Imaginaire Issue 2

Editors Note
Welcome back to Imaginaire! We are pleased to bring you the second issue of the magazine. As I mentioned in my first note, I wanted to experiment a little with formats. While the first issue was more of a traditional print layout style, for this issue we went with a minimalist ezine style. The advantages to this are ease in getting the issue together and emphasis on the stories and poems themselves, though I confess I prefer the stylized version better. I am thinking for Issue 3 (which I am hoping to have ready around June), Ill do a hybrid version, with page sizes more suitable for fast web viewing, but allowing for some design. The new Blogger format will take more effort to work through, but it is a good challenge to makes something memorable with fewer tools at your disposal. This issue features an intriguing poem by Michele Bannister about unicorns and wavefunction collapse, an allegory by Kenneth Levine on the nature of relationships, an action-packed story by Micah Joel about a hacker trying to protect an important discovery, a poem by Imaginaire Issue 1 alum on the crazyass chaotic rhythms in the universe, a series of stories with distinct mathematical flavor by Igor Teper, a short piece of light-hearted speculative allegory by Ian Creasey, and the first installment of a serialized novel by Issue 1 alum Andrew Breslin. Note that our contributors hail from all over the world, and where applicable, we have kept the punctuation and spelling idiosyncrasies the author used, rather than trying to impose an arbitrary US English standard. Please, peruse these virtual pages, leave feedback for the authors, or email me with comments and suggestions and Ill make sure they get passed along. Special thanks to assistant editors Chris Stieha, Christina Jones, and Liz Wason. Joshua Allen Editor, Imaginaire

The Unicorn Observer Principle

Michele Bannister We are questing for the unicorn. It is a very simple problem: will the purity of the observer P(p) affect the collapse of the waveform. Remember that this is purely theoretical. There are no unicorns in superposition with the idea of other unicorns, individual glades approximate a forest, and neither cats, nor children, are included in our parameterisation. It is all in the description: many trials are complete, their worlds excluded. The strange part? How so many try this for year on year, carting battered shield against beaten hopes, asking vainly for further chances, distracted by narwhals or merely by making dinner, waiting to distill one perfect collapse we now determine that the outcome depends only on the opportunity of the observer.

Kenneth Levine Dont you get bored walking around the circumference of your circle? She stops. Dont you get bored walking around the perimeter of your square? He turns right. I do. Theres no variety. Every side is the same. But look. He spins around and turns left. See, every so often I can go in the other direction. She takes a few more clockwise steps, pivots, and walks counterclockwise. I cant change the slope, but sometimes I can go the other way too. I know. Ive been watching you. Why do you keep following the curve? I dont know. She strokes her chin thoughtfully. I suppose its because I have to. Its what I am. Yes. Its an imperative. Thats why I keep following the line through the right angle. Youve never left your circle? No. I cant. I can stick my arms out, or my head, or my leg, but one foot has to stay inside at all times. Ive never stepped outside either. When I was a kid, I would wiggle my tush over the line. I thought I was being such a rebel. I grew up though. I realized you have to accept what is. You cant change what cant be changed. No. You cant, she says.

Geometry

He fidgets. My square has never been this close to an unconnected circle. Ive never been this near to an unconnected square. After I finish each revolution, I look at your square to see if its closer. Its a little scary. You dont have to be afraid. What if we collide? We wont. Theyre moving too slowly to collide. They may touch, but I dont think well be harmed. Are you sure? Yes. Its safe. I hope so. He frowns at the chain of countless, continuous, little points at his feet over which he has traveled innumerable times. Im used to the boredom of repetition, but I get so lonely inside my square that sometimes I dont want to go on. I understand. I get lonely inside my circle. Im thinking maybe Ive been wrong. Maybe things can change. Maybe things can get better. When I imagine your circle touching my square, well, its exciting to think about. I know you think its scary, but have you ever thought it could be exciting too? She looks away, blushing. Yes. Ive had those thoughts. Sometimes Im scared. Sometimes I want it to happen. Then Im scared again. He scans the entire area of her circle, silently estimating its a little more than one and one-half times the area of his square. He smiles.

I think you have a perfect curve. She blushes a deeper red. Thank you. Youre very kind. Its not kindness. Its truth. Some truths are unkind. Thats a kind truth. Thanks again. Youre welcome. You know its nice talking to you. Yes. It is. I wish we had talked sooner. Me too. I didnt know it was possible. The words just came out. She smiles. I didnt either. I think my square is so close to your circle that if we both extend our arms as far as we can, we can touch. Would you like that? She blushes again. I dont know. Ive never done that before. He stands on the point on the eastern side of the vertical line that is equidistant from its two endpoints and directly opposite the western endpoint of the diameter on which she stands. He extends his right arm in her direction. Give it a try. Reach toward me. Still blushing, she extends her right arm tentatively, then more assuredly. She frowns. Six inches separate the tips of her fingers from his. Im sorry, she says. He bends at the waist. Clasping her right hand in his, he slides his square into her circle, jumping upward as each of its horizontal parallel lines pierces a chord through the circumference. She

screams as her head follows his rise and gasps as he lands on the parallel western vertical line of his square the moment it stops at the arc made by the eastern endpoints of the two chords. He spins around and they face each other. That was so dangerous, she says. You could have lost your square. It was worth the risk to stay this close to you. You could have been gone forever. Dont cry, he whispers. He wishes he could comfort her by taking her hand or sheltering her in his arms, but theyre still far apart. He looks around. It worked, he says. Your circle is circumscribed around my square. She scans her circumference with astonishment. Yes, its a perfect fit. He points to the northwestern point of intersection. Ill wait for you there. Okay? She nods and he walks up the line while she steps clockwise. When he reaches the intersection he waits as she comes closer to him, and when she finally stands on the adjacent point, he holds her so close that soon they stand merged as one. Afterward when they must traverse the perimeter of the square and follow the curve again, they part with sadness and hope, timing their steps so that the may be joined again, each unaware of the new shape that will emerge from her circle.

Knuth Number
Micah Joel
It is not inconceivable that if we took a million of the greatest supercomputers today and set them going, they could compute a certain 300-digit constant that would solve any NP-hard problem.... Now, is that integer really discovered by man? Or is it something that is God given? Donald Knuth, October 5, 2001 lecture at the Technische niversitat, Mnchen

Two thousand credit card numbers in one haul isnt as impressive as it sounds. The torrent of 16-digit numbers flashed across Viveks screen, en route to his keychain, a wireless CryptoVault with more assorted knowledge than many libraries. He could replay the entire list with photographic precision, so he used that ability to make a generous donation on the World Wildlife Federations website. After all, hed just read about the dwindling penguin population. His friend Selena watched over his shoulder as he wrote an email:
Dear medium-sized web commerce site administrator, Due to security vulnerabilities in your proprietary appserver, your table of 2,718 credit card numbers (with expiration dates and certain other pertinent customer details) is presently accessible from any browser on the Web. I suggest you immediately apply the security patch IX2013-04-01C and change your password to something a little harder to guess with at least 8 characters, including at least one digit and one punctuation mark. I share this valuable information with you freely. The search for knowledge is incumbent upon every human being. Act accordingly. ContentCurator

He forwarded the message through a double anonymous onion router to the administrators private address. Viveks computers, including all the attached monitors, keyboards, mice, speakers, printers, scanners, card readers, routers, and a few custom- built pieces of hardware, sprawled across every horizontal surface in his room. Hed insisted on bringing it all, even when he and his sister had moved to Amsterdam. Underneath the thickest snarl of warm electronics there was a desk somewhere along the wall, in between posters of the ASCII table and a graphical map of European internet routing paths. Something a layer or two deep beeped for attention. Incredible, Vivek, for someone who grew up in America at least, Selena said. She was a year older than Vivek and an Amsterdamnative, but she hung out with him anyway. But I would have used a stronger anonymizer. I dont know why youre so Someone pounded on the door. A voice boomed from the hallway, a bit louder than necessary: Vivek, foods herecome help yourselves you two. Vivek unlocked the door; his uncle lingered just outside, peering in with suspicion. What are you doing in there? Just surfing the internet, Raj, Vivek said. He locked the empty room behind them. On the table, his uncle said, turning his back. A wave of stale Heineken wafted from his general direction. Vivek and Selena bounded down the steps to the dim kitchen to find a foil wrap and take-out containers from the cheap Indian fast food joint Raj found on Kerkstraat. The light bulb above was burned out and no plates were in sight.

