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Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Daimon seemed to be floating in a white vacuum, or black; it was difficult to tell without any other color to contrast against it. He found it difficult to retain the memory of how he arrived or what he was supposed to do. His past kept molting away like motes of dust, parts of him that suddenly were no longer him. In an attempt to retain his history, he repeated in his mind "Wearing helmet. Find Morlin." Of course, how he was supposed to search for anything here was a mystery in itself. There was neither a place to go nor a means of locomotion. Everything around him was a void.

Feeling disoriented, he tried to imagine a hemispheric line dividing the nothingness so that he had a frame of reference. Surprisingly, one such line appeared. Or maybe he thought it appeared. Nevertheless, it was a start. Imagining himself lowering onto firm terrain, Daimon began descending. Either that or the horizon line moved upwards slightly. Eventually, he felt pressure on his heels. He was standing upright and sturdy on some plane. Did he even have feet on which to stand? When he looked down, they appeared, naked, and toes wiggling against the invisible ground. Was he nude? Self-conscious, Daimon created clothes for himself: thick, skin-tight fabric vaguely reminiscent of a scuba wetsuit: black, red, and white. With the ability to float and create whatever he wanted in this place, he felt like a superhero, and a cape almost materialized on his back before he could shake off the idea.

At that thought, the shadow beneath his feet trembled, and Daimon's sense of invincibility vanished. There was something primordially threatening about his own shadow, which seemed to be stretching like a tree's as the sun falls in the afternoon, a being reclaiming space from the light.

"That's not too bad," a voice echoed, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "For someone to manipulate his environment within moments of his entrance here is impressive."

Daimon's ominous shadow responded to the voice, shrinking back to its natural size, timid once again.

"I know what you're thinking," the voice continued. "You're curious about the shadow."

Feeling vulnerable, Daimon replied, "How did you know? Who are you? Where are you?"

The voice softened, perhaps to put Daimon at ease. "There aren't many secrets at this level," it explained. "Thoughts are pretty much broadcast across the void down here. As to who I am..."

The ubiquitous white around Daimon fluctuated, sending light blue hues to a gathering point near Daimon's horizon line. The tendrils of blue coalesced at a center point like rain pooling into the center of a tarp. Congealing there, the puddle morphed into the silhouette of a man. Momentarily, Daimon thought that the man was wearing a robe and long, white beard, but this wizard-like image was quickly replaced with a healthy, young-looking Mr. Morlin.

"I told you I would help you," he said, smiling. He was wearing a blue polo shirt and khakis, a common ensemble of his when he taught at the university. Receding peppered hair made it look like his forehead was growing, and the shadow of his close-shaved beard outlined his jaw. Black-rimmed glasses were perched high on his nose. Compared to the current husk slouched in the wheelchair, this Tim Morlin looked vibrant and alive.

"Where exactly are we?" Daimon asked. "Is this all in my head?"

"There and everywhere else," Mr. Morlin responded. "We are in the basement of the universe. The quantum scale, up from which bubbles the rest of physical reality."

"I'm not getting it," Daimon admitted.

Mr. Morlin extended his hand, and Daimon shook it reflexively.

"Timothy Morlin."

"Daimon Camano. We've met before."

"Of course."

Mr. Morlin smiled and gestured to Daimon's chest. "What are you made of?"

"What does that have to do with anything? I came in here to get you out. How do we do that?"

"You must understand where we are in order for us to reach where we must go."

Daimon sighed and asked, "Alright, what do you mean, then? What am I made of physically?"

"Sure."

"I'm made of cells, I guess."

"And those are made of?"

"Do I get credit for this?"

Mr. Morlin laughed. "You're on your way."

"Molecules...then atoms."

"Then?"

"I'm not really sure. You may not remember, but I wasn’t the greatest student."

"If you look close enough, you'll find that underneath atoms, underneath electrons, underneath even quarks, is an ocean of vibration. A level where classical physics doesn't even make sense. A place where particles and waves, matter and energy are interchangeable. At that level, there is no longer a line between you and the floor, you and the air, or you and me. At that level, the universe is all connected.

“If one were to take a photon of light, split it into two, and send one half to the furthest edge of the galaxy, each half would still be able to communicate with the other instantaneously. They are entangled. What one does to one half is experienced by the second half. That’s the quantum level.”

"And somehow we're at that level here?"

"In a way. It's an unintended side effect of using the Helmet. A pattern of your brain's electromagnetic signature has been siphoned and squeezed through into this place. The same thing happened to me when I first used it."

"So I'm stuck here then, too."

"You're here, but not necessarily stuck. Not yet. You haven't been here long enough for that to happen. However, if one stays here too long, it's very difficult to squeeze back out. One becomes too aware of this level of existence and cannot separate where one's being ends and the rest of the world begins."

"And this has happened to you? That's why you need my help?"

"Precisely. I suffer from knowledge of this place's implications. I need a ride, so to speak. Someone whom I can make aware of this infinite possibility without succumbing to its traps. You need to understand the power of this place in order to escape it, but there's a narrow window of time in which one can be open to the vigor here without becoming overpowered by it."

"So...you need me because I'm dumb? You need someone who doesn't understand what it all means?"

"It's about exposure, not capacity. I need you to dip your toe in just enough. Given enough time, you'll fall in like I did. Furthermore, it’s you because it was always you."

"What do you mean?"

"You've always come here. You've always been here. Time isn't static here, just like space. It was always you because you came here."

Daimon thought for a moment that he heard the laugh of a small child zip around him. He looked around but saw only the oppressive yet expansive void.

"Did you hear that?" Daimon asked.

"Oh yes," Tim replied. "There are archetypes, allegories, and presences here that could make the sanest man crazy. It's quite dangerous here, which is just another reason why I would like to leave."

