From: Jakhel@aol.com Subject: Infinite Regress 1D: Interference Patterns Part 1 of 1 Date: Wed, 14 Jul 1999 20:26:59 EDT Complete in this posting. Please note that I am still working on IR1c -- I just decided that there was no reason not to go ahead and get this puppy finished and posted. It will also be archived along with the other IR stories to date at http://members.aol.com/irwebsite/ -------------------------------------------------------------------- * INFINITE REGRESS 1D: Interference Patterns Okay, so where DO those interuniversal congruences come from? Initial Timeframe: The tail end of the 20th Century, Earth. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Please bear in mind that I know zip about the television industry. As a programmer employed by a staid midwestern manufacturing company, I find it much harder to imagine Hollywood Corporate Culture than, for instance, Minbari ecology or the inner workings of the Caste/Clan system.... But anyway, as a result I have tried to keep things at a high level and avoid specifics. If I have inadvertently specified anything that is significantly out of whack with any timeline within cell-phone range of ours, please drop me a line and I weel feex for next virgin. Extra Special Disclaimer: There are four distinct types of characters in this story. Specific credits can be found at the end of the story to avoid spoilage, but an overview follows: 1) Fictional characters belonging to other authors -- these are, of course, being used purely for personal, non-profit amusement. 2) Original characters -- three of the five "main characters" fall into this category, and they're pretty easy to spot. They belong to me. Feel free to re-use them, but please let me know first. 3) Spear Carriers -- any characters in the story who are not identified by name are "algebraic" characters: they are there to delineate a role, and are not not NOT intended to represent anyone in particular. If you think you recognize somebody, but they're not given a first name in the story, it is, honest to God, pure coincidence. 4) Real People -- doing this makes me real nervous, but goshdarn it, the story just BEGGED to be written, so what can I do? Please bear in mind that this is a totally whimsical speculation based on completely imaginary circumstances, for purposes of pure and benign amusement, and is in no way intended to cast aspersions on anyone or in any way claim that they would behave in any way that they would not want anyone thinking they would behave. Does that cover it? I don't THINK I've said anything about anybody that they'd object to, but you never can tell! Anyway, on with the....whatever! -------------------------------------------------------------------- The pudgy, grey-haired man took off his glasses and rubbed at his stinging eyes. Light from the computer screen gave his skin a sickly tinge, and its time display winked accusingly at him. He knew he should go to bed -- they were shooting tomorrow and he'd HAVE to be on his toes (so to speak) -- but this storyline just wouldn't let him go. It had started out so clear, but now...what the heck was Delenn going to DO, here?!? A light came on behind him. "Is that you, hon?" he called, turning in his chair -- and gasped. Framed in the doorway, a glowing figure hung suspended a few inches off the floor, white wingtips brushing the ceiling. Its androgynous, supernaturally beautiful features were ever-so-slightly fuzzed by the glorious light it was emanating. The man struggled to speak, his sense of reality fragmented by exhaustion and awe. "Kosh? Is that you?" he stammered at last. {{We are ALL Kosh,}} a light, chiming voice sounded inside his head, then continued in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone, {{However, some of us are more Kosh than others...}} **************** The Great Maker bounced onto the set the next day, astonishingly perky for a man who'd been up all night finishing a script. The script was excellent, too, all who saw it agreed. The action was crisp, the drama riveting, the comic relief hilarious, and the second half contained some startling, yet entirely plausible insights into the whole Vorlon/Shadow conflict. The production staff went into a huddle as the show's creator continued his rounds. He narrowly avoided bouncing into the wardrobe mistress -- she juggled her coffee successfully and headed back to her desk, where she suddenly realized that the latest alien's costume was all wrong. It should be closer to the body, then flaring, like so.... He peeked in on the CGI guys, offering a word of advice. He snagged a makeup person for a quick suggestion, then headed for the workshop where Kosh's encounter suit was being repaired. Along the way, he passed by the cafeteria, where a group of actors were sitting around discussing what they might do with themselves after the series' predetermined end. "Vending machine maintenance," one of them declaimed. "It's perfect -- you ride around in this little truck all day, working with your hands, talking to people, and actually doing them good, making their everyday lives just a little bit happier..." "Jerry," a fellow actor advised, "Just