Science Fiction Science Fact WebJournal Quantum Mechanical Creative Short Stories

Science Fiction Science Fact WebJournal
Steering Sunlight by Jackson Lee

The flames took the wood with an unyielding fervor. It was an old shed made of brittle oak and it put up no visible resistance to the spread of the combustion process. A small finger of light had danced its way into a large, pulsating hand that sought to cover the entire structure. Before the supporting walls began to fall, it had one last moment of structural integrity with its entire surface area painted with a new dynamic coat of fire. The roof fell ungracefully with a couple of interspersed lurches. The last few beams descended into the pile and burned neatly in teepee formation. The fire dwindled and plumes of white smoke became more prominent than the flames.

A few keystrokes were entered.

The view changed. The embers and smoke rippled like a photo projected onto a pond’s surface. When the effect was over, an old, oak shed stood undisturbed and untarnished by flame. The same lantern fell over as before, yet this time the flames did not spread onto the shed as they had. A small orange glow was produced at the lantern’s base, but it simply dimmed itself out until a single line of smoke rose in its place. The shed still stood.

“Pretty neat, right? It’s like a rewind button to a different movie.”

Hunter removed the sensor from his head and the lifted the headset from his eyes. His pupils adjusted to the change in lighting and he turned towards Peter, who had the coy grin of a kid showing off his new stereo system.

“So, that was what exactly? A different movie in which fire…doesn’t work as well?”

“Fire was bound by the same rules. The chances of combustion were just different. A long series of tweaks in the probable angular momentum and energy, and you observe a different system. The process of combustion doesn’t continue its way through all the hydrocarbons to get to the shed.”

“Huh…” Hunter chewed on the concept for a moment, “So, any probabilistic system…it can simulate alternatives?”

“Well, in our interpretation everything is what you would consider to be probabilistic,” Peter clarified with the tone his types used when someone was using crude strokes to paint a picture of the intricate landscape they’ve spent years understanding, “But to answer your question: yes…well…kinda. The program has done well with what we’ve asked of it, but it gets a little shaky with the big stuff. To be honest, if this thing could accurately simulate the larger events we’re trying to explore, then I would have had to go through many more hoops just to show it to you. You could say that our algorithmic photons just don’t taste like the ones that the universe makes…”

He paused for a moment, licked his lips, and then continued.

“But it’s still a tremendous breakthrough in comparison to what we’ve been able to simulate before. In fact, the Department of Defense is interested. We’re working with them to see if it can be used in their PTSD treatment and screening protocols. Supposedly, reworking the war scenarios that you’ve gone through is useful for processing it and living with it. I mean, it’s very doable—show the grenade unexploded or rework the probable trajectory of a missile—and we’re they have the tech to import memories into the program, but I can’t say I understand the psychology rationale. It’s like…”

The scientist continued on about limitations in the program and possible uses, but the words fell on inattentive ears. Hunter had lost himself in a thought. It was a disquietingly intriguing one that had spawned from an itch he’d had since Peter first told him about the simulator. It wouldn’t even work. Why would I even consider that? They always say that people react irrationally, but I’d never let it get to me like that. He tried to push the thought to the back of his mind, but it only served to further enliven it. His brain autonomously went through the usual processes of evaluating the mechanics and details until it became a vivid reality entertained by his consciousness.

“So, would the OSTP interested in something like this?”

Hunter was dragged back into the present.

“Huh? Oh, yes, I mean…I’m not entirely sure.”

The answer was a close-to-definite ‘no,’ but the nagging, vivid idea in his head steered him away from admitting that and ruining the only valid reason he had to continue spending time with this project. His office might have been interested had this project pertained to national security or climate change. Those were policy issues. They tracked with the public. This didn’t.  I guess I had always known that. Before I even came here. Is it denial? Cognitive dissonance? As long as I’m aware of it…

Hunter continued, “I usually like to get a better sense of the mechanics and parameters before I present these things to my director. Could I possibly schedule another visit to try a few things out?”

