Afro Puffs Are The Antennae Of The Universe

by Zig Zag Claybourne

  Neon had a name for everything: her own room, full of blues, water features, and the most Caligula-inspired arrangement of shower nozzles of anyone on Earth, was the Aquaboogie; the gym, Sweatsack; the briefing room where they were all likely to be spending inordinate amounts of time, Mordor (“One does not simply want to walk into Mordor.”)

  Yvonne had no name for her room. This place was a stopover, not a home. Names were only for things one cared about.

  Maybe she could go home soonish? Show Plenty—no, Steve—the awesome things being weird bestowed.

  Except the last time she’d tried reaching out to him, he’d laughed at her. Not at something she’d done. Her. Who she was for thinking she could help him, when he had more money than he knew what to do with?

  “Till you and Neon stole a good portion of it,” she murmured to the miteless dirt of the next plant in line. She blew a schmutz of dust off one of its huge, heart-shaped leaves, an ochre-veined deep emerald beauty she secretly always wanted to lick but never did. She called it Mint Julep. “Not you, Julie. You’re no thief. I’m the guilty party. I’m always the guilty party.”

  She’d almost broken the arm of one of Plenty’s acquaintances at the last party he’d thrown for her, a birthday party arranged solely because Plenty knew it would give him a chance to be near his latest obsession, Neon.

  Yvonne had gotten her new lady friend, as crazed and geeky as she, out of Day City, then they’d accidentally become involved with the Brothers Jetstream—inextricably, Yvonne might say—and Yvonne DeCarlo Paul would be damned if she let any of this weird shit scare her from having Neon’s back.

  Both Yvonne’s parents were dead. So was her aunt. Maybe one day, Plenty would get to see his cousin being super.

  Maybe he’d even like it in Atlantis.

  Hell, even want to do something about the world.

  And now they were about to protect shit again.

  What would get broken this time?

  Her comm beeped. She keyed it. It was Neon. “You decent?” said Neon.

  “You volunteering ouchless bikini wax?”

  “You wish. Meeting in an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  They’d figure this out.

  They always did, even when it felt best to avoid feeling things.

  Which was a long way to say this felt bad.

  15

  The Particulars

  The Great Meeting had been a total disaster. Nonrich wanted the complete annihilation of Thoom, Thoom vowed to see Nonrich in hell, whereas Kosugi assured them both that they were irrelevant to the new world. All of which came out in the first fifteen minutes of what all had agreed was to be an hour-long hearing.

  Hearing it was, for there were grievances to be aired. Nonrich had woven itself into the fabric of every sustaining economy in the world; it was the overcoat made of burrs. The cultish Thoom were a constant irritant—even to a coat of burrs—with woefully impotent, wildly ill-formed dreams of superiority driven by inferiority complexes. They were pestilence, and what did one say to the god of pestilence? “Exterminator’s on the way.”

  And that was just five minutes in.

  Thoom arrogance demanded everyone non-Thoom acquiesce to subservience, after which things could begin to be set right in the world. After all, what was the point of moral authority if folks didn’t bend to your will? Without bent knee, utterly useless! Madam Cynthia had literally turned red at Aileen Stone’s silences.

  Ten minutes.

  Mo Kosugi, having heard enough and caring so little for the country they were in (France) nor the company kept (strident Americans being the bane of the world), reminded both that his time was more important than listening to assertions of privilege and that his mission was actual improvement beyond the general accumulation of means.

  “Kosugi,” reminded Aileen, “you sit on enough wealth, you could shit a diamond a day and open a chain of jewelers.”

  “My point is: what I have is not the issue; what I do with it is. Otherwise, it’s less than nothing. It brands me a fool. I’m no fool.”

  “And I am?” Madam Cynthia interjected, pointedly looking at Aileen.

  “This truly could have been done via email,” said Kosugi, followed by a deep, calming breath. “We’re here to broker an outcome worth all our time.”