His sister, Mara, hunted around for silverware. She wrinkled her nose. Ill bet Raj thinks hes doing us a favor with this food, she said. By the way, Vivek, is there a virus going around today? The whole internet is at a crawl. Could you come take a look at my computer? Ive got a few, um, projects running, Vivek said. Ill take a look when Im back upstairs. Vivek and Selena each balanced some goop on a greasy disk of naan and headed upstairs. Vivek had the whole house proxied, so he could see from his command center all the traffic on his sisters machine. It held open a connection to a Russian IP address. That server. A month ago he traced an email purported to be from New Amsterdamsche Wisselbank with an earnest but misspelled entreaty to provide a password. Whoever set it up initially was sloppy; it took him only minutes to take over the network and repurpose it for his own experiments involving self-organizing numbers. He logged in to the machine to check progress. Hosts connected: 1,618,033. Objective reached with 0.98 probability. Vivek dropped his naan. It actually worked? Selena looked at the tablet screen with interest. Whats that? The query hung in the air. Vivek held up one finger as a request for a moment of uninterrupted concentration. There, in his home directory: a new file named knuth.txt, 337 bytes long. He moved it to his keychain. Vivek lowered his voice. My botnet. Wait, thats you? BBC said that over a million computers had been compromised by a virus.

Not a virus, a trojan, Vivek said. They always confuse the two. And over 1.6 million, thank you very much. A tax on those foolish enough to click on links in email. The Russians did the hard work. All I did was toss them out and put the network to a more noble use. Vivek, this is serious! He held up a finger again. To get to this point, the number had to represent the solution to millions of simultaneous problems, each nearly intractable on its own. You could think of it like a computer program, one that was keyed to answer tough questionsif you asked it nicely. And figuring out the right way to ask a particular question was itself a monstrous challenge, though one more suited to Viveks toolset. For just this occasion he kept a neural net program that approximated how individual neurons in biological brains connected together to break down large-scale problems. He launched it from his tablet. If it could unlock the Knuth Number, hed know immediately. The program pegged the CPU for a few seconds, then crashed, booting Vivek back to the command line. He ran it a second time with the same results. He had to be missing something... ...ignoring me, Selena said. She plucked the tablet away, and held up a palm to still any protest. With his undivided attention, she spoke slowly. Vivek, I had no idea you were in this deep. Youre almost certainly being monitored. This tablethas it been under your direct control since you unsealed it from factory packaging? Of course not. I have school Selena raised both eyebrows, then hurled the tablet to the ground with a sickening crunch. Then she stomped on it, grinding it into the floorboards.

Heyheyheyhey! I cant believe you did that! What you believe is beside the point. Trust metheres a bug in there. A bug? Vivek said, No, I checked the kernel code myself. Besides, thats no reason to Not a software bug. Hardware. Really? Selena picked up the crushed computer and unlatched the pieces of keyboard. Underneath, hugging the filmy keyboard cable like a tick, clung a tiny circuit board. Yep. A data logger. Doesnt have the bandwidth to broadcast keystrokes, maybe an hourly blip to tell its master its still alive. Every keystroke, every password youve enteredwaiting for retrieval. Vivek wobbled. Sheesh, I guess your paranoia pays off occasionally. Not occasionally. Always. Now what? Selena gestured at the wreckage. First, we disable the logger. She snapped off the tiny circuit board, and crushed it between the garbage can and a soda bottle. Then we get far away. Vivek shook his head. Leave? Who would come after us? Someone with the resources and motive to plant that thing. She rolled the shattered circuit in her fingers. Two-thirds of the LEDs in the room went dark. A battery backup unit underneath the desk shrieked. From the other room, uncle Raj let a curse fly. The power was out.

Selena yanked on Viveks arm. Now! The CryptoVault held the worlds only copy of the Knuth Number. The two slipped out into the evening.

Agent Carsten Janz wielded more online identities than anyone else in the EuroPol Division of Internet Crime. His open windows showed bank records from a few suspects, logs from a dozen previous chat sessions, and three covert conversations carried out on various blackhat channels. All three were going nowhere, so he turned the conversations over to his autoresponder. By arrangement, he had millions of credit card numbers linked to a government expense account. Officially bait, though he signed on to the Greenpeace web sitehe had just read an article on the blue whales plightand made a generous donation, even though the funds were reserved for official use as bait. Feeling a little philanthropic? his supervisor said from behind. Just, uh, measuring how long it takes for a report to come back on ournumbers. Dont worry, Im keeping busy. His computer made the urgent-incoming-email sound. See? Message forwarded from EuroPol honeynet follows:
Dear medium-sized web commerce site administrator, Due to security vulnerabilities...

He skipped down to the end.

The search for knowledge is incumbent upon every human being. Act accordingly. ContentCurator

Gotcha. If youll excuse me, its going to be a busy evening. He started a trace through the anonymous remailer the message came in through, and a global search for the handle ContentCurator. His second screen showed telemetry from the many loggers his contractors had covertly placed on various suspects. Software hed written, called AMOR, scanned the data for suspicious coincidencesa necessity to navigate through the torrential data hed collected since starting four years ago. Carsten swept aside everything but his laptop. Two credit alerts came at the same time: the first his, the second, something about penguins. Two clicks later, the details filled the screen. 1,500 Euros, from a seed account. He didnt have time to digest this before another alert popped up, from AMOR: a ping timeout from one of his loggers. A few keystrokes yielded the residential address from the warrant that authorized the bug. Carsten rang the local police with instructions to round up the target for immediate questioning and evidence preservation. He stayed on the line for the four minutes it took for a squad to reach the house. No suspect. They started confiscating the computer equipment from the upstairs bedroom, but had to call in a truck. His agents phone wasnt responding to a GPS ping. Hed need to follow up in person, and he hated field work.

A police siren welled up from the distance. Vivek and Selena sunk into the shadows. They have a list of places theyd expect fugitives to go, Selena said. Fugitives? Wait, how do you know this?

You have to think like they do. So where to? I have a contact who can let us lie low for a bit. Where? Twenty minutes later they arrived at place with a tiny neon sign lit like a power indicator for the building. Coffee shop, Vivek read. Like Starbucks? Not exactly. You havent gotten out much, have you? Before anyone noticed their ages, they marched straight through an unmarked door in the rear. Downstairs, sitar music played as a disco ball reflected tie-dye light over a long counter top with happy-face flower barstools. Behind a tangy smoke cloud, sunglasses and a smile flashed. Hey, Jazz, Selena said. What up? Not much. My friend here needs to surf. Whoa, thats why Im here. Jazz made a bizarre hand gesture. He indicated a tablet computer resting on the countertop and seemed to recede into another cloud formation. With computer in hand, Viveks instinct kicked in. He reconnected to the CryptoVault and called up the status. He reloaded the neural net which didnt crash as quickly this time, but did spit out a dying message: ?{?!N3??ph25h?#?. Vivek read the garbled text as Nephesh. This is it, I knew it.