Peter jumped to oblige, “I’ll do you one better. The equipment itself is standard. The sensors and headsets are pretty easy to come by. I imagine we could spare a set. The program can be ported safely. So, it would be simple to go ahead and set up a satellite version at your office for you all to try. I’ll have to run it by the team leader, but I’ll tell her who it’s for. How would you like that though?”

Hunter felt a reverberation of guilt when he responded, “That would be great! I’m sure it’ll aid my director in understanding the possibilities of the project.”

The scientist smiled giddily. He related the specifics of how he’d set up the satellite copy of the project to Hunter, who listened dutifully. This is happening. I might as well explore the possibility. I’ve come this far. He thanked Peter for taking the time out his schedule to show him the project. Peter responded graciously.

“You know, we should catch up some time. Non-professionally. You kind of dropped off the map for a while. When I saw you at that dinner function the other night, I realized how long it had been. You free for supper sometime this week?” He asked as Hunter put on his coat to leave.

“Oh, yeah…sure. That would be nice.”

“Great. Oh! You can bring—what’s her name? Becca? Are you still seeing her? I like her. One of those rare ones that can really light up a room.”

Professional courtesy was a learned instinct for Hunter at this point, but the usual response eluded him. There was a barrier, unfamiliar and disruptive, that blocked him from accessing the proper answer. He managed a mumbled affirmation and goodbye before slipping out the door ungracefully.

The job required a certain disposition and discipline. One had to be like a frugal parent taking their kid to the toy store. The Office of Science and Technology Policy served as part of the Executive Office; they weren’t in the position to run wild with whatever initiative or research presented itself as important or belonging to the vanguard of scientific efforts. No, they met the needs of the President’s office. Those were political needs. They were expressed in a language that most don’t learn when they get their B.S. or land their first research position. The skill set that Hunter had developed in his time at the OSTP could be described as bilingualism. He could understand what the baby kissing elected officials above him wanted and could sift through the wide swath of technical developments in the scientific enterprise in order to find what translated well into their policy goals.

There were certain events where the two worlds and languages met. During these times, Hunter almost felt like a worker with dog treats in his pocket walking through a kennel. They weren’t desperate people by any means, but the OSTP seal on his business card elevated him to perceived doorway status (access to anything from federal funding to a mention in a campaign speech). It was an exaggeration of his powers, but the allure of the Executive Office was a potent one in this town. Even seasoned research leaders who knew the true pathways of obtaining federal research dollars were unjustifiably interested in speaking with him at these gatherings.

Thus, when his old classmate—now researcher—Peter Bauer approached him at a dinner function, Hunter switched into frugal-parent-in-toy-store mode. No appeal to groundbreaking work being done or emotional tugging would motivate him to send something to a higher-up. Some would try to explain their work in the political tongue, but they were novices with broken accents in comparison to what Hunter could communicate fluently. Yet, as he humored Peter, who was working on a simulator of wave function collapse in prearranged systems, he found himself inexplicably drawn to the project and its potential. Contrary to his usual practices in these situations, he ended up scheduling a time to visit the lab.

I’ll just see what it’s capable of. I made no promises. It’s a routine work visit. Maybe I should play dumber than usual though. I need him to explain it in detail.

After turning the last page, Hunter closed the book triumphantly and loudly so that she would notice. She had been lying face down, sunlight reflecting off of her auburn hair and the uncovered areas of her back. She lifted her head up with a hint of a smile on her face.

“You finished it? What did you think?” Rebecca asked.

“I realized half way through that I had heard of it before…which is weird because I didn’t start reading this stuff until you told me to.”

“Yeah. You’ve probably heard of most of the stories of Orpheus. He’s one of the big ones. But—at least for me—that’s what’s so cool about it, you know? You know his story, but you don’t remember where from. It’s neat, right? It’s one of those narratives that we have in our collective consciousness.”

