Wearing the sleeping bag across his shoulders, Ziggy wordlessly abided the abuse while I continued to shield against the increasingly credible danger, of violent words escalating into violent actions. We wound our way from the courtyard to the street. Eventually, the angry voice receded. Gradually, the white noise of night reassembled itself. Meanwhile, Ziggy and I angled toward an alternate retreat. The streets we walked were emptied. Eventually, I parted the silence with a question.
“Ziggy, why was the man so excessively angry?” I asked.
Though the moonless night continued to hold Ziggy's face in mystery, there was sadness in the drift of his disembodied voice. “Sometimes,” he said, “the fear comes directly from the body; from the person’s DNA. Actually, you know what? RNA is the programming. So…in the same sense that you are hostage to your programming, Chance; humans are hostage to DNA as instructed by their RNA.”
I considered this answer. “To me the man seemed very angry. You saw him as afraid?”
“Anger is only one of many ways people find to express fear. Fear can sometimes be hard to recognize because it has too many faces, Chance.” He sighed. “…too many faces…. Sometimes fear can even look like happiness. Fear that looks like happiness might be the most debilitating distortion of all; because inevitably there will be people who encourage that brand of fear.”
“Fear that looks like happiness? I don’t understand, Ziggy. How can fear look like happiness?”
“A happy drunk,” Ziggy shot back. He paused to readjust the bag around his shoulders, thus allowing the silence to reassemble. Again breaking the spell, Ziggy said, “Big anger. When someone’s anger seems way out of proportion….” He sighed. “Well…that’s a clue. Big, giant, oversized anger is a clue that the source of the fear is deeply buried; is buried deep in the subconscious. Chance…whenever you can figure a way to do it…. Find a way to respond to anger with compassion.”
A mover hummed another segment of silence. We were walking beside the river when Ziggy offered a confession. “For me, compassion takes an awful lot of courage; usually all of my courage. Because my pain…my fear…. It gets triggered,” he said.
CHAPTER 8
After leaving the brew shop, Frances and Danel hustled to the corner where they hopped on a mover. The moving pad augmented their pace to speed them along. They hopped off in front of a teal glass building. Carried forward by the residual spring in his step, Danel lead. Recognizing him, the building portals parted. He and Frances crossed through an airy vestibule toward a pale yellow corridor. They followed the hallway until it became a sprawling room, populated by half walls, mismatched furniture and lush plants. Threading through the eclectic space, Danel aimed for a giant golden fish, captured in a frozen leap.
Just past the fish sculpture was Frances’ bonsai collection. Circling past the fish, Danel steered to a guest chair, and plunked down to wait.
Frances continued to the pedestal where five miniature lemon trees waited to be tended. Picking up a tiny pair of shears, Frances bent close to scrutinize the plants.
Danel and Frances had been friends since the days when they were both much thinner and much younger. In the last couple of years Frances had put on weight; and for some reason Danel found this development to be touching. Perhaps this was the inevitable result of weathering time together. Whatever the cause, Danel found Frances very appealing in her middle age. The warm gray blouse and matching gray slacks, she wore, were perfectly cut to drape flatteringly over the fullness of her figure. He’d always liked her confident carriage. Her hair was a mass of cropped brown coils; save a spiral length of gray, she kept long enough to tuck behind one ear.
So softly did she speak to the plants, he couldn’t hear her words. While he watched, she touched and turned, first one and then another, of the simple pots. After much deliberation, she made only a single cut before returning the shears to the edge of the glass pedestal. Turning her back to the plants, Frances looked at Danel and asked, “Are you excited?”
“Of course,” he admitted.
By the time the rest of the design team had begun to arrive, Danel and Frances were relocated to a nearby lounge. Saul was the first to arrive on the scene. He had dimples that blinkered on and off whenever he smiled.
“Good morning, Frances; Danel,” he said, flashing a smile. Folding his arms, he examined Danel. “Look at you, Danel.” His dimples winked like punctuation marks. “You don't look the least bit jet lagged,” he remarked.
