A dark spot emerged and wavered in the distant hills. A man sat on a horse, immobile. He reached up and ran his fingers along the mask covering his nose and mouth, checking the seal; narrow eyes in a brown face locked to the distance. The spot solidified and grew larger. He wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tartan shirt, then unslung the Steyr Monobloc from his shoulder and laid it across the saddle. The spot was not a spot—it was a massive eight-legged beast bounding across the flat desert, haloed in a dust wake. Some minutes later, the creature split into two halves, each a horse and rider. The man waited the quiet minutes patiently, eyes locked on the approaching figures. When they stopped their horses in front of him, he said immediately:
“Did you confirm his identity at the airfield?”
“Yes sir. He has a driver's license and a passport,” the man in a cowboy hat said. The other rider held an umbrella aloft.
“Professor, could you move slightly closer to me?” The man with the rifle held up his phone and compared a face in a photograph to that of the rider. He nodded and placed the phone back into his pocket, slung the rifle back onto his shoulder, and dismounted. The professor followed suit, dropping his umbrella. “Dr. Chilufya, I'm Coyopa Gonzalez.”
“Of course, it's an honor. Please, call me Kasomo,” Kasomo Chilufya said and held out his hand after retrieving the umbrella. Coyopa reached into a saddle pouch, pulled out a latex glove, and donned it. He then shook Kasomo's hand, peeled the glove off slowly, and stuffed it into a biohazard waste bag. Kasomo's smile faded during the process.
“Why aren't you wearing a mask?” Coyopa asked.
“Well, I was wearing one on the plane, and in the taxi, and on the helicopter. Once we touched down in the middle of nowhere, I figured it was no longer necessary.”
“So you littered?”
“What? No, it's in my pocket.”
“Okay, good. Leave it there. You'll be provided with a new N-99 inside the house. How was your flight out from London? Ever been State-side before?”
“Comfortable, and yes. Can't say the same for the horse ride. I haven't ridden since I was ten.”
“Well, sorry to put you through that. I take a few unconventional security precautions. Let's hope this pandemic ends soon. The house is near enough that we can walk the rest of the way.”
Kasomo turned, looking from horizon to horizon. “Um, I'm not seeing any house.”
“Of course not.” Coyopa began to lead his horse. “If you could see it, it wouldn't be much of a house, would it?”
“Uh ...” Kasomo glanced at the third man, who remained on horseback, and began to follow Coyopa. Kasomo closed his mouth and pulled his horse along with the others.
After walking unhurriedly for a while, the man in the cowboy hat took the reins of the other horses. “I'll take them to the stables.”
Coyopa nodded. “Thank you, Arnkell.”
Arnkell nodded in return and changed course. Kasomo could see no stable in that direction. He and Coyopa continued along their previous path, sweating in silence.
About five minutes later, Coyopa stopped abruptly and shifted his weight to one leg. He nodded at a pile of boulders in front of them, about three times higher than his head. “Well, whaddya think?”
Kasomo frowned. “Uh, I'm no geologist, but I can appreciate a Zen rock bouquet as much as the next fellow, I suppose.”
“Very funny, professor.”
“I wasn't aware I made a joke.” But Coyopa wasn't listening, having sauntered over to the side of the pile. Kasomo followed, and Coyopa pointed when he neared.
“In here,” Coyopa said, turning sideways to squeeze through a narrow gap between boulders. There was just enough space under the rocks for them to stand hunched over. Coyopa kicked the rock underneath him with the heel of his boot; an irregular area of rock receded down, then slid aside. Coyopa sat with his legs dangling in the hole. “You need some minimum of upper body strength to enter my home. There are two bars just underneath the grip here to use as handholds.” He lowered himself inside. Kasomo heard a clang as boots hit metal flooring.
“For crying out loud.” Kasomo tried to maneuver his body into the hole. He lowered himself, then hung from the bars on either side of the hatch and looked down.
Coyopa held his arms out and twirled his hands. “You can do it. Only about thirty centimeters to drop. Don't lock your knees.”
Kasomo's feet hit the floor, and he straightened his legs, smoothing his wrinkled suit. “Mr. Gonzalez! I had heard you were quite eccentric for a billionaire, but this is most irregular.”
