In The Lattice Of Realities Which Interweave by Loulou Harris

A moment of weakness has defined me; in one instant, destiny crystallised around a tiny seed of indecision and in the path ahead, suddenly, a branch appeared. How to recognize that inexorable circumstance of judgement, upon which one enters the labyrinth of potential realities? These past few days have caused me to reflect on my life, incidents loaded with terrible purpose, seemingly unsubstantial at the time. What were my influences and why? And if I had known, would I have chosen differently? Perhaps, after all, there is no free will, but rather, we are destined forever to play out all possible permutations of our lives, detaching from each of an infinite multitude of selves in the transparent realisation of our actions.

In my entire repertoire of experience, or perhaps I should say, memories, none can recall to me such a sensation of exquisite fulfilment, as my decision to marry. Marriage, at that stage of life, had never been part of my agenda and yet events swirled, converged and ultimately coalesced around that absolute act of commitment in such a way that I felt, finally, disengaged; an abstract perceiver of my own history. Does this suggest that it was wrong? That is something which I cannot believe. Rather, the impression which has been gradually forming in my mind is not that I married the wrong person, but that we married at the wrong time.

It is with immense clarity and pleasure that I remember the day I met first Kerr Avon. It was the day after my eighteenth birthday and against my better judgement I had allowed myself to be talked into making up the numbers on the charm offensive of a Space Command Officer Training Corps recruitment drive. It was the third year in which I had been selected for this duty; usually, for the brightest and best of the Federation this represented an annual opportunity to banquet and bat eyelids, at the expense and on behalf of the Federation. Duty should have kept me in my quarters that night, studying the intricacies of interplanetary law but instead I was summoned to that evening of smiles, carefully chosen words and the omnipresent but concealed binding contract.

I saw him first during the presentation. Given the high desirability status of the target group, we played one of our very best cards: Space Commander Rikfin. When Rifkin spoke, you listened. His voice possessed a quality of inspired intensity which had the effect of allowing your mind to become focused on his words (it was as though concentration became suddenly effortless). And although I myself, having been once (and pleasurably) inoculated, was immune to his considerable sexual charisma, his effect upon the women in the room was manifest. It was therefore with an air of nostalgic satisfaction that I observed Rifkin begin to operate.

I allowed my attention to slide from the spectacle of Rifkin delivering his address and slowly, I noticed Avon. I should somehow convey, at this stage, his languid gaze, the effortless way his body relaxed into the chair, not bored, on the contrary, appearing to weigh Rifkin's words with measured deliberation. I found myself in intent contemplation of his achingly fascinating face, in which dark and penetrating eyes coolly appraised the surroundings and the tension was visible only in the brooding set of his mouth.

I must have stared for too long because as I remember, I became aware that his eyes had risen to meet mine. A smile seemed inappropriate. But I could not allow myself to be the one to look away and neither, apparently, could he. Consequently, we stared at each other for some time, a gladiatorial contest of nerves. And that's all it was - I didn't want him then. That was to come later.

We were seated together at dinner. We joined in with the introductions as though we had never before laid eyes upon each other and for the greater part of the meal, followed the conversation that was taking place in our midst. He reacted to me with a strangely attractive mixture of studied indifference and intellectual respect. During dessert a silence fell between us as we realised that although words continued to fly around our heads, neither he nor I wished any longer to feign attention. I looked at him again and this time, I smiled. To my surprise, this seemed to amuse him and he chuckled softly, as though at some private joke.

"It's usually that easy, is it?"
"Do you doubt it?" I toyed with the phrase, flirtatiously.
"Actually, no. I'm amused to see it being used on myself, however. It seems a shame to waste such attention. I almost wish myself worthy of it."
"And why aren't you?"
He shrugged. "I won't stay in this area of research much longer. A few months, that's all. I can't benefit the Federation by the work I am doing and I will have to decline your kind invitation to join the Space Command Corps. So, as I say, wasted."

He concluded with a smile of his own, not ironic, but fresh and genuine. I had the feeling he didn't smile often, that I was being rewarded. A tiny shiver ran through my body as a sharp burst of adrenalin coursed into my blood. Our surroundings faded into a blur. For one fleeting second it was as though around us, the world had stopped, or else, that one small corner of it had suddenly been magnified a thousand times. I believe it began there.

