An End to Certainty

By Thomas James Taylor

James, a widower, and fighting cancer, accidentally overdoses on his pain medication and dies. He is surprised to find that his soul has been captured and placed within a new and perfect replication of himself at age thirty. He finds he is not the only one, and that a super intelligence in the form

of a rogue, quantum computer names Quanta

• Language: English
• Publisher: SILVER INK LITERARY AGENCY
• Release date: Sep 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781952062568

Thomas James Taylor

Tom Taylor was born near Morphett Vale, South Australia, on Dec, 1st, 1954, and was raised on the family farm, Thrush Grove, which was established during early colonization of the state, and lived there with his family until 1977. Possessing a penchant for adventure, he has embarked on several working tours of Australia, which, together with his rather wide-ranging and sometimes harrowing experiences, has provided him with a rich source of material from which to draw inspiration. In 1983, he retired from work-a-day life and began writing, as much to satisfy his creative bent as to delve a few of the many subjects which had always interested him. "The whole question of existence, being human and living in a world of seemingly limitless possibility is far more food for thought than I could digest in several lifetimes," he says. Tom presently resides near the coast, south of Adelaide, sharing life with his partner, Janet, and is currently busy as a musician while preparing his next three paperbacks for publication. His agile mind and quirky sense of humour are capable of imbuing new interest into almost any subject, and his irresistible curiosity and fascination with life translates into compelling story-telling. Let those who have become disenchanted, cynical and jaded by every-day existence be heartened. Here are a new set of glasses through which to view your universe.Mauve-coloured glasses!

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Copyright © 2021 by Thomas James Taylor.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-952062-55-1

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-952062-56-8

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily

reflect the views of the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

All rights reserved. No part in this book may be produced and transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including

photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval

system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Published by Silver Ink Literary Agency 05/16/2021

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Contents

— Chapter 1 —  A Pleasant Afternoon

— Chapter 2 —  Crossing Over

— Chapter 3 —  A New Beginning

— Chapter 4 —  Anomalies Unite

— Chapter 5 —  Action & Endeavour

— Chapter 6 —  Time & Reason

— Chapter 7 —  Complications

— Chapter 8 —  Commitment

— Chapter 9 —  Tedium

— Chapter 10 —  Waiting

— Chapter 11 —  Arrival

— Chapter 12 —  Stratagem

— Chapter 13 —  No Second Prizes

— Chapter 14 —  Displaced Persons

— Chapter 15 —  Striking A Blow

— Chapter 16 —  Fear Factor

— Chapter 1 — 

A Pleasant Afternoon

It had been an agreeable day. James had risen at the usual hour of seven after a reasonable night’s sleep, one full of pleasant dreams, of wide-open spaces and far horizons. Beyond this he could not recall anything of the content. In the bathroom mirror he lathered up, shaved, washed thoroughly in the basin and stood inspecting the face that looked back at him. It was a face deeply tanned by the years spent under the Australian sun; grey eyes, still clear, youthful even, seeming to hold the spark of intellect, the lines at their corners reflective of mirth and an ever ready smile. His shoulder length greying hair still covered his pate sufficiently well. He stroked it back with a hairbrush and tied the ponytail. He finished the process with a hot flannel, being sure to stroke the mustache straight and likewise the narrow chin beard which people often said put them in mind of some kind of an aesthetic Bohemian, though he did not much appreciate the comparison. It was not at all the appearance he had meant to project. Appearance was something James was mindful of. Being accused of looking as something other than what he actually was, it did not come across to him as a compliment. Certainly not a Bohemian.

After a light breakfast eaten in front of the television, in order to view the morning news, he grabbed his hat, coat and cane, slipped a looped chain over Reg’s broad head and walked the kilometre to the local shops where the chemist was situated.

Reg, his eleven-year-old bull terrier, had made this trip on countless occasions. The morning stroll to the shops had been almost ritual from the beginning of their relationship some seven years prior. An old friend of James’ had found him as a stray and taken Reg in for companionship as much as to take care of a dog obviously in need of a home. His white, shorthaired coat had been tinged red, the colour of the surrounding landscape, and his general poor condition, with cuts and abrasions unattended to, the rib cage a little too definable and indicating scarcity of available food, required that someone intervene. The question of how he had come to be in this condition had never been resolved, but James’s friend, Harry, had fed and cared for him as long as he was able, until the landlord finally put her foot down over the ‘no pets’ clause in the rental agreement. James had taken him in, and a good union it had been from the start. Someone with whom to share the moments of the day and a reason to take exercise in the form of long walks along excursion trails on the outskirts of town. In summertime a walk along the beach and a swim was much enjoyed, and the health of both had improved considerably for the union.