Coyopa hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Well now, if I were like everyone else, I wouldn't be a billionaire.” He turned and began to descend a stairway, strip-lights on each step. “By the way,” Coyopa said, turning his head back— “don't tell anyone, but I'm actually not a billionaire anymore. Still got over nine hundred million, though.” He resumed his descent.
Kasomo reached the steps and followed. “Then I'll consider donating some soup cans,” he muttered. They descended what seemed to be at least two stories, then came upon a narrow passage with lights set into the wall, and more below the grated walkway.
Coyopa turned back to him. “Did Arnkell describe the entry procedure to you?” Kasomo shook his head. “Okay, here's how it goes. We go into this next chamber and stand with arms out from our sides and close our eyes, and we get blasted with hot water for a few seconds. Well—pleasantly warm water, maybe. Then we go into a locker room and shower. Scrub down with soap—now I'm not discriminating against ya—I'll do the same thing. Don't forget to shampoo your eyebrows. Oh, first you'll drop your clothes down a chute in the shower area. Uh, you're not carrying any electronic items, are you?”
“Of course!” Kasomo pulled out his phone. “This is going to ruin my suit!”
“My wardrobe technician will do her best to save it. Otherwise I'll buy you a new one—a better one. Put your phone in here.” He slid open a receptacle in the wall, and Kasomo put his phone inside.
“So I'll be totally off the grid?”
“We don't get cell reception down here. I have my own communication lines you can use. Voice, video, internet—all available whenever.”
“Fine.” They stepped into a perforated chamber.
After the procedure was complete, Kasomo was given a comfortable white cotton jumpsuit, slippers, and white N-99 mask. Coyopa wore the same. They headed through a short passage that seemed to curve back in the direction of the entrance.
“How big is this place?” Kasomo asked.
“Officially, it goes down ten levels. We're on Level One. The diameter varies, but it's a hundred meters wide, on average.” Coyopa led him through a side-door to an ovoid room with a low ceiling. The passage and room were made of rough, natural stone, texture highlighted by dim sconces.
“Is that sunlight?” Kasomo asked, looking up at the large holes in the ceiling.
“Yes. The door wasn't the only opening hidden in the rock pile. Daylight comes through the tubes, bounced and focused by mirrors. Please, have a seat, professor.” He gestured to one of the plush chairs around the central oval table. Kasomo sat in the indicated seat, and Coyopa sat across from him, pulling out a small tablet.
At one end of the room was a back-lit and framed photograph of the Earth at night, taken from the International Space Station. The atmosphere's airglow was clearly visible, and a Soyuz spacecraft protruded from its dock in the foreground. Kasomo turned to look at the other end of the room: there was another photograph: this one on Earth. It showed Elon Musk talking to engineers; they, along with a vertical rocket, were dramatically back-lit by a bright spotlight.
“Your consultation fee is extremely generous—at least, I am tempted to say so—though I admit some apprehension as to what you might ask of me,” Kasomo said after Coyopa began scrolling on his tablet. “My work is relatively obscure from the perspective of the public eye.”
“I've downloaded some of your papers from the ArXiv, and I can't say I understand them one bit,” Coyopa said as he continued to operate the tablet. “But there is a sci-fi novel I like. The author credits you as a science consultant.”
Kasomo raised his brows. “Hm. Yes, the author is a friend of mine. I'm a bit surprised, since that was his first book, and it was a flop. I got the impression that hardly anyone was aware of its existence.”
“Well, it's not great literature, but it's well-written and has a plot, unlike so much fiction these days. What struck me is its strange sense of realism—its verisimilitude. Strange, because you usually don't see that in stories about interstellar travel and exploring alien worlds. The author seems to give you a large chunk of the credit for that.”
Kasomo nodded. “We worked closely on some technical aspects of space travel.”
Coyopa put down his tablet and interlocked his thick fingers on the tabletop. “Just how realistic is that book, really?”
Kasomo frowned. He noticed that on some parts of the wall, Mayan hieroglyphs began to glow green, slowly change color to blue, and fade away. “I think it is mostly realistic, as far as we can know. However, there were a couple aspects that were glossed over. Probably most readers wouldn't realize it.”