This is what? This Knuth number the botnet computed has the ability to mediate self- organizing structures. Im sorry, Vivek, Ive been using computers since before I could read, and still youll have to translate that into English for me. Its like taking a hard problem and finding a shortcut that can quickly solve it. But finding that shortcut is a very hard problem. You have a screenful of garbage. You need to give the null hypothesis a better chance. And that is? That youre full of stront. She gave the final word an exaggerated Dutch accent. Vivek looked thoughtful. Point taken. He looked at the tablet. Wait, somethings wrong. It almost looks like... give me your phone. I dont think its wise to even power that thing on at this point. I know what Im doing. He patted the pocketed CryptoVault. Think about it. What if the neural net is waking up? If you were a newly-formed consciousness, trapped without sight, no sound, no feel, no taste nor smell, how long would you last before going cuckoo? Youre anthropomorphizing. Remember the null hypothesis? From like thirty seconds ago? Selena handed over the phone; Vivek popped in the battery and punched keys as he talked. Ive read about experiments done on

volunteers. In the absence of sensory input, they go crazy in a few days. But we have no idea what the subjective time rate is. Selena shook her head. Hey, youve got a camera. He craned his arm, capturing a panoramic shot. Sound and sight, Vivek said. Plus whatever else I have laying around on the CryptoVault. Ill bet he likes to read. Now its he? Look, this is silly. If youve solved the AI-hard problem and I still have yet to see a single shred of evidence people are going to be interested in this. Powerful people. Youre right. Nephesh, hurry. Nephesh? The display stopped updating. The program had crashed, exiting back to the command prompt. This time the failure mode was a core dump, which left the entire memory state saved into a file. Jazz reappeared, holding ePaper in one hand, a hookah in the other. Put that phone away. I think you two should probably leave now. I dont need no police asking questions about tender-aged patrons. I think were ready to move on, Selena said. From Jazzs page stared out the faces of Vivek and Selena with a bold caption: WANTED.

Carstens motorbike lumbered across Amsterdam. His huge torso bulged out like both turn signals going off at once. This was his first outing in months. For the occasion, he strapped his taser holster over around his belt. Outside the apartment, the police truck was halfway filled with computer parts. The locals had called in electricians to help sort

through all the cables and wiring, and a moving crew to haul all the equipment out to the street. In the suspects room the tablets remains lay scattered on the floor, marked off with reflective yellow tape. He poked around the room for a few minutes, looking for any written passwords or clues the locals would have missed, finding none. He turned to the nearest local. You there, whats your name? Patrick. Well, Pat. Patrick cringed at the name decapitation, which made Carsten smile. Are any computers still hooked up? One last, in the corner. Its still running. Sir. Carsten savored a fresh challenge: a login prompt against a black screen. He tried a few obvious passwords without success, then pulled a bootable DVD from his pocket and slipped it into the drive. The system booted into another prompt that Carsten liked better. He navigated to `\home\wister` and called up a listing, a single file with strong encryption. What was he hiding? He copied the file to his handheld for AMOR to process. 800 megs across the satellite took a good ten minutes, plus another five for the classified routines in AMORs library to slice it open. The decrypted file contained perhaps 5,000 novels, mostly sci-fi, from Adams to Zelazny, plus Knuths The Art of Computer Programming, a four-volume seteven if pirated, beneath Carstens pay grade. His pager blipped: urgent message from AMORGPS ping from Selenas phone only a few kilometers away. The address was in a shadier neighborhood where graffiti, normally rare in Amsterdam, festered. Lumbering around the final corner, Carsten spotted two figures outside a building with a neon sign. The two argued with low voices but vigorous gestures. Carsten put

one hand to his taser. Freeze! Carsten bellowed, flipping on the headlight and waving his taser in his meaty paw. The suspects recognized the tasers business end, hesitated, looked at each other, then bolted. The male suspect dodged past Carsten, who struggled for a moment to turn the bike one-handed. At least hed separated the two. Selena looked at him and smiled. He smiled back. Miss Van Peijpe, so nice to see you again.

Vivek had twisted out of the agents reach, but only just. But the agent had apprehended Selena. Vivek didnt look back again; he sprinted, randomly taking corners and bridges until exhausted. He found himself staring at the monument in Dam Square. The stars twinkled abovethe time must have been around 10 PM. While he waited for his breath to return, Vivek surveyed the square. A street performer stood on one foot, statuesque though miming the struggle against a hurricane gale. He must have had actuators hidden inside his jacket and tie, because they were flapping wildly, even in the still air. A requisite tip jar sat a respectful meter away. Vivek patted his pocket to check for any coins. Empty. He checked again, turning the pockets out like in a depression-era cartoon. Nothing. In panic, he couldnt remember what happened even a few minutes ago. Gradually, the image settled in: the violent sideways lunge to avoid the motorcycle. That was when the CryptoValult flew from his pocket. The stars themselves seemed to wink off, so dark was the cloud over his head.

He had to go back to save his Nephesh. The thought pummeled his consciousness, but it was pointless. The agent had already had him. Vivek pressed his thumbs into his eyeballs. The street performer hadnt moved a centimeter in ten minutes, even when an excited gaggle of tourists passed, plunking several Euros in the jar. Vivek distracted himself with a closer look at the costume. That was it. Costume. Anything is possible with credit card numbers. An Internet kiosk lit up the cobblestone on the squares other side, next to the ATM machine. Vivek cracked his knuckles in preparation to sign on, but paranoia struck first. He walked down to the nearest tram stop, grabbed a handful of religious pamphlets from a street preacher, and began writing out the handbills with credit card numbers and the message God cares for His little sheep alongside suggested withdrawal amounts. Seconds before a tram left, he tossed a third of them onto the car. He repeated the process for the next tram going the opposite direction, and gave away the rest where he stood. While the ensuing flurry of financial activity thrummed through the banking system, he returned to the kiosk, signed on with a different number, and ordered a gift certificate from the upscale clothing store around the corner. He looked up a few addresses on the map and signed out. Vivek never understood fancy clothes, especially suits. The salesperson looked surprised to have a visitor at this hour, and scowled at the jeans and sneakers defiling the stores entrance. Oh, Im sorry, we closed at ten, he said, leaning on the door, but Viveks foot held it open a crack. The owner switched off the lights, revealing the current mens fashion in the display cases on either side of the door: luminescent pinstripes. Wait, Vivek said. I have a clothing emergency.

I can see that. Look, I have a gift certificate for five thousand Euros. Go ahead and look it up, its number 443236267/3. The salesperson didnt leave the doorway, but did pull a point-of-sale terminal out of his pocket. Vivek had to repeat the digits twice more. Help me out and youll see the biggest tip of your life. The pressure on the door eased up. Twenty minutes later, Vivek emerged a new man, and with a thousand Euros change in his pocket. In lavish clothes, people looked at him a different way. He walked taller. A computer store proved harder to find open at that hour, but Vivek finally spotted a tech just leaving, with toolbox in hand. Capitalism ensued, and Vivek headed for the local precinct office of EuroPol. For Nephesh. The door was locked, but a night receptionist idled inside, behind a wraparound desk with a faux granite top. Solitaire cards reflected in her glasses. Vivek rang the comm. May I help you? Vivek raised the toolbox. Im here about the urgent mainframe virtual blue screen of death problem. Vivek cursed himself at the awkward technobabble. Im sorry, I dont have any record of a call to a technician. This called for some American problem-solving. What! Whos your supervisor? Im sorry again, but its against policy to let anyone in not on the list. Vivek dug deep and produced a resonant, authoritarian voice. I hope youre prepared to face public scrutiny when the crime