“You know how I wish I could get the same enthusiasm out of it that you do.” Hunter leaned back in his camp chair, absent-mindedly plucked a blade of grass from the lawn, and rhythmically twisted it between his thumb and forefinger. “I think it’s a symptom of my education and work. I’m only allowed to think in demonstrated results. In scientific viability. In concrete policy action goals. You’ve met the people I work with. It’s a survival mentality. Literary beauty is a hard thing to internalize—especially with these stories where the prose isn’t anything special. I need a tangible truth. Something I can point to as a result. It’s hard to see that with this stuff and harder still to get excited about it.”

“You’re selling yourself short again. You may not be able to bring it out in the office, but I’ve seen you delve into that dreaded right-brained wonderment before.” Rebecca moved to sit cross-legged and faced Hunter. “Besides, the way I see it, these are tangible truths. You’ve heard this story before, but you’ve never actually read any mythology books. It feels innate. Since these stories were written, we’ve reproduced them countless times in various creative narratives, and by result, replicated them in human life. Whether or not they’re actually encoded into our natural predispositions doesn’t matter at this point. It’s almost a tautology. It’s written and rewritten, so it proves itself as a true telling of the human condition. It’s the reason we have the adjective form of these stories—Orphic, Oedipal, Narcissistic. These are human elements now, deserving of their own descriptors. We’ve told these stories, we’ll tell them again, we’ll become them again. Do you follow?”

Hunter’s inner scientific pedant urged him to point out her use of a common misrepresentation of right brain function, but he recognized it as a coping tactic for the arresting awe that had overcome him. It was a sensation, uncomfortably potent, that arose every time Rebecca spoke of her passions.

“I think I get your perspective, but I’m gonna need a little more before I submit it for peer review,” he replied with a contained grin. “One thing’s for sure: I want you to warn me if I ever start wooing gods with a lyre.”

“I apologize for selling it so hard. I’ll read a science policy book next time. You can help me see the poetry in funding climate research.”

“No, no, no. I need this,” he gestured towards the book he’d just finished. “Never stop being a geek about this stuff, Becca. You’re my tether. You help keep me sane.”

“Deal. You know? We just may be able to make a romantic hero out of you yet.” She stretched and reclined to let her body face the cloudless sky. “I can see how this stuff serves as a healthy intellectual vacation. Helios makes for a neater story than gravity and burning hydrogen.”

Hunter remained motionless in his bed, staring upwards. He usually woke before his alarm these days. This was his routine now. He was pleased by how quickly he broke out of the habit of expecting there to be another body beside his. At first, his arm would instinctually reach out after waking up and he would find himself touching only air and blanket, but after developing a daily mental mantra—there will be no body anymore—he would awake with the rational knowledge that he was the only one in his bed. It’s good I nipped that in the bud. That’s one of the biggest clichés. I’m not one of those people.

His new routine involved going through a list of why he needed to get up today. The list served as a series of data points that suggested a contrary course of action to the one proposed by the irrational force that rendered his body motionless in order to protect it from the world of despair outside of his bed. It usually worked. He’d find himself putting the coffee in his mug and the key in the ignition of his car—precursors to his person arriving at work and doing the things that required an awake, out-of-bed Hunter.

He went through his list. This time he only needed one data point to override the irrational force and allow his legs to swing out and stand on the floor: Peter is coming by the office today. He’s setting up the satellite version of the program. I need to get out of bed, go to the office, meet him, oversee the installation, move it over to my house at the end of the day, and then later I can…

Coffee was poured, a key was turned, a car driven, and Hunter found himself sitting at his desk in his office. Peter came around midday. Hunter introduced him to the rest of the division staff, but made sure that Peter didn’t have long to explain what he was setting up and steered conversation away from its purpose for the OSTP. The installation itself was quick. He set it up on an extra workstation in the corner of Hunter’s office. Peter worked with a guilt-inducing amount of glee and optimism. I never promised him definite action. He’s expecting too much out of this.