stick to what you're good at: bullshit!" "Yeah, man, maybe you oughtta go into politics!" piped up another, to general laughter. "Yeah, you guys are such comedians, you oughtta be on Saturday -- hey, wait a minute. That's not such a bad idea. I mean, who WOULDN'T vote for a guy like me? Hey -- c'mon, guys, where's everybody going?" **************** Far away across the parking lots, a tall glass tower glittered balefully in the pitiless Southern California sun. Quite a different conversation was taking place there... "We've got to start putting more pressure on this guy," a sharp-featured woman in a power suit was saying. "All this intellectual, moralistic crap, the expensive sets, the makeup budget, and those UNiforms -- hell, everybody KNOWS that in the 23rd century they'll be wearing bodysuits --" "I still say drop 'em," a heavyset man with a cigar chimed in. "The only people that watch that stuff are ex-Trekkies with no lives anyway. It's hardly worth wasting good commercial time on them." "Weeelll, now, let's not be hasty," a third man protested. "A few bikinis, a few more fight scenes, some really good monsters, and I think this show could be salvaged. If this guy won't work with us, maybe we can...work around him." The discussion continued, each of the dozen or so people in the room contributing their bit -- except for the secretary minding the refreshment table in the corner. As she bent to empty a coffee filter, a violet glow flared briefly in her eyes, and a smug smile curved her painted lips. **************** "Okay people, let's finish setting up for the scene with the Vorlon!" An earnest young assistant scurried up to the Great Maker and whispered urgently in his ear. He nodded, dismissed the girl with a reassuring smile, and made his way to a small dressing room at the back of the complex. A young man huddled inside, looking most unwell indeed. Beside him hulked the newly-refurbished encounter suit. "You okay, Jeff?" the older man asked, solicitude barely masking impatience. "I dunno, Joe," the actor replied reluctantly, "I was fine this morning, but then all of a sudden, BOOM!" he made vague gestures alluding to physiological processes that did not bear describing -- or repeating inside a cumbersome and all-encompassing costume. "Must be some kinda virus or something." "Mmm, I daresay," the Great Maker replied thoughtfully. "Man, I'm sorry. I really don't want to blow the shoot..." "Don't worry about it," the other man said decisively, and moved to the dressing room door. As he closed and locked it from the inside, a greenish light began to grow behind glinting lenses. **************** The scene went off with no more than the usual number of hitches. The "main" actors flubbed a few times, but the performance of the guy in the encounter suit was flawless -- in every take. The director took a moment to compliment him on his way out. The headpiece tilted in that peculiarly Koshlike gesture, and its iris opened wide on green lightning. "#It was....a great honor#," a chiming voice replied. The director stared, bemused, as the suit glided away. Now how the hell....at that point, he abruptly lost track of his train of thought, shrugged, and went on about his business. **************** Meanwhile, the Great Maker had found himself unexpectedly summoned to the Councils of the Wise(sic) and Powerful. As usual, he felt very much like an alien himself as he strolled through the big double doors in shorts, sandals, and brazenly logo'd T-shirt and baseball cap. The Suits ensconced at the long table within glared at him in icy disdain. The grilling began. The network was concerned, the sponsors were anxious, yadda yadda yadda -- by now he could recite the whole litany by heart. Somehow, though, it was different this time. He fielded every criticism, answered every question, but could not help but notice that the attacks were unusually vicious for this time of the season -- normally this kind of confrontation only took place when the next season's budget was up for review, and he was at least given time to put together a nice dog-and-pony show. "But why do you have to have so much control over the story line? We've got plenty of good writers who'll work cheap -- we could have them whip up some rock'em-sock'em monster episodes in no time, without all this futzing around with the details...." Ye gods, what he wouldn't give for a denn'bok along about now. He had a brief vision of leaping up, Ranger-like, and running down the long table, whapping each blank, staring head in turn, and perhaps jarring a few less-calcified brain cells into some kind of vestigial functionality in the process. But he was no Marcus Cole -- he'd probably just look like an idiot AND get sued. He sighed heavily and tried to explain it ONE MORE TIME... Out of the corner of his eye he caught the smug smirk on the face of the secretary over by the coffee machine. Was he hallucinating, or was that a violet gleam in her eyes? A cold chill swept over him as he suddenly flashed on a segment of The Arc that was not even on the shooting schedule's horizon yet... The Vorlon had appeared to him, true, and had explained the subtle influence it had been exerting on the show from the beginning. But, Vorlonlike, it had neglected to mention just *why* it had picked this precise moment to make itself known to him....and as luck would have it, his alien mentor was off playing amateur Thespian just when it was apparently most needed. As if sensing his thought, the secretary's smile widened -- and somehow, he suspected she *wasn't* coming on to him. {{KOOSH!