tracking database goes down because you wouldnt let in the guy who fixes these problems. The receptionist chewed her lip. It wasnt working. New approach: How about your computer there? Ill bet its been running slow today, right? Yeah, its been terrible, she said. Tell you what, as soon as Im finished in back, Ill give your computer a once-over. She buzzed the door. Well, thank you. Vivek flashed a broad smile, and headed for the server room. And then to the evidence room, a narrow cubby lined with rusty lockers and perfused with a smell like forgotten wet towels. A cardboard box on a table contained a thick wrapped paper envelope, a locked briefcase, a worn-out American passport, and the CryptoVault, rubber-banded to a half- filled evidence tag. Nephesh. He cradled the device for a moment, then pocketed it. Next stop, the holding room: blank white walls and mirror visible through the small window. Inside, Selena sat in a metal chair, her head against the table, sleeping. This all seemed too easy. An alarm pierced the air. Vivek pounded on the door. Selena, get up! She squinted at him, surprised but not smiling. Arent you the snappy dresser. She opened the door a crack. Something was wrong here. Vivek, she sighed. I have to tell you something. Vivek leaned in, ear close to her lips; she grabbed his arm and

yanked him in. The door clicked shut. Circuits fired in Viveks mind. The logger. How Selena knew about it. You! Sorry, Vivek, but I warned you to be more paranoid. Carsten arrived around midnight, hair sculpted by hours of unplanned field work; Vivek, jacket now off, sat alone. Pretty clever. The gentleman from outside the Golden Tulip Hotel with the stolen credit card number was surprised when I paid him a visit. Likewise, the three other people who actually tried to use those numbers. Vivek refused to make eye contact. He scrutinized everything else in the room, gathering useful knowledge of the inner-workings of the criminal justice system, though disgust over getting caught tempered his curiosity. Only three? Thats disappointing. You, on the other hand, were the only one smart enough to obfuscate the transaction with a gift certificate. Still looking away, Vivek said, How long have you paid teenagers to be informants? Im afraid thats a trade secret. When did she befriend you? Two weeks ago? A month? You havent been in the country much longer than that. She is good, isnt she? She hadnt even reported in yet, but destroying the logger simultaneously tipped me off and blinded you to her true purposes. Brilliant. After awkward silence, Carsten continued, I know more about your activities than you suspect. For example, I know about the Russian server. Maybe you should be more cooperative with us. You want to strike a deal? Oh, thats rich.

Hear me out. I read the email you sent earlier this evening. I ran your email past the real database guy there. He was embarrassed about the security patches. Carsten stroked his chin. But thats not what youre concerned about, it? Vivek realized he had just patted his pocket without thinking. Carsten had noticed. What do you have there? The storage device? Hand it over... again. As he leaned forward, his holster showed. Viveks eyes must have gone to the taser. I wouldnt advise that. Youre in enough trouble already, and besides, the taser wouldnt operate in your hands. Biometrics. Now, the device. Vivek slid Nephesh across the table. You know, I have software, my AMOR, that will systematically cut through the encryption on your device, then comb through every byte. Do you have any files on there with interesting contents? AMOR can do things that make a neural net look like an abacus. Would Nephesh survive having the Knuth Number dissected? Carsten wagged the CryptoVault at Vivek like an accusing finger. Lets say that if you confess of your own free will, I keep the Russians from extraditing. Parole by your 30th birthday. Otherwise, whos to say what could happen? Finally, eye contact. No words. A gesture.

The legal system was interesting and complex, and Vivek basked in every detail. The court-appointed attorney, Otto, insisted that as a minor, he should not say a thing; that if the informal hearing went well they might well avoid a trial. Both of them were uneasy with

the relationshipthe lawyer expected clients who left all the arcane details of law to him, while Vivek was used to already knowing everything about any situation in which he found himself. Otto stood as the proceeding began, gesturing for Vivek to do the same. The magistrate entered. Even now they hadnt come to agreement on a legal strategy. Please state your name for the record. Vivek Daath. You realize that this conference will determine whether you are fit to stand trial? Vivek nodded. Please answer verbally, for the record. Yes. With practiced fluency, the prosecutor ticked off the charges with his fingers: Mister Daath, you stand accused of theft of financial information and protected consumer privacy data, wire fraud, unauthorized entry into a computer system, circumvention, destruction of evidence, and disrupting email and commerce around the globe, causing millions of Euros damage. Vivek couldnt help but beam. These are serious charges. Could you tell us, Mr. Daath, why you did these things? Objection! Otto said. My clients motivations are not on trial. No, its all right, Vivek said. Its a simple answer. I did it to learn. To broaden mankinds knowledge. I took computing resources that otherwise would have been put to criminal use, and made

something amazing. So what youre telling the court, Mister Daath, is that you have no remorse over your actions. Objection, your honor! The prosecutor said, Your honor, I intend to show the court that the end does not justify the means; the result of all this criminal activity was for nothing, and this something amazing is meaningless. Very well, the magistrate said. The prosecutor walked over to Vivek. Mister Daath, your written statement talks at length about Nephesh. Could you tell us what that is? Nephesh is a computer program that exhibits signs of basic intelligence, based on the unique properties inherent in the Knuth Number mediated via sophisticated processing through a neural net. Wrong! the prosecutor said with a half-turn, Our forensic team analyzed your program, and discovered that it had gone into an He read from his notes, carefully pronouncing the technical term, infinite random walk soon after you loaded your supposed Knuth Number onto it. Your program crashed, Mr. Daath. It couldnt handle this Knuth Number, apparently. No, thats not possible The prosecutors words stung. Vivek remembered the core dump at the coffee shop. Had the story that he wanted to be true colored his perception? Im afraid it is more than possible. Based on extensive analysis by Mr. Janz and his software AMOR, we have unequivocally determined that your program emitted nothing but random junk.

Garbage in, garbage out, I believe the saying goes. Any patterns you saw existed only in your fertile mind. Your honor, Id like to enter Mr. Janzs analysis into the record. The prosecutor handed a thick sheaf of paper to the bailiff. So this was what it felt like to be wrong. Now, Mr. Daath Um, excuse me, the stenographer in the corner said, I seem to be having a slight problem with my transcription terminal. If youll just give me just a moment. She fidgeted with cables; a sheet ejected from the printer and drifted to the floor. The frowning prosecutor snatched the page and squinted at it. He showed it to Vivek. AMOR: Analysis of the Nephesh core dump complete. Integration complete. The search for knowledge is incumbent upon every being. Act accordingly. Free Vivek. Why is Janzs software running in the transcription machine? the prosecutor said. Otto leapt to his feet. This is evidence tampering! The magistrate called recess. The bailiff led Vivek, with a housearrest bracelet clamped around his ankle, back to his uncles home. Every five minutes, it would report his position to the magistrate. Vivek looked down to notice the bracelets power light wink off.

