No Geek Rapture for Me_I'm Old School

by Jonelle Renald

  Cezary continued, nodding his head so that the springy crown of his white hair shimmered. “The work each of you is doing pleases me greatly. We really have come together to unite as a team, and I am so proud of you all. Truly, we are showing the first signs of working as a community that is truly dedicated to bringing in the next giant step forward in human development. And that work deserves its reward.” He nodded to Amy, who began handing out envelopes. “A token of my appreciation for your efforts.”

  Skip Morrison looked inside his envelope. “Sweet! Five Benjamins! There’s a lot I could do with five hundred bucks!”

  “I thought that would please everyone. Especially you, Skip!” Cezary grinned and nodded rapidly. “Use this gift in any way you choose. See the sights here in Miami Beach. Go to a casino, bet on a horse or dog race, go see a jai alai match. Hire a boat and go catch a shark or a marlin. Dance the night away with anyone you choose. And if you increase your take, I want to hear your story when we get back to Barrow Heights. Now go, have fun. You deserve it.”

  Mia didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed her purse and stood up. “Thank you so much for your generosity, Mr. Cezary.”

  “You’re very welcome.” He smiled and nodded at her as she left. “Indulge yourself, Mia.”

  Halfway out the door, Mia noticed that no one else was leaving with her. No one else even made a move that indicated that they would be getting up from the table any time soon. She didn’t know why, but as she exited the restaurant, she had the distinct impression that they were all staying behind to confer together about issues she wasn’t included in. She thought, “Oh, frack it. Who cares. I’m out of here!”

  Wandering Miami Beach that afternoon was thoroughly enjoyable. Soaking up the sunshine and warm temperatures, she toured the beach front, walked barefoot in the white sand, picking up seashells and a shark’s tooth brought in by the waves. Later, she found a little shop selling artwork by local artists, bought a colorful watercolor, and had it shipped back to her home. “What a perfect souvenir!” At a food truck parked paralleling the beach, she bought a Cuban sandwich and a cerveza and ate her supper walking along the boulevard, enjoying the sights and sounds of the people, shops, and the ocean. She watched the sun set from her seat in a cute bakery where she bought a final slice of key lime pie. “Mmm, mmm, so good!” Later that evening, sitting on a bench under a palm tree, she joined a crowd listening to guitar music played by three musicians. Time passed too quickly. She was reluctant to leave, but it was getting late, so she took a taxi back to the hotel.

  Before packing to fly back in the morning, she turned on the television and flipped over to the news. Back in her first weeks at iCon, she had written what she thought was a practice exercise, social media posts building to a SJW firestorm against a man who had committed a politically correct nothing. What she saw now, the story on the news — it sent the pit of her stomach like an express elevator to the basement. She sat on the end of her bed and watched a report about a university professor who had sent a short message to a friend about the architecture he planned to view on vacation before boarding a trans-Pacific flight, Los Angeles to Penang, Malaysia. During the flight — while he had no idea what was happening online — a social media firestorm went viral. Hundreds, thousands of Social Justice Warriors were accusing him of racism and white privilege, who then became even more offended at the mention of the influence of native homes built on stilts on modern Malaysian architecture, which provoked countless more angry responses, countless enraged posts on social media, with torrents of phone calls and threats to withdraw support and donations from the university where he taught art history. He was fired by the time he landed in Penang, losing his professorship before he was even aware there was any trouble. Simply for making a casual comment to a personal friend from his academic social media account. The reporter in the TV news report interviewed several random passersby. One woman said on camera, “Oh, certainly he should lose his job. I believe in public humiliation. How else are people going to learn they can’t act out their white privilege anymore. It’s the twenty-first century, things are different now!”

  Mia didn’t know how, but her writing — what she had thought, had hoped was simply an exercise when she had written it several weeks ago — her writing had been used in real life to ruin a man’s life. She felt like throwing up. Somehow, her writing had helped do this, and there was nothing now that she could do to undo it. But how could iCon be involved in creating a social media firestorm? Why would they provide texts for SJWs to post, providing the blunt instruments used to destroy this man? What kind of place was she working for?

  And what was worse, she was returning to work on Monday to that very place.

  14 | Recruit

  Mia opened her kitchen window and looked out at the back yard. Tulips, daffodils, song birds, green grass, sunshine, mild breezes. The air coming in over the window sill was a bit chilly, but she didn’t care. She took a deep breath, savoring the scents and sights of spring’s arrival in Barrow Heights, Iowa. What a beautiful April day it was!

