Shadows of the Quantum Moon

Ryan awoke in a room devoid of windows or doors, dimly lit by an invisible light source that cast no shadows. Sitting at a small metal table in the cramped, cupboard-sized space, Ryan realized they hadn’t been restrained—there was no need. The room was part of a virtual environment controlled by an unseen puppet master.

"Hello?" Ryan called out, their voice echoing slightly. No answer came. "I'm awake, you bastards, come talk to me!"

Whoever had captured Ryan had gone to great lengths to do so. Despite Ryan's efforts to stay hidden, they had been found and abducted. The details of the capture were hazy—Ryan's memory had been tampered with, perhaps erased before being uploaded into this virtual prison. Or was it a wetware interface?

Suddenly, a silhouette materialized across the table, its back against the wall. A man of indeterminate age, his suit blending perfectly with his skin, making his teeth the only distinct feature.

Ryan sighed dramatically. "Took you long enough. Who are you, and why have you imprisoned me?" The man smiled, a smile that reminded Ryan of an old painting of a woman.

"Mr. Fletcher, I'm used to asking the questions," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

"I won't say a word until I know why I'm here."

The man nodded. "Very well." With a gesture, a paper dossier appeared above the table and dropped onto it. He opened it with care. "You are responsible for the deaths of five million sentients, are you not?"

Ryan's heart skipped a beat. The incident was too painful to revisit. They had run from it and never looked back. "It's more complicated than that."

"It usually is. Please, tell me your side of the story."

Ryan squinted at the man. "Who are you, and who do you work for? What do you want?"
The man smiled again, just like the Mona Lisa.

"Right now, Mr. Fletcher, I'm after your testimony."

"You're evading the question, and doing it well."

The man—Ryan decided to call him Fred—seemed to consider this before nodding. "I cannot reveal that information at this time."

"Let's make a deal. I'll tell you what happened if you tell me who you work for."

"I can agree to those terms."

Ryan leaned back, their head touching the wall. "We were a research colony on a remote moon, just enough gravity to hold an atmosphere. I was in the first wave of settlers. I saw the moon before and after it was touched by human technology."

"A research colony of five million?"

"No, there were fifty thousand of us. The rest were duplicates. I'm a duplicate. When the original perished with the others, I became the de facto original. And the one to blame."

"What happened?"

Ryan sighed deeply. "I don't even know. I was on the other side of the system, twenty light-minutes away. By the time I saw the flash, it was too late."

"What kind of research were you conducting?"

"High-energy post-quantum physics."

"For what purpose?"

"To create traversable wormholes. You could step into one on Earth and end up on Vanguard in minutes."

"That would be very valuable."

"I suppose that's why I'm here." Ryan leaned forward. "I've held up my end. Who do you work for?"

"I am a Librarian," Fred said.

Ryan's eyes widened. No one had seen a Librarian in the flesh and lived. "No."

The Mona Lisa smile again. "Yes."

Ryan's mind raced. Why would the Library care about the tragedy at the research colony? On a galactic scale, it was nearly insignificant. "Why?"

"You underestimate your importance, Mr. Fletcher. The catastrophe at the research colony is of special interest to the Library. You are the only living witness with knowledge of the project."

Ryan pieced it together. "You've copied my memories, my knowledge."

Fred nodded. "With access to traversable wormholes, the Library could map reality more efficiently. The potential for knowledge is beyond measure."

“But we failed,” Ryan said.

Fred remained silent for a moment. “We will not.”

"So what happens to me?" Ryan asked. "I suppose you don't need me anymore."

Fred smiled that damned smile again. "You are correct, Mr. Fletcher." He stood, dossier in hand. "Goodbye, Mr. Fletcher." Then he vanished.