Space Borderman: A Psychedelic Noir Adventure

On the investigator’s desk lay a thin red folder. Centered precisely. In the corner of the desk stood a device I didn’t recognize. Pure Blade Runner, I thought.

The investigator looked like a living corpse — some genderless creature that could have been either a man or a woman. No introduction was offered. The entire room was filled with grey, featureless light.

“Your full name,” the investigator said.

“Taras Ramzes,” I replied.

No notes were taken. No eye contact made. An android? Hard to say.

“Describe in detail the physical training course for Space Bordermen,” the investigator said.

“Which details, exactly?” I said. “The course runs for seven years. I can’t exactly summarize all of it in a few minutes.”

“We are interested in the labyrinth,” the investigator said.

“The labyrinth?” I said, genuinely surprised. “But that’s barely part of the course. It’s a trial. A separate thing.”

“Very well. Tell us about the trial. And — most importantly — how you managed to complete it.”

“Well,” I began, “there’s no obvious way through the labyrinth — “

1.2. Navigating the Labyrinth

“As you may know, the labyrinth is an underground network of natural and artificial caves. Its exact length, width, and depth are unknown. The excursant— that is the term used, with a certain sadism, for the person undergoing the trial — must enter the labyrinth and exit it.”

“And that’s all?” the investigator said, with what almost sounded like surprise. “Simply enter and exit?”

“Of every ten who go in, seven typically come back. Of those seven, only three are fit for active service. The others — their minds don’t hold. You may recall my mentioning mentality. It comes down to nervous and emotional load. Ten days in total darkness is extraordinarily difficult to endure. On top of that, food and water are issued for one day only.”

“I see,” the investigator said. Though it was plain that with each passing minute, they understood less and less.

“And you lasted the full ten days?” the investigator asked, with a manufactured cheerfulness — the tone one uses when someone is telling you about an impressively large fish they caught over the weekend.

“I came out on the third day.”

“The third day?” For the first time, something resembling emotion crossed the investigator’s face. And in that moment, I understood I was looking at a woman.

“The Duke helped me,” I said.

“I see, yes,” the investigator said. “And who is the Duke?”

“The Duke ran everything back then. He was the Navigator.”

“The Navigator?” she said, visibly thrown.

“Yes. The Duke was the Navigator. And I was his favorite.”

“And how exactly did he help you?”

“When we said goodbye, he shook my hand. He looked me in the eyes and mouthed a single word: Droite.”

“And that’s all?” she said, unconvinced. “One word. How could one word possibly help?”

“Quite simply,” I said. “The moment I entered the cave, I closed my eyes. I didn’t open them again until I was out.”

“But how did you find the exit?” she asked, leaning in now.

I leaned toward her and lowered my voice.

“At every fork in the path, I turned right.”

Droite(Fr.) — right

1.3. The Calling

“How did you come to consider becoming a Space Borderman in the first place?” the investigator asked.

Today, she was dressed in something of uncertain shape, black and white. Her hair showed the beginnings of an arrangement.

Progress, I thought, smiling inwardly.

My face, however, remained unmoved — carrying the precise measure of polite attention the situation required. Anyone who has ever been obliged to appear not quite too intelligent will understand me perfectly.

“I believe I mentioned that there is no selection process as such. The identification system chooses you. But wanting it isn’t enough. Identification begins only under a specific condition.”

“What condition, exactly?” the investigator asked, exhaling. “Must I keep asking follow-up questions, or are you capable of giving complete answers on your own? What condition?”

“Well,” I said, after a pause, “one must hear the calling.”

“The calling?” she repeated. “What do you mean?” She threw a quick glance at the ceiling.

“I always assumed the word calling didn’t leave much room for interpretation,” I said. Her unease was quietly gratifying.

“Give me an example of a calling, please,” she said in a firm voice, making a visible effort not to look at the ceiling.

“An example? Gladly. The same kind of calling that Catholic priests receive,” I said.

“Who are Catholic priests?” she asked, with a new tension in her voice.

“What do you mean, who are — “ I started, and stopped. “Listen,” I said loudly, no longer bothering to hide it, “what year is it?”

I tilted my head back and stared directly at the ceiling.

1.4. “Rainbow-2”

“And what did you say this project was called?” the investigator asked.

Today, she was dressed in something considerably more striking. She looked like Grace Kelly in a beach outfit from To Catch a Thief. The room was different. An exact replica of my living room. That is, of the living room I used to have, back when I still had one.

“I haven’t told you anything about a project yet,” I said, and glanced at the ceiling. Nothing suspicious. A ceiling like any other.

“I have information indicating you participated in a scientific project. What was this project called?” the investigator asked. She even smiled — she wanted the answer that badly.

“Rainbow-2,” I said.

“Rainbow — what?” she said.

"Rainbow,” I repeated. “Project Rainbow. Mine is Rainbow-2.”

“I see,” the investigator said. “And what happened to Rainbow-1?”

“Everyone died,” I said.

“I see,” said the investigator.

She clearly did not.

“But whyRainbow, exactly? It seems a rather strange name for a scientific project.”

“The original Rainbow belongs to Nikola Tesla,” I said. “Ours is Rainbow-2. The name, to my mind, is mystically symbolic. Two of us survived.”

1.5. Nikola Tesla

“Have you ever read Nikola Tesla’s diaries?” I asked.

This time, we were seated in wicker chairs inside an enormous greenhouse. Parrots rehearsed something behind the bushes. It was sweltering.

“I’ve never heard that name,” the investigator said. Today, she was dressed in something resembling a plantation owner’s suit — but with short shorts.

“Just to clarify,” I said. “You’ve never heard of the Philadelphia Experiment? Death rays? Wireless energy transmission?”