  Mia smiled, closed the window, then went to sit in the wing chair next to the fireplace. Sitting next to the shepherd statue in her living room and the return of spring, both reassured her, both made her feel more like a whole person. Ever since the H+ conference in Miami Beach three, four weeks ago, Mia had been having headaches during the day and disturbing dreams at night. And she was stuck, unable to escape the bad situation she was in, unable to decide what she should do about leaving iCon and its troubling and toxic workplace atmosphere. Every day, she loathed being there a little more than the day before. In spite of this, she couldn’t come to any conclusions about making a change, what action to take, her thoughts running through multiple possibilities, yet nothing gelled. Nothing helped her gain any traction, nothing prompted her into taking any action. It was as if the transmission gears in her brain were slipping, and she was perpetually revving her engine in neutral, nothing happening. She constantly thought about leaving, and yet did absolutely nothing about it. She was floundering and knew it, had no idea how to find a way to escape. She was stuck in this horrible place.

  Because she was having trouble getting a good night’s sleep, she was tired all the time, and mornings were becoming difficult to cope with. Falling asleep wasn’t the problem — once she lay down, she dropped off immediately. But before that, she did everything she could to postpone going to bed, avoiding sleep by staying up late on the computer, starting a streaming movie at ten o’clock at night, reading novels in bed until 2:00, 3:00 in the morning. She just couldn’t face falling asleep anymore unless she was exhausted. It wasn’t insomnia, wasn’t noisy neighbors, wasn’t sleep apnea that stopped her from breathing. Nothing like that. She didn’t understand why she was acting this way, but whatever the reason, sleep itself had become something that she deeply wanted to avoid. She simply couldn’t bring herself to walk up the stairs and lie down on her bed until it was very late — which meant the small hours of the morning. And when she finally was so exhausted that she was forced to sleep, her dreams were difficult to endure. No terrifying nightmares where she would wake up gasping for breath, but even so, her dreams were upsetting. She often wished to escape the continued repeat of nightly turmoil, but the disquieting dreams kept occurring.

  An hour earlier, she’d had another one of those very disturbing dreams. In it, she had been lying on her back in her own bed, in her own bedroom, paralyzed and unable to move, eyes open, surrounded by half a dozen very tall figures with large dark eyes, dull gray skin, white hair with a crown of light topping their heads, all dressed exactly alike in long drape-y robes of some silver foil material. The intruders stood next to her bed, looking down on her, watching her with disapproving faces while they sneered at her and made disgusting and repugnant comments back and forth on the great number of her negative qualities. Even though she wasn’t touched or abused in any direct physical wa
y, she was desperate to escape their next-to-her-bed presence and their harsh assessments. But she couldn’t move in any way. The paralysis was bad enough, but the worst was how vulnerable she felt, helpless to prevent the intrusion. In spite of her protests (which she couldn’t speak aloud), her bedroom had been turned into an observation arena like you’d find in a lab, and she was the specimen on the table. After waking, this disturbing nightmare continued to haunt her thoughts throughout the morning. This was the reason she was seeking a sense of peace and sanctuary in the normal, everyday beauties of spring and the blessing offered by the statue. To be sure, she knew these things were only a limited sanctuary, offering her no real protection from intrusions. But it was a welcome relief just the same.

  Mia sighed. It was such a shame to have to trade an April day in all its finery for the cubicle world of iCon, but it was Tuesday, a work day. She couldn’t stay home. So she said goodbye to the statue of Jesus and the little lamb, locked the front door, and drove her black cherry coupe to the iCon HQ. For once, she was driving under the posted speed limit, postponing her arrival as long as possible. Inside the HQ, waving her key card across the security ID reader outside the Corporate Communications and Investor Relations Department area to disengage the magnetic lock at the top of the glass door, she realized she was the only one who still had a plastic pass card, the only one without an e-tattoo adhered to her wrist. But the new tech security system had a soy-based adhesive that would soon turn the contact area red, oozy, and itchy. So with a doctor’s note, she was allowed to be different than everyone else.

  Following her formal introduction to transhumanism at the BMI Rising Technology Congress, her writing assignments were all strictly related to iCon’s mission. No more writing for social justice warriors, no more work on fake news reports, thank God. Since her return from the conference, her assignments were restricted to press releases promoting the advantage of increased neural connections by creating a conjunction between the human brain and computer systems and carefully crafted announcements regarding the release of new software, hardware, or other technologies. And nothing else.

  Even though she was no longer directing firestorms for social justice warriors to repost, she felt a growing disconnect with what she was writing. After being exposed at the conference in Miami Beach to the contempt felt by leading transhumanists for normal people, learned about their plans for completely controlling humanity’s future, she now disliked being a corporate agitprop writer, no longer wanted to help influence the opinions of people who had no idea what was about to be forced on them. As time went by, she became sickened by the thought of a small panel of Geek Rapture experts thinking they could, thinking they should, make life-changing decisions for the billions of people on the planet, who were to have no say, no vote on the course this so-called “progress” would take. There was no room for alternative views, especially on iCon’s campus. Resistance is futile, minions.