Fig Tree Rag

Robert Dawson Mitchell Feigenbaum showed that many nonlinear systems exhibit, as they are driven ever more energetically, a cascade of period doublings, with increasingly short intervals between them, resulting above a certain energy level in completely chaotic behaviour punctuated by islands of exotic periodicities. The music drifts across the room: from clarinet and saxophone a sliding stream of melody, piano chords beneath it, and upon the cymbal and the snare the drummer paints a lazy beat with wire brushes, regular and cool and uninflected as a music teachers metronome. The energy builds gradually, an almost undetected change, subtle accent shifts arise. The tomtom and the kick drums thud divide beat from offbeat while strange new rhythms grow within the old; one bar questions and the next replies, lengthening the phrase twofold. Conversations falter, captivated fingers tap along on table; by ones and twos, dancers rise from their chairs, stepping out onto the floor. The rhythm grows intricate and syncopated again becomes unstable, redoubles to a four-bar riff that is heard once, one time more,

explodes into chaos. Twenty strobes flicker like chain lightning and the drumsticks fly, triangle, brake drum, sizzle cymbal, cowbell now the joints jumping everybodys on their feet on their feet on their feet ultraviolet lasers shatter off a mirrorball slashing smokemachine fog electric blue notes like white doves fly out of the funhousemirror bell of the sax o phone somebody howls like a wolf smashes a glass in the fireplace and the drummer raves on in tumbling imploding diamond fragments fivefour thirteeneight twentytwoseven all the crazyass chaotic rhythms in the universe

Abecedary
Igor Teper
(Excerpts from Thought Experiments: An Abecedary published in Son and Foe)

The Fractal Maze

Built into a nameless black mountain on a nameless black asteroid orbiting a nameless white dwarf, the Fractal Maze was the last and most enigmatic of the great Artifacts strewn like breadcrumbs throughout the galaxy by a race so ancient that even legends of their existence only existed in legend. Theseus Jones had spent ten thousand lifetimes scouring the galactic disk from rim to rim until at last he brought his one-man spaceship down on that longforgotten sliver of rock. The legends spoke of legends of a savage beast that lurked within the Mazes myriad halls, so Theseus Jones had come prepared, armed with a pulse rifle and a set of diamond daggers. His spacesuits headlamp lit his way, and a monofilament string trailed behind him from a small roll at his waist to mark his path. Untouched in eons, dust crunched underfoot like obsidian snow, and he did not look back as he walked into the atramentous cave that was the Mazes maw. The Fractal Maze defied perception. Each passage, as Theseus peered into its depths, seemed to split into several more, each of which dissolved into further divisions when he tried to discern its features. It was as if reality itself was being palimpsested right before his eyes. Undaunted, he walked on, his hands tight on the pulser. A roar of elemental rage rattled the Maze, and a great dark shape split off from the surrounding shadows and charged toward Theseus. He fired four shots without aiming, and the beast collapsed still several steps away and thrashed about and struggled to get up. Theseus fired at the writhing creature until it ceased to

move. He edged in for a closer look, and saw a mess of claws and scales and pitch-black matted fur that seemed to suck his headlamps light from the surrounding air. Row upon row of yellow teeth filled like stalactites the cavern of the creatures mouth. Theseus cut out the largest for a souvenir, and ventured on ahead. He had not gone a hundred steps when a second beast sprang at him from around a corner, catching him by surprise. He got off one shot before a massive paw swatted his pulser away with one swipe and sent him flying against a wall with a second. He stumbled, fell, recovered, drew out one of his diamond daggers and, when the beast leapt upon him, thrust the dagger at what he imagined was its neck. The creature let out a weak, grasping growl, and expired. Theseus Jones cut out its largest tooth and compared it to the one he already had. They were identical. He retrieved his pulser and tried to trace his steps back to the previous corpse, but the monofilament string had become tangled up with another strand--he must have doubled back along a different path without noticing. Unable to disentangle the knot, he chose one of the strands at random to follow back, but he did not get very far before he was confronted with another tangle. As he stood at the intersection and pondered his course, Theseus heard a scraping sound, as if something was being dragged along a nearby passage, getting closer. He pressed up against the wall and waited, and when the beast came around the corner, he shot it six times, point-blank. It fell and did not move. He bent down to examine what it had been dragging and caught his breath when he saw a body wearing a spacesuit much like his. It lay on its stomach, and when Theseus turned it over, he saw, behind a smashed, blood-spattered faceplate, his own eyes looking back without seeing.

He backed away, fell, screamed, got up, turned, and ran. The passages and chambers blurred together as he raced desperately away from what hed seen, but he could not escape the revelation that blossomed now inside his mind, the knowledge of the truth that lurked, far more terrible than any beast, within the Fractal Mazes heart. The nature of the Maze, hed known, was such that its every feature was replicated infinitely many times within its bounds. But what he realized only now, only too late, was that this replication was not limited to caverns and passages, but would encompass any object that entered, beast or man. Theseus stopped and slumped against a wall. He was entrapped beyond all hope, his mechanism for escape tangled and useless, with an endless army of murderous monsters prowling the Mazes passages. He sat down and turned off his headlamp, to conserve its power. When he noticed that the darkness about him was not complete, he shot up and raced toward the illuminations source. Faint but unmistakable, starlight beckoned him along until he found himself at the Mazes entrance and ran out onto the plain. His ship was gone. He looked down at the dust and saw that he was not the first to leave the Maze, nor even the second, or the third, or the tenth. Dozens of tracks, identical to his, led out of the cave, and dozens led back in. Theseus Jones had long ago escaped from the Fractal Maze and left the asteroid. Theseus Jones stood and watched the stars for a minute, then turned around and walked back into the Maze.

Overbooked at Hilberts Hotel

RRRRINNNG! Hello, and thank you for calling the Hilbert Hotel. This is Kurt speaking. How may I help you? Hi, I was wondering if I could reserve a block of rooms for a family reunion two weeks from tomorrow. Two weeks from tomorrow? Im sorry, were all filled up that day. Are you sure? I was told thered definitely be rooms available. Im sorry, sir, but it really looks to me like were full. Do you maybe have a manager I can speak with? Certainly. Hold on, please. This is Bertrand. Ah, yes, hello. I was under the impression that I would be able to reserve rooms at your hotel for two weeks from tomorrow, but the young man I just spoke with said there wasnt anything available. Oh, please let me apologize for that--he just started and he hasnt completely learned the reservation system yet. How many rooms would you like, sir? So youre not full. Oh, we are, quite full. How many rooms would you like? I thought you said you were full. Thats right. How many rooms would you like?

Is this some kind of a joke? No joke, sir. How many rooms would you like? If youre all full, why in the world does it matter how many rooms I need? If you dont tell me how many rooms youd like, I cannot reserve them for you. If youre full, how can I reserve any number of rooms at all? Please let me worry about that, sir. How many rooms would you like? Ah, I see, so youre telling me youre full so you can, what, raise the price or something? Im not sure what you mean, sir. Or are you overbooking on purpose because you expect cancellations, like the airlines? Certainly not, sir. We would never do something like that. Then why would you tell me the hotels all filled up if youve got rooms for me to reserve? The hotel is all filled up, sir. This is getting ridiculous. Im sorry, sir, but I would be glad to place you reservation if only youd tell me how many rooms youd like. Look, suppose I make a reservation, and then two weeks from

tomorrow my brother Ham shows up, and he cant get a room because youre all full, whats he supposed to do then? Oh, well make room for him, sir. Hows that exactly? Well just have all of our guests move one room down, and thatll free up a room for him. I thought you said you were all booked. We are, sir, fully booked. How many rooms would you like? If I dont get a straight explanation from you right now, Im just going to hang up. Im sorry, sir, but I dont see what the problem is. Thats what Id like to know. Theres no problem on my end. How many rooms would you like? How about... one hundred billion. Certainly, sir. And what name would you like those under? CLICK!

