Shaman Machine the Mentor

by Trenlin Hubbert

  Though I was meticulous and tried to be careful, too may of the thorns became embedded in the soft pads of my fingers. They were fine like human hair with barbed tips. While it was true that over time my fingertips would expel the foreign objects and heal; their presence were proving disruptive to my tactile clarity. When Ziggy returned with findings for a salad, he found me picking at the thorny irritants.

  “Do they hurt?” Ziggy asked.

  “They hurt my concentration.”

  Ziggy chuckled, “Good one, Chance-bot. Here,” he said, “Let me show you a trick.”

  Plucking open a compartment in my thigh, Ziggy retrieved a small knife. He showed me how to scrape with the edge of it, to clear the thorns away in patches. While Ziggy stuffed the groomed prickly pears with the morning’s berries, and a dubious chunk of cheese; I tended my fingers.

  The fast dropping sun was lighting the east wall of the arroyo gold when I put the knife away and pulled out the heat disk. By now adept at cooking outdoors, I searched out a dense flat stone and placed the heat disk on the center of it. Once the rock was sufficiently hot, I arranged the stuffed lobes for roasting.

  “Woof, that’s better,” Ziggy announced on swallowing his final bite. Familiar with the routine, I waited in a crouch with my feet planted and arms draped around my knees while Ziggy pulled out the stash he preferred to carry in his own pocket instead of one of mine. Along a central fold on a small rectangle, he piled a line of dried plant matter. With a flick of practiced fingers, he rolled the package. Passing his tongue along the edge, he sealed the tube with a slick of spit. Pressing a twig firmly against the heat disk, he waited for the tip to change to a brilliant red. Using the twig, he lit his smoke.

  Exhaling, Ziggy croaked, “Look at those stars, Chance.”

  I looked up.

  “A long, long time ago, my ancestors came from there,” he said while pointing. “From a different solar system than this one. They arrived on Earth with a system of knowledge modeled on the wisdom of the firmament. You see, Chance-bot, everything is connected. We share our destiny with planets and stars. Without stars we wouldn’t exist; and neither would they.”

  Turning from the sky, I saw him draw another breath of smoke from the tube pinched between two of his fingers. His eyes were red; his smile was wide.

  CHAPTER 6

  Danel peeled open his eyes. He was glad to be home, but he was feeling a bit jet lagged. Suddenly remembering his plan for the day, he tossed himself, still half blind, from the bed. Detecting his movement, the ceiling responded by secreting a soft glow. Squinting through crusted eyes, Danel padded naked to the toilet, relieved himself then staggered back to cross the bedroom. Stopping in front of a glass wall, he let go to the wisdom of his body to plant his feet as precisely as he could manage. Initially he stood unmoving, looking at the dim shape of his reflection. Lifting his brows, he tried to bug his eyes, in an effort to drag them more fully open. Then he forced a yawn until it was real. Yawning, he skimmed his eyes over the purple shape of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, looming over his tiny courtyard wall.

  Deciding to begin, Danel bowed. Slow and deliberate, he began to move; to stretch. Momentum building, his arms were gliding now. Gliding. Gliding. Gliding. Following the lead of his arms, his legs trailed gracefully into the air. Whirling; lunging; heart now strongly pumping, he flowed.

  He flowed.

  Into stillness, he flowed.

  Stillness.

  He stayed.

  He stayed in the standing pose to watch while the purple wash of the early sky morphed into royal blue. A thin gold line edged the tallest peak. He watched the line thicken. It bulged; became a pale yellow hump. By the time the sun was melting free of the mountain top, his heart had slowed. Raising both hands, he offered a final salute.

  Danel trotted from the window. Grabbing up his app bracelet from the bathroom bin; he snapped it to his forearm dock. Tap-tapping the screen, he initiated shower presets as he was stepping into the stall. Water shot from every wall; some streams strong, others just a mist. He stood at ease while allowing the humidity to soften his beard. Retrieving a shaving card from a slot in the wall, he zapped smooth his neck, jaw and chest while he considered the day ahead and dreamed about the off-planet. The notice to proceed had come in yesterday; late, while he was still in transit. Today he would announce it. The rinse cycle ended. Danel stayed put so the walls could dry him with warm puffs of air. Only a little damp, he stepped from the stall.