Do not believe for one moment that I allowed this infinitesimal premonition to disturb me, or even to knock me out of stride! I continued to smile at Avon, in fact, I almost laughed at him for playing into my hands.
"You are planning to leave? But our records show that you have at least another two years of work to do before you complete."
He observed me sharply. "You are well informed. It's true, if I were to complete the doctorate, I would need another two years at least."
"But...you have other plans?"

He seemed to take a moment deciding whether to answer this. "Yes. I've been offered a job in the corporate finance sector, which I've decided to take."
"Pays well, I imagine?" He didn't have to answer that one. "So, what's the problem with the research?"
"Three problems: one, my supervisor is a fool who won't allow me to do the work which interests me; two, my project needs a great deal more in the way of funds if it is to succeed; three, I want to be well rewarded financially."
"So you are dropping out?"
"Let's say...I've had an offer I can't refuse."
"Corporate finance then? That means you'll be leaving Eurodome. The finance capital is in Asiadome."
He nodded. "I leave in about fifteen days. So, as I originally said, you can't do any work for the Federation here."
"What if it wasn't on the behalf of the Federation?" He regarded me with a measure of curiosity and then looked around the tables, gesturing towards the groups of young scientists, handpicked by the Federation for their promise and supposed brilliance.
"Take a look. Shouldn't you be planning your work with one of them tonight?" His implied insult was unmistakable and I reacted instinctively, slapping him hard across the face. Then, I stood up and without a second look at him, took my leave. It should not be necessary for me to describe the general reaction caused by this and I was keenly aware of all eyes upon me as I left the chamber. Strangely enough, it was not the affront which had most infuriated me but the evidence of my own poor judgement. Very few men surprise me but Avon had astonished me by the inpropriety of his unwarranted attack.

I had walked for only a minute or two when I heard the sound of hurried footsteps behind me. Turning, I received my second surprise of the evening. Avon caught up with me and grabbed hold of my hand. I faced him with glacial contempt.
"That was unforgiveable. Tell me how I can apologize."
"Tell me why you said it."
He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed it there for one, warm, second.
"You are a beautiful and intelligent woman It seems...unreasonable to me that you might choose to spend your time with someone on behalf of the Federation, rather than with me."

I paused, watching as his expression became contrite. Intrigued, I asked him, "Do you always lose control so easily?"
"What gives you the impression that I'm out of control?" he replied with a grin.

We began to walk together, towards the transport tubes.
"Where were you going?" he began, conversationally.
"Back to my quarters. I felt...well, furious, to be honest. I wanted to wind down. I know a rather marvellous way of winding down..." I said with what I hoped was a wicked overtone. Avon said nothing, merely looked down at me in that even way of his.

"Shall I see you home?" he asked suddenly. I turned to him and placed my arms around his neck, smiling seductively. His expression did not change but he drew me gently to him.
"If it's sex you want, Avon, then the answer would have to be 'no'. But if you really want to see this method of relaxation, then, I might accept your offer."

To my surprise, his response was, once again, that refreshing smile.
"Alright. You seem interesting. And I think I'm still in debt to you...that apology probably wasn't enough."
"No...no, I'm sure we'll find that it wasn't..."

The doors to my apartment slid open and we walked straight through, turning on no lights until I reached the cabinet. In the dimmed light of the background lamps, we looked at each other. Then, I touched the cabinet remote control and the top flipped to reveal the keyboard. Avon seemed to stir very slightly as this occurred. I gestured towards the sofa; "You might want to sit back, perhaps over there," I suggested. On the control panel of the keyboard I selected piano and began to play.

In those days I played at least once a day, sometimes for several hours if time allowed. So, the notes fell smoothly from my fingers and within minutes I eased into that comfortable reverie of concentration and pleasure. I could even have forgotten about Avon; such was the power of the creation of that music. I chose, however, to remember him and played to impress him, unsure as ever, whether I sought to display my own talent or the beauty of this almost forgotten and enchanting art. Within my field of vision, I observed him as he watched me. His eyes followed my fingers closely, whilst his eyes...his eyes seemed to be grasping for some understanding, as though it were almost, but not quite within his reach. Finally, he leaned close to me and said something which amazed me.