The mysterious giggle vanished, and Daimon tried to forget about it. "Okay, so you need my help to get out, but there's still something I don't understand. For the past few days, I've been noticing the number 618 repeating itself wherever I go. Not only that, but I just had an accident in front of your house that I can't explain. What is going on?"

Mr. Morlin nodded. "There are certain mathematical constants that describe fundamental truths about the basic framework of the world and its evolution. For instance, you were probably taught in school about Pi, or 3.14. Another foundational constant is the ratio 1 to 1.618. It is a perpetual increase in size by 61.8 percent. It is everywhere in nature: the spiral of a pinecone, the parts of your fingers, the proportions of your face, the shell of a nautilus, the branches of a tree, the cone of a tornado, and the repetition of fractals."

"That doesn't answer why I keep seeing it."

"Of course it does. The ratio is everywhere. All living things are stamped with it. That’s why we find this ratio appealing. It is, quite possibly, the math of what we find most beautiful."

"But, the actual number? I saw it on my alarm clock, on paperwork, even in my brother's wedding plans."

Mr. Morlin looked perplexed. "That I cannot answer. I would need to think on it."

"But you said the numbers earlier in your wheelchair!" Daimon appealed, frustrated at the lack of answers. "Why did you say it upstairs in the...real...world?"

"Firstly, this world is just as real as the one above; its laws just seem different, like looking at Monet brushstrokes up close and not seeing the larger patterns they make when combined. Second, I knew the number had something to do with you. That much is an effect of being here in the void. In fact, that number seemed more a part of you than your own name. As to how it has manifested itself so strangely in your life, I have not yet discerned."

"Great," Daimon said sarcastically. A rumble sounding like thunder rolled in the distance.

Mr. Morlin appeared concerned. "Let's move toward our exit," he said. "Perhaps I can help unravel your mystery if I stand further away from the Monet, so to speak."

"Fine. What do I need to do?"

"I'm going to hang onto you, and when I do, run as quickly as you can."

“Seriously? That’s the plan?”

Mr. Morlin only nodded.

Daimon was about to ask how he supposed to do that considering there was not really a floor or location to run to, but he decided simply to suspend his disbelief and go with it. Once Mr. Morlin wrapped his arms around Daimon's neck and shoulders, Daimon approximated a run as best he could, like he was running in place, and immediately he felt himself surge forward. The rumbling grew louder, coming from behind. Because there were no landmarks or objects around him, it was difficult to judge how fast he was moving in the vacuum. The sensation of inertia was all he had to go on.

"Now," Mr. Morlin instructed, "double your speed."

"I can only run so fast."

"Not so. In this place, anything is possible as long as you know it is, but there can be no doubt. You must know that you are moving more quickly."

Daimon pictured himself going twice as fast, and he imagined what it might feel like. Suddenly, there was another burst of speed. Needle-thin lines started to streak by, and the rumbling grew more intense. He felt Mr. Morlin twist around to look behind them. "You must go faster," he said with a hint of anxiety. "Keep doubling your speed. Push yourself as far as you can imagine."

"What's behind us?"

Mr. Morlin had to raise his voice in order to be heard over the thunder. "Focus all your attention on speed."

Daimon tried to remember all those science fiction movies and television shows in which space craft used warp speed and light speed. As he did, billions of white streaks raced by like shooting stars.

"Good!" Mr. Morlin encouraged. "As quickly as you can imagine!"

Daimon realized that he was no longer moving his legs. Furthermore, he was not even breathing hard. He was simply surging forward, flying. The concept intrigued him, and the idea that anything was possible sent a rush of adrenaline through his body. The streaks of white shimmered in alternating colors: cherry red, neon blue, royal purple, burning orange. The white cape that Daimon had brushed away earlier suddenly appeared again between his back and Mr. Morlin, bunching up between them and flapping manically in the free spaces.

"Focus!" Mr. Morlin warned, barely audible over the thunderous cacophony behind them.

For a moment, Daimon became distracted by the tantalizing energy building around him.

"I...can do...anything!" Daimon replied breathlessly. A white orb appeared ahead, sparkling like frost on a flower.

"That's it!" Mr. Morlin shouted, pointing to the glowing circle. "Go through it!"

"…anything I want!" Daimon continued. The boundless potential of this sudden revelation consumed his thinking. "Anything I can dream...can become reality!"

A wall of fire nipped at their heels. "Daimon!" Mr. Morlin screamed, "Concentrate!"

"I can touch it. Control it! There’s an infinite supply of power!"

"No!” Tim redirected, “Keep your mind on the exit! Go past it. Don't linger!"

Bone-shaking fire enveloped the two, encapsulating them in a cone of orange. Mr. Morlin pulled himself upward. The white orb floated inches ahead of them. Feet on Daimon's shoulders, Mr. Morlin perched himself on top. Cracks of electricity snapped out of the white sphere ahead of them. The void around them shook, vibrating with an intensity that blurred all things around them. Claws of blue energy tickled the tips of Mr. Morlin's outstretched fingers. Mr. Morlin clenched his teeth and readied his leg muscles to leap forward.

Similarly, Daimon reached out to his sides, siphoning the energy that he could feel all around. As though overflowing from within him, white light poured out of his eyes, hazily sputtering like dry ice being shot out of a tube. The fuel burned him, every cell in his body shaking in pain and ecstasy. Attempting to tap it, Daimon roared in defiance at his body’s limitations. In response, the white orb shot closer like an incoming headlight. Instinctively, Daimon threw his hand in front of him to deflect the collision.

Something solid met Daimon's open palm, resulting in the crinkling sound of metal, like that from a truck's bumper.

Mr. Morlin catapulted into the blinding light, instantly disappearing into it, and the firestorm caught up with Daimon, crushing him between itself and the white orb.