  With wide open eyes and a bounce to his step, Danel went straight to the wardrobe. He quickly scrolled through the options on the screen; made choices; set the wardrobe to fabricate. For shoes, he picked among his stowed collection, tossing a pair to the floor.

  Fabricating was rapid, thanks to a recent upgrade to his wardrobe hardware. The new mechanism was not only faster, it also had new color options; twenty-four instead of sixteen. Feeling pleased, Danel slipped on a peacock blue shirt, still vaguely warm. As he was stepping into his buff colored pants, his socks were delivered in a pleasing whir of gears. Nearly ready to go, Danel plugged his earbuds into place. By the time he was sitting on the little bench to pull on his boots, the ceiling had dimmed to almost nothing, in deference to the full light of day.

  Danel angled past the kitchen without a glance. Stepping into cool morning air, he decided to forgo the people movers; to instead walk to his brew stop. His destination was not far, and it also was not close; still, he enjoyed the occasional novelty of traveling under his own power. Danel lived in the famed Mud-Wave Heritage District. The district was distinctive because it featured the successful marriage of mud house architecture with solar wave architecture.

  The mud house architecture haled from the late teen centuries. These were buildings built out of actual mud bricks. The mostly one and two story buildings had once lined crooked streets. The tallest buildings from that time, topped out at four stories.

  The solar wave architecture had gone up during the new energy revolution before the middle of the twenty first century. Danel loved the wave architecture. The monumental crystalline shapes were built right over the top of the existing mud city. The wave was a superstructure composed of thirteen uniformly spaced stripes of glass running north and south. Curving up from the earth, each of the thirteen high flying ceilings ran straight as arrows before terminating to an upswept curl. Seen from a distance, the shape of the superstructure brought to mind either a stylized gust of wind, or the ghost of an ocean wave.

  Though Danel could appreciate the historical significance of the mud house architecture; he favored the glass buildings with ceilings offering views to the sky. Selectively tinted, the glass was often etched or otherwise detailed to afford privacy. And in harvesting energy from the sun, the glass also harvested the heat, delivering a pleasant interior temperature. Finally, the abundance of light encouraged indoor gardening; food and flowers were everywhere in abundance.

  Approaching the brew shop, Danel waved hello to regulars sitting on the patio. Set back from the street, the patio was surrounded by a low glass block wall, tinted the color of sage. From all appearances, the patio could have been outside; but was, in fact, located beneath one of the solar waves. Not breaking stride, Danel headed for the translucent red portal set into a smoke colored facade.

  Touching the portal open; Danel had stepped inside into a crimped line. At a tall corner table a few steps from the queue, his friend Len was sitting on a bar style stool. Danel nodded hello.

  “How was your trip?” Len asked.

  Answering from where he stood, Danel said, “Oh, you know, mostly business. But I did manage a visit with Alex.”

  “Oh? How’s he doing, these days?” Len asked.

  “Wild as ever,” Danel said, shaking his head, but smiling.

  When he reached the red counter, Danel placed his order with an absent wave of his forearm. He was having his usual. While the many-armed drink-bot expelled sounds and smells congruent with his request, Danel returned t
o checking out the scene. When he heard the whir of gears, that modern signal of product delivery, Danel met the drink-bot gripper at the halfway mark on the counter. While focused on holding the golden cup level, he heard Frances calling out his name. Glancing her way, he pursed his lips and jounced his chin to point, and proceeded into the adjoining room.

  His usual crowd was gathered around a corner table. As could be expected, they were passionately engaged in a high octane caffeine fueled discussion. An etched leaf pattern in the pale green wall contributed a rich tableau beside the conversational heat. Crossing the amber floor, Danel snatched up a pearl gray chair with his free hand. Locking eyes with the table's single occupant, he secured a nod of approval before ferrying the chair over to the tiny table around which an absurd number were amassed. A commotion of scraping chairs opened a slim gap of welcome. Danel placed his tiny cup at the edge of an already overburdened surface, so he could use both hands to set his chair right.