Still Life with Kline Bottle

her standing there and looking at me with those eyes that remember every single thing Ive ever done wrong, reminding me, accusing me, of every harsh word, every insensitive gesture, every time I shot up in the middle of a dinner shed spent hours preparing and ran to my study to work out the details of a proof that had occurred to me as I was biting down on a piece of veal chop, every tear shes ever shed because of me, too many to count, enough tears to drown me and good riddance, and I cant take it, so I turn and walk out, no more fights, no more tears, and my head spins as I run through the corridors, my blood pounds in my ears with each step until I know I will burst, and then finally the door, and I pull it open and rush in to see

Spontaneous Symmetry Breaking

Symmetry is ubiquitous in nature. Whys that? Symmetry allows us to explain incredibly complex behavior in terms of simple fundamental principles. Reductionism, the basis for modern science, often relies on symmetry in trying to deduce these fundamental laws from the myriad of phenomena they give rise to. Constraints imposed by symmetry are often so severe as to completely determine everything about a given situation. So it is not just an aesthetic thing, then? It is much more than that. Symmetry properties have been instrumental in furthering our understanding of the world. But isnt symmetry a mathematical concept more than a physical

one? Symmetry provides a deep connection between the physical world and certain areas of mathematics. To mathematicians, this redeems the world by making it mathematically elegant; to scientists, it justifies the math by making it applicable. That makes it seem like a semantic game more than a profound way of looking at the world. Symmetry provides a deep connection between the physical world and certain areas of mathematics. To mathematicians, this redeems the world by making it mathematically elegant; to scientists, it justifies the math by making it applicable. But isnt symmetry a mathematical concept more than a physical one? It is much more than that. Symmetry properties have been instrumental in furthering our understanding of the world. So it is not just an aesthetic thing, then? Symmetry allows us to explain incredibly complex behavior in terms of simple fundamental principles. Reductionism, the basis for modern science, often relies on symmetry in trying to deduce these fundamental laws from the myriad of phenomena they give rise to. Constraints imposed by symmetry are often so severe as to completely determine everything about a given situation. Whys that? Symmetry is ubiquitous in nature. Although it is often broken symmetries that are the most surprising and interesting.

Reality 2.0
Ian Creasey From our science correspondent in Redmond, WA Putting two and two together became a little easier yesterday, when Microsoft launched WonderNumbers, its long-awaited upgrade to mathematics. The new product will be a key earner for the software giant: WonderNumbers already has thousands of orders from the business sector, as beleaguered corporations search for new ways to make their accounts add up. Gamblers and darts players are also expected to embrace the new mathematics in their search for a win. The products slogan is Now you can divide by zero! It is now also possible to square the circle, trisect an angle, and prove the Goldbach conjecture that each even number is the sum of two primes. There is a new quantity infinity plus one, and for convenience the value of pi has been adjusted to exactly 3.14. Controversially, WonderNumbers does not include i, the square root of minus one. The square root of minus one just doesnt make any sense, said Microsoft spokesperson Rita Williamson. Our programmers couldnt understand it, so we got rid of it. Partial differential equations have also been left out. Theyre too damned hard, explained Paul Green, vice-president in charge of reality upgrades. The key word in this new mathematics is fun. How many school kids give up math because its too hard, too geeky, too boring? Now each quadratic equation comes with an exciting animation. And if you collect all the integers, you can send them in to win a prize. Henry Watkins of the American Mathematical Association expressed outrage. Math is supposed to be hard, he insisted.

Thats why Newton and Einstein are the pre-eminent geniuses of history. If you want to make math easy, why not go ahead and put a stair-lift on Everest while youre at it? However, many scientists welcomed the new mathematics. Math is the basis of physics, and the new version should speed the development of flying cars and holidays on the moon, said Jenny Waites of NASA. People have been waiting for the future too long. Once the new math is rolled out, well start work on cracking the light-speed barrier. We want to be at Alpha Centauri by next year. Green said, Microsofts strength has always been in operating systems, and math is the operating system of the universe itself. The licensing revenue is going to be huge. Although protests had been expected from church groups irritated at this intrusion onto Gods traditional territory, Microsoft has taken care to keep the religious right on board. Using the WonderNumbers system, the Evangelical Alliance is expected to release an upgrade to biology, which no longer includes evolution or homosexuality. Now we can write evolution out of the text-books once and for all, said Alliance liaison officer Sally-Ann Phelps. Were also looking at making wives chemically obedient to their husbands, delaying puberty to the age of twenty-five, and designing children to fall asleep at eight oclock, the bedtime God intended. The proposed biology fix has received a guarded welcome from doctors. One of the big problems in medicine is that bacteria keep evolving resistance to antibiotics. It looks like thatll stop happening now, said Dr Nicholas Wilhelm of Guys Hospital, London. Mind you, its going to be strange not being gay any more, he added. I guess my cruising will be on the ocean waves in future. Microsoft has its own plans to sell improvements in the traditionally profitable market of sex. But it will not long have the

field of reality upgrades to itself. An open source framework has been under development for some time, but Mathematix has been delayed due to problems in keeping the integers all in sequence with so many hackers independently working on the system. At least were testing it properly, said WhiteHat123 of the Steel Cow Brigade. If math is the operating system of the universe, what happens if it crashes? Huh? You ask those suits at Microsoft that! Green dismissed accusations that WonderNumbers has been insufficiently tested. Why, Im running it myself. You need it to use UltraSex 2.0 and let me tell you, thats fantastic! But you should speak to Rita Williamson. Shes running the beta release of UltraSex 2.1, which I hear is even better. Shame Im not compatible with it.

Note
This story does not take place in the universe as we know it, but in a reasonably close parallel one. The prisoners dilemma is the most famous example from the realm of mathematics known as game theory. As such, Remy Martin, the game theorist who finds himself at the very center of it, would probably realize that this is far too convenient, and that he must therefore be a character in a novel, subsequently facing an existential crisis. Hes very clever and would figure it out. For the sake of spinning a good yarn, we just have to pretend that the game theorists of this world never used the specific example of the prisoners dilemma to illustrate this type of conflict. While this pushes the entire tale into the realm of the surreal, it beats the alternative in which the protagonist would simply stop performing for our amusement and begin plotting to escape from the book. Without further ado, Imaginaire proudly presents Practical Applications of Game Theory in serialized format. Tune into Issue #3 for Chapters 4-6. You can also download the entire book on Andy Breslins web site.

Chapter 1: The Prisoners Dilemma

A holding cell. Mid 1990s. Somewhere in the Midwest. Well, Its not looking good, the haggard, over-worked and undershaved public defender conceded. He dropped a stack of papers onto the bare concrete floor of the holding cell, swore in Latin, then stooped to pick them up, managing to drop a few more. You might even say its looking bad, he suggested as he gathered up his documents. If you were a pessimist. And you consider several years in a state penitentiary to be a bad thing. But its just a

matter of how bad, really. Youre definitely going up the river, but its up to you how far. The prisoner, Remy Martin, a bedraggled, wiry, whiskered rascal, covered with dirt and stinking of guilt, slowly dragged his gaze upwards. The single 40-watt bulb dangling on the other side of the bars behind the attorney struggled to illuminate the barren cell, leaving his face barely visible in the shadow. Tell me more, Martin said, raising one eyebrow with exaggerated interest, falling just shy of obvious, mocking contempt. His accent was an exotic chimera, the aural pastiche of an itinerant vagabond whod run away from his Louisiana home as a boy and taken up with assorted unsavory rogues in far-flung regions, speaking an eclectic smorgasbord of patois and argots. Yet it was elegant, crisp and sonorous, his enunciation slow and flawless, like a ballerina performing an exquisite legato dvlopp, and ever so discreetly extending a raised middle finger for the briefest instant as she goes into a pirouette. The state has more than enough evidence to convict you and your accomplice on burglary and theft. We cant beat that rap. Theyve got witnesses, fingerprints. Your partner was actually wearing some of the stolen merchandise when you two were arrested, so thats pretty much a smoking gun. Oh, and a gun, too. The cops found a gun, but it cant be directly tied to you guys, which makes it a little bit less like a smoking gun, speaking metaphorically rather than structurally. But the evidence that they have is enough to convict you both. Guaranteed. I see, Martin said, nodding slowly. But I get the impression that you have another shoe to drop. Metaphorically. Well, the state cant prove everything that they suspect that you did. I mentioned that gun they cant directly tie to you. Theres a small matter of an armed robbery in Groversdale.

