iCarly: iMake A Decision

Chapter 2: Implications

I don't own iCarly, of course. R & R!

…..

"So…have you and Carly talked about the future?" Gryphon's Aunt Maggie was sitting with him on the couch in their apartment's living room. To Earthly observers, it would seem they were watching television, but if so, it was a very strange channel, full of swirling lights and patterns that many humans would find disturbing. To the two angels, however, it was one of their means of communicating with the higher reality they called Home.

"Er, well, no, not as such, I mean…"

"Thaaaat's what I thought." She was silent for a long moment. "Gryphon, I won't tell you what to do. You're too independent for me to do so, anyway. But surely you can see the heartache it will cause, down the line."

He hung his head, his gaze on his hands, which were clasped over his knees. "I…know. Aunt Maggie, I…I think I love her. Given my—our—nature, how can I spurn the one I love?"

His aunt's look was very serious. "Gryphon, I understand how you feel. Well, I take that back. I can't know, precisely, what you're going through, emotionally, but I can see it's clouding your judgment. Breaking up with Carly…that's going to hurt. It will hurt you, and it will hurt her. But because I don't know, exactly, what you're going through, my remove allows me to see what will happen if you don't."

He continued to sit there, in total silence, totally miserable. "Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all." What idiot made that up? "But for right now," she continued, "we don't have to do anything. So…let's just relax, okay? No reason to borrow tomorrow's trouble."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "I…think I can get behind that idea."

She leaned back on the couch. "So…are you and Carly going out tonight?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so. She said something about having to work late. The webcam show took a little longer this time. But….maybe I'll give her a call in a little bit and see."

Maggie leaned back a bit further, relaxing. She could see, altogether too well, the pain, the heartache, that would be the inevitable result of her nephew's continued relationship with the mortal girl, but it had progressed to the point where even thinking about ending it caused him pain. It would have been so much easier if the whole matter had just never happened in the first place.

But although angels could move through time the way humans walked across a floor, they could not undo what they themselves had done. For that matter, they could not really alter past events (even though, for them, the definition of "past" was not the same as it was for humans, trapped in time as they were, like flies in amber); they could only take action to prevent future events, future lines of negative potential. It was a matter of such complexity that mortals were, for the most part, unable to understand it. But that was part of what made angels angels. "I'd still like to meet her. Bring her over here, sometime, why don't you?"

He looked up, just the notion of being with Carly suffusing his whole body with joy. "I'll do that, Aunt Maggie."

…

"Sam?"

"Hm? Yeah, Fredward?"

"Come over here a moment, would you?"

"Can't it wait? Midget wrestling's about to start." Sam was firmly ensconced in her usual spot, in front of the Shay's TV set. She'd long ago figured out the code to unlock their Netflix. They changed it. She figured it out again.
They changed it again. She figured it out a third time. They finally threw up their hands and said fine.

"This won't take long. And I want your opinion on something."

Sighing, Sam got up, reluctantly relinquishing her plate of fried chicken. She crossed over the room to the table where he was working. "Okay, so I'm here. This better be good."

Freddy Benson had a strange look on his face. "See this?" He pointed to a router box on the table, from which he'd removed the lid.

"Hey, isn't that that router thingy Grif gave Carly? You better not break it, or she'll break you."

"I'm not. But look. See this lead?"

"Yeah…" She followed his pointing finger.

"I got to wondering. This thing's fast. I mean, like really fast. In fact, it's so fast, it shouldn't really be compatible with our system. But it is."

Sam shrugged. "So it's fast. Grif said he repaired it. Maybe he's more of a geek than we thought."

"You haven't seen what I wanted to show you yet. See this inner chamber?"

"Uh huh."

"Watch." And he undid the screws holding the lid of the smaller compartment on. It lifted off to reveal a small, yellowish rhomboid crystal inset into the bottom of the router.

Sam looked on uncomprehendingly. "So what am I supposed to see?"

Freddy pointed with his screwdriver. "Any other router has circuitry in here, all of it linked to ports. The signal goes in here," he pointed to one side of the box, to a wire leading to it, "and comes out here, reconfigured by the circuitry."

"So where's the circuitry?"

He looked up at her. "There isn't any." He waved his screwdriver in the empty space of the enclosure. "It should be right here. But all that's there is this crystal."

"So what happened to the circuitry?"