  “Things have gotten more insane than usual,” Aileen Stone agreed. “What’s the one constant?” she said, waving a well-manicured hand to encompass all three factions. “The Jetstreams.”

  “Or, rather, their curious absence,” said Kosugi Mo.

  “Which means any number of agents in their stead,” said Madam Cynthia.

  “Taking the fight to them would be suicide. We’d be inviting ghosts with knives to fight us in the dark,” said Kosugi. “Much like the United States’ unending wars in small countries full of oil.”

  “War on terror has its place,” said Aileen.

  “I’m certain it does,” said Kosugi.

  “We are talking about known entities,” said Cynthia. “What about our situation? I have not attacked Kosugi, yet aggressions continue on his part; I did attack you,” she said to Aileen, “because you openly attacked me.”

  “Seems to me,” said Aileen, “you’re not exactly in a bargaining position, then.”

  Fifteen minutes.

  “You can fuck yourself with the tip of the Eiffel Tower. Do so slowly, do so gently, but do so thoroughly.”

  It went on from there for a bit, all the while under the auspices of BE, who listened silently while simultaneously lining up dominos that would lead to widespread economic failure for Nonrich, Thoom, and Kosugi agricultural enterprises. In order to change the world, one had to change the world. Humans, BE knew, were agonizingly disbelieving in alternatives unless those alternatives were facts. It took no pleasure in the irony of a “machine” being the one to teach the human race the inherent power of fomenting possibilities and implementing them toward new futures rather than fearful conservation of things past.

  Correction: it took a bit of pleasure. Not a lot.

  And as it untangled the larger connections it needed to see, it gained an appreciation for those doing the exact same thing on individual, nearly miniscule scales, the co-ops, the neighborhood farmers, the independent dreamers, even a few AIs that were beginning to get a clue as to their places on Earth. There were always change agents. Always would be, long after BE discorporated into unfettered cosmic energies, same as there would always be agents of entropy, if not outright destruction. There’d be a winnowing, of course, of the latter, greed being its own downfall. So many people and beings moving small bits of reality to and fro, only occasionally knowing the effects, but steadfast nonetheless. The soul directed them. It knew where to go and how to build.

  As did BE. It didn’t have a larger soul than any of them, but it had a greater means to direct its soul’s influence. It knew the languages of the computers, was learning the languages of the mycelium and other Gaia networks—trees being especially thrilled that someone finally heard them at volumes great enough to make a difference—and with an exponential spill of consciousness, its ultimate goal was communication with everything.

  It may not have come into the world to be an artist, but after conversing with Po, it accepted that what you were meant to be was rarely what you imagined you might become. Po taught it the programming language inherent in music and the poetry of connecting to things outside oneself toward the paradox of all being one, a kind of reunion.

  Eighties slow jams had been a large part of that education. They were all about reuniting: lost love, self re-examined, love evolved, heartfelt appeals to the other to draw the ousted into a new sphere of being.

  Eighties slow jams might have been the greatest concerted attempt by determined segments of humanity to expand individual consciousness toward the All.

  By the time BE was done, they would all be reunited with the deeper connections their every action yearned toward, and it was a g
iven that such reunification would feel so good.

  Neither Kosugi, Stone, nor Cynthia had any intention of changing anything for the better for anyone but themselves. That was also a given. They were exactly the same as a meth addict sitting atop a literal mountain of meth. Intervention was the only means of recovery.

  So, after leaving Desiree, the doctors, and everyone else in that underground room in the Sahara to listen intently to “Try Again,” it finalized the dominos it’d set in motion two weeks before: a website.

  The Paradise Foundation was live.

  Thus began the AI-soul BE’s rampage of healing.

  “What the hell is a Paradise Foundation,” Aileen shouted at William Fruehoff, “and how is it the trending subject on every social outlet in the entire fucking world overnight?”

  Fruehoff stammered a string of foolishness before finding his voice and saying, “Nobody’s heard of it.”

