No I, no you, only the endless entangled looping of the branes. In my non-state I struggle to think of Temetry, but there is nothing of him there. I am matter to be prepared, used, and replaced. She will have me upon the Bells though she must strip the last shred of self from my mind. I sit on my bedside vacantly, emptied into submission, until the folds of my mind remember the shape they ought to take, and I can heal. I finish in the dark morning, as ever unable to speak or think, the involutions have so stripped away my sense of self. Far into the night I manifold four dimensions in non-Euclidean space, inverting Tesseracts, decanting Klein kettles, shaving Möbius strips into interlocking many-twisted chains. In my room I close my eyes, stand upon my dimple, and begin. “Go to your involutions, Aliqa,” Ingen says. A moment later we emerge in our living room. Space folds, and I taste the familiar feel of my mother’s mind in my own, twisting the anthropic plane. We stand atop the dimple, and she initiates the involutions. “Good girl,” she says, and she leads us into the bore-head.
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I am polite and correct, a good Gideon girl.
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She aspires to love me, but I know the thing she loves most is herself. You know that, don’t you? He can’t follow where you’re going.” “You must forget that boy, Aliqa,” she tells me. I am just another of her extremities, to be ordered, wound, and sent chuttering on my way. I know this is how she talks to her simulacra, plugging fresh wavelengths into their pea-sized minds, laying in the algorithms of growth. We arrive at the bore-head, a silver pipe in this dry planet’s haunch, and she kneels before me in the grey sand, her hands on my shoulders. Arm in arm we stroll back to the Gideon bore, and she chatters on about her day, about what permutations she wrought in this planet’s atmosphere, what gains in the heat-sink they explored. She plucks me from the crater without even glancing at Temetry. Temetry’s dazzling smile is sad, forever, because I’ll never see him again. This place is no longer special or secret. She is huffing and panting her rooty head over the crater-lip. It is the last abiding image I have of him, because then comes the sound of old Ingen, and the moment is lost. “I’ll whisper your name to the branes until I die,” I promise him, feeling the urgency of this moment, alone in this crater for the last time. We are only 11, and I love him, because I know in my heart that he will never forget me. It is our joke, a vestige of what Subsidence has brought us both. His fingers tighten, rippling over mine in Euclidean gymnastics, until our hands are joined partway between a reticulated conch shell and an intersecting Klein bottle. His hand worms the grey sand, folds my fingers within his own, and I remember that he is the most beautiful thing I have. He turns to me, and smiles, because he knows I cannot keep that promise.
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“I won’t forget you,” I say to him quietly. The men of this world would have taken him for the Gideon heat-sink long ago. I know it, because he’d not be here with me if he had. This shrug means he’s had no breakthroughs. “How are your non-orientable insects?” I ask. He doesn’t speak, not since the last Bells came when we were babies, but I know what he’s thinking. I imagine it far overhead, arcing through the universe, plancking the anthropic landscape from yoke to clapper, and can think of only one word to describe it. At times we glimpse its Brilliance, the after-image of its long and branic toll splashing across the plush black firmament like an endless corolla borealis. It’s night, and I’m lying beside Temetry on a cold grey crater of this world’s endless desert, listening to the oscillations of the Bell.