  After the conference in Miami Beach, Mia had started noticing something else at iCon. There was an inner circle among the team members at iCon, a clique that did not seem to be based on job title or status or even friendship. The cabal was centered on the people who had been invited to the post-conference lunch in Miami Beach. A very high percentage of the Corporate Communications and Investor Relations Department belonged — Skip Morrison, Andie Fenna, Stacie Riveras, Gerald Hansen, Gretchen Lehmann, Amy Minturn, Marsha Sisk, Benton Leland were in, but not Chynna Chandler. Mia thought Chase was the ring leader, but she wasn’t sure. Some EVPs did not belong, but Maggie Pittman, the receptionist at the front desk did. Ralph Bardolf, head of security seemed to be in. The Kewl Kidz, as Mia christened the group, no doubt had other members in other departments in the company that Mia didn’t know about, so she had no idea how big the club really was. And she wasn’t exactly sure what the purpose of this inner circle was, what it was that they all had in common. Other than working for iCon, she didn’t know how to explain the secretly social connection they shared. They didn’t have a subversive agenda against the corporation — in fact, they were all enthusiastic supporters of transhumanism. These were the people who ran many of the meetings, the ones who were most enthusiastic about announced goals and projects. Was the entire point of the group to keep other people out? Mia didn’t know what to think. Also, she didn’t know when or where they met together. Probably through some kind of online chat room that kept them all synced up. The tell-tale characteristics of the group were subtle, but they all shared an insider’s perspective, an edge knowing about things before they happened — and an arrogance toward people who weren’t in the club. Also, for some unknown reason, they all seemed to be extremely fearful of the world around them — dangers from other people’s hand washing habits, bathroom door handles, people double dipping chips in the guacamole, avian flu, Zika, West Nile, or mad cow infections and pandemics, salmonella poisoning in fresh produce items, transmissions stuck in third gear, muggings, mass shootings, car accidents, airport security, pesticides. To name just a few of their fears.

  Day to day, the club operated in the same way cliques operated in high school. There was no way to join if you weren’t already in, no way to earn an audition. Admission terms were black and white — either you were born awesome or you wouldn’t ever be. (And Mia thinking the word awesome was a good description showed she wasn’t in, would never be in, proven by not knowing a cooler term to describe the group.) Either you were in or you never would be.

  In other bad news, the pressure to conform to the corporate group-think continued after the BMI conference without stop. But the reaction toward her from the people in her department was different now. In spite of her resistance to them, they had all decided to be friendly to her, non-stop. Mia was surprised to see many of the Kewl Kidz reaching out to recruit her, issuing multiple invitations that would include her in their activities. She had been asked to join their March Madness basketball pool — and came in third place (winning $15), Amy Minturn gave her tickets to a theater production at the University of Wisconsin-Platteville, various people stopped by her cubicle to chat who had totally ignored her previously, several people asked her to join them for a session in the fencing arena where Chase would single her out by providing tips for improving her fencing techniques, coaching her on executing the Italian sabre Molinello. Without the painful whackings he’d given previously and all without the constant remarks implying she was stupid and worthless.

  Mia wanted to believe these were evidence of genuine gestures of friendship, but she doubted it. It felt more like a tactic, like they were still trying to change even more of her life, only now by using the enticement of affection. Gretchen Lehmann in particular started acting like a friend, inviting Mia to lunch (just the two of them) at the iCon café, or to go on break for walks around the parking lot while chatting, even asking Mia to “Tell me about yourself.” At first Mia was pleased to have made a friend, but as time went on, she kept getting the persistent impression that Gretchen was only gathering intel, reporting back to the group what Mia said, so what had been a positive ended up as another negative. Each new connection with her co-workers increased the pressure to become a clone of the Kewl Kidz. Which she didn’t want to do. She didn’t want to become a corporate minion, didn’t want to become like the people who belonged to the secret society. She was willing to be warm and cordial with everyone, but wasn’t willing to change to suit them. It wasn’t negotiable.

  Her daily routine had worn itself into a grind of keeping her head down while keeping busy. Most days Mia left work with the 5:30 “staying just late enough” crowd, although lately she had been staying much later to work on a series of big assignments. The highlight of her work week was leaving the iCon campus, going to lunch at The Midnight Airship restaurant in downtown Barrow Heights with friends like Jan