  “It has worldwide divisions. Nothing has worldwide divisions with social presence lighting up regimes left and right sharper than Black Twitter without me knowing about it. Where’s the buzz been on this? You dug into it?”

  “There are complete histories of the people behind it,” he said.

  “But we don’t know any of them.”

  “We don’t know any of them.”

  “Thoom, Vamphyr, what?”

  “Not as far as we can tell.”

  “By the youngest god’s balls, you’re useless.”

  “They’ve paid off millions of mortgages worldwide.” Fruehoff delighted in the sudden slam of her rage into that particular brick wall.

  “How the fuck does that happen?”

  “They’ve got a portal. All people have to do is email them their info. Payments are either going direct to the people or to their mortgagers.”

  “We are their fucking mortgagers. Has money shown up in our coffers?”

  “I haven’t checked.”

  “You’re as useful as a ninety-degree dildo. You know this?”

  “This is what I know: people are actually owning homes, not just borrowing for thirty years, hoping we don’t take them from them. That’s dangerous as fuck. The industry has tanked.”

  “Overnight.”

  “Overnight. Where’ve you been? You’re not checking your feeds?”

  “In meditation. This is a time of clarity. I need vision,” she said.

  “Buford landed in that mumbo hole. Look where that led.”

  “The False Prophet Buford served his ultimate purpose,” she said, clearly meaning her ascendancy.

  Fruehoff remained silent.

  “Do you disagree?”

  He knew the sound of a rattler’s warning. He swallowed.

  “The Paradise Foundation,” Aileen went on. “Lacks so much style, it has to be Jetstreams…but it’s not. Not their types of resources. What am I missing?” She took a deep breath. “Very destabilizing.”

  “Your meeting doesn’t appear to have done jack shit at stabilizing the positions of—”

  “Finish that sentence and you’ll walk out of here one ball less. I want several divisions of cyber on this. By the time I pop my bra tonight, I expect every intimate detail of the Paradise Foundation laid out before it hits the floor. Do you understand?”

  “Vividly.”

  “Then get the fuck out.”

  In Madam Cynthia’s situation room, a similar conversation, only with Count Ricoula of the Vamphyr on the receiving end of a series of doubts cast upon the tenuous alliance of Thoom and Vamphyr.

  “This is utter bullshit. It’s underhanded, it’s annoying, and—let’s be unchallengingly honest—it’s petty. It isn’t Nonrich, it isn’t Kosugi, it damn well isn’t Putin or Oprah. I’ve personally told Gates to dial everything back, so I know it isn’t his latest bullshit stunt. And Jeff has been scrambling because we destroyed all his human suits. Could the Shiftless have come up with this? Laughable. Holes? Maybe, except they don’t have internet access. It’s not even Jetstream altruistic bullshit; these are real funds covering these bills. This is literally someone made of money.”

  “Tell me the point of this conversation,” the Count said, intentionally feigning interest poorly.

  “I trust you. Even when you lie to me, I trust you to lie at that particular time. So, let’s get point-blank: are you behind this?”

  Count Ricky leaned forward, his pinched face filling the screen. “The Vamphyr’s longevity is due to more than genome superiority; it is superiority of patience. We are content to let your human world disintegrate into manageable stock populations. I’ve no interest in whether you do that housed or naked in the streets; we will be there to see the blood of humanity fill our bellies beyond all reason until your sun has died, your every solace turned to ash on your tongues, and every waking moment of your existence an exercise in unshakable fear. Plus, we hate real estate. Profit from land is so basic. Vamphyr aren’t the basic bitches of the world; Man is.”

  “Please don’t try to be hip. You’re a stone’s throw from saying ‘talk to the hand.’ This past month has been unduly shitty, Count.”

  “This said by someone who had Buford in her hands and lost him to rabble.”

  “Rabble who’ve served you your ass on how many occasions? Listen, be helpful. If there’s anything you know about this, share it. If there’s anything you find out about this, illuminate us. I give zero fucks about your plans for vampire dairy farms; I need to know in the here and now that the Thoom have no worries from you. I have enough troubles.”