“Like what?”
“Well .... As you know, the crew of the ship were genetically engineered to produce cryoprotectants, which are a type of chemical that would prevent tissue-damaging ice from forming when their bodies are stored at low temperatures during the journey. It is unknown whether this is actually possible, though it is plausible on the surface.”
“I was wondering if the author could have gotten around that issue just by having the ship go faster. I remember an old novel, from the 1960s I think, which has a similar propulsion design. Hydrogen gas is collected by magnetic funnel and used to power a fusion drive. The ship in that story accelerated to very near light-speed. Then travel times between stops would be so short from the crew's perspective that there's no need for cold sleep.”
Kasomo shook his head. “It's not possible. Remember one of Newton's laws is that force equals mass multiplied by acceleration. Any low-mass particle with high acceleration produces an enormous force. In other words, hitting a dust particle at full speed could be a deadly impact. That's why my friend made his ship go so slowly, even though the same technology could accelerate them arbitrarily close to the speed of light.”
“But they have a forward impact shield, and a magnetic funnel.”
“It's not clear those could completely compensate. And they could be prone to catastrophic failure. The magnetic funnel would have no effect on electrically neutral particles, anyway. In any case, ramscoops for fusion engines are completely hypothetical. We don't know if it's possible to actually construct one safely or economically.”
“And engines based on known technologies are ruled out because ...”
“Chemical rockets would require an infinite amount of propellant to travel between stars; that's why the engine needs to be nuclear. But even then, it's too burdensome to haul its own fuel and propellant—hence the ramscoop idea.”
Kasomo looked up at the photograph of Elon Musk. “Mr. Gonzalez ...” he began slowly, “... did you bring me here to consult on the feasibility of a manned interstellar craft?”
“Yes,” Coyopa stated plainly.
“But you know I'm a theoretical physicist, not an engineer.”
“I will hire engineers eventually. Right now I just want to find something that is not physically impossible.”
Kasomo looked down into the surface of the table. “I'm thirsty.”
Coyopa stood. “Come with me.” They walked through the dim labyrinth and came to a black metal door painted with colorful Mayan glyphs. “This is my office. Meet me here when you're done. There's a kitchen with a filtered tap five doors down that way, on the right.”
Kasomo thanked him and headed off alone. He turned the corner. A strobe light flickered through a round window, flashing a circle on the opposite wall of the corridor. He pushed open the hinged door and entered the room tentatively. A low electronic hum pulsed through the room, vibrating sand on metal plates. The strobe back-lit a figure posed on a pedestal. Hands on hips, her head was rotated to the side, chin elevated. Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. Then she snapped her fingers, and floor lights gradually increased intensity while the strobe faded. She had beehive blonde hair, large hoop earrings, a sparkling blue leotard with yellow side-stripes, three-centimeter fingernails, and high-heeled platform shoes. She stepped off the stool, blinking blue and yellow glitter, and approached him from one side of the table.
“And who might you be?” she asked.
“Uh, I'm Kasomo.”
“Ah, of course, the physicist! I forgot that meeting was today. My husband has spoken very highly of you.”
“Your husband?”
“Coyopa. I'm Ulyana.”
“Oh! It's a pleasure to meet you madam.”
“Ugh! Don't call me that. Ulyana is fine. Mmmm, you didn't know he was married, did you?”
“Sorry, I don't follow celebrities.”
“That's quite alright darling. He doesn't talk about me in public that much. I don't care, though. After all, I just married him for his money, so—”
Kasomo glanced back at the door. Ulyana threw her head back and laughed.
“Don't worry!” She said, still smiling. “It's no secret. And he doesn't offend easily. It's more the other way around usually. He can be such a meatball. I'm sure you've noticed he's obsessed with classical Mayan culture. Did you know he hired a ghost to write a novel about an ancient Mayan warrior for him?” She rolled her eyes. “Oh! Did you know his real name is not even Coyopa? It's really Pedro. I wonder if that's cultural misappropriation—he would say it's a sign of respect. Don't tell him I told you. If you called him 'Pedro' to his face, who knows what would happen.”