Stabbing at humor, Danel said, “The glow of inspiration must be obscuring my dark circles.”
Frances and Saul locked eyes; but were saved from any need to reply, as the remainder of the team arrived.
Carla led, holding a bag fragrant with the aroma of baked goods, which she dropped on a low table. “A small offering to celebrate the new project,” she announced.
Following a few steps behind her, Pancho dropped into the seat closest to the baked goods. Snatching up the bag, he dug in to pull out one of the stickier confections. Tossing the bag at Danel, he said, “Good morning, all.”
“Since you’re all here,” Frances said, “we should find a nice big wall.”
“My space,” Saul suggested. When he set off, the others trailing in pairs.
Carla fell in with Pancho and offered him a wide eyed grin.
Pancho laughed. “I know. Pretty amazing,” he agreed.
Saul led them to a roomy couch, opposite a big white wall. Carla dropped down next to Saul on the couch, and Pancho fell in beside her. Depositing the bag of baked goods on Saul, Danel ignored the remaining selection of low slung seats; and disappeared behind the wall to pillage a chair from Saul’s office. Assuming a standing position, Frances waited while Danel navigated the chair to a location halfway between her and the couch crew. Frances scrolled, swiped and then tapped her forearm device to synch a projection. On the wall there appeared a planet wrapped in clouds. Frances looked at her audience and waited through a final rustling of the bag. Finally the silence was complete, and all eyes focused on her.
“As you all know,” she began, “we have notice to proceed on the New Planet Undersea City.” A brief patter of applause brought a smile to her face and enlivened her brown eyes. “Varun was the first planet outside our own solar system, to be chosen by the Coalition of Nations for open colonization,” she began. After pushing the gray spiral of hair behind one ear, she tapped again at her arm to initiate a programmed sequence of footage. The view skimmed through clouds, toward a silvery sea that entirely filled the curve of a far off horizon. The camera view conducted a measured descent before coming to rest on a solitary island. Frances narrated while the program switched to flipping through still shots, of the island, a settlement, and black sand beaches. “This is Kamarong Island and Kamarong City on the planet called Varun,” she narrated. “To date, Kamarong Island is the only land mass to be found above sea level on Varun. Thus, the space station was built there. Next August, the twentieth anniversary of the New Planet Colonization Program. Some of the colonist, actually a minority of colonists, have chosen to settle permanently on Kamarong Island; whereas, the vast majority have chosen to live on the open sea. This majority call themselves seasteaders. Thus far, the seasteaders have been living nomadic lifestyles aboard the ubiquitous hydroliners.” On the white screen beside her there appeared a picture of a hydroliner: a yacht mounted atop hydraulic legs connected to immensely long skis. “The seasteaders,” Frances explained, “have been the primary voice lobbying the Coalition to build a permanent undersea city. The Coalition believes the construction of an undersea city is an ideal way to show support for, and encourage the citizenry to transition into responsibility for self government.” Frances paused to glance at her arm device. Then panning her audience, she stressed, “I’m confident you recognize that by designing this key city, we will serve a critical function in ensuring the future success of the people on this planet.” The photo presentation paused on a frame showing clusters of seasteaders. �
��Questions?” Frances asked.
Carla lifted a finger. Frances nodded. “Yes, Carla.”
“What about our responsibility toward the planet? Will that be a listed goal?” Carla asked.
Frances smiled; nodded her head knowingly. “You are very consistent,” she said, with genuine warmth. “Let’s talk about our design parameters for the undersea city,” Frances said, initiating the next sequence of images with a flick. “The city shall be designed to support a total population of 20,000 permanent residents. The city must be completely self-sustaining,” she said, looking pointedly at Carla. “Indeed, it should require no imports from off-planet, or even from Kamarong Island. This is not to suggest trade will be disallowed among current or future on planet cities. But trade should be a matter of choice rather than necessity. So…” she glanced at Danel, who shrugged, a nothing here, response. “…that's a general overview,” she concluded. Noting Carla’s expression, Frances tipped her forehead. “Go ahead, Carla.”