“None of that means anything to me personally,” the investigator said. She had the look of someone who had just been asked by a stranger on the street to explain Fermat’s Last Theorem.

“You know nothing about the man who, in practical terms, invented the twentieth century?” I said, with emphasis.

“Oh — so you’re from the twentieth century?” the investigator brightened.

“No, I’m from the twenty-second,” I said, quietly marveling at their hiring standards.

“Wait,” she said. “But you just told me this Nikolai lived in the twentieth century?”

"Nikola,” I said. “Not Nikolai. Do you understand anything I’m telling you?”

“Some things,” the investigator replied, with a trace of offense. “Wireless energy transmission, for instance — that’s the technical foundation of our entire society.”

1.6. The Escape

“And what did you do with your free time out there? If you had any, of course?” the investigator asked at the start of what would turn out to be our last meeting in this particular stretch of the story. Neither of us knew it would be the last — not until a certain moment.

“How shall I put it?” I said, pleasantly. “When artificial intelligence does all the work for you, you’re left with so much free time you no longer know what to do with it.”

“I understand,” the investigator said. “But still — what did you and the other crew members actually do during the flight?” Her voice had taken on an insistence that made clear she wanted an answer and intended to get one.

This time we were seated on the vast stage of some theatre. Apart from us, the stage was empty. Two chairs, facing each other. That was all. The investigator was dressed as a ballerina and looked, in my estimation, quite erotic. Understandable, given my ten-year hiatus from female company. I stole a glance at my feet to see if I was wearing pointe shoes. All clear.

The enormous auditorium was submerged in half-darkness. But it was not empty, as I had first assumed. Quite the opposite. Every seat was taken. Silhouettes crowded the aisles and the balcony. A full house, I thought, squinting, trying to make out the audience. The audience was not so much strange as somehow...

“So what did you do with your free time out there?” the investigator nearly shouted.

Her face had flushed slightly. Her pupils were dilated.

Methadone?I asked myself inwardly — but aloud I said: “But of course, no secret there whatsoever. I was working on the problem of spatiotemporal singularities that inevitably arise in general relativity when the energy-momentum tensor satisfies physically motivated positivity conditions.”

“I beg your pardon?” the investigator said, startled, and turned to peer for several seconds into the darkness of the right wing.

A vague movement stirred through the auditorium. Like the first drops of rain hitting a thin metal cornice.

Then the investigator gave a firm nod — as though answering some interior voice — and offered me a strained smile.

“I must apologize for the negligence of the staff,” she said. “No one thought to offer you anything to drink. I’ll see to it immediately.”

She rose lightly to her feet and hurried off into the right wing.

It was a pleasant sight, though it had nothing to do with ballet, if you follow me. I’m not easily convinced that a woman’s hips should be narrower than a man’s — but the situation was developing in a dangerous direction.

The investigator returned quickly, carrying a tray with a bottle of clear liquid. A bottle — or rather a vial — less than half full.

“Drink this immediately,” the investigator ordered. “It will keep you safe tonight.”

The official quality had left her gaze entirely. She looked frightened.

“Please — drink it, I’m telling you,” she said, almost shouting now.

The noise from the auditorium, at first formless, had built into an infernal cacophony — as though fist-sized hailstones were hammering a metal awning every second.

“What’s your name?” I asked, arranging my face into something appropriately resolute.

“Paradise,” the investigator answered without hesitation. “Now drink.” She was barely keeping herself from despair.

I looked her steadily in the eyes.

“Charmed,” I said.

And with that, I took several swallows of the clear liquid from the vial. It tasted like plain water.

The infernal noise stopped instantly. Silence fell. One of the silhouettes dropped to the floor.

“Much better,” the investigator said, almost cheerfully. Her eyes were shining. “Now you won’t be able to feed me any more of that nonsense about rainbows and some Nikolai. I’m asking directly, and I require an immediate, direct answer: what do you know about a project called The Wave?”

I flinched inwardly at that.

“Project Wave?” I said, with studied innocence. “The Wave, the Wave... I’m afraid I don’t recall.”

“Then make yourself recall,” the investigator said with force. “Otherwise, the consequences will be fatal.”

“For whom?” I asked.

“For you, naturally,” she smiled. “Come now. Let’s not let things escalate.”

“Ah — escalate,” I said, as though this changed everything. ” We wouldn’t want that,” I said, leaning into the word " we. “Not either of us.”

“Very well. Here is the short version of Project Wave,” I said.

The investigator moved to interrupt me, then seemed to catch herself, and simply nodded in silence.

That’s definitely not water, I thought. And made my decision: I need to get out of here.

“Project Wave is designed to develop several specific properties in a candidate. In the first phase, lasting three years, the candidate masters wave resonance.”

“What does wave resonance mean?” the investigator cut in, irritated.

“It’s quite simple,” I said. “One must perform eighteen specific movements with specific parts of the body in a precise sequence. These movements must align with the mental patterns of your consciousness.” As I said this, I began making movements that, by any measure, were unusual for an interrogation setting.

“And that’s all?” the investigator asked, deflated.

“Not entirely,” I said. “That is merely the precondition for achieving wave resonance.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” the investigator interrupted. “But you still need to tell me about—”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t the time,” I interrupted her in turn.

“You see, when wave resonance is achieved, the waves in my body — for example — enter into resonance with the waves that exist beyond the walls of this room. I become, so to speak, one continuous wave, for which it makes no difference where it is located — here, inside, or out there, beyond.”

“What do you mean?” the investigator asked, confused. She glanced again toward the right wing.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, almost cheerfully. “See you in paradise.”

And with those words, before the eyes of a thoroughly bewildered investigator, I vanished from the room.