"It suits you, this Chopin. I could never master the tempo rubato but in your hands it finally makes sense. You have a true and rare talent."
I stopped playing and turned to face him, my face only inches away from his now.
"You know the piano?" I said breathlessly. He nodded once and gestured at the keyboard. "But not in the way you do. Who taught you? I thought that there was only one maestro on Earth."
"Boccherat!" I cried and saw to my delight that he smiled, nodding in acknowledgment. "Boccherat taught me! I still visit him, as a matter of fact, when I can!"
"I knew it," Avon said simply.

Impulsively, I stood up and offering him the chair, said "Play for me, Avon. I'd like to hear someone else play."
"No. I'm sorry." His voice was gentle but firm. "I don't play for others. Ever. I never have."
"But you'll play for me. Don't waste an opportunity like this, Avon."

Wordlessly, his shoulders stiff with tension, he took a seat at the keyboard and examined it, testing the dynamics of the keys, nodding in appreciation at the reaction. Without looking at me he began to play and I sat back in absorbed appreciation. He played music that I had never heard, which immediately indicated to me that he was free of Boccherat's influence. The longer I listened, the more I desired to understand something of the music, but it was clear to me that Avon was as spellbound as ever I had been at that piano, his fingers moving rhythmically and precisely among the keys as they fleshed out the mathematical patterns of harmony and counterpoint. He played for almost thirty minutes, all from memory and when finally he lifted his hands from the keyboard, releasing the keys to the faintest of clicks, there seemed to be nothing to say.

After a long silence, Avon said, very quietly; "That is my protection against insanity; the day I can't play that, I will know that either I have lost my mind, or it has been taken from me."
I responded carefully. "You worry about that happening?"
"Worry? No. Yes. I believe it does happen. It disturbs me; I attempt to plan for the contigency."
"You take a great risk by telling me that." Or at least, I could see that he believed this to be the case. Avon made no response, but took my hand in his.
"How strange that we should meet, like this, at this time. It makes no sense. In fifteen days I'll leave here and never see you again. And yet, you are the first person with whom I have shared this secret."

I have asked myself, since that day, why he did tell me. Was it really just the effect of the music, the coincidence of our secret passion? Or could it be that he began to love me then, as I began to love him? It seems impossible, now, to believe that such a day ever existed.

Of course, he stayed; stayed at his work, stayed with me. For him, I called in an outstanding favour, an early experience in debt collection. Even then, I already had an impressive list of contacts (and not only those inherited from my family); the first men recruited with sensual pleasures, their favours cashed in to manouver situations on behalf of influential female friends, who then presented me to their own, more powerful associates, who became my own. And so forth, the pyramid of influence mounting and my own star, always ascendent. Avon cost me many manouvers in that game. His own requirements were expensive and he lacked the expediency to join in; consequently, he played with my cards. The results, however, were highly commendable. With the correct political backing, his research was handsomely funded and as his resources grew, so did his success, so did his power. My own faded imperceptibly, too slowly to draw attention, or perhaps it was the extent of my ambition that was lacking.

When I heard of the Other Avon, naturally, I demanded to meet him. I actually believe that Avon would have told me nothing of the experiment, had I not chanced to invite Gorning Khatto to lunch. With absolutely no exception, Khatto is the closest thing to a genius to ever work with Avon. With him, I sense that even Avon feels slightly awestruck, although I am certain that it is only I who have noticed this. Khatto took the results which Avon and his group had spent years in accumulating, refining, put them into reverse and made a stunning prediction which was then experimentally ratified. The experiment had already made the Institute famous beyond all previous experience and naturally Avon as its director, had managed to procure most of the credit for himself. On a whim, I had invited young Khatto to lunch with me one day, for really no other reason than to extend to him some of the respect and courtesy which I sensed was lacking in Avon's own treatment of his star employee. And perhaps, I relished the opportunity to employ a certain amount of subterfuge in order to better understand Avon's dark moods of late; that too is possible.