At the chemist, James’ morphine prescription had been filled; at the supermarket he purchased saccharine capsules and from the bakery the usual mushroom pie, to be reheated and consumed in front of the television set, with a documentary or perhaps a movie to be viewed on cable.

At the end of their afternoon walk, around 3p.m., James and companion arrived at the front door of his three bedroom, redbrick home. A car pulled up at the curb just as he slotted the key into the lock and pushed open the door. He turned to view the arrival, recognised immediately the once white, still very battered appearance of Harry’s old Holden utility. He raised his cane in greeting while Reg responded with a woof, tail wagging. Harry emerged from the driver’s side. A large man, he looked to be in his mid sixties, although there was something vernal about his demeanour; head shaved clean, his face, like James’s, well tanned and possessing the outward appearance of vigil, with some slight concealment of constant humour rising within.

Entering the house together James tossed the package containing his purchases onto the table in the far corner of the lounge room, misjudging the arced trajectory just enough so that the package caught the edge of a chair, and spinning, spilled a small container which rolled off the back of the table and onto the carpet against the far wall; a result he did not notice, having turned away before it had come to rest, expecting it to land exactly where he had directed it. Mistakes such as this were rare; his hand eye coordination, right throughout his life, had always been exceptional.

The room they inhabited was well lit, with sunshine pouring in through the large windows. It was well furnished with a large, comfortable looking sofa with matching leather armchairs at its centre. A dining table with six chairs occupied the corner, surrounded by shelves packed full with books of every description, reaching to a high ceiling, and at the opposite end of the room sat a television, stereo and more large bookshelves dominating.

‘Coffee?’ James asked, watching Harry wearily seat himself in an armchair.

‘Thanks. I could use one.’

Reg came over to greet the man he recognised as a friend from years past, tail still wagging, and received a scratch and a rub for his trouble, before crossing the hallway to enter the room adjacent, full of musical instruments and recording equipment; the home music studio James had built for himself and musician friends, in which to play and record.

In short time James emerged from the kitchen with the coffees. Handing one to his friend, he took his own to the lounge chair opposite and seated himself, carefully, wincing as he did so.

‘Back playing up?’ Harry asked.

‘Back, legs, knees, ankles. . . the usual. Someone ought to blow motorcycles up,’ he joked, with a chuckle.

Harry glanced in the direction of the far end of the room where several motorcycle racing trophies occupied prominent position atop the shelves. James followed his friends line of sight, smiled ruefully. ‘Everything has a price,’ he said, flatly.

‘I guess that’s so,’ Harry responded. ‘If you had taken up surfing, like I did–’

‘There would be no trophies to look at and I would have been shark-shit, long ago,’ James finished for him. ‘Don’t even think of going there, fellah. Regrets are for those who never took a shot at anything, their whole, dreary lives. I’m quite happy with my lot. You don’t hear me complaining, do you?’

‘Nope.’ Harry sipped his coffee, allowed his gaze to wander about the room. There were a few framed photos on the table beneath the side wall window. He recognised one of himself at the Hells Beach Surf Carnival from 1977. He had taken first prize that year and the photo showed him, at age twenty two, just managing to hoist the massive trophy above his head in triumph. Was it really forty two years ago? Goddamn. . . Where the hell does it go? he mused ruefully.

‘Come on. Let’s go out back, grab some sunshine,’ James suggested, and rising in unison, they moved out of the lounge room, through the kitchen and out through the screen door at the back of the house, to seat themselves at a wooden table in the centre of the yard, surrounded by vegetable plots bordering two sides in an L-shape. On the left side of the yard stood a large shed, a garage which housed James’s motorcycles and workshop. A lean-to roof supported by timber uprights at the near side afforded extra work area on a concrete floor, the space used for mechanical work when, in the summer months, the temperature inside the shed rose far to high to work comfortably. Seating themselves, James pulled out a tobacco tin and began rolling a cigarette while Harry surveyed the garden, inspecting the greenery with obvious approval.

The sun was wonderfully warming. There was a slight breeze with the hint of ocean salt in it. Small birds chirped, fluttering among the branches of peach trees, nectarine, an oleander and a hibiscus in full bloom. In the distance, down in the valley where a stream meandered sedately seaward, crows could be heard, their distinctive kaw, kaw, kaaaw reaching across the intervening distance from time to time.