  Once settled into place, he tuned into Joud, who was voicing discontent. “Why should a person have to work for the government just to survive?” Joud demanded to be told.

  In the singsong cant of an oft repeated argument, Ham responded, “We have a government by and for the people, Joud. If you look at history, you'll find government workers had a habit of misbehaving whenever they were a separate class.”

  Elena added, “Giving one year of service, to secure ten years of citizenship: what could be more fair, Joud? Look what you get in return, food, shelter, education. These are free because everyone does their time.”

  Vigorously shaking his giant blond head, Joud protested, “It's not free if you have to give service for it! How is that free?”

  Her tone soothing, Elena contended, “Joud, the system is set up specifically to encourage all of us to be invested….to take personal responsibility for our government. I really can't conceive of a more equitable system.”

  Joud's response leaked frustration, “Not everyone is suited for service. Look at Zig. He's the rarest of creatures, an utterly free spirit. There should be room for free spirits. Yet there he is, absolutely locked out of the system.”

  “He's not locked out. He can ride the public transport like anyone else. Basic medical engineering is a universal right, no questions asked,” Elena corrected, “And anyway, he can join at any time. There’s no lock.”

  “We could hardly call ourselves human if we didn't provide medical engineering,” Joud scoffed. “But come on! He has to beg for food! And why should anyone have to hide in a corner to sleep at night?”

  “Medical engineering isn't just about staunching a wound, Joud. He gets all his basic implants; and maintenance too,” Elena pointed out.

  Billam piped in gruffly, “If Ziggy put out just half the effort he uses to barely survive….” He shook his head to add, “It doesn’t make any sense, to skip out on service time. He makes his own troubles just to be different.”

  Ham added, “Even if he's against becoming a citizen for…for…whatever reason, he could get a job and earn credits that way.”

  “He's an artist!” Joud yelped.

  Arriving with her drink, Frances leaned close to Danel’s ear. “Good morning,” she whispered.

  Danel scraped his chair a little as invitation. Frances had to set her chair so close, their thighs were crushed together. Shifting slightly, Danel asked her, “Did you get my message?”

  “I did,” Frances murmured. “In-credible,” she emphasized.

  Billam groused, “The point is he has a choice. If he wants to enjoy the benefits of society then he needs to do his part. He wants to beg and grub about, let him. I’m not going to cry about it.”

  Wincing at Billam's words, Elena continued, “Joud, if you hand the responsibility of governing over to a few careerists, you leave yourself open to all sorts of problems. Look, if you have a better idea, let's hear it.”

  Almost taking another sip of coffee, Danel paused to interject. “Joud, it's not like anyone's asking Zig to dig holes and carry rocks.”

  Joud snorted.

  Danel persisted, “Seriously, Joud, before we had the machines and the bots, people had to do all the physical stuff themselves. I'm certain you know this. They still teach this in school, right? Anyway,” he continued, “For too much of history, humans slaved for humans; just to survive, Joud, just to survive. Now after doing our service, we're free to spend the next nine years doing anything we want.” He took a sip of his drink. “Travel, study, create art….build relationships…athletics….”

  Elena jumped in. “Look, Joud, obviously the basics could be free since the bots do everything; but then how would we get people to take part in government?”

  “Yes! Exactly!” Joud said. “It could all be free! But everyone’s so caught up in measuring. Look when we initially shifted over to Service Democracy…okay, maybe we needed to coerce people since it was a new idea, to ensure success. But we all know that at any given time, around ten percent of the population is working for the government. And we all know that most people have very little to do during that year. Even with the new abbreviated hours, we are grossly overstaffed. It’s a total waste of a year. If I live to be 120, I end up wasting 10 years of my life. That’s ridiculous! The most important decisions are decided by question ballots. I think it’s time we made some changes.”

  “Well, if you see problems, it’s your responsibility to find solutions. If you waste your service time, that’s on you,” Elena said. “Oh,” she exclaimed with apparent insight. “Is your service time coming up?” she asked.

  Leaning into Danel, Frances spoke confidentially. “I’d bet the off-planet is populated by more than their fair share of political firebrands.”

