SIMON ENJOYED THE SOLITUDE associated with cruising at altitude. Save for the hum of his jet’s engines, silence was afforded every opportunity to live up to its reputation. And while inspiration and creativity were poised to spring from the fertile shores of tranquility, Simon sensed an intruder between them struggling to distinguish itself. Although he rarely allowed his thoughts to become a product of their environment, this distraction was palpable, omnipresent, and seemed to underscore the very essence of achievement. The contrasting realities within reach were, indeed, difficult to ignore.
The fact that certain death lurked only inches away reinforced a valuable context for Simon, one within which every civilization to date had been framed. In so far as science, technology and human progress were concerned, the risk benefit paradigm was indeed in harmony, at least for the moment. The turbulence that stirs one’s soul, however, was equally adept at making its presence felt.
Giving further consideration to how the next few hours might unfold, Simon looked longingly over a horizon defined by dark, foreboding clouds. In the same way they concealed any relevancy below, he reflected on his own propensity to conceal any vulnerability behind a familiar, stoic veneer. As his executive jet flew eastward over the Arabian Sea, its cabin’s only other occupant came alongside and interrupted any further introspection, asking: “Would you like a warm up, Mr. Taylor?” A nearly empty teacup sat in its saucer on the table in front of Simon. “Sorry?” Simon replied, as if his mind still lingered somewhere beyond his pressurized surroundings.
“Your Earl Grey. Can I top that up for you?” The jet’s only flight attendant cradled a medium-sized tea cozy between her hands. Her attentive disposition reflected being handpicked from a plethora of peers.
“No, thank you, Sharon. I’m fine for now.”
“Why don’t I take that for you, then?” she said, picking up Simon’s cup and saucer.
Simon smiled and politely nodded. His Challenger Jet’s opulent surroundings were allowed to resonate for a moment, its dozen or so seating capacity being surplus to the itinerary of its lone-occupant. A confident tan and teak colour scheme rarely impressed Samantha, Simon’s most frequent accompaniment. Turning his attention to things unrelated to the rewards of success, he glanced down at the tablet in his lap. Picking it up, he saw the inspiration for his unscheduled sojourn. He scrolled through five years of birthday wishes, five video pictorials of history’s greatest intellects. Rose had remembered the words Simon spoke during their fateful meeting, the night they first met.
Within their contemporary surroundings, the great thinkers of the world became animated one at a time. Swiping his tablet to see each birthday card in turn, da Vinci, Copernicus, Newton, Galileo, and yes, Thomas Edison, each tipped their hat while passing before Simon’s smiling eyes. His expression was likewise adorned with an appreciation not only for Rose’s thoughtful gesture, but her words as well. ‘Your peers acknowledge you, Simon, both past and present. Happy Birthday, and congratulations on another incredible year. Love always, Rose. Simon couldn’t help reflecting on the degree to which some words resonated above all others.
For the past several days, he had been attending a conference in Dubai, the most populous city of the United Arab Emirates. Billed as ‘Setting the Foundations for Future Success,’ this series of U.N. sanctioned meetings were designed to establish baselines to which member nations would quantify the variables involved with, among other things, better governance, responsible economics, as well as the earth’s changing climate.
The field of Predictive Analytics lay at the heart of every issue - the branch of data mining concerned with predicting future probabilities and trends; its main tenant being: reduce any system to a set of measurable variables in order that they in turn form the basis for predicting a potential outcome.
Despite the fact that cognitive computers were now firmly embedded in the public psyche, and they in turn required larger pools of data from which to derive their findings, Simon counted himself among those wise enough to respect the macro picture as well. He firmly embraced the notion that the world was a very unpredictable entity and that chaos should never be discounted. Model assumptions rarely if ever accounted for the menacing anomaly. Sensitive to variables often unaccounted for, the unforeseen natural disaster, the off-grid terror cell, and the turmoil that rippled outward from them, Simon vetted everything with a favoured motto in mind: Communicate only what you are absolutely confident about. Leave predicting the future to others.
A conference topic of particular interest to Simon was how predictive analytics had become central to every political campaign. Ever since President Obama used PA to isolate undecided voters, figure out the issues on which their ballot hinged, and then present policies that would motivate them to vote Democrat, politicians used hundreds if not thousands of variables to quantify their electorate. Although supercomputers like Sophia were now instrumental to every political campaign’s success, Simon often wondered about the models that were natural to the human brain, the ones that might someday equal contempt for being reduced to millions of ones and zeros. I wish I could predict that threshold, he often thought.