Reg was heard to muzzle open the kitchen screen door, through which he appeared carrying a partially deflated soccer ball in his mouth. The door slapped shut on sprung hinges as he brought the ball out into the yard. Choosing a suitably comfortable spot on the thick lawn, he dropped down, and with a grunt, deep in the throat, he twisted himself around, wriggling as if into a luxurious mattress, and began to snooze with feet in the air.

‘Nice out here.’

‘It is,’ James agreed.

In silence, each allowed the other a few moments’ contemplation. James lit the cigarette he had constructed, blew smoke into the air. Harry swallowed a mouthful of coffee, returned the mug to the tabletop, smiled in amusement as he regarded for a moment, Reg, his legs pointed skyward, paws folded downward, napping with what surely appeared to be a smile of pure pleasure on his face as he warmed in the afternoon sunshine.

‘What would be the point?’ James was heard to say after a time, so quietly as to be barely audible.

‘Eh,’ Harry responded. ‘Did you say something?’

‘Hadn’t meant to,’ said James, raising his gaze to meet his friend’s. ‘Didn’t realize I had voiced the thought. I was just thinking.

‘About—?’

‘Life. I was thinking it ain’t long enough. That we really are cheated, aren’t we? We spend all our lives pursuing this and that. Knowledge for the most part. Comfort, perhaps. . . money, women. It might take thirty years or more to get money enough to set one’s self up comfortably. A piece of dirt to call your own, a house and a car no one else has owned before you. A collection of stuff. Furniture, books —’ he motioned towards the shed ‘— a workshop, the tools of your trade. But mostly knowledge. We spend our lives in pursuit of knowledge. Wisdom even, if one is so lucky. How long does that take. . . fifty years? At least forty or fifty years before you begin to understand how little we actually do know. Enough to know we have only scratched the surface, really. Fifty years is nothing. We deserve at least four times that much. . . More! We really don’t get the hang of things until our time is more than halfway gone. It’s a gyp, don’t you think? And then, before you know it you’ve grown old.’

Michael’s face expressed that he was having to rapidly assimilate the proposition in far too short a time. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought much about it. Life is what it is and we don’t get a say. Nobody said it was fair. Quite the opposite, in fact, but I’m not one to be squarking about life being unfair.’

‘No, I guess you’re not. Just, it strikes me, the cosmos is such a finely balanced arrangement. Energy is never lost, only transferred or converted. Everything is balanced and it seems such a perfect setup. Human life, though. Intelligent life. Like I say, all that initial time taken to get a foothold and an understanding of it all. By the time we come near to achieving anything like understanding—’ James snapped his fingers in demonstration. ‘It’s over. We’re short-changed for all the effort we put in. Definitely a gyp.’

‘Hmmm,’ Harry responded. ‘Okay it’s a gyp. Is there anything we can we do about it?’

‘Well nothing, naturally. Not yet anyway. Maybe the day will come we’ll be able to manipulate our genome, make it possible to extend our life-span. But then, maybe there’s more to the puzzle.’

Harry peered quizzically into his empty coffee cup, returned it to the table. ‘Like what?’

‘Perhaps there’s more, something beyond the apparent finality of death.

Harry regarded his friend thoughtfully. ‘What’s with this life and death stuff? It’s a little morbid isn’t it?’

James took a deep breath. ‘I was at the doctor’s a couple of days ago. Results from my yearly physical came back a couple of months ago. Stage four cancer. The doc says I don’t have much time left.’

His friend became noticeably more attentive. ‘Cancer?’

‘It’s in the liver and the lungs. I’ve been receiving palliative care for a while now. I probably should have told you before this’

‘Damn it,’ Harry responded bitterly. ‘I’m so sorry, James. Bloody cancer. I could see you weren’t looking so great, recently, but I didn’t like to comment.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘How many people have we lost to it?’

‘Don’t let it bum you, buddy. I’ve kinda gotten used to the idea. I haven’t felt right for way too long a time now, and I’ve had some time to get used to the idea. While I don’t much care for this end-of-the-line business, I am at least managing to resign myself to it. The mind is able to adjust to the inevitable, given enough time. Hell, no one gets to live forever, right? I think there must be a symmetry to it, somehow. It’s a matter of finding it.’

‘Sounds like you have been doing quite a lot of thinking, even for you.’

‘Hard not to.’

‘Yeah, it must be.’ There was a moment’s silence before Harry continued. ‘One thing I’ve never asked you in all the years I’ve known you, and you’ve never let on, but, are you religious at all?’

