The White-Hole Situation

The Thing

"I can't and I won't," Pagan shouted into the sea breeze as she continued to paddle furiously towards the horizon. She and Pisco were already miles offshore and he, for one, was thinking about turning around at some point and heading home. Pagan had already made it abundantly clear that the last thing she intended to do was hop on board some super-photonic vessel and head straight towards a confrontation with an unknown and potentially unknowable entity, if the white holes could even be called that.

"What's Zeppo think about it?" Pisco shouted from the front of the kayak.

"Zeppo?" Pagan asked, because she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly, but her question was enough to summon a connection with the person in question, as if the I.B.U. ("what's your deal?") was already in her head, anticipating and even controlling her will. September, in her holographic image, at least, was wearing army-like fatigues and boots, and Pisco had to wonder (and not for the first time) is she really going out like that?

She stood tall and straight and still against the backdrop of the rising and falling ocean. Pagan stopped paddling and shook her head.

"What do you want?" she said.

"You called me," September replied, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't," Pagan began but Pisco interrupted,

"We were talking about the white-hole situation," he said, "and I was asking her if she knew what you thought about it." Pisco took advantage of the lull in his companion's paddling to slowly and subtly turn the little boat around. September's image maintained alignment.

"Are you looking through the want ads too? I thought you were all nicely settled for once?"

"Want ads? What are you talking about?" Pagan frowned.

"What are you talking about?" September countered.

Pagan explained to her what she'd learned from Captain Geronimo. Many of the white holes, according to him, were almost immeasurably small, about a quarter of a Planck length, according to the best guess of his number one science officer, though some did seem to be larger. When they came in direct with any object, that object instantly became no object. Where did it go? What became of it? No one knew. Were its atoms redistributed? Was it essentially recycled like any other known thing in the universe, or was it transported to some other dimension, elsewhere in the multiverse? Unknown. Of course they'd aimed and fired all their weapons at the thing. That was standard operating procedure. See a thing and don't understand it? Try and destroy it, of course. The energy from those blasts received the same treatment, or at least Geronimo assumed it did. Who knew?

"Well that might explain something," September said after Pagan summed it all up with a shrug. "Did he try and open comms with it?" she asked, knowing full well the answer would be yes, and no response.

"There's something in the want ads," she added. "It looked like the system wanted human volunteers to make a close encounter. As far as we know - Roddy and me - they all met the same fate."

"Oh sure, " Pagan said, "volunteers for a sudden death? I'm sure there's no shortage there. How many signed up? Dozens? Hundreds? Millions? All the bored and lazy mother suckers on the planet?"

"More every day," September replied with a smile. Everybody knew the situation. Everything on Earth was all nice and tidy now. There were no uncertainties, no trash, no anxieties, no worries. The crime rate was not a rate, it was a flat-line zero. Population growth? Nice and smooth, a well-oiled machine. Every child a wanted child, every parent an expectant one. A place for everyone and everyone in their place. Each day dawned with unlimited promise. You could fulfill your potential, achieve all your goals, and all you had to do was try. Or want to try. Or casually think about wanting to try. The world was solidly grounded on the bedrock principle of ask and ye shall receive. Everyone was bored out of their freaking mind.

Which explained the rush to space, to adventure, to explore the mysteries of the cosmos in person, but did not completely explain the extraordinary life of ease and comfort met by every member of every crew on every ship. Just like at home, all their wishes were granted, all their needs easily met. Sometimes there were problems, like engine trouble, mean bad guys, interpersonal squabbles, shortages of shampoo or conditioner, but these were generally familiar and readily dealt with according to proper protocols and procedures. Rules were in place. Advice was provided and followed.

"Maybe this time is different," September suggested. Pagan growled. Pisco turned thoughtful.

"Or maybe it's a trap," Pisco said. He didn't fully trust the I.B.U. ("now more than ever"), but he couldn't explain his reasoning. It was just a feeling he had and life had long since shown him, in countless examples and experiences, just how little he could count on his feelings.

"You'd better not sign up," Pagan said to September.

"Oh, I already did," she replied with a wink before signing off.

"Of course you did!" Pagan shouted at the space where the hologram had been. She doesn't care, she added to herself as if that was a new thought, as if she hadn't been thinking about September every night and every day, every waking moment ever since "the thing".