The dark side of the sun - By Terry Pratchett Page 0,13
softness.
Dom floated somewhere on the breathing sea.
A man appeared, dressed in the old brown robes of a Sadhimist adept garbed for the ceremonies of Hogswatchnight. The face was familiar. It was his own.
‘Don’t be so damn silly. I am your father.’
‘Hullo, Dad. Is it really you?’
John Sabalos gestured aimlessly. ‘No, I am an extension of your own deep mind. Hasn’t Hrsh-Hgn taught you anything? Chel! Down all the stars, boy, you should be dead. So much for probability math, therefore.’
‘Dad, what’s happening to me?’
The familiar face faded. ‘I don’t know – it’s your dream,’ was left hanging in the air.
Hrsh-Hgn appeared, standing in front of the familiar faxboard.
‘In an infinite universe all things are possible, including the possibility that the universe does not exisssst,’ he purred. ‘Expand this theory, with diagramsss—’
Dom heard himself say: ‘That is not a theory. That is a mere hypothesis.’
‘Ahh, beware of paradox!’ The phnobe shook a finger. ‘For once you have a paradox let loose in
the universe you have a poiyt.’
‘Poiyt?’
‘And let uss consider …’
Isaac appeared, doing a soft-shoe shuffle through the mists.
‘Goodness, are robots allowed in this dream? Or do they have to sit in the second-class dream at the back? Now here’s the plot, boss, see, really you are the hereditary chairman of Earth itself but because of a palace coup you were sent here—’
‘No,’ said Dom firmly. That wasn’t right.
‘No, you have this wild talent which is the result of generations of careful breeding and all you have to do is give the word and hordes will—’
‘Not me. Try the Infinity next door.’
‘No, well, the universe doesn’t really exist – we can’t hide this from you – except in your imagination, and so this secret organization called the Knights of Infinity, they—’
‘Try some other universe, robot.’
‘Well, okay, if you want it straight from the shoulder, you are not important at all but you happen to have this magic bracelet which was made by the God of the Universe and He wants it back and you have got to get together a few trusted friends, such as me, and travel many a weary light year to the searing fires of Rigel and—’
‘Uhuh.’
‘I was only trying to cheer you up, chief.’ The robot shed a tear of mercury. ‘We Freudian extensions of personality have feelings too, you know!’
Dom.
‘Who are you?’
Dom, can you hear me?
‘I can hear you. What are you?’
Dom, if you can’t hear me, what can you see?
See?
He sensed a light above, tinted with green.
Good, Dom, you are in psuedodeath. You do not know what that means. We need your earnest cooperation. We need access to your self-memory. Will you perform these exercises? Good. Now we want you to form a mental picture of yourself. We will show you how...
A long time passed. Before Dom’s mind swam himself, a perfect copy. It danced, and sang, and flexed embarrassing muscles. Then the voice made him go through it all again. And again.
Understanding was allowed into his mind. The voice was that of a googoo tank operator. Or, rather, a series of them.
He had seen the men of the hospital rafts after a hard night with the dagons, grinning foolishly under the pallid nutrient bath as they flexed the muscles of their new green-grown limbs. Googoo was one invention Widdershins hugged to itself. The surgeons said that if no more of a body was left than that tiny sliver of brain they called the mommet, a new body could be …
No!
Dom thought it again. He could sense the tank man’s panic. Dom started to think questions. Darkness fell swiftly, and was replaced by the green light and no desire to ask questions at all. A new voice said:
Think coherently. You must breathe. We have some more building to do. Think of something, say it in your mind, now.
Unbidden, the Green Paternoster floated up through Dom’s consciousness, the last words he would say before climbing into his cot as a child, after ending the night prayer with ‘God bless the household robots’.
He galloped through it. It was senseless gibberish now, the centuries had twisted the words, but it still had power.
‘Green Paternoster, Sadhim was my foster, He saved me under the poisoned tree, He was made of flesh and blood to send me my right food, mine right food and air, too …’
Good.
‘… that I might be a FOE, and stop at two, To read in that sweet book which the great gods shoop ...’
Good.
Dom plunged on recklessly, tasting the words: ‘… open, open, save me,