Jim considered for a moment. ‘No more than most. As a child, the story of Christ, the resurrection and the other stories. I guess I hung onto the notion for a while, but as the years go by, real life kinda slaps you in the face and says to wise up, that it’s a fairytale. I’ve got nothing against religion, perse, and Christianity has developed a nice enough story. Moral guidance is a good thing, obviously. It’s the morons that take it all too damn seriously who bother me. It still have me wondering sometimes, though. I mean, beyond that line there is no coming back, is there? It’s not like anyone has ever returned from death with holiday snaps,’ he chuckled.

‘The stories you hear of people being revived with their stories of seeing dead relatives and friends. The brain is going to create something, with all those chemicals pumping through the noodle, so I can’t find any good reason to buy into it. But, hey, what do I know? Weird shit happens, and, lately, I’m just too weary to be bothered. My mentality has chanced a lot, and anyway, I could about use an eternity of sleep. I reckon I don’t mind so much.’

After a minute’s pause, Harry said, ‘What you were saying before, about the universe not wasting energy, and with it not making sense to waste everything one learns in a lifetime. I reckon there’s some sense in that.’

‘Damn right there is. In this universe, or cosmos, or whatever you want to call it, there really is a vast connection to everything else. An invisible network of connectedness that’s difficult to put into words. If energy can flow unimpeded universally, then why not the higher up the scale things, like memories, knowledge, our essential being? The spirit of a person is such a powerful thing. It’s what all religion is built on, after all. The soul. The quintessence.’

‘I don’t want to talk you out of it,’ Harry replied, ‘but energy is energy, memory is courtesy of the flesh and blood computer of the brain. The soul? Well, it doesn’t have to be anything more than the drive, or the will, to continue living, does it? Perhaps it’s nothing more than a mental construct. Something generated by the brain and incorporated along with everything else, with a story attached of why — why it exists.’

James widened his eyes in mock astonishment. ‘You come up with that yourself?’

‘You understood what I just said?’ he laughed. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, yes I did, as a matter of fact. I’ve thought about that sort of stuff, and it’s a good enough story, compared to some I’ve heard.’

‘It is,’ James agreed. ‘And you’re right. The more I think about it, the more difficult it is to imagine how personal experience and ego might be preserved and continue beyond death, as is the case with energy. Although,’ he added, raising a finger. ‘I remember reading in a science mag about a theory scientists have come up with, regarding black holes.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Harry acknowledged, smiling.

‘Yeah, but it is pretty far out there, as ideas go. It seems a little too fantastic, actually, now it comes to explaining it. When you immerse yourself in this quantum theory stuff, it does seem to hold together to a degree.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Harry responded. ‘Okay, spill it. No wait. How about I get us another coffee before we get into this?’ ‘Sure,’ James agreed, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t have sugar in the house any more. I changed to saccharin. It’s in the parcel on the livingroom table. Two equal a spoonful of sugar. I’ll put some water on the garden while you fix the drinks.’

While James took to watering the garden, Harry went inside to make the coffees. He found the paper bag on the livingroom table, opened the only bottle he found in it and dropped four tablets into each coffee. By the time he had returned to seat himself, James was just turning off the tap and coiling the hose on the wheel rim he had bolted to the garage wall for that purpose.

‘So, black holes?’ Harry prompted.

‘Black holes. I don’t remember the article, exactly, just the overall gist of it.’ He took a testing sip of his coffee, scalded his tongue and rapidly set down the mug. ‘Damn, that’s hot. Okay, what I remember is this.

‘Black holes, or gravity wells, swallow up everything in their path and everything around them. Where the matter goes, who knows? Spaghettified and annihilated by unimaginable gravitational forces. Perhaps even crossing some sort of threshold at the singularity to emerge into another dimension, another universe. Hawking says there’s a point at which the black hole chokes, sometimes being unable to swallow everything that is falling into it, and because of that choke point a lot of stuff is spewed back. Hawking radiation is what it’s called, but I’ve gone off track a bit.

‘Someone has come up with the theory that there is a kind of a membrane surrounding, on which everything passing through leaves an imprint not unlike binary code, thus recording everything like a gigantic history book on a hard drive, frozen in time and holding information. I’m definitely no genius, and I don’t understand half of what I read, but apparently this theory holds water, according to some. It’s pretty out there, as I say, but it does give rise to a whole bunch of new possibilities. It has something to do with something called the uncertainty principle and paired particles. Paired particles, in themselves give rise to a whole new range of mind-boggling possibilities.’

‘Woah, take it easy on me, Einstein. You expect me to be