Carla looked almost too young to be a member of the design team. In her late twenties, she was tiny with a delicate build. She had pale skin and pale blonde hair. Looking like a precocious child, she leaned forward. “Originally,” she began. “Twenty years ago,” she clarified. “Why did the Coalition initiate the colonization of Varun? What do they want in return for their investment? Will they be harvesting resources?”
Frances laughed indulgently and said, “As far as I'm aware, there are no plans to harvest resources of any kind beyond those necessary to sustain the seasteaders…oh, and colonists…on Kamarong Island. And let me be clear, Carla. I’m certain that if harvesting was one of their goals, the Coalition would have stated that provision; it would be an important parameter to be made aware of, as designers. I feel confident, their interest is purely scientific. They expect to harvest knowledge.”
“Environmental knowledge?” Carla probed.
Frances smiled. “Social. Cultural. Certainly environmental. As an anthropologist, I'm really quite excited about the project.” Frances probed Carla’s features. “Have I answered your question?”
“Yes,” Carla said. Blushing faintly, she added, “Thank you.”
Shifting her attention, Frances said, “Saul, you have the go ahead to develop a preliminary work schedule. Danel and I are tentatively set to depart for Varun two months from next Friday. The rest of you will follow three months from that date. So,” she swept their faces with her eyes, “get your affairs in order. We are estimating the project, at a two years commitment.” With a tap, the projection evaporated from the wall. “And please,” she said, “anyone having second thoughts about such an extended commitment, needs to do some pretty quick soul searching. Please, everyone make certain you intend to follow through. Spend these next two weeks getting some clarity.” She paused. “In two weeks time, we really need for you to let us know what you've decided. Oh! And also!” she added, “Be advised: all body augmentations must be updated before departure. I cannot stress this enough.” Her features sharpening, she continued, “And all technology must be of the implant variety. We absolutely will not take the chance of losing anyone because of dropped jewelry.” Setting her sights on Danel, she continued, “I’m pretty certain Danel is the only one here who ascribes to that particular affectation.”
Putting his hands up in surrender, he said laughingly, “I know; I know. I’ll get right on it.” Standing, he added, “It should be quite the adventure, people.” Turning to Pancho, he asked in a subdued voice, “Can I meet with you over in my studio?”
“Sure, Danel.”
The two settled into chairs at a small table in Danel's studio. Danel looked at Pancho probingly. “Pancho,” he said, “this is the big one. I know I don't need to tell you how important this project is. Though perhaps it is worthwhile to restate, how important you are to this project. Two years is a substantial chunk of time…especially for a man with a family. You’re going to do this, right?”
“How many times do you expect me to say yes?” Pancho asked impatiently.
“Look, I just… I know you don't want to uproot Marta and the boys, but really…they'd be perfectly safe and comfortable in Kamarong City,” Danel said.
“Danel,” Pancho objected.
“What an adventure for the little guys!” Danel persisted, “It's not too late to make arrangements.” All of this had been said by Danel too many times. Yet the impatience showing on Pancho’s face, didn’t keep Danel from adding, “I think you'll end up being happier if they come with you.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Pancho leaned back more deeply into his chair. “Danel. Please?”
“But really, Pancho--” Danel tried.
“I am not going to back out. I am going to go,” Pancho interrupted. “So please,” he impressed, “let’s stop having this conversation. Marta and the boys belong on Earth. I am not going to uproot them for my work. I'm passionate about this project, too. So, just stop it. You know, damn well, you can depend on me. Danel, I’m going.” Brightening, he added, “By the way, Marta and I decided to get the personal assistant-bot to help her in my absence.”
“Good for you! Alright,” Danel said, “I'll let it rest.” But leaning forward, he did not let it rest. “I just don't trust any other structural biologists to do this work as well as you. This project…well…you know.”