}} He yelled at the top of his mind, having come to the end of a paragraph in his all-too-familiar spiel. {{Get your encounter-suited butt OVER HERE!}} He had no idea whether "his" Vorlon could "hear" him or not, but the secretary winced most satisfactorily, so that was something, anyway. "So how do you explain the fact that the ratings have been steadily DROPPING over the last few episodes?" The woman at the head of the table locked on and fired her main guns. Joe groped for a response, statistics skittering out of his brain like roaches fleeing a kitchen light. {{I have ALWAYS been here.}} A chiming voice seemed to ring through the room, and all motion ceased. The Suits hung frozen in salivating, predatory anticipation, and even the subliminal hum of the air conditioning system abruptly stopped. Joe heard his own breath rasping in his throat, the thud of his heartbeat -- and the click of the secretary's heels as she moved to stand before him. He felt rather than heard the Vorlon behind him expand to its full, glorious height. {{Come out, Ilkash!}} it said. {{The time for hiding is past.}} The Secretary paused, opening her mouth -- and just like on the show, streams of amethyst light poured out of her mouth and eyes to coalesce into a great Form between the two Humans, something like a cross between a faceless, wingless dragon and a gigantic Hydra (the invertebrate variety), spun of pure energy. Behind it he dimly see the deserted (and terrified) secretary, and beyond her, the rest of the room as through a thick fog. The Vorlon he had been carrying all day -- the one who claimed to be Kosh's apprentice -- had somehow moved between the two Human pawns and hung there, matching the purple Vorlon's magnificence with its own green-tinged splendor. Space and time seemed to bend into a great, silent bubble around the two Vorlons. Joe could see and "hear" everything that passed between them, but was unable to move or speak. {{Hah! Gormless upstart!}} the second Vorlon sneered. ('Gormless??' thought Joe, bemused -- whatever chunk of his subconscious was translating all this must have really *reached* for that one!) {{The slightest hint of open opposition and you toss aside the protocols the Elders so strictly enjoined upon you -- first manifesting in the presence of this Human, and now disrupting a perfectly Ordered event-nexus like a callow squigling!}} {{Ill-conceived, ill-aimed, and inaccurate, my esteemed podmate,}} the green Vorlon replied composedly. {{True, Ulkesh chose you for his apprentice when we were barely out of the Pool of Learning, while I spent many cycles learning about the Younger Races as a messenger and research technician before Kosh chose me -- }} again, Joe realized that the translations he was getting were approximate at best {{ -- but that does not make you greater in age or wisdom than I. It was you who disregared the strictures of the Elders, coming unbidden to this timeline and attempting to undo that which had been Planned.}} {{Fooey!}} the purple Vorlon declared. {{That Plan was flawed from the outset! Manipulating the primitive entertainments of these quantum offshoots of our Younger Races to...what was it...ensure that the WHOLE Truth is known, that they may be given the Choice in enlightenment -- do you truly believe that a few details of a soon-forgotten television program will have any influence on their development?}} {{I know not, Ilkash, nor do the Elders who sent me here, from beyond the Rim in our Universe. Yet somehow, by some quirk of the Cosmos, these Humans have Seen -- this one more clearly than the others, but all to some degree -- and their vision has brought them together for this Work. I have only helped them to focus -- to clarify, as you say, the details, and to smooth their path. And recently it has become clear to me that many of the obstacles in that path have been engineered by YOU!}} {{Yes, Koosh, I have worked to undo what you have done, but only to return these unevolved creatures to the path laid out for them! They do not need or want this Vision -- it will only cause them to question the Order that determines their lives!}} {{Then let them question -- and let them find their own answers, as those in our timeline have done}} Koosh said firmly. {{NO!!!}} shrieked Ilkash, gathering itself to strike at its foe. Just then another shriek sounded, drowning out the echoes of the first and cutting through the air like a light-saber through fresh spoo. Out of the mists surrounding the rival energy-beings a dark, articulated shape appeared -- a mantis-like creature easily the size of a humanoid, its exoskeleton drinking the ambient light into a depthless inky...Shadow. The two Vorlons hung motionless while their forgotten captive Humans while the third alien minced daintily forward on its six barbed and pointed legs. It had never really occurred to Joe to distinguish one Shadow-creature from another, yet he sensed from both Vorlons a distinct spike of *individual* recognition. Recognition, dismay, and above all, puzzlement. {{But -- we were told you DIED at Z'ha'dum...