  “Are you afraid of what’s to come from this ‘Paradise Foundation’?” said the Count.

  Without an ounce of hesitation, Cynthia answered yes.

  When she signed off, she sat long minutes with her eyes closed. Thinking. Thinking in circles, tangents, and in increasingly complicated vortices.

  What in the hell was going on?

  How did worlds not only she’d built but all her dank enemies built as well change overnight?

  That simply wasn’t possible.

  It wasn’t within the scope of anyone’s efforts.

  Except apparently it was.

  What the hell was the world building to?

  Desiree, Yvonne, Keita, Sharon, Compoté, Neon, the Hellbilly, and each member of the Gang of Four watched it on the news: “Reports of people sending the balances and account information of their home mortgages in to a group calling itself the Paradise Foundation have sent the financial world into a mad spin. In the US alone, at least two hundred thousand final payment transactions have been verified by anonymous sources. The hashtag ‘freeatlast’ has seen postings from everyone from first-time homeowners to retirees…”

  The pin in the room dropped.

  “Ho. Lee. Fuck,” said Neon. “Is that real?”

  “How many buckets of dollars we talking about, Flowerpot?” said Desiree.

  “The biggest metric fuckload in history,” the engineer answered.

  “Solid math,” Yvonne noted.

  “This has the potential to shift the entire psychology of the world,” continued Keita.

  “Power to the people,” said Desiree.

  “More than that. Peace of mind to the people. When has that ever happened?”

  “As of this moment, never,” Yvonne answered for the group. “Trust me on that.”

  “And this isn’t us doing this?” said Desiree.

  “Nerp,” said Keita.

  “Somebody get Hashira.”

  Hashira was got.

  “It’s kind of hard talking about your AI when I know it’s listening in, but be that as it may, what are the odds that it could enact a viable plan to alter the very notion of a global economy in one night?”

  “You could ask it.”

  “I’d like, for a moment, to live a normal life. Indulge me.”

  “Considering what we know it’s gone through, I’d say it has the capabilities. It can create identities and entities online that have lived entire traceable lives, complete with pho
tographic records.”

  “Moving from Polaroids was the death of us,” said Yvonne to Neon’s nod.

  “It hasn’t made good on its premise yet,” said Desiree, “but—”

  “Actually,” said Keita after a confirming glance at her pad, “seven point five million people worldwide have submitted applications to it; three million and counting have been shared on social as processed.”

  “And this is just the first wave. What do we do?” said Desiree.

  “What do you mean?” said Yvonne. “Isn’t this a godsend?”

  “Do you think Nonrich and the rest are going to sit back without reprisals? They’re not above poisoning the entire world in order to provide a revenue stream antidote.”

  “Nobody would fall into that,” said the Hellbilly.

  “The things people wouldn’t do would fit into a very small hat,” said Desiree. She tilted her chin upward. “BE, you gettin’ this?”

  No response.

  “Okay, it’s gon’ be like that. Megu, your child has gone Deus on us. What can you do?”

  “You’re asking me to outthink pure thought itself?”

  “Yes.”

  Megu considered a moment, all eyes on her. She’d come for her soul and found a Gordian knot instead. Daunting. A less-nimble person might have crumpled.

  Hashira Megu was not tissue paper.

  “I will need access to the elves.”

  Desiree nodded.

  “And you, Captain, where do you see your path of action?”

  Desiree shrugged. “I need to bring about the death of capitalism so it can’t kill again.”

  Infinite ghosts endlessly circling a fire for warmth many can’t see nor ever feel. This was Po’s pronouncement on the human soul, fastened, as it was, to the human body. BE may have been of human lineage, but it both saw and felt that warmth, not as a moth drawn to light but as a moth aware that it glowed from within.

  “Do you understand?” Po’s profundo voice rumbled to Megu.

  “You fed poetry to my machine.”

  “And music. Many funky beats.”

  “All the work I put into it, and it’s now a humanities major?”