Split Infinity

Stile charged down the hall and lunged into the matter-transmission curtain, desperately hoping it would work for him. The androids might follow—but they could be in as much trouble as he, at the other end. Intruding strangers. That would give him a better fighting chance. He felt a tingle as he went through.

CHAPTER 5 - Fantasy

Stile drew up in a deep forest. The smell of turf and fungus was strong, and old leaves crackled underfoot.  The light from four moons beamed down between the branches to illuminate the ground. It would have been near dawn, on Proton; it seemed to be the same time of day here. The same number of moons as Proton, too; there were seven, with three or four usually in sight.  Gravity, however, seemed close to Earth-normal, so if this was really outside a dome, it was a spot on a larger or denser planet than Proton.

He turned to face his pursuers—but there were none.

They had not passed through the shimmering curtain.  He looked carefully, locating it—and saw, dimly, the light at the hall he had left, with the scattered crates.  Sheen was there—one of them—and several androids.

One android came right at him—and disappeared.

Stile watched, determined to understand this phenomenon, because it reflected most directly on his immediate welfare. He had passed through—but the robots and androids had not. This thing transmitted only human beings? Not artificial ones? That might be reasonable. But he hesitated to accept that until there was more data.

In his absence the fight on the other side of the curtain soon abated. The androids and fake-Sheen departed, apparently on his trail again—a false one. Only the real Sheen remained, as the squad evidently considered her irrelevant—and it seemed she could not perceive either him or the curtain.

Stile decided to risk crossing back, if only to tell her he was safe. There was risk, as the squad could be lurking nearby, hoping Sheen would lead them to him again—but he could not leave her tormented by doubt.  This could be a much better hideout than the crate! He stepped through the curtain—and found himself still in the dark forest. He had crossed without being matter-transmitted back.

He looked back—and there it was, behind him.  Through it he saw the imprint of his feet in the soft forest loam, the leaves and tufts of grass and moss all pressed flat for the moment. And, like a half-reflection, the square of light of the service hall, now empty.

He passed through the curtain a third time. There was no tingle, no sensation. He turned about and looked through—and saw Sheen searching for him, unrobotic alarm on her cute face. Oh, yes, she cared!

“I’m here. Sheen!” he called, passing his hand through. But his hand did not reach her; it remained in the forest. She gave no evidence of seeing or hearing him.

She would think him dead—and that bothered him more than the notion of being trapped this side of the matter-transmission screen. If she thought him dead, she would consider her mission a failure, and then turn herself off, in effect committing suicide. He did not want her to do that—no, not at all!

“Sheen!” he cried, experiencing a surge of emotion.  “Sheen—look at me! I’m caught here beyond a one-way transmit—“ But if it really were one-way, of course she would not be able to see him! However, it had to be two-way, because he had seen people traveling both ways through the curtain, and he had seen the forest from Proton, and could now see Proton from the forest. “Sheen!” he cried again, his urgency almost choking him.

Her head snapped around. She had heard him!

Stile waved violently. “Here! Here, Sheen! Through the curtain!”

Her gaze finally fixed on him. She reached through the curtain—and did not touch him. “Stile—“ Her voice was faint.

He grabbed her hands in his, with no physical contact; their fingers phased through each other like images, like superimposing holographs. “Sheen, we are in two different worlds! We can not touch. But I’m safe here.” He hoped.

“Safe?” she asked, trying to approach him. But as she passed through the curtain, she disappeared. Stile quickly stepped across himself, turning—and there she was on the other side, facing away from him, looking down the hall.

She turned and saw him again, with an effort. “Stile —I can’t reach you! How can I protect you? Are you a ghost?”

“I’m alive! I crossed once—and can’t cross back. It’s a whole new world here, a nice one. Trees and grass and moss and earth and fresh air—“

They held hands again, each grasping air. “How—?”

“I don’t know how to cross! There must be a way to return, because I’ve seen a woman do it, but until I find out how—“

“I must join you!” She tried again to cross, and failed again. “Oh, Stile-“

“I don’t think it works for nonhumans,” he said.  “But if I can remain here for a week, and find out how to return—“