}} Ilkash virtually gasped. The apparition's triangular black head tilted, its rows of tiny eyes glowing like banked coals. {{I did,}} it replied mentally, {{I'm better now.}} Far from resembling the shrill, insect-rubbing sounds they had used to portray the televised Shadows' audible speech, its (his?) mind-voice came through as a sort of dry crackling, like wind through dead leaves, or the scuttling of a myriad tiny clawed feet in the next room. {{There are many timelines in which I was killed by Zhe'ri'dann, as he fled the chamber in which my pet Humans were attempting to persuade him to join with us. But there were several event-streams in which I did survive -- one way or another.}} The great arthropod settled back on his back sets of walking legs, crossing the front pair before it and gesturing with his foreclaws in an unmistakably admonitory fashion. {{When we discovered that the two of you had come here, interfering with these primitives, it was decided that I was best suited to follow, to ensure that you did -- at least as much good as harm. {{I must confess,}} the creature went on, {{I have enjoyed these last few cycles beyond all expectation. This is a race with marvelous... possssibilities. In fact, I myself have taken a claw in things. There was, for instance, a certain defunct, third-rate cartoon program which, with the unwitting help of some singularly chaotic-minded humans, I have been able to...adjust to my purposes...}} {{With all due respect, Z'ho'rakh,}} Koosh interrupted, {{Would you mind getting to the POINT?}} {{At any rate,}} the Shadow continued, {{what do I find now but one of the Lords of Order itself fomenting Chaos...this must NOT be permitted. It is not your place.}} {{It was THAT ONE!}} shrieked Ilkash again. {{IT has been influencing them all, twisting the One Truth into Many!}} Z'ho'rakh's many eyes flared from deep red to virulent yellow. {{You LIE!}} the Dark One shrieked in turn, and the amethyst Vorlon shrank back. {{Excuse me,}} Koosh interrupted. {{Not to be nitpicky or anything, but when you say 'it is not our place', is that not a rather ORDERED concept? That's one thing that has always bothered me about your people. For a race supposedly devoted to Chaos, your social structures are almost as rigid as ours. A bit hypocritical, don't you think?}} A lambent orange gaze swung towards Koosh. {{You do NOT understand,}} hissed the Shadow, {{but you WILL!}} "Excuse ME," a new voice cut in -- an actual, vibrations-in-air type *voice*, this time -- as a medium-sized Human came strolling through the mists. He wore a dark-haired and -bearded, Caucasian-mix body of about Joe's age -- in somewhat better condition, but obviously not fanatical about it. Over that he wore loose cotton trousers, an embroidered vest, and a Chicago Cubs baseball cap -- backwards. "You gentlebeings are a bit out of your territory, aren't you?" he asked mildly. Ilkash hissed in annoyance and lunged at the puny Human. The man simply stared back, brow furrowed as though he were searching for the right note on an invisible piano. Obviously, he found it -- the Vorlon stopped cold, as though it had run into an invisible wall. Slowly it retreated -- was *pushed* back to hang, quivering and helpless, in mid-air. After a long moment the man released it and returned his attention to the others. {{Very impresssive,}} the Shadow observed. "I have a knack with energy-beings," the man said modestly. Ilkash stirred, but made no further move to attack. {{And have you any such defense against ME?}} Z'ho'rakh inquired, raising his forelimbs menacingly. "I'm not sure," the man admitted. A short, ascending whine cut the air, and a snub-nosed, silvery weapon appeared in his hand, pointed in the general direction of the giant insectoid's thorax. "But I've heard *these* work pretty good." The Shadow flinched back involuntarily, then remembered where -- and when -- he was. "It's not a prop, by the way," the man assured him. "I stopped by your timeline-cluster on the way here, to do a little background research. Nice place," he added, with a smiling glance at Joe, "though I wouldn't want to *live* there." {{I take it you are more than you appear,}} put in Koosh. "Aren't we all?" replied the man. "I have many names," he went on to declaim, then grinned engagingly. "But most of them are bullshit, so just call me 'Sam'. I work for an organization that calls itself the Rena'a. These guys consider themselves the pick of the litter, so to speak -- the best and the brightest from every mindworld imaginable, watching over the various worlds of imagination and their quantum-split timeline clusters, and preventing adventurous types such as yourselves from 'interfering' -- muddling up the pristine purity of the individual event-streams. Something about too much cross-contamination eventually leading to the collapse of the entire Multiverse into an undifferentiated swirl of chaotic mush..." {{You say that like it's a *bad* thing,}} commented Z'ho'rakh. {Just kidding,}} he added as the Vorlons glared at him. {{You do, however, say it as though you don't really believe it yourself.