Khatto was reputedly an arrogant young man, conscious of his intellectual prowess, vain about his looks. In those respects, obviously, he resembled Avon, although in Khatto's case, any concern for his appearance was, in my opinion, sadly misplaced. He had the raw look of one whose razor bit too deeply into the flesh, his inscrutable black eyes blazed furiously above those ruddy cheeks, the only feature of any character in that face. I can imagine that very few in the Institute enjoyed the display of courteous manners which Khatto was careful to extend to me. Although I suggested that he call me by my name, he continued to address me as 'Commander' or sometimes even, 'Commander Servalan'.

I had invited him to lunch with me at the Federation Academy, where I still enjoyed dining rights which I used occasionally to entertain young officers-in-training whom I planned to recruit to my command. Khatto was one who had never been close to the Federation and I noted with some satisfaction, the slight anxiety which his surroundings appeared to cause him. I felt that the ambience would surely enhance my own chances to gain valuable information from him; I was correct in that assumption.

He explained his own work to me, describing how he had taken the equations which had been calculated by the computers Avon had built and programmed in the early years to model chaotic systems, acknowledging Avon's ingenuity in designing a programme which could extrapolate backwards from the chaos which was generated by one set of equations, to generate new equations which predicted downstream behaviour in such systems.

Khatto had then looked at all the predictions from these new equations (here is where he had displayed that flair for brilliance) and had applied them to a system to which no-one had ever imagined that they could be relevant. In this way, (Khatto explained to me), he had demonstrated that in fact contrary to the popular belief of our time, molecular systems were inherently unpredictable: the ancients had, after all, been right. So, together Khatto and Avon had 'proven' that all events are not predestined, programmed at a molecular level to respond in an entirely predictable manner, if only one knew the rules. They had gone on to demonstrate that parallel universes, generated constantly by the complexity of all decisions, exist concurrently with our own, and began the work to traverse the breach between these universes.

All the rest of the work had been exclusively Khatto's; the development of the notion of the Personal Probability Field, even the building of the Field Synchronizer. This was the machine, he told me, that would be tested the following week. It was planned to take an individual and to synchronize his own PPF with that of another field in the continuum. Since their calculations predicted that only the most closely related fields could be synchronized without an absurd energy requirement, it was thought that the result would be to enable synchronization with the individual's counterpart in a parallel universe.

What synchronization meant, in physical terms, they were uncertain. It might mean a tangible presence, perhaps a projection of the personality, or instead, telepathic communication between the two individuals, or even death. It was when Khatto admitted an admiration for Avon's willingness to take the risk himself, that I realised why I had heard nothing of the experiment until now.

I'll admit, I was concerned, but not unduly. I know my husband to be an exceedingly cautious man, especially where his own well-being is concerned. If he planned to use the Synchronizer on himself, it was certain that he had, in fact, already experimented with someone else, unbeknownst to Khatto. So it was that one week later, I was present in the Institute, along with all the politicians and senior Federation officials, at the much trumpeted 'switching-on' of the Synchronizer.

Avon entered the PPF Confinement Chamber wearing a one-piece, silver-white radiation suit which tightly hugged his wide girth, greatly broadened since the day of our first meeting. He had previously confessed to me, rather smugly I thought, that this suit was absolutely unnecessary for the radiation levels leaked by the machine but that it had been decided to include it merely to enhance the drama of the event. The switch was thrown and we watched in amazement as, in an identical chamber next to Avon's, another man materialised. On the monitor, we all witnessed this man's momentary confusion, which was rapidly overtaken by some apparent sensation of nausea or faintness; he grew suddenly deathly pale and collapsed onto the floor of the chamber. I rushed forward instinctively. There could be no doubt that the man was Avon.

The physical details were different, that is true. The Other Avon appeared much younger from a distance; he had the sleek figure of the Avon I remembered from that evening at the piano, his hair was cut short, he wore no beard. His clothes seemed to be highly uncharacteristic of my own Avon; a concoction of black leather, studded belts, heavy boots. Apparel which I doubt my own, highly conservative Avon, would ever countenance. When the Other Avon was carried, unconscious, from the chamber, I was able to look more closely at his face, which finally confirmed his identity.

A team of emergency paramedics followed him into a sterile room and emerged a few minutes later with awkward grins, shaking Avon's hand and telling him that his experiment had been a sucess, that his counterpart from the parallel universe was quite well and merely suffering from some side effect of the synchronization which had caused his blood pressure to plummet.