“Very well. May I ask, what is ...” Kasomo gestured at the cymatic plates.
“Oh, I just like to stare at the patterns. The strobe light and the sound helps me think. Boosts creativity. I'm a costume designer and make-up artist.”
Kasomo nodded. “I see.” Looking around the room, he began to notice more: garishly colored posters were pinned to the metal walls. They were illustrations styled after 1950s car advertisements, but the vehicles were outlandish atom-punk pulp sci-fi concepts. On Ulyana's hip hung a theme-matching raygun—it appeared to be made of metal, not plastic. “Well, I didn't mean to interrupt you. I was just curious about the flashing light.”
“Oh it's not a problem at all! Hope to see you around!”
Kasomo backed out of the room. “I don't know how long I'll be staying, but thank you. See you later!”
He continued down the corridor in search of the kitchen. He found it and drank a glass of water. On the way back, the strobe was once again flashing through the window. He frowned his way back to Coyopa's office door.
The Mayan glyphs were a variety of light blue; an occasional isolated symbol was painted in a green palette. As Kasomo leaned forward to inspect the calligraphy more closely, the door slid open. He blinked. The office was narrow, but about four times as deep. Sounds of exotic birds and insects filled the space—a rain forest emanating from speakers hidden by broad leaves. The potted plants were fed by overhead sunlamps, angled like spotlights on specific targets. The corners of the room were occupied by elaborately carved Mayan decorative stelai. The walls were hidden by leaves, but through gaps he saw moss-covered stone. He crossed tile to the desk at the far side of the room, where Coyopa sat writing. He gestured for Kasomo to sit in one of the chairs. On the far wall behind the desk was a rock carving of a stylized sun disk. Coyopa set his pen in a cradle and closed an inkwell.
He folded his hands on the desk, looked at Kasomo, and said: “I've been thinking. What about wormholes?”
Kasomo sat back and took a deep breath. “No.” Coyopa scowled. Kasomo continued. “Wormholes are hypothetical funnels in the gravitational field. Even if they exist, they would be very short-lived, requiring exotic matter to hold them open. The problem is that exotic matter doesn't exist, because it is defined as having negative mass—we don't know how to make it, and we don't even know if it possibly can exist. But even if we dismiss those difficulties, from the outside, wormholes would look like stellar-mass black holes, and it would be very difficult not to get torn up by their tides or fried by their magnetic fields.”
“Wait, I thought wormholes were paths outside our spacetime into some higher-dimensional bulk.”
“There is only our spacetime, so you can't go 'outside' of it. And that's a high-level geometric description. Another valid way to view it is just as the gravitational field configuration in flat spacetime. Strong field strength means heavy mass. The wormhole mouths would be massive. How would you place the two mouths at the desired locations? Even if you could travel through one, it might take longer than traveling through normal space.”
“Okay, okay, I get the idea.” Coyopa pulled out a tablet and appeared to be scrolling through something. “There was something else I wanted to ask you about.” He glanced up at Kasomo before continuing. “I might be barking up the wrong tree here, but I need to cover my bases. I used to think warp drive was just a fantasy—”
Kasomo slumped and put his chin in his hand.
“—but then I came across some scientific papers about the Alcubierre Drive.”
“You would also need negative-mass exotic matter. Look, if I knew a feasible way to achieve interstellar flight, I would not hide it from you.”
“You're saying human interstellar travel is impossible.”
Kasomo sat up and spoke forcefully. “I'm saying there is no known way to accomplish it; not with the physics, engineering, and economics that we have at this time and for the foreseeable future.”
Coyopa pressed his fingers onto the desk. “Perhaps we should take a break.”
“Is there a water closet nearby?”
“Turn left in the corridor. Then take the next right, and it's six doors down.”
Kasomo nodded and left the office, following the instructed path. The sound of science-fictional weaponry came from a door on his left as he passed it. He paused, walked backward a few steps, and slid open the door slowly. The room was occupied by a couch and big-screen television. The coffee table between them was cluttered with empty beer cans; some had been shoved to the floor to make room for a half-empty whiskey bottle. Two young men sat on the couch, engrossed in a video game; they seemed to be competing against each other, as each thumbed their own controller vigorously.