}} "Oh, I believe it, all right -- I've seen more than my share of the problems caused by cultural contamination, and I think these guys have the right idea -- at a high level, anyway. It's just that I suffer from a chronic case of bad attitude when it comes to self-appointed authority figures -- which brings us back to *you* guys. What in the name of Time do you people think you're accomplishing here, anyway?" The three aliens telepathically fell all over themselves explaining their various positions. Sam heard them out politely, hands deep in his pockets (something about that stance struck Joe as awfully familiar, but he couldn't quite place it at the moment). Finally he waved for silence. "So let me get this straight. You are for Order," he said, pointing to Ilkash, "you are in favor of Chaos," he indicated Z'ho'rakh, "and *you*," he stabbed a finger at Koosh, "claim to be following the Truth." Suddenly he started to laugh. "Man oh man oh man -- and all you other guys, too," he said at last, shaking his head. "If I were still in the Bodhisattva business, I'd give you all a long lecture on Illusion and Essence -- but somehow I doubt you'd be impressed. So let's try this from another angle. It's not going to *work*, guys. The laws of inertia will swamp any influence for good you might have, and all that will be left is the fact of your interference -- a rift in the walls between the Universes that will eventually widen into an abyss of insanity and destruction. There's a REASON it's so difficult to shift between mindworlds -- it's not meant to happen, and the Multiverse has a way of paying back those who break its laws." {{Oh, give it a rest,}} Z'ho'rakh cut in disgustedly. {{If this were a cluster-center timeline I could understand your concern -- or even one within shrieking distance of the bell curve. But we're 'way out on the fringe here -- what possible damage can come of 'interfering' with an obscure fanfiction mindworldlet that will only ever be Audited by a handful of Humans with too much time on their hands anyway?}} The Vorlons and the Rena'a agent regarded him in total confusion. "What the Hell?" {{What do you mean?}} {{Sssee for yourselves,}} The Shadow invited, pointing a foreclaw in Joe's direction. The other three peered that way -- not *at* the still-frozen Human, but *past* him, through the Veil that encompassed them all. Joe wished more than ever that he could move -- could turn around to see what they were all staring at. He was getting this prickly feeling between his shoulderblades, as though someone were watching from behind his back -- *several* someones, he somehow knew, all separated from each other by time and space, but all focused on this place, this moment....this *page*... "Whoa, you're right, it's pretty pathetic out there," the man called Sam agreed at last. "Well, never mind, then." He pulled a pipe and a small, cloth bag out of his capacious pocket, apparently quite finished with anything vaguely resembling 'business'. "Anybody got a light?" Koosh obligingly extended a tentacle to ignite the mass of crushed vegetation. ((You know that's bad for you,}} it commented. "Yeah, I gave it up for a few centuries, after a coupla bouts of lung cancer, but a guy I ran into in the Rena'a got me back into it. Good old Ollie -- wonder what he's up to these days? Getting himself into trouble, I'll bet." Sam chuckled softly. "Guy's quick on the uptake for a born-Immortal -- kinda like you and your mentor in that," he added, pointing his pipestem at Koosh. "Well, anyway, it looks as if my work here is done. But if you want my advice, you'll let these poor fucked-up Earthlings go on about their business. You've given them some things to think about -- now let them go their own way. That's what it's all about, right?" With that, plus a nod to Joe and a wink for the hapless secretary, he turned and strolled off into the mist. The aliens argued about it a bit more, but eventually came to the conclusion that Sam was right -- it was time for all sides to pack up and move on. Moments later, Joe found himself waking as if from a dream, to face a puzzled roomful of executives, plus one *very* thoughtful secretary. He found the facts and figures he needed at the tip of his tongue, and was able to mollify the suddenly much-less-hostile Suits and get the hell OUT of there. On his way back to the studio he faltered for a moment, wondering if, now that the Vorlon was gone, his Vision would fade, as well. Then he smiled, for there it all was, clear and shining in his mind, to the end of The Arc -- and beyond. "*Crusade*," he murmured under his breath, and headed out across the parking lot. **************** "Now," hissed Z'ho'rakh softly, laying a foreclaw across each of the Vorlons' anterior manipulative stream junctures, "Let us go see what we can do about those foolish Minbari, shall we?" The End.