In terms of his climatologist peers, and the notion that they were equally exposed to the minutia of data collection, that they often couldn’t see the forest for the trees, Simon soon realized why the UAE chose this week to host the conference from which he was presently hitting the pause button. Flying in just days ago, his pilot announced over the intercom: “Welcome to Dubai, Mr. Taylor.”
While still taxiing the airplane, he added: “And just to forewarn you, it’s a balmy 51 degrees out there. And I do mean Celsius.” He also mentioned that, in recent years, Dubai had been testing its 2029 record breaking daytime high of 53 Celsius. Simon easily remembered his encounter with the sun’s anvil while departing Dubai this morning.
Now heading eastward in the climate controlled cabin of his Challenger Jet, the memory of nearly being reduced to a liquid made him appreciate temperatures artificially induced.
Turning his attention to this afternoon’s destination, he dared to ask Sophia about the conditions into which he was flying. With the Dubai conference purposely held within its hottest and driest month, Simon was informed that July was Mumbai’s rainiest interval. Its monsoons regularly soaked its twelve million dwellers with some eight-hundred millimetres (two and a half feet) of rain during that month alone.
Leaving Mumbai’s Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport, the short distance from the terminal to Simon’s hired car was equally challenging. With umbrella in hand, the rain thundered onto his semi-adequate domed covering.
While streets ran like rivers, and the limits of what should be navigated by a four-wheel drive limousine were tested, the life-giving element seemed drastically out of tune with all things natural, Simon observed. After his driver got underway, he dared not lower his rear right window. He looked on with wonder as the city’s inhabitants went about their business unperturbed.
In so far as a Biblical torrent descended throughout, the journey to Indi Pharm’s corporate headquarters was relatively uneventful, save for the expectations associated with seeing Rose again. I can’t believe it’s been five years, Simon thought. He used his tablet to scroll through Rose’s corporate profile. With few personal details apparent, Simon couldn’t help noticing that some things do indeed transcend time; Rose still looked as beautiful as the night they parted company. Daring to reflect on opportunities lost, Simon soon found the wisdom to shed his thoughts of any expectation. Despite dating several women during the five-year interlude, one for more than a year, Simon’s thoughts regularly circumvented the rational disposition he inherited from his father and returned to Rose. Reflecting on the challenges associated with managing a long-distance relationship often waded in, however. Arriving at the pharmaceutical giant’s head office also had the timely effect of reacquainting himself with the professional dimension of their meeting.
“May I presume you are Mr. Taylo
r?” a female voice announced.
Having walked into Indi Pharm’s expansive lobby, Simon turned and found a woman whose attire was a beautiful blend of cultures, both western and Indian. She looked every part an executive assistant who embodied the colourful motif of her ancestry.
Simon smiled, stating: “I am.”
“My name is, Ashna.” the woman said, walking over to Simon. “I am Roshnie Gill’s Executive Assistant. If you will do me the pleasure of accompanying me, I will escort you to Ms. Gill. She is expecting you.”
“Very good,” Simon replied. While following Ashna, Simon looked up at the amazing dome above. Supported by vaulting arches, its dramatic second floor balconies fulfilled the building’s Indo-Saracenic architectural roots, a style that combined Indo-Islamic and Victorian themes. Simon marvelled at the how seamlessly he ventured from the past into the present. From a more recent and modern addition to its elder building, Simon and Ashna were soon ascending to loftier heights within a glass-enclosed elevator. A breathtaking perspective revealed an expansive city, formerly known as Bombay. While much of it had prosperity within its firm grip, Simon asked Ashna to point out the slum that produced Rajkumari, the late Princess of Dharavi. Solemn expressions accompanied Simon and his guide as they stepped onto the top floor of the modern, mirrored high-rise. In moments Ashna deposited Simon in a well-appointed room, one which, he presumed, was attached to Rose’s office. Protocol obviously required his arrival to be preannounced.
Simon looked around the teak-panelled space and absorbed the
equity of tradition. Although one side of the large antechamber was a window to the vast city of Mumbai, it was difficult to dissuade one’s eyes from what adorned the room. Artifacts, animal carvings, and wood inlaid furniture spoke of a receiving area fit for royalty. On one wall, individual portraits testified to Indi Pharm’s family lineage. Simon recognized his familiar nemesis, Praveen Gill. He then stopped in front of Rose’s painting. Contentment fell upon him as gently as did her subtle smile. He indulged the moment, allowing any uncertainties to be assuaged by the past.
