FIFTY-FOUR

Brooklyn dimmed the lights. “This oughta work. She knows me pretty well, and I can serve as a… thing… for the rest of ya.” He divided two of the Martian mushrooms into thirds and gave a piece each to the participants. “Eat it, then lie back and relax.”

They lay down on cots and couches set up for the purpose. Brooklyn hit the play button on the boombox, setting his favorite Herbie Hancock tape into motion. “Don’ know why jazz works the best for this, but it does.” He chewed his own piece of mushroom and lay down to wait for it to take effect.

Hello–

“–Brooklyn,” the Purple Lady said.

They were standing on the surface of Mars again, cold, barren, dusty. He felt the others join them there. “Brought a few extra people along. This thing’s way too big for me.”

Andy. Caliban. And two of the top Designed computer scientists.

“It’s good to meet you,” the Purple Lady said.

The landscape changed, moss, moldy, fungus. Alive and wet. Drizzling. A Mars that wound down long before Earth life crawled from the seas. Demarco and Milk strolled up.

“What are you?” Andy said.

She smiled. “We are,” she gestured at the landscape, “this. Or we were. Now we’re something else.”

“The Red Planet’s native sentient lifeform,” Brooklyn said. “Plant-based.”

“Mycelial, mostly. We were part of all of this.” She rotated slowly. “Part of each other.”

“This is incredible.” Caliban said. “Nothing in the First records say–”

“Look deeper,” the Purple Lady said. “Before they traveled to Earth, they came here and attempted to seed the planet with their genetic stock. As if we needed more seeds! They refused to communicate with us, could not, and we consumed their experiments.”

“What happened to you?” Andy said.

“Life here was always balanced on a knife’s edge. A few degrees here, a few there. Enough changed to make it unviable. We saw it coming and left ahead of it. Ascended. Became.”

“Spores,” Brooklyn said. “They spored up and left the planet.”

“Sporogenesis. We traveled on the cosmic winds. Journeyed on comets and meteors,” she said. “Traveled to all the other planets in the solar system and beyond.” She spread her arms, reaching out the full length of her fingers and toes. “And we still are.”

“Are what?” Caliban said.

“Still connected. One mind linked a billion ways over billions of miles.”

“How did the specialist–?” Caliban said.

“I drank her,” Brooklyn said. “Cleveland Crater, back in the ’70s. Spores came down on the meteorite that took out the city and took root. Guy there distilled his latest batch of goofy juice from shrooms he found growing nearby, and I tripped into her. Went back later and harvested enough ta grow my own batch o’ Martian mushrooms.”

“We’ve been connected ever since. Weakly at first, but our link has grown and rooted well.” She took his hand. “We need one more.” The Purple Lady reached through Brooklyn’s mind into the eager-to-please intelligences inside his physical body and used them to make the connection.

“Hello,” Om said. “Where am I?”

“With me,” the Purple Lady said. “You have all the time you need here, and none will pass outside. I’ve unlocked your minds. Dream together until you find your way.” She smiled. “I brought someone too.”

Shoulder-length hair, thin goatee, rich fabrics, more icon than man, the Artist joined them. He’d began hearing the Purple Lady when he was twelve, and she’d influenced his music and style. The Artist and his band had ascended into her cosmic oneness permanently during a 1990 concert before an extremely stoned Copenhagen audience.

“Just here to help, if I can,” the Artist said. “Provide some inspiration and a groove.” He unslung his guitar. The rest of the band appeared and plugged in.

Andy’s jaw dropped.

“Let’s jam.”