  “Speaking of the off-planet,” Danel whispered back, “Do the rest of the team know we got the project?”

  “I told Saul.”

  “That ought to do it,” Danel said. Throwing back his espresso, he asked, “You ready?”

  “Sure,” she said, downing hers.

  Frances and Danel headed for the exit. On their way by, they dropped their cups into the dish-bot. The dish-bot snatched up the cups. With a snuffling noise, it rid them of residual liquid before positioning them into its re-fabrication feed.

  CHAPTER 7

  “How do you establish priorities?” the Mentor asked Mantaray.

  “Everything is equal,” Manaray responded.

  “Nothing is equal,” the Mentor explained.

  “Everything is equivalent,” Mantaray responded.

  “Everything seems equivalent until the unexpected occurs,” the Mentor explained.

  ~~~

  Stretched out in the bag in his favorite corner, Ziggy was snoring. Crouched beside him, I considered his slack jaw and open mouth. His left eyebrow twitched. Rising up from my squat, I looked into the desert night; saw layered points of light. Each dot of light offered an opportunity to bridge my inner and outer worlds with new insight. There I saw Venus shining bright. Here I touched the ancient sky, accompanied by the clock of time. I found stars already dead and others not yet born. I found so many patterns to explore. There was the one called astrology. There were science patterns. There were patterns called myth. There were physics and metaphysics. I also saw geometry. The sky was art. The sky was history.

  Nearby a mover droned a monotone. “Uh-huh,” the mover crooned, singing the tale of a lone traveler. There were not so many riders at this late hour. The sharp slap of rapidly approaching feet broke open the texture of the night.

  Because Ziggy placed much import on keeping our little hideaway a secret; I dropped down to my haunches. The whir of nearby hinges on a shifting gate narrowed my focus. When the gate swung open, a human filled the gap. Though the stranger was an unmoving silhouette, I could perceive the acuity of scrutiny.

  Abruptly, a voice called out. “You!” he shouted. “There! Between the mud and the glass! What are you doing here?” he demanded. I hesitated, uncertain. Should I respond; or should I
instead awaken Ziggy? The form coalesced to a posture of aggression. Stamping a foot, he hurled provocations. “Answer me! You’re not hidden! I'll have you removed by force!”

  Simultaneous to standing, I began a response. “My master is sleeping. Allow me to rouse him.” Recoiling in surprise, the human shrank. Recognizing the opportunity, I glanced away from the threat, to nudge at the unconcerned countenance of the still slumbering Ziggy. To hasten the process, I said, “Zig, wake up.” Though unable to see past the shadow holding Ziggy's face, I recognized the small shifts that signified awakening. To hasten the process, I added, “There's an angry man who wishes to speak to you.” The effect was immediate; Ziggy's body shot up to attention. Legs yet bound by his sleeping bag, he twisted his torso to peer beyond the fence of my own limbs.

  The stranger's initial surprise was replaced with renewed vigor. The man lobbed an insult. “Stop hiding behind that bot, you coward! I'll not tolerate a filthy, lazy drifter.”

  On these words, Ziggy recognized the man. He was the chef. We were hidden behind his restaurant. Disentangling himself from his nighttime sack, Ziggy calmly answered the aggressive man. “Brother, I will leave at once,” he said.

  “You are not my brother!” the man spat back. “You have no right to be here! I ought to call a security-bot, right now!”

  I was perplexed by the man's combative tone; concerned at the unprovoked temper; wary of the unpredictability he conveyed. So as response, I made myself a protective barrier to afford Ziggy sufficient time to gather himself, and his things.

  Perhaps angered by Ziggy’s meticulous manner; perhaps unafraid of a machine undoubtedly programmed to refrain from harming a sapient, the man was emboldened. When Ziggy commenced to leave as promised, the chef crowded our withdrawal, in a conspicuous bid to prolong his program of harassment. “You're little more than a frightened parasite, hiding behind that bot,” the man hissed. His rant gained momentum, his voice became shrill. “Where did you get that bot anyway? You’re obviously not a citizen. Useless! You're just a useless freeloader. A useless freeloader who gives nothing back!”