“So that should just about do it,” Peter chirped when he was finished. “You have my number, so feel free to call me anytime if you’re having issues with it. Your director is welcome to contact me or the team leader if he has questions on the scope of the project too.”

“Well…thanks! I’m excited to play around with it.”

“Make sure to put a good word in for me!”

The guilt stayed with Hunter as he showed the researcher out to his car. His hopes are his own problem. I’m only wasting his time at worst.

“By the way, the thing that you motioned, using this program with veterans? How does that work exactly? Are they recreating real scenarios that these soldiers experienced?”

“It’s pretty neat actually, they can take memories—especially collective memories—and translate them into physical systems. With that, of course, the program allows for tweaks in the events of the system. It requires a special sensor, however.”

“Would you be able to send one of those sensors my way?”

“Well…uh…I’ll see if I can swing it. Do you think it’ll be useful for your department?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Well, I’ll try and send one over to your office. You’re getting executive treatment, Hunter.” He opened his car door. “By the way, we’re still on for supper, right? I’m excited to catch up with you two.”

Two? He felt a phantom hand instinctively reach out to grasp at nothing.

“I’m always surprised at how well you do at these dinners. It’s not really your crowd.”

“You don’t think I can go toe-to-toe with politicians and their lackeys? I know the mechanics of human interaction and I’m pretty sure I know how voting works. They like to talk fast, but they’re not the toughest eggs to crack.”

“It’s more in terms of…uh”

“What?”
“Disposition…outlook. You clash with the way they conduct themselves and view the world.”

“Because I smile?”

“Because you smile when you’re happy. They smile when public interest groups decide it’s popular.”

“Washington cynicism? I’m familiar.”

“On the hill, it’s an expected end stage of evolution. Idealists who think fondly of human potential are seen as just new recruits who haven’t been weathered down by the realities of the world.”
“Oh, I’m familiar with that process too. I just don’t buy it. I connect with these suits because I know their language. It isn’t very complex. I could slip into their perspective if I wanted to. It’s easy. That’s the thing. Cynicism is the easiest state to employ. They see the idea that public servants only serve their own interests as the ultimate truth that one has to become hardened enough to swallow. It’s not. It’s the island of safety that they retreat to. It minimizes risk. Idealism—a contrary expectation that perhaps elected officials can serve higher values—is moving away from your island of safety and sticking your foot in the water. That’s actual hardness. Cynicism is the lily pad we stay on when we’re too scared to make the leap.”

“Wow. We really need to get you a book deal, Bec—”

The conversation stopped as the two figures were immediately enveloped in a flash of light. For an instant, they were two shadows upon a field of luminescence. Reality rippled and the bright canvas began to transform.

Hunter’s hadn’t used his vocal chords in a while. His voice was gruff.

“I didn’t catch you at a bad time did I?” asked the voice at the end of the line.

“You’re fine, Peter. My sleep schedule is just a little out of whack.”

“Well, I missed you at supper. Perhaps some other time?”

“Oh…sorry…yeah. Well, I’m having some difficulties with the program.”

“Are you alright, Hunter?”

“I’m having some difficulties with the program.”

“Okay.”

“I need to know what the limitations of scale are. You mentioned you were having trouble with bigger systems. How big? Could you perhaps simulate massive changes of probabilistic states in the sun?”

“The sun? Wow you’re into some big stuff. I don’t know if it can precisely simulate the amount of concurrent systems that are at play there. What exactly are you trying to change?”
“Emissions—specifically radiation, UV radiation—and how much is released. See if I can change where it ends up too. Limit the amount reaching our atmosphere, or just certain parts of our world.”

