy to forget, since none of us learned anything about your programming,” said Noxon.

“The Odinfolders know a lot,” said Father. “But the mice know more.”

“Do the mice know everything?”

“They know everything that can be known by mice,” said Father.

“What does that mean?”

“That it’s good to keep them guessing.”

“I think I’m going to go now,” said Noxon. “It was good to see you again.”

“Every time you see any of the expendables, you see me,” said Father. “I have all their memories. They have all of mine.”

“But I know that you’re the one who raised me from a pup.”

“You think you know that,” said Father. “How do you know we don’t swap wallfolds every now and then? How do you know it was the same version of me that came back from every trip?”

“That’s right. Shatter my confidence just before I’m really going to need it.”

“It’s my job,” said Father. “Keep him guessing. Never let him feel too smart.”

“You really are good at that part of your job. So I know this will mean nothing to you. And if it does mean something, you won’t tell me anyway. But here it is. I forgive you for lying to me constantly as I was growing up. I thank you for teaching me all the things you taught me, and helping me learn to think the way I think.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“One more thing,” said Noxon.

“Don’t say it,” said Father.

“Why not?”

“Because you know that if I answer, it will be a lie.”

“I don’t care whether it is or not,” said Noxon. “I love you.”

Father sighed. Part of his programming. “I love you too,” he said.

Noxon attached to the earliest possible moment on Ram Odin’s path, and then jumped just a hair, just a titch, just the ­tiniest bit beyond it.

Noxon was still on the ship. Still in the cabin. Ram Odin was there, in his pilot’s seat. The expendable was standing exactly where Ram Odin would look for him in just a few moments, as soon as the expendable could tell him what had happened.

Only it hadn’t happened yet.

Or, more precisely, it was happening right now. In this moment, this infinite unchanging moment, there was only one ship, but there were twenty potential ships coming into existence. It was jumping from one point in space to another that was many lightyears away and yet, at this moment, perfectly adjacent. It was passing from the moment zero of the year zero to a time 11,191 years earlier.

It had been the right guess, that the moment of transition existed but had no duration, and having no duration, therefore could not end. Infinitely brief, yet also infinitely long. Not so much outside of time as deeply within. Full of imminent creation and movement; yet because there was no duration, movement was impossible.

What Noxon had not guessed, and Father had not guessed, and Ram Odin had not guessed, was that in this timeless moment, Noxon could not move. The mice could not move. The electric signals of the computers hesitated and could not move on. Noxon’s heart could not beat, he could not take a breath, but he also did not need a breath, did not need a heartbeat, because no cell in his body craved oxygen. All processes were in complete stasis because there was no movement and no causality and no possibility of change.

Yet something in him was still functioning. Because he could still see Ram Odin and the expendable. Or could he? Had that image simply frozen on his retina, in the place in his brain where vision was constructed? It could not change but it also could not fade away or leave?

Yet I am thinking, thought Noxon.