“Exactly. I know,” Pancho said. To soften his words he laughed, “Enough? Please?”
Danel slapped the table with his palm, and said, “Okay, then. So, can we set up a time to go over your list?”
“Of course,” Pancho said, “of course.”
CHAPTER 9
“Balance is a state of equilibrium,” Mantaray responded.
“Yet, no system is ever static,” the Mentor countered.
~~~
Sitting in a slim shadow of rock, I searched for answers. All First Level Bots, such as myself, were programmed with the compulsion to treat every sapient with respect. This compulsion was the Cardinal Command. Perplexing, I thought, that a duty deemed of foundational importance would be left so inadequately defined.
Respect. On awakening into the duality of consciousness, I’d been confronted by an exhaustive cache covering the topic of respect. Searching for a solution to my current dilemma, I turned to these instruments and studied them for clues.
Small stones and loose sand rained down; calling my attentions back to the impending crisis. I looked up. Thirty meters directly overhead from where I sat, Ziggy took another sloppy step, closing in on the edge of the cliff. Carelessly, he sat down on the crumbling edge with his feet now dangling free.
“Ziggy,” I called up. “I would not want you to fall.”
The tears continued to course down Ziggy's face. He gave no response; only stared at the sky while his fingers worried themselves in his lap. Having looked back in time, my current suspicion held that his mood had transitioned into depression, directly following, perhaps in direct response to the encounter with the angry chef. We’d passed that night in the arroyo near the new sculpture. On the following morning, we’d gone on our usual walkabout, even stopping at the brew shop. After coffee, Ziggy told me, he required some time away from the “vibration of the city.” Even though I’d witnessed his mood swings a handful of times in the past; I was completely confounded.
We’d begun our sojourn away from the city by following the river to the south, where it eventually brought us to the bed of a broad arroyo. We traveled the arroyo to the west for more than an hour; until Ziggy simply stopped. Unmoving, we stood in the low sandy place, for a substantial measure of time. The silence was like a patient giant, exaggerated by the occasional desultory stirring of air. Unaccountably, Ziggy began walking again.
The sound of our feet in the loose rocky soil was magnified by the otherwise unbroken silence of the land. Kick slide. Kick slide. And when I followed at his side: kick (kick); slide (slide). When next we stopped; Ziggy, still having spoken not a single word, pointed with his chin t
o indicate a change of direction. He began to climb. Crunch slide, crunch slide…. I followed: Crunch (crunch), slide (slide).
Cresting a hill, we stopped. There, the lazy air never even bothered to stir. Vacantly, Ziggy panned the view. I awaited his decision. Standing sentinel to our minor inquisition, there were ridges layered deep into the distance. Each ridge was a jagged line of pointy sandstone teeth. From tip to base, their sheer facades plummeted in a nearly straight line descent to plant themselves on the soft tops of rolling hillocks, sparsely dotted by stunted trees. Miles of open desert stretched out ahead of us. Ziggy began to walk again.
Another hour elapsed: time we spent walking alongside an unbroken stretch of ridge. Passing close to the sheer face, we climbed up then down; up then down; up then down; traversing one humped hillock after another. Cresting the most recent in the series, I scrutinized rising waves of hazy heat, a shimmering curtain marking the half distance. Above us, the empty blue sky swallowed everything whole. It was a sky so vast that even the endless line of ridges, and even the monumental valleys appeared as little more than…scribbled gestures beneath it. The indifferent sun perched high; the pale yellow of it, belying the dry burning intensity of it. And still we kept on walking.
We walked until Ziggy finally yielded to the sliver of shade offered by a slim and shallow cleft. Though there was hardly room for both of us, Ziggy, anyway, dragged me in. Together we sat in the thin weak shadow. Unbidden, I retrieved a bottle of water from a compartment. I handed it to Ziggy. Ziggy drank deeply then wet his hair. We sat with the silence growing longer and longer. Staring out from the meager shelter, a question formed itself unbidden, in my mind.
Shaman Machine the Mentor Page 4