“Hello there,” Kasomo said. One of them, wearing scruffy jeans, jumped to his feet. Neither of them wore masks.
“Whoa! Where did you come from?”
“Coyopa's office down the hall.”
The sitting man held up a finger. “Ah, Coyopa prefers to call them 'corridors.'”
Kasomo ignored him. “I'm sorry to intrude. Are you able to pause the game a moment?”
The man in shorts stood now, grabbing the whiskey bottle. “Hey man, this is ours. There's like, a shit-load of wine in the kitchen, though.”
Kasomo smiled. “You make it sound so appealing. But I'm afraid it's too early for me. What are your names?”
“Jason,” the one in jeans pointed to himself, then burped. “But you can call me Jay. That's Tyler. Call him Ty.”
“Dude, he's from British-land!” Ty said after taking a swig from the bottle. He punched Jay's shoulder. “Listen to the accent!”
“So that means you speak English,” Jay said, pointing at Kasomo. “And, do you drink tea? 'Cuz, like, we drink coffee.”
“Not enough, apparently,” Kasomo said.
“Have you ever been to Huntington Beach?” Jay continued. “'Cuz that's where I'm from. We got the best waves—”
“Naw, man, there you go again!” Ty objected. “Why do you northerners always gotta have that attitude?”
“Excuse me ...” The two of them turned their heads to Kasomo. “Pardon me for being forward, but—what do you do here?”
“Oh!” Ty replied. “We're the writers!”
“The writers?” Kasomo repeated.
“Yeah!” Ty hiccupped. “Sorry dude, I might be a little drunk right now.”
“I certainly hope so,” Kasomo said.
“In fact, we're writing right now,” Jay said, gesturing expansively around the room.
“You are?”
“Yeah man. This is all part of the process.”
“I write too,” Kasomo said.
“You?”
“Yes. Papers on topological quantum field theory.”
“That's—wait, don't tell me—something to do with map-making, right?” Ty said.
“Dude, he said 'quantum.' That's .... Wait, what is that again?”
“I'm sure I'd love to explain,” Kasomo said, backing out, “but actually I was just on my way to the water closet. If you don't mind, I should go on my way. Please, continue your game.”
“Writing!” Jay corrected.
“Of course! That's what I meant.” He closed the door and proceeded to the bathroom. It was an air-tight, seamless chamber sunken from the level of the hallway floor. Kasomo looked down and frowned at the Chinese-style squat toilet.
When Kasomo returned to the office, Coyopa was still sitting as he had left him, talking on his phone.
“Aretaq kawaj kimb’e pa jun b’inem k’o le je’lika taq k’olb’al pa le uraxa taq k’achelaj.”
Kasomo sat down. “What was that? Klingon?”
“No ...” He set his phone down, frowning. “Mayan. I'm from Nahuala.”
Kasomo just scowled back at him.
“Is there something on your mind?” Coyopa asked.
“You're making a movie, aren't you?”
“Nope! Absolutely not!” Coyopa shook his head. “I'm making a TV show.”
Kasomo let his hands collapse onto the desk. “Why didn't you tell me that from the beginning? I'm a serious researcher, not a—”
“Professor, this is a serious business. I want this show to be as realistic as possible because I want it to be a dress rehearsal for the real thing. I want to inspire a generation. I want people to see what we can actually do with reality. This would not be a waste of your time. If you join the show as a permanent staff consultant, you will get a six-figure salary, and you'll be free to spend most your time on independent research. Even if the show itself turns out to be unsuccessful, think of what you can accomplish outside the university bureaucracy, directing your own research as you see fit. You'd have high-speed internet access, so you can still collaborate with colleagues across the globe and submit papers to journals.”
Coyopa paused. Kasomo's mouth was open. “I—I ...”
Coyopa held up his hand. “Don't give me an answer now. I want you to think about it. I'll get you a paper contract. In the meantime, there are a couple things I would like to show you before you return to London.” He got up from his desk and went to the door. Kasomo followed.
Heading through the corridors, they came to a spiral stairwell. Coyopa led him down to the next level and along a wider hall with lower ceiling. He came to a door and ushered Kasomo into a large room.