He gave her a strange look. "Nothing happened. It was never there in the first place. And, see this crystal? The only thing that could possibly generate the signal? Or anything? What do you see leading to it?"

"Nothing."

"Exactly. These leads don't go anywhere near it. But it works. And, I've even hooked it up, like this, with the cover removed. Guess what? It still works…just the same."

"That's….that's impossible. Isn't it?" Sam wasn't as tech-savvy as Freddy was, but she was smart enough to know what she was looking at.

Freddy shrugged. "Apparently not. I mean, the thing still functions, and, like I said, it's a good deal faster than anything on the market. But how does it work?" He paused, leaned back in the kitchen chair, crossing his arms. "I don't know."

She leaned on the table, looking at him. "Sooo...what exactly are you saying?"

"Right now? Only the obvious. This device functions in a way that completely defies the laws of quantum mechanics, or even just plain mechanics, as we know them. But you are aware of Asimov's Principle, aren't you?"

"Refresh my memory."

He chewed on a knuckle. "Any sufficiently advanced technology….

"…is indistinguishable from magic."

…..

I Stand at the small nation's first nuclear power plant. At least, that is what it was promoted as. Even as I Stand there, I see its true purpose: the enrichment of fissionable material sufficient to make a weapons-grade element.

The nation's leaders are there, touring the facility, and quietly congratulating themselves on having hidden their true agenda from the world community. By the time the United Nations is aware of their mistake, they reason, it will be far too late, and this small nation will join the ranks of the "nuclear club," gaining the respect—the fear—of other nations, fear which they will exploit for greater economic and political leverage. Their first action—their announcement of their accomplishment, as it were—will be the bombing of several of the major cities of what they perceive as an enemy nation, just a few miles away.

And the world community will do nothing. There might be sanctions, but these leaders are prepared to accept that. Their people will bear the burden of such retribution, anyway, since the small nation's wealth is concentrated within the uppermost elite.

As is often the case when it is Time, they suddenly see me. A look of startlement crosses their faces, even as their bodyguards reach for their weapons. They are far, far too late. While I do not wish this, they have reached the End of their Time.

I raise my hand and Speak.

….

"Wow." Spencer was watching the nightly news. Every channel carried the story of the nuclear blast overseas, at what was supposed to be the isolated nation's first nuclear power station. Obviously, it had been a good deal more powerful than anyone had conjectured.

"….reports are still coming in, but a United Nations responder team reports that, within a two-mile radius, the devastation was total. However, they are unable to determine what actually caused the blast, especially one of this magnitude, since the facility, from its inception, was designed to be incapable of actually exploding. Government spokesmen are blaming the explosion on a pre-emptive bomb or missile strike, citing the long-standing tensions with their neighbor to the southwest…."

I return home to the apartment. Aunt Maggie is waiting for me. "Aunt Maggie," I ask, imploringly, "will there be many more such events as these? I am starting to feel like a cosmic executioner."

"I know, Gryphon, I know. It was the same for me. You can take some comfort in the knowledge that not all your Speaking need be of a lethal nature."

"Not of a lethal nature? I just blew up a four-mile area! And, and even if, if the Speaking doesn't necessarily involved destruction, there are always probability effects to consider. Nearby objects—and people—can be turned to, to other substances just by being too close." I sit down abruptly, running my hands through my hair. "I, I wonder if Carly would even have anything to do with me, were she to know."

She comes and sits beside me. "That is another reason why such liaisons, such relationships, as you have with her are so heavily discouraged. What we are called upon to do is of a very serious nature, and many humans cannot understand that—or agree with it. What would Carly's feelings be about what you've done, what you must do?

"What if she disagreed with your orders? Do you not see the pain, the heartache, that this would cause?" She pauses. Then, as gently as possible, "You have told me of her friend, Sam. What if you were called upon to Speak against Sam?"

I literally cannot bear the thought. I cry out, and rush into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.

But I cannot close the door on the truths I have heard.

…

Sam was busy watching "Bowling for Food" on Carly's Netflix (and not so privately rooting for her team), when Carly came in from grocery shopping. "Give a hand, Sam?"

"Sure." She came over and helped her friend unbag her items. "Heyyyy….cheeses. I didn't know you were into exotic cheeses, Carls."

Carly grimaced, even as she reached up to store some nonperishables. "I didn't use to be. But Grif loves 'em. I guess he's kinda turned me onto 'em."

Sam grinned a naughty grin. "Bet that's not the only thing he's turned you on to."