Avon had decided initially to limit access to the Other Avon to myself, himself and Khatto. Naturally, we extended the hospitality of our home to him, into which, still unconscious, he was conveyed in order to minimize the stress of waking in a hospital room.

"He looks younger than you," I remarked as we stood together beside his bed.
"The timelines should be exactly correlated," Avon answered sourly, "therefore, that is not a possibility. Perhaps he has a less stressful lifestyle...or a less stressful wife."

It seemed to me that of late all our conversations degenerated equally rapidly into personal attacks and irritations. Lacking the energy or will to be drawn into another verbal battle, I decided to refrain from making any retort to Avon's jibe. Avon waited with growing impatience for the other man to awaken and eventually gave up, leaving instructions on how the man was to be treated when he finally woke up, before he stalked off to the Institute to take attend the media conference. The Other Avon slept another three hours and then awoke, sitting up sharply and stiffly when he realised he was not alone.

He faced me with an expression of mingled anger and disbelief. "One question: how did you get off the Liberator?" he spat gutturally.
"I'm sorry...Liberator? The rebel Blake's ship? How is that relevant?"

I cannot deny that a thrill ran through me; could things be so different in his universe that there, my political sympathies were entirely reversed? I wondered fleetingly about the events which had occurred to effect that particular bifurcation in reality.
"What in God's name have you tried this time Servalan?" he began with almost vicious hostility.
"Listen carefully to me Avon: you have been brought into this universe, which is along parallel probabilities with your own. Many things will be similar between the two universes, much will also be different. I advise you to take nothing for granted." I could not hold back a warm smile. "I'm glad that you know me. It's good to think that whatever the circumstances or surroundings, our lives remain linked"

He continued to regard me guardedly. "Let's just suppose for a moment that I believe you. You presumably have a way to prove this?"
I nodded. "We anticipated this question. The whole experiment was recorded and the equipment awaits your inspection at any time you wish."

There was a lengthy pause before he muttered, almost to himself, "Well now, that's the minimum standard I'd expect."
Leaning forward I asked, "What do you mean. Has this happened before?"
"Before? Not this exact scenario, obviously. It's ingenious as ever, I'll admit that much. But don't you think that these psychological manipulations are getting repetitive? You can't really hope to convince me again, not after last time?". Then, almost as an aside, "You look breathtaking, by the way. Or your synthetic image does. My compliments to the program designer."

I began slowly to grasp the implications of his statements. Very carefully, I said; "You think this is some illusion?"
"What else?"
"I'm telling the truth?"
"Unlikely. It's not one of your more consistent characteristics; you are more adept in turpitude, deception, treachery." He spoke abstractedly, wearily; his voice conveyed no emotion as he made these accusations; he might as well have said 'water, keys, shoe'. I marveled at the obdurate indifference in his manner: he had accepted his own theory for his circumstances with very little external evidence, as though such psychologically wrenching experiences were commonplace occurrences in his life. I longed to discover the point at which my Avon had become this Avon.

Reflectively, I said; "I begin to understand: destinies diverge inevitably towards infinite and distinct futures. In one of them, I am your enemy."

A scornful laugh escaped his lips: "How much longer do you wish to continue this charade?" I stood up then, turning away from him for a moment to organize my thoughts. There seemed no way to convince him: if he persisted in his belief that I was some illusion, then the reality of all physical and sensory stimuli could be denied. Even meeting with my Avon would not convince him. I decided to try another approach.
"If I were the Servalan of your universe, what would I do now?"

"In this dream? Attempt to gain information. Program me to surrender the Liberator, or Orac. You might even try to use Blake again. Foolish, since I know now that he is dead."
"Blake? What have you to do with a terrorist like Blake?"
The Other Avon chuckled quietly. "Terrorist? Save that for the sub-space broadcasts."
"In your universe, you know Blake?"
Avon was silent now, staring at me in stony defiance. "I see now what you are attempting; you plan to drive me mad."

I gazed at him helplessly: I could think of no logical way to convince him. But also, I was fired with curiosity.
"The Servalan of your universe, are we similar, she and I?"
He was impassive, shaking his head very slightly, almost incredulous.
"Let's not waste any more time on this, Servalan," he said finally.
"Alright." I stood up and took my leave. There seemed to be little point in remaining. This was now Avon's problem; he would have to face the fact that his counterpart threatened to be consumed with paranoia if continuously presented with the situation as it was.