“Well, if you’re including the earth then you’ve got a lot more factors at play: tilt, distance, atmospheric conditions, solar irradiance, and more. But, if I could think of a good place to start, I’d say rework the probabilities of the quantum tunneling that allows the hydrogen nuclei to fuse in the first place. I imagine that’s hard to isolate, and harder still to use it to control the radiation reaching earth. This is a little out of my league, so I probably wouldn’t be the best to consult on this. May I ask why you’re interested in ultraviolet radiation specifically? Does the OSTP think this is useful for climate research?”

“I have to go, Peter”

“Oh! Okay. Stay in touch I guess.”

Hunter worked out of the makeshift lab he had set up in his basement. The simulator was running off of the extra workstation from his office. He had moved it here and modified its components to the point where it was unrecognizable. He had the original headset and sensor along with the memory access sensor and other pieces of wearable immersive tech that he was trying to incorporate into the program. The screen was filled with a copy of the simulator’s source code. Hunter reviewed his additions and the new title he had given it. Project Katabasis. She’d call it heavy handed.

His personal computer was placed off to the side. Its screen was filled with tabs of pages dedicated to various topics. He cycled through resources on quantum tunneling, nuclear fusion, melanoma, and solar irradiance. Ever since college, he had acquired the habit of rereading all of his sources, trying to reveal new understandings each time. He’d lift certain phrases and repeat them as mantras in his head. The sun fuses 620 million metric tons of hydrogen each second… DNA absorbs UVB light and causes direct DNA damage, which can lead to mutations…with small probability, it tunnels through the Coulomb barrier, which allows the nuclei of the hydrogen isotopes to fuse and create a helium isotope, a spare neutron, and nuclear energy…melanocytes under the skin begin to grow circularly to form a tumor…the energy reaches the photosphere through convection and light is radiated… We can do something with this…Remember…The sun fuses 620 million metric tons of hydrogen each…

“It’s Greek,” the figure with auburn hair explained. “It’s a descent into the underworld, the unknown, the chaotic. I remember reading that it’s used to describe certain phenomena in psychology too. Even Freudian stuff was named—”

“Freud? Didn’t I tell you about this? You’re not going to find him on a list of works referenced for modern psychology papers.”

“I know. I know. The point stands though. I’m not the only one who sees the application of these stories in observable life. You should open yourself up to the possibilities.”

“Perhaps. Right now I might have other things on my mind.”

The two figures remained silent for a period.

“I’ve been thinking recently. I’m going to work on making a syllabus just for you—a solid primer for understanding this stuff. I can supply most of the books out of my own collection too. It’ll be a nice mix: some plays to go with the myths, Euripides to compliment Perseus.” The figure with auburn hair paused. “It’ll be a nice thing to leave behind.”

“Becca, don’t.”

“Come on. I’ve told you that it’s more uncomfortable to skirt around it. You’re making a barrier. For my sake, just try to recognize it as it is. The doctor said that with this level of metastasis—”

No. Not this one. This one won’t do. It won’t help.

Some command keys were hastily pressed and the two figures rippled out of view.

The surface was an ever-melting cake of solar plasma that expanded beyond perception. Massive dark spots peppered the surface in an erratic fashion. Somewhere, a loop of traveling flame towered above all around it. It was all an inconceivably vast ocean of light that aggressively discharged its luminosity. The brightness, the movement, the scale—it was all outside of regular human conception of magnitude. The observer began to feel doubts about the possibility of even coming close to affecting this behemoth of cosmic energy production.

And then it buffered.

The program’s processing capabilities buckled under the weight of the googols of probabilities that allowed charged plasma to move in an arc above the sea of light and the massive granules to rise. Coronal activity moved with a choppy frame rate and the brilliant orange loop became a pixilated mess. It only lasted for a short instant, however. Soon, the program caught up and everything moved and shown with the same grace as before.

I only want to focus on one process though…620 million metric tons of hydrogen each second. The observer entered the commands to bring up the specific view frame. There it is. It was an unrecognizable egg of light, around half a million kilometers from the surface. It was dense. There was a lot to process per square kilometer.