This was again different from every other chamber Kasomo had seen in the bunker so far. A black reflective floor merged into curving white walls with hidden lights glowing from recessed nooks. A central area was carpeted and bordered by a circular couch, with an interior coffee table.
“Bedroom with a sunken bathroom is through there. No kitchen—there is room service, though. I have a good chef. If it's not to your liking, there are several other suites to choose from. Through there you'll find enough space for an office—it has sun-panels and a wall projector.”
Kasomo walked through the bedroom and stuck his head into the bathroom. There was a steel, Western-style toilet with cushioned seat and a control panel covered in Japanese-labeled buttons. He walked back to the door where Coyopa waited. “And what is the rent for place like this?”
“There's no separate rent. This is provided in your contract, in addition to your salary.”
Kasomo looked back at Coyopa. “If that is the case, is this facility of yours the base of the production? Where is the actual filming location?”
“Great question. Unfortunately it is not right here in my house. But it's five minutes from here, if you allow me to show you.”
“Lead the way.”
They went up and out. In the airlock, Kasomo changed back into his suit, which looked as if it had been dry-cleaned. Emerging from the rock pile, the sun neared the horizon in orange haze, but Kasomo's eyes began to water before they could adjust to the intensity. Arnkell appeared, Ruger Hawkeye slung over his shoulder. “Is that really necessary?” Kasomo nodded at the tool on Arnkell's back.
“This is America, land of the lawless. I don't take any chances,” Coyopa said.
They walked north, accompanied by long blue shadows. It was still hot, and Kasomo doffed his jacket.
“I don't see anything. How far is it?”
“Just beyond that ridge.”
Over five minutes later, they crested the ridge, and Kasomo's dress-shirt was soaked. Two large buildings lay below. They were each about two stories tall and covered a large area, painted to match the color of the desert floor; there were no windows. They headed down the shallow slope and onto the pavement surrounding the buildings. There were one-story-tall hanger doors, but they entered a small side door after Coyopa tapped a key code. It was dark inside; he flipped a switch, and the hallway of a typical office was illuminated. Past some doors, the end of the short hallway had a thick sliding door. He pulled a lever and heaved. The door hissed, then rolled aside to reveal a dark space. He pulled a torch off a wall rack and swept the beam around. The walls were padded with sound-proofing material.
“This is the live-action stage. We have a motion-capture stage in the other building.” His beam fell onto a pile of lumber. “This darkness is unexplored and full of potential. It is here that we will create epics and myths—stories literally false but metaphorically true. You are familiar with such things, are you not, Kasomo?” Their eyes locked. “I know you are. The Rutherford atom. Feynman diagrams.”
Kasomo nodded, and Coyopa switched off the torch. They exited.
The desert was still bright, the sun still above distant mountains. They stood, Coyopa with hands on hips, looking to the eastern horizon. “I will send one of my lawyers to London to help sell your flat, if you wish. There will be storage space here for your stuff if it doesn't all fit in your suite.”
Kasomo opened his mouth, hesitated. Then: “I'm a serious man.”
“Of course you are, and so am I,” Coyopa said. “I've been passionate about film-making since high school, and never imagined myself becoming an investor. But sometimes a wide arc is the shortest path to a goal, not a true tangent. Joining a television production team will allow you to become the best theoretical physics researcher you can be.” He paused, and squinted hard into Kasomo's eyes. “You've already made your decision, perhaps as soon as you heard my offer. But you're waiting to say 'yes' because you think it seems responsible to appear to give long consideration to such a big decision. Perhaps your conscious self is dreaming up justifications for the decision-maker in your brain.” Coyopa shrugged. “So be it.” He held out a hand, and Arnkell handed him a large envelope. He then handed it to Kasomo. “Your contract. Have a nice trip back to London, Professor. Before you leave, why don't you stay a night in the Tropicana, on me.”
There was a snort. Kasomo turned and saw two horses on the edge of the concrete. He and Arnkell mounted.
Coyopa watched them trot away. He was still watching when the horse-men became wavering dark spots and melted into the distant hills.
ns 18.68.41.146da2