I didn't look at him again, but strolled out of the bedchamber we had assigned to him, down the stairs and through the hall towards the exit. When I reached the bottom of the stairs I noticed that he was following me, rather slowly, as though for the first time rather surprised by my actions. I stopped and looked up at him and realised that he had something had stopped him in his tracks. I followed his gaze and observed that it was focused upon the grand piano which graced the hall.

"Magnificent, isn't it? We bought it last year. The electronic versions probably sound as good but they can't compete for sheer dramatics. Would you like to try it?" He advanced, staring at the piano as though it were some apparition. He gestured at me, waving me towards the stool.
"Come on then. Let me hear it. Frankly, this time you've surpassed yourself."

I smiled inwardly as I took my position; I should have remembered this before. I began to play the piece which had taken me so many years to master, years during which Boccherat had refused me his counsel (he had called it 'keyboard games for the intellect, not music for the soul' and would have nothing to do with anyone who requested to learn them.) Unlike Avon, I had to use music, the same score which had lain across the keyboard of our piano since the day we had married. I had played for only a few minutes when I heard Avon beside me, his voice breathless with disbelief.

"No. It...can't be. No-one knows about that."
I stopped playing, looked up into his eyes, which for a second or two actually glazed over with defenceless astonishment. "The Three-part inventions? In this universe, you know, I think that's why I fell in love with you."
He regarded me doubtfully. "We are lovers?"
Softly, I replied, "We are married."
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"Because you are a ruthlessly ambitious woman whose thirst for power would drain the affection of any man. Because you are unscrupulous and couldn't risk tieing yourself to one man lest all the others think you entirely unattainable. Because we are sworn to destroy one another."

I shook my head. "Here, for what it's worth, we are sworn to love and protect one another."
"'For what it's worth...'" he echoed hollowly. "Quite remarkable." Then, with a nod at the piano, "Does he play this? The 'other' Avon?"
"Not as often as he once did. But when he is tired, frustrated, angry, it appears to give him comfort. He loves the sheer mathematical ingenuity of the Inventions, the musical palindromes, the technical discipline they require."

Wistfully, he ran his fingers lightly along the white keys.
"It's been years. Fifteen, maybe more. I stopped when I left my studies. I thought it meant nothing to me anymore."
But clearly, he had been wrong.
"' That is my protection against insanity; the day I can't play that, I will know that either I have lost my mind, or it has been taken from me.' You said that to me the first time you played for me, the first time we met. What happened to you, Avon?"

I found the sudden and unexpected change in his demeanour to be remarkably appealing. His guard had dropped suddenly; I was reminded at that first tantalizing night at the piano. Emotion gripped him and trembling, he sat down. Shaking his head, he murmured, "Perhaps I have lost my mind. Perhaps it has been taken from me; it's true, I no longer remember how to play the Inventions. And I've tried...so very hard to forget how that came to be."

I wanted to touch this Other Avon, whose grasp on reality seemed so tenuous, whose emotional stability so fragile. As he sat beside me, apparently oblivious to my presence, I noticed in his eyes something which I had not seen for many years in my Avon; a gaunt look of anguish and betrayal. But somehow. my mind strayed to the few, tantalizing threads of information which he had implied about my counterpart Servalan. I began to play again, hoping to distract him somewhat with the music.

As I played, I asked him "Why are we enemies in your universe? Are you really involved with Blake and his people?" His attention returned slowly and as though he were emerging from a dream, he turned to me and with that ironic smile, said, "Clearly, whatever caused our universes to diverge has also effected a great change in your own circumstances. In my universe, your position and power are unparalleled. You were the President of the Terran Federation."

The smile was icy; the tone, once again, impenetrable. My hands faltered at the keys; I turned, bewildered, as I heard him whisper in a voice now heavy with regret, "Don't play anymore...I don't think I can stand another minute."

My expression of mystification must have been apparent because he smiled ruefully, saying, "You hoped that this would be the signal from my past by which we would recognize each other? That music, once so precious, is now intolerable to me. It was the music to which I was systematically tortured when interrogated by the Federation. How that fact came to be known to my captors, has always remained a mystery to me...until now."