The observer felt a sense of danger and couldn’t tell if it was a rational apprehension or reaction to simulated risk. The egg radiated a visceral amount of energy. It was almost as if an infinitesimally small amount of the heat at the core was being simulated into tangible reality and smothering him. Alright, I just have to do a tweak in probability. We’ll try a few different methods. See how they work.  

A few prewritten scripts were entered.

This might take eight minutes. I should fast forward.

A figure walked through a crowded city street and arrived at a newspaper box. A coin was placed into the machine and two hands opened the door and pulled out a newspaper. The figure went to a nearby bench to read the newspaper. Two eyes scanned the headlines with a scripted pace before glancing up at the sky. The ambient light of the scene quickly became resoundingly intense as if the world’s dimmer switch had been moved from its midpoint to its maximum setting. The newspaper being held by the two hands only took a few units of time to disappear in a fountain of flame. Windows that were once flush with the uniform surfaces of the surrounding skyscrapers began to warp, ripple downwards, and then drop onto the streets below in molten raindrops. The tires on cars blew out spectacularly as the frames drooped into indistinguishable shapes. The figure sat on the bench observing apathetically as skin melted off the frame. All of the figures reacted to their melting with a similar nonchalance that suggested their existence was something predetermined by an algorithm.

NO! I need to reconfigure this one. The other scripts used different time spans for probability tweaks…

A komodo dragon meandered its way up a deserted beach in Maine. It continued on into a log house covered in vines where it had previously been able to find nested prey. Farther down the beach, warm ocean water met white sand in a place where a pine tree forest once stood.

A figure with auburn hair was reclined in a hospital bed. Two eyes remained close. Two cheeks were rendered gaunt by tightly wrapped, pale skin. A chest moved up and down with shallow breaths.

The scene rippled. An observer watched with an elevated heart rate.

The figure with auburn hair appeared unchanged. Suddenly, a thick mole expanded into being on a shoulder. The mole continued growing in size until it was a dark, calloused cloud that reached deep into the skin. More and more deathly dark splotches began blossoming all over the skin—on a knee, on a lower back, on a thigh. The figure with auburn hair began wheezing and coughing up blood.

“NO! NO! NO! STOP!”

The observer threw off the viewing apparatuses attached to his head and muffled a scream into his arm as hot tears streamed down his face.

It’s just a matter of precision. If I can isolate those exact waves, those exact times, those exact trajectories…

A deuterium atom finds itself sharing the same space with a tritium atom. There is a bright flash of energy.

The scene ripples.

A deuterium atom finds itself repelled away from a tritium atom by an electrostatic force.

Snow falls over the metropolitan capital of a large country. It covers every car, every house, and every object in a white blanket. The whole city is silent. No wind blows through the corridors of buildings. There is not a single human to be seen. Flakes descend from a uniform gray sky and land without a sound.

Hunter moves through the city streets, looking down every intersection. He doesn’t seem to notice the white blanket amassing itself that threatens to obscure every unique feature of the city. He moves onward with an aggressive determination, making sure to never look behind him. Finally, he sees it: the event hall—one that various federal departments used for gatherings. Then, he sees her. She stands there in a party dress. In the hundred-meter radius around her, there is no snow. There is only a dry cold. High above her, there is a gap in the clouds that aligns with the circle of dryness that she stands in.

Hunter moves to embrace her. She stares blankly at him. She breathes shallow breaths. Her lips are blue. Her skin is white pearl, unblemished.

“I…I…think I finally got it right, Becca.”

She continues staring blankly at him. Hunter feels something on the back of his neck. Warmth. He looks back and sees a ray extending diagonally upwards. There is a pale orb hovering in the middle of the break in the sky. Hunter lifts one hand, uses perspective to fit the orb in between his fingers, and smothers the last source of light he knows.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *