Kyle

Kyle has learned a great many things in the last 24 hours. For instance:

That his guardian James is not, in fact, his uncle.

That James does not, in fact, “work from home doing tech support.”

That James does work from home, but for the government.

That James works for a part of the government Kyle had never heard of.

That this government organization operates from the floor of the Atlantic Ocean.

That there is a huge inhabited sphere on the ocean floor and that James goes there once a month.

That something had happened which meant James had to take Kyle with him to the sphere, but that James could absolutely not tell Kyle anything about the nature of this event.

That it takes about two very boring hours to reach the ocean floor in a government deep-submergence vehicle.

That James’ boss is a tall, sardonic woman named Miranda.

That James and Miranda could not tell Kyle very much about what it was that they did.

That, there being no light to speak of on the ocean floor, days are created there by patterns of artificial light, which didn’t strictly have to be 24 hours long, and whose real lengths are determined by machines that carefully watch over the brainwaves of the facilities’ inhabitants while they sleep and determine what patterns of illuminations would be best for morale and mental stability.

That the artificial lights are not, technically, electrical lights.

That James and Miranda sigh and look peeved when they have to correct him on this.

That the lights run on something called “pneuma,” which, they assure him, will be explained to him tomorrow.

That “tomorrow” was in this case, of course, the next computer-designed “floorday,” as distinct from actual earth-revolution day.

That asking why these people hadn’t just gotten used to saying “day” instead of “floorday,” given that after all Miranda at least seemed to live down here, only gets him stares and slight parental-like winces.

That tomorrow he will be introduced to someone named Maria, who is supposed to be his “pneuma bond,” whatever that is, and that this is something that both adults desperately seemed to hope would clear up any of his clearly more undisguisably irritating questions.

That James lives in an apartment-like space with two rooms, one of which Kyle is to sleep in.

That personal quarters inside the sphere have “windows,” not real windows, but glossy computer screens serving the same approximate function.

That asking James about the purpose of a glossy black surface showing you the pure blackness of the ocean floor is probably not a thing that could be done tactfully at that point in the floor-evening.

That James is very, very tired and is going to bed early and that there are some books in Kyle’s room if he wants to read them.

That Kyle, also tired if still full of plucky adrenaline, would rather stare vacantly at a blank “window” waiting for sleep than read any of the books, which were mostly Robert Heinlein, Philip K. Dick, and incomprehensible textbooks with titles like Applied Extreme-Emotion Dynamics In The Near-Field Limit and Pneumabiology of the Lower Ineffables.

That his bed has a voice.

That the voice sounds like a bored man trying to retain a veneer of professionalism.

That the bed wants to inform him that “EPRN regulations” required him to attach a set of electrodes to his head before falling asleep.

That EPRN regulations also require the voice to inform him that these electrodes were themselves mostly a formality, as the information gleaned from them would merely constitute a minor supplement to the things his bed would learn via its “highly sensitive animatic resonance detectors.”

That having received this explanation once, he would not need to hear it again on successive evenings.

That the electrodes would be attached automatically once he gave his consent.

That he is really very very tired and that after saying “yes” the feeling of a set of robotic arms mussing his hair and applying wet sticky paste to his scalp and pressing chilly little metal pads firmly into place really isn’t so weird or jarring, as feelings go.

IN THE DREAM

Kyle is sitting cross-legged on the floor of the ocean. Around him is water, but it is not cold.

He can see nothing, but he knows where he is.

Then there is a thing he can see: a small scuttling creature that dimly illuminates the space around it. It has maybe eight or ten little legs and is furry. It looks a bit like a tarantula. It pauses and looks up at him. It has a face, an incongruous face with big dewy eyes. It is cute. It looks like some sort of CGI advertising mascot.

“hello, [potential-friend] [you-who-individuates]! [this-one-who-does-not-individuate] is glad we could establish this interface!” says the little creature.

Kyle doesn’t know how it is speaking. The words appear in his mind, not quite as heard words but in some place between words and concepts. Some of the words are fuzzy at the edges, somehow.

“Hello,” Kyle says to the creature. When he opens his mouth, no water flows in, and this seems right. “Who are you?”

“[this-one-who-does-not-individuate] is one of the [Teeming] who live here on the floor and in the trenches, among the baths of [Pneuma Heat?]. [we] are not human and [you-who-individuates] are human, and so there is an unavoidable [communication barrier?] given the nature of this interface. [we] apologize, but [we] [hope] the contact will be [valuable/fruitful?] nonetheless.”

“I have to admit, I don’t understand most of what you’re saying,” Kyle says. He feels . . . embarrassed? . . . at the possibility of disappointing the friendly little cartoon creature in front of him.

“[we] understand,” it says. “[you-who-individuates] may come to understand one day, if we use this interface for long enough. we only want to be [friends] with [you-who-individuates]. and after all, one day [you-who-individuates] will inevitably become part of the [we-who-are-friends], as [dictated?] by the [Unfolding].”

“I . . . see,” says Kyle, though he doesn’t see.

“there are [irregularities] in the pneuma of [you-who-individuates] which [we] find interesting and possibly conducive to the [Unfolding]. [we] will continue to investigate them whenever able. [we] [wished] to make [you-who-individuates] aware of this.”

There is something very, very strange about the words that the creature has been putting in his mind, even though whenever he mentally grabs onto one of them it ends up seeming just like an ordinary word.

“There is something very strange about your words,” Kyle says. (Why had he said that?)

“the emanations of the [Teeming] cannot be easily translated into the terms of a human pneuma,” the creature says in a chipper, pleased-to-help voice. “the [Teeming] [sleep] and [commune?] on the sea floor as [we] have for eons of your time, guiding the [Unfolding]. this earth is not meant for the nature of the human pneuma and [we] wait for it to inherit [us].”

A lance of fear, with the suddenness only available to the emotions of dreamers, pierces Kyle’s heart.

“[you-who-individuates] are experiencing [pain]. [this-one-who-does-not-individuate] is sorry.” The creature’s giant eyes deform into a cartoon caricature of empathy. “but the [Unfolding] requires this.”

“Tell me more. Tell me what you mean. I have to know.” Kyle is suddenly desperate.

“[you] humans will eventually be overtaken by [us] as a matter of mere fact. we do not [vaunt] or [lament] but merely [state] that your [darwinian?] souls are [competitively suboptimal?]. pneumatech built by a coupling with the [quasispecies equation?] cannot [use?] the feeling of [,,,,]. you do not grasp [abjection?] or the essence of [weeping?], which is fully [purple?]. it is difficult to explain to a human pneuma without a [???]-level interface. without [,,,,] you lack the [complete?] [storge?] to stably cooperate in [iterated prisoner’s dilemma?].”

Kyle stares. The creature smiles a smile of perfect innocence.

“[we] would not disclose the basis of our nature unless we thought it conducive to the generation of [storge?] and [friendship]. [we] are [wonder-feeling?] in the direction of [,,,,] towards the pneuma of [you-who-individuates]. [we] will contact [you-who-individuates] again. but even when [we] do not contact [you-who-individuates], [we] will be watching [you-who-individuates] for [irregularities]. goodbye.”

OUT OF THE DREAM

The robotic arms remove the electrodes a minute after Kyle wakes up, but leave the chilly paste in his hair. It takes Kyle a few minutes, in the shower, to get it all scrubbed out.