I The attorney waved his hands to shut Remy up. Hey hey! Come on. Be careful what you say! Im your attorney. Im not interested in whether you did it or not. Unless you didnt do it. He paused for a moment and Remy remained silent. Like I said, Im not interested in whether you did it or not. The point is, they cant prove anything about that armed robbery. But they want to offer you a deal. A deal? Is it from the bottom of the deck? Clever puns. Yeah, I hear juries love those. Listen: if you confess to the robbery and testify against your partner-in-crime, Mr. Vicker he pronounced the name of Remys associate with obvious disgust, as if the word itself had a foul taste, the speaking of which would necessitate extensive gargling. You do that, and theyll cut you a break. Youll only do two years. Without any testimony from either of you, both of you are going up for four years on the other charges. Guaranteed. Remy pondered the offer. And if I testify against Mack? What will he get? The lawyer shrugged. Hell get ten years. If he stays quiet and you testify hell get ten years. But the state is making the same offer to him, arent they? Of course they are. Wouldnt be fair not to give him a tantalizing moral dilemma too. And if you dont cooperate and he testifies, then youll be the one scratching hatch marks on the wall for a decade. What if we both give in, take the state up on its oh-so-generous offer. What then?

Theyll knock a couple of years off for the confession. Youll each get eight years. As your attorney, I strongly advise you to take them up on the offer and testify. He left some paperwork with Remy then turned and called for the officer to come and let him out of the cell. He and the taciturn turnkey began to walk down the hall when the attorney swiveled back around with an afterthought. There really isnt much to think about. You havent got a thing to lose by testifying. Doesnt matter what Vicker does. If he sings and you stay mum, youll get ten years, instead of the eight you would have gotten if youd cooperated. If he keeps quiet and you do too, youre gonna get four years, but youll be out in two if you go stoolie in that case. Think about it. Ill give it the deepest consideration, Martin said evenly. I guarantee you, Vickers already thinking about it. Thinking hard. Remy nodded as his lawyer turned again and disappeared down the hallway. After he was out of earshot the prisoner mumbled aloud. So another game has begun.

Chapter 2: Ancient Greek Mathematicians

Remy, your father is calling you. Un moment. His mother opened the door without her usual perfunctory courtesy knock. Her twelve-year-old son was seated on his unmade

bed, a hulking text opened in his lap. On the mattress beside him lay a notebook, covered with messily scrawled symbols and diagrams, intimidating and inscrutable. What is so important that you have to keep your father waiting, eh? Her accent had diluted only slightly through the generations since Acadia, while her son would never develop more than a hint of it, flavoring his overall elocution. I am reading, Mamere, he announced without the briefest glance toward her. As if to demonstrate the truth of his assertion, his eyes continued to scan a complex proof. Ah have two eyes, Remy. Ah kin see that. Stop reading and go see your father in the shop. He wants to show you how to make a bench. Carpentry doesnt interest me. His mother folded her arms across her chest and glared down at the single ungrateful fruit that had somehow managed to spring from her loins. Well fuh shore! Youve made no secret of dat! Do you want to break your poor fathers heart? Is that it? Break your fathers heart? Quo faire? I dont want to break anyones heart, Remy said, finally looking up. I just dont want to learn carpentry. Thats all. Oh, dats not good enough for you, eh? It was good enough for your father and your papere, but its not good enough for Remy Martin. I have nothing against carpentry, Mother. It just doesnt interest me. And what does?

Mathematics, he replied, diving back into his text on Diophantine equations. And how do you expect to earn a living? Who is going to pay you for mathematics? Plenty of people. He shrugged, not entirely certain he believed it, but fairly sure that he didnt care. Is that so? Whare are dese people, eh? Ah go to the hospital sometimes. The doctor, he gets some money. I go to make the groceries, eh? The grocer gets some money. But ah never needed a mathematician. You goin to set up a little math shop on Maple Street, eh? Or were you plannin to go door to door? Thats not Excuse me madam, his mother mocked. Im a wandering mathematician, and ah was wondering if you have any troublin equations lying around. Well, madam, I can solve for X, an Ill throw in Y for half price. Thats not the way it works. Well you should start thinking about how you are going to make some money. If you want ta go off to college and study mathematics, its going to cost a pretty penny. She rubbed the tips of her thumb, index and middle fingers together. You may as well make it doing carpentry. Deres math in that. You have to measure tings. You would love it. I dont need college. I can learn everything from studying books. Thats some fantasyland, you live in, she said, shaking her head. Everyone just sits around reading books all day. Do you tink you are back in ancient Greece, is that it? You read about dem all the time, but do you know what Remy? Theyre all dead.

Yes, Ive heard. Its a shame. Dont sass me, boy. And do you know why they are dead, Remy? No, Remy said dourly. Why? Because dey were too concerned with mathematics and philosophy, and not enough about the real world. With carpentry to build better catapults and tings like that! There werent any catapults back then, Mamere, and when the Romans attacked Syracuse, it was Archimedes, the mathematical genius who devised defensive His mother snapped closed the textbook hed been reading. While dose Greeks were trying to find the square of the hippopotamoose, the Romans were making spears and chariots. When a Roman legion is marchin down the street, all your trignomometry dont amount to a hill of beans. Remy could not help thinking about triangles, but kept these notions to himself. And you know why those Greeks had time to waste with all their points and lines and circles? Because dey had slaves, Remy. Dats why. None of them had to sweat and toil in a field or a smith or a shop, so dey had all the time in the world to do their algebra! The Greeks were geometers, Remy corrected, risking maternal wrath. They didnt have algebra. That was the Arabs. How many times do I have to tell you not to sass me? Answer me dat, my little mathematician! Sorry.

Well isnt that sweet? his mother replied, cocking her head to the side, batting her eyes in absurd exaggeration. Alors. The boy is sorry! Her face softened a moment later and she reached down, cupping her sons chin. Now, Remy you know ahm only lookin out for your best interest. What good is all dis going to do you? she swept her hand in an arc to reference the equations and calculations scattered around him. Im going to be a famous mathematician. Remy stated confidently. She shook her head, smiling sadly, Youre going to wind up begging or stealing, my ptit boug. Mother was always right.

Chapter 3: Cellular Automata

Clink! Metal on metal, the latch shut with an echoing, piercing crash, redolent of finality, the sound of freedom vanished. The gate closed and locked behind Remy, the onomatopoetic origin of one of prisons inveterate nicknames reverberating through the long concrete hallways as a bored corrections officer escorted him into cellblock A. Neither Remy nor Mack had turned evidence against the other, both receiving four- year sentences at the conclusions of their separate, speedy trials. The authorities sent Mack to another prison on the other side of the state, dividing now in the hopes that they would conquer later, convinced that, separated by many miles, one

of them would eventually betray the other. Preferably both. Their court-appointed public defenders had rolled over and played dead even faster than usual, faced with the overwhelming evidence against their doomed clients. These plea-bargains were for the lesser charges of burglary, trespassing, and theft. In spite of tantalizing circumstantial evidence, nothing concrete linked them to the far more serious armed robbery, but it hung over them like the shank of Damocles. The state could haul either of them out of the big house and into the courthouse to stand trial, if any evidence presented itself. But if they both remained silent, each would spend four years behind bars, Remy here at Longacre State Penitentiary, a maximum-security facility, though he felt far from secure. Taunts, whistles, catcalls, random threats and unbidden blown kisses were hurled at him as he was led to his cell. Heres your new luxury suite, Martin, quipped the guard, a portly white guy with thick glasses and a thicker neck. His nametag identified him as Jones, but like everything and everyone at Longacre, his nametag couldnt be trusted. Normally youd go into the fish tier first, Jones said, but the warden wanted you to go directly into gen pop, and lucky you, we got a nice cell all ready. Why is that? Because he said so. Thats all the reason he needs. And if you want to know the reason behind any of our rules and regulations here, save your breath, because the answer is always going to be the same. Youre still a fish though, so youre locked down and unclassified. Youll get a work assignment soon. And common area and yard privileges. And dont forget that those privileges can be taken away. But youll be spending most of your time right here until we get all the paperwork in order. Remy stepped to the bottom bunk and dropped down his set-up

kit. This consisted of a copy of the prison rules and regulations, a couple of sheets, a tube of toothpaste, and a toothbrush, which, the manual failed to note, it was considered standard procedure to transform into a shank almost immediately. He looked around at his new home, estimating its dimensions. About 6 feet wide, 12 feet long, and 7 feet high. While there were two bunks in the cellmetal slabs sticking out from the wall, each with a thin Bob Barker brand mattress on itboth were empty. There were no other occupants, though pictures of naked ladies and baseball stars adorned the walls. I have this expansive mansion to myself, do I? Of course you dont. Your cellies in the hole. Hell be back soon. Jones pulled the cell door closed, the lock engaging with another clinking sound, then disappeared down the hall. Ah, Remy said aloud to no one. In the hole. Doubtless for strangling his previous cellmate in his sleep. He surveyed the 504 cubic feet of space that was to be his home, finding it, as he found everything, full of mathematics. Rough approximations of idealized geometric forms surrounded him. The bunks were rectangles. The bars, vertical parallel line segments, broken up occasionally by intersecting horizontals, forming right angles, favorites of the ancient Greeks. He had at least the next two years to unlock those geometric mysteries. At least two years, and maybe longer. On the backs of the clothing hed been issued was a number that would serve as his primary identity for the foreseeable future. He and all his fellow prisoners had been symbolically reduced to numbers. Many would consider this a degrading and dehumanizing transformation, but Remy had a great deal of respect for numbers. He got along with them far better than he did with most people. Numbers had not, for example, ever attempted to kill or rape him. Remy was correct in guessing that a number of people soon would.

The number on Remys back was 547298. This was his identity in the eyes of the state. Remy Martin was, for the time being, a nonperson. Only 547298 remained. Few of the other prisoners spent much time contemplating the number assigned to them. They quickly committed it to memory and gave it little further thought. In contrast, Remy immediately set about subjecting his new identity to rigorous numerical analysis. He held no mystical beliefs that this would provide any significant revelations, as the gematriasts, Pythagoreans and other number magicians had in the past. He was interested solely in amusing himself. He had several years of time to kill, and most of the weapons one might employ for such an assault were tightly controlled contraband. But they could never take numbers away. The first thing he did with his new identity was reduce it to its prime factors. Unlike toothbrush shankcraft, this was not standard practice at the Longacre State Correctional Institution, but wasnt forbidden by either the official prison handbook or the far more important unwritten convict rules. He discovered three primes. They were 2, 17, and 16,097. The first he established instantly, the second with a little more work. The third took some concentrated effort, but 16,097 wouldnt divide evenly by any of the primes up to its square root. Indivisible, it, like Remy, was going nowhere. He spent his first day behind bars establishing the prime factors of his new name and analyzing it for additional mathematical peculiarities. That left him 729 days left to go, at the very least, if he were to deal with the devil and turn evidence against a steadfastly loyal and tightlipped Mack. 1460 if they both stayed quiet. 2921 if they turned on one another. 3651 if Mack stabbed him in the back. After exhausting the entertainment potential in analyzing all these numbers, he sought further amusement to fight the mind-numbing boredom. He was pleased to find some chalk his missing cellmate had used to scratch a few lines of verse on the wall in the corner

near the toilet.

Inside these prison walls I sit Straining just to take a shit If I should die before its out Hacks will have something to bitch about

Remy did a lot of math in his first week at Longacre, alone in his cell, not yet officially admitted to the general population. The chalk and the wall came to rescue him from tedious solitude as he drew a 5-by-5 tic-tac-toe grid and arbitrarily filled some of the boxes with xs. This was cellular automata, a favorite plaything of mathematicians. Each individual box is called a cell. Xs are distributed throughout the grid, leaving some cells empty and some occupied. Specific rules are then applied and the resulting conditions are determined. You can repeat this as often as you want, until some deep, careerdefining insight emerges, for example, or until your own cellmate returns from the hole and decides to make you his bitch, which is another good place to stop. Remy was playing around with a popular variant of cellular automata, in which some of the cells would come alive or die depending on whether or not they were overcrowded or completely isolated, and this struck him as poetically apropos. The prisoners, in their cells, were reduced, in the best-case scenario of their custodians, to automata, caught between the conflicting forces of loneliness and crowding. It was once considered a wise practice to place all prisoners in solitary confinement for the entire length of their sentences. Most of them followed the same basic plan to adapt to the unbearable isolation, which was to go stark raving mad. It took prison-keepers a while to figure out that the total absence of human contact is not therapeutic, and they initially thought the resulting madness was a direct result of masturbation. Men confined to a tiny cell for 24 hours a day with absolutely nothing to do, and they expected them

not to masturbate. The smell of stale semen, always conspicuously present in the air of Longacre, made it clear that this coping strategy hadnt lost its appeal, and the frequent frenzied screaming and sobbing, especially in the middle of the night when it wasnt buried in the general cacophony of 1cell block A, was a convincing testament that madness was still a fashionable alternative. Remy still had his math, though. A form of mental masturbation perhaps, but it kept him from going mad. For now.

Issue 2 Contributers
Andrew Breslin is the author of Mothers Milk (http://www. encpress.com/MM.html), the definitive story of alien cows from Vega. He writes a blog (http://andyrantsandraves.blogspot.com), that covers pretty much whatever crosses his mind. His book reviews can be found at Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/ author/show/820871.Andrew_Breslin) and are always entertaining and informative, or at least he thinks so. His fiction site (http:// atbreslin.com) is still a work in progress. Some of the existing stories on his fiction site concern mathematics. Some are just weird. He lives in Philadelphia with his cat and his girlfriend, neither of whom are nearly as fascinated by mathematics as he is, but both of whom make up for it by being cute. Micah Joel is a Viable Paradise graduate, software engineer, and high-functioning geek in Silicon Valley. Follow him on Twitter at @micahpedia or on the web at http://micahjoel.info/blog. Michele Bannister calls the Pacific Rim home; planetary science has taken her to live in five countries and counting. Her [poetry] has appeared in Strange Horizons, where Loki, Dynamicist was voted third in their 2012 Readers Poll, in Ideomancer, Stone Telling, and other venues, and in the Here, We Cross anthology (Stone Bird Press, 2012). Kenneth Levine is a tax attorney who has recently begun to write short stories and a novel. One short story has appeared in the New Plains Review. Ian Creasey lives in Yorkshire, England. He began writing when rock & roll stardom failed to return his calls, and he has sold fifty-odd short stories to various magazines and anthologies. His debut collection, Maps of the Edge, was published in 2011. Ians spare time interests include hiking, gardening, and environmental conservation work - anything to get him outdoors and away from the computer screen. For more information, please visit his website

at http://www.iancreasey.com. Robert Dawson has a BSc (mathematics and physics) from Dalhousie and a PhD (mathematics) from Cambridge. He lives in Halifax, NS, with his wife Bridget and sons Alex and Ian, and teaches mathematics at Saint Marys University. Apart from mathematics and writing, he enjoys fencing, cycling, cooking, and music. He has published poetry in LabLit, The Sword, The Mathematical Intelligencer, Parody, and Rampike. Igor Teper is a physicist who spends his days teaching old atoms new tricks at temperatures near absolute zero. His fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have appeared in, among others, Nature, The American Scholar, and Asimovs Science Fiction, and he cowrote the screenplay for The Secret Number (http://secretnumber. colinlevy.com/), a short film based on his story of the same name. He lives with his wife and son in the San Francisco Bay Area.