Moving onto a few framed photographs, Simon recognized Doctor. Dhawan, the brilliant Indi Pharm scientist credited with singlehandedly restoring the corporation to its former status: a global biotech powerhouse. Best known for his own biosynthetic breakthroughs, the national science hero could also be seen receiving this year’s India Science Award. Simon noticed the look of pride on Rose’s face as she watched India’s Prime Minister drape the Gold Medal around Doctor Dhawan’s neck. A hint of jealousy seemed poised to overshadow the spirit in which the room was furnished, however, a timely distraction arrived in the form of an opening door. Simon turned quickly and found Ashna beckoning his attention.
“Mr. Taylor,” she stated. “Ms. Gill is available to see you now.”
Simon took several pensive steps before cresting the door’s threshold. Once in the room, he paused; his eyes were affixed to Rose, as she slowly got up from her desk. For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. Rose returned Simon’s stare as if each of them felt the moment being sealed with simple gestures, with subtle expressions, and thoughts of what could have been. Interpreting the cues that surpass the spoken word, Simon’s mind became unexpectedly tranquil. Rose’s thoughts, on the other hand, swirled with a complexity of expectations. “Simon,” she stated. Rounding her desk and pausing in front, she added: “Has it really been five years?”
“Evidently not.” Simon replied. “You look as beautiful as the night we parted.”
“And you are as charming.”
Simon sensed Rose’s desire to move toward a comfortable seating area on his left. A minor movement of her right hand accompanied several graceful steps in that direction. Simon moved with intersecting intent.
He waited for Rose to be seated in a comfortable wing-backed chair. Sitting down in a Victorian style sofa, Simon took a moment to look around Rose’s office. Its furnishings suggested an equal appraisal of the old country and the new, of the vigil that tradition endures while awaiting adventure’s call. Rose’s ancestral culture added an exotic dimension to which Simon took note. He also noticed Rose offer a nod to her assistant. With that prompt Ashna left the room.
“I hope you don’t mind me intruding on such short notice?” Simon asked.
“Not at all. How was the conference?”
Simon appeared cordially ambivalent. “Too many prognosticators.” He paused long enough to let Rose’s comportment sink in. Her business attire was the embodiment of style and poise; an open suit jacket and belted pants were complimented by a red silk blouse and gold jewelry. Rose smiled and detected Simon’s desire to move onto things more personal. “How have you been? You look … very happy.”
Rose sat back in her chair. “I think I finally discovered what it means to be content.”
Not sure of what to say next, Simon asked: “And your brother? I hear he’s being allowed to come home.”
“Simon, I want you to know I don’t hold you responsible for my brother’s predicament.”
“I hope you don’t hold yourself responsible either.”
Rose seemed undaunted by the prospect of her brother returning to Mumbai to serve out his time in a ‘white collar’ prison. “We’ll see if a year in minimum security tempers his disdain for both of us,” she said, sharing Simon’s light-hearted smile. “Speaking of family, tell me, how is Jennifer doing?”
Simon seemed pleasantly surprised by the change in topic. “She’s great,” he said. “She’s finishing her Masters in Bio-Ethics at New York University.”
Rose nodded with an appreciation for their shared interest in family matters. “That’s wonderful,” she said. Although Rose seemed happy for Simon, her eyes suggested she had something of her own to disclose. “Simon,” she stated, clasping her hands in front of her. “There’s something I have to tell you. Something I’ve not made public since we last saw each other.”
Having piqued Simon’s interest, Rose’s office door opened at the most inopportune time. Ashna entered and presided over a tray of tea being delivered to the table in front of Simon. A second assistant set the combination of tea, milk and sugar down and promptly turned to leave.
“That’ll be all, Ashna, We’ll manage from here,” Rose announced.
In the time it took for Ashna and the servant to leave the room, Simon recognized the foreboding expression on Rose’s face. It was the same one he saw in the elevator the last night they were together.
Rose seemed poised to say something, but she was stymied once again by her office door opening. When it flew open, Simon turned and was delighted to see Dr. Dhawan.
The Indi Pharm scientist was instantly animated by the prospect of meeting the world famous, Simon Taylor. “Roshnie my dear, you should have told me that Doctor Taylor was going to pay us a visit.”
Walking straight over to where the pair was sitting, both Simon and Rose got up from their chairs. His exuberant smile was matched by a finely tailored wool-cashmere suit. A short-length beard complimented a confident style, one that Simon noticed as being anomalous to the brilliant scientist type.