Carly blushed. Sam so loved to see her friend blush. Her whole face turned red. "Uh, well, that's the kind of comment to which I have no comment."

"C'mon, Carls. You two have been going out for what? Almost a year now? Has he made the first move yet?"

"In the first place," said Carly firmly, "it's only been nine months. And in the second…" She started to say that was none of Sam's business, but she and Sam shared everything. She dropped her gaze. "I-in the second, no, he hasn't."

Sam stared. "In nine months of seeing you, he hasn't made the first pass? Some guys do that on the first date! He's not gay, is he?"

"No. He's just…I dunno how to describe it, Sam. I can tell he's, you know, interested, but, but….it's almost like he's waiting on me the make the first move."

"So? What are ya waitin' for?"

"Sam!"

"Well, I'm serious. Not the whole nine yards, but, but…you know. Something. At least."

"We've kissed!"

"You've never kissed kissed. Go for broke sometime. Lay him out flat on his back with you on top."

Another furious, whole-face blush. "I—I don't think I could do that…."

"If you don't," Sam warned, "some other girl just might. Gotta stake out your territory, girlfriend."

"Some other girl…." Suddenly, Carly was tormented by an image of Griffin in the arms of some strange girl, passionately kissing her. "No, no." This both to Sam's suggestion and to the mental image she'd just conjured up.

They finished putting the groceries away, and Sam came and sat by her on the couch. "Hey, I'm just sayin'….yeah, I don't think, from what I've seen so far, you've got anything to worry about….but that doesn't mean you'll never have. Gotta plan ahead. You want 'im, you gotta go get 'im. Be a go-getter, is all I'm saying."

"I…I'm not sure how I'd do that, Sam."

"Well, I admit, it is kinda on-the-job training, and it's not like I'm some kinda expert, but, but just…go for him, some time. Like some time when the two of you are alone, together, maybe watching a movie or something—at home, of course—just start kissing him an' don't stop. Aaand…if he, y'know, does a little exploration, be okay with that. So long as it doesn't go too far, I mean."

Carly wondered if her blush was permanent. "'A little exploration'? Sam! D'you know what you're saying?"

"Oh come on, Carls! It's not like, I mean, you're probably not the first girl he's…well, you know what I mean. That's all I'm saying. Maybe you could even…sorta guide him, you know. That might be best, since you'd be more in control."

"I can't believe," moaned Carly, "that I'm actually sitting here thinking about…that sort of thing."

"Now, Carly. You're practically a grown woman. You know what love eventually leads to, between a man and a woman, don't you? Well, if you can't see that as happening between you and Grif, it probably won't. All I'm saying is take it in stages. Small, comfortable stages."

"A-all right, I'm just…having to get used to that…that mental imagery."

At that exact moment, Spencer came crashing into the apartment. "I got great news! Socko's cousin is coming to Seattle for a visit, and he's interested in new, aspiring artists! Like me! He said he'd take a look at some of my stuff…" He ran on up to his room. Carly wondered if he'd even seen the two of them sitting there.

"Well, he's in a good mood," Sam remarked.

"Yeah," said Carly, morosely.

Sam noticed. "Look, Carls. Don't worry about this; just start out being, you know, maybe a little more open than you have been. Guys pick up on these things. He'll probably notice. But don't go around acting like it's some horrible task you gotta do. In fact, if it's really something you just don't feel comfortable with, don't do it."

Carly mustered up a brave smile. "Thanks, Sam. I'll…I'll give it a try."

Sometimes it's fun just to get out and stretch my physical limitations. I've raced bullet trains, flown alongside supersonic fighter jets—much to the consternation of their pilots, and followed deep-diving submarines as they submerge into the aquatic element for which they were designed. In a way, I feel sorry for the humans, who must so often rely upon instruments just to navigate in these environments. If only they could see using their natural senses! But of course, that's a bit silly; the submarines go into an area where human sight is of no use, and the planes fly at speeds frequently beyond the human reaction time.

Once I followed a human passenger-carrying balloon, from some festival. It was oddly invigorating. The humans aboard were, of course, unaware of my presence, since I spent most of my visible time perched upon the top of their conveyance where they could not see me. Aunt Maggie tells me they used to regularly employ lighter-than-aircraft for passengers, until some spectacular disasters brought about an end to such means of travel.