“Doctor Taylor,” Dhawan stated, offering his hand. “What a pleasure it is to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, let me assure you,” Simon replied, shaking Dhawan’s hand.
Doctor Dhawan glanced inquiringly at Rose, before asking Simon: “To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence?”
“Simon is presently taking a break from a conference in Dubai,” Rose interjected.
“Of course, the Predictive Analytics Symposium.”
“Simon,” Rose stated. “I apologize for not telling you until now, but what I was trying to mention earlier is that … I’ve married since we last saw each other.”
‘Married?’ Simon asked himself. ‘Did I hear that right?’ Simon felt his expectations crushed. Shaken, he feigned his best smile. “Why … that’s wonderful,” he stuttered. “I’m happy for you, Rose.�
�
“Simon,” Rose said, almost pensively. “This is my husband, Doctor Sajan Dhawan.”
Simon glanced between Rose and Sajan. He couldn’t have known that Sajan was Rose’s first love, the boy who, after being sent away to a private school, returned to rise through the ranks of Indi Pharm. “Yes, of course,” Simon said, betraying his emotions. “I’ve heard so much about your work. You … you complement each other perfectly.”
Allowing little time for the first revelation to sink in, Sajan enthusiastically stated: “Did you tell Simon about Nisha?”
Simon turned and discovered Rose’s expression of empathy. Her eyes looked as though she felt the second blow to Simon’s heart. “Nisha is our three year old daughter,” Rose quietly said. “I’m sorry Simon. It troubled me … not telling you.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Simon stated, trying to distance himself from any feelings he may have been nurturing. “I understand, really I do ... I should offer congratulations to both of you.”
“Thank you for appreciating our predicament,” Sajan stated. “Kidnappings have been rampant in recent years. We try to keep our personal lives as private as possible. It’s better that way, isn’t it?” he added, looking at his wife.
Rose only stared at Simon, wondering what he was thinking. Her eyes still pleaded for his understanding. She had hoped that when this moment came, Simon would draw from his own daughter’s traumatic experience. “Would you like to see Nisha?” she asked.
“Yes, yes of course,” Simon replied. Following Rose’s subtle cue, they both slowly resumed their seats. Rose accessed an app on her cell phone and then put it on the table next to the tray of tea. A three dimensional hologram of Nisha appeared above the phone. It rotated slowly.
“She’s … beautiful,” Simon offered.
Rose finally exhaled a large dose of anxiety and allowed her smile to reflect a renewed appreciation for Simon’s composure.
After a short pause, Simon sat back, stating: “You did it, Rose. You’ve become everything you wanted to be.” He turned to Sajan, stating. “I always knew she would make a great mother.”
Sajan was quick to concur, but his cell phone unfortunately rang, interrupting his intent to sit down beside Simon. He looked at his phone’s display, then stated: “Would you mind terribly if I took this? It’s important. I won’t be a minute.”
Simon insisted that Sajan take the call and then watched him retreat to the adjacent receiving room for privacy. Closing the door behind him, Sajan answered the call. “Yes,” he stated. An authoritative demeanour accompanied his irritated tone. “I didn’t expect to hear from you this soon.”
The voice on the other line stated: “Things are progressing faster than expected. I was hoping for the same on your end.”
“Listen,” Sajan demanded, as if annoyed by the prospect of being dictated to. “This will proceed on my terms and my timetable, do you understand?”
The lack of a reply caused Sajan to claim the higher ground. “Indi Pharm would still be languishing in obscurity if it were not for my efforts.”
“Your efforts?” the voice challenged. “Or the efforts of others. The dark web market place may have been a stroke of genius, but …”
“But what?” Sajan blurted. “My contribution to this company continues to pay dividends beyond anything you could have conceived.”
Another pause.
“Indeed, Brother-in-law. Indeed. Nurturing your special talents has paid off handsomely, hasn’t it? Please make the necessary preparations for my return.”
Sajan’s posture went rigid with defiance. He grimaced at one of the Gill portraits … until the line went dead.
Hanging up the phone in his prison’s communal call center, Praveen Gill turned and was escorted back to his cell.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael F. Donoghue is father to three young adults and the loving husband of a wonderfully supportive wife and life partner. He found his inspiration in their encouragement, and his dream of becoming a published author was made all the more poignant by their accompaniment on the journey. Michael F. Donoghue lives in Ottawa, Canada.
SOPHIA - Age of Intelligence Page 58