And sometimes I travel in clouds. It's safe to travel in clouds, if they're thick enough. My Sight can see through them, but human sight, even radar, usually can't.

Traveling at night, of course, is by far the best. Then I can see the lights of the city, and, just as important, and to me, even more awe-inspiring, the lines of potential that all humans radiate.

Then my cell phone goes off, a familiar ringtone, and I cannot wait to answer it.

…

"Hey, George. Gotta minute?"

"Sure." Dr. Weston was actually about to call it a day when his colleague spoke. "What is it?"

"Take a look." On the table in front of him was a small rectangular, solid state mechanism. "What do you see?" The two researchers for the Department of Homeland Security, and were currently attempting to identify the differing parts of a bomb that had, miraculously, failed to detonate at a nearby convention center. "Miraculous" wasn't too strong a term, either; according to what anyone from the bomb squad to later analysis, had been able to determine, it should have gone off.

The bomb itself had been a "dirty" bomb, an ordinary explosive with radioactive material wrapped around it. The explosion would disperse the radioactives over a wide area, leading to radiation burns and sickness.

This one hadn't done that, and, once the radioactives had been removed, and the explosive separated from the timing mechanism the two researchers had been called in to determine why not. It had already been determined that there was nothing wrong with the explosive…that had been detonated at a remote facility set aside for such…nor was there anything less than deadly about the radioactive elements, a mixture of several highly toxic compounds probably resulting as sludge from some reactor that would most likely never be pinpointed to the point of anyone being able to make a politically supportable accusation. The timer appeared to be the only part of the bomb left to examine, and it was definitely malfunctioning. But it was malfunctioning in a way nobody could really understand. "Okay, what am I supposed to be looking at?"

"What does it look like?"

Shrug. "A standard digital timer. You get 'em for a few bucks at any geek store."

"Except for one thing. This one isn't doing anything."

"Well, yeah. If it had been, we'd all be glow-in-the-dark by now."

"No, I mean, it isn't doing anything. Here. Take a closer look." He handed the magnifying lens to his colleague.

Who shrugged again. "So? It's frozen. It's defective. I don't see what the problem is."

"Really? Watch." Dr. Phillips took out a hammer out of a drawer and, without any hesitation whatsoever, smashed it down on the timer with all his strength.

"What th'? You crazy?" Weston broke out of his automatic crouch he'd fallen into when the blow fell. "That's destruction of evidence!"

Phillips nodded. "It would be. Except look." Again he motioned to the item on the examination plate.

Weston stared. The plate itself was cracked from the blow…but the cheap timer was undamaged. "Okay. That's not possible."

"But you saw it happen. Didn't you?"

"You…you must've…missed…."

"Look at it! It's driven into the plate! I didn't miss." He used a small bar to pry the timer out, picked it up, turned it over and over. "I've done everything I can think of to this thing. I started out trying to get a piece vaporized for a spectrographic analysis—George, I cranked that laser up as high as it would go. Nothing. Didn't even singe it. Didn't even heat it up. I've put it in several different types of acids—no reaction. None. I even put it in that little beam chamber we have down the hall…nothing. And although I can't do that much here, I'll almost bet you dollars to donuts that no amount of physical force can harm it."

Weston leaned on the table, his interest aroused at last. "So…what exactly are you saying? It's some new kind of metal? Something…indestructible?" Even as he said it, he could feel goosebumps along his arms and neck. The one thing everyone was terrified of was some group of terrorists, somewhere, getting their hands on some new tech. That was pretty much everybody's nightmare.

And every terrorist's dream.

"No. I don't think so. I think this is an ordinary timer. But something's happened to it. Something that…hell, I don't know. But whatever it was, makes it so…it's unchangeable, somehow. I know how crazy that sounds! But look at the evidence. This timer," he held it up, "is for all intents and purposes indestructible. But I'll bet you it didn't start out that way. But what? What could possibly have happened?" He leaned back on the stool, almost falling off, an expression of concentration on his face.

"You look like you've got an idea."

"Sort of. Not an idea as to how this came about…but maybe an idea what happened." He turned back to Weston. "What's the primary function of a timer? Any timer, anywhere in the world?"

"Is that a trick question?"

"To reflect the passage of time. Now suppose, just suppose, that for our little cheap timer here…time stops passing?"

"You're right: that does sound crazy."

"'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth.' Tell me if you have a better idea."

Weston picked up the small timer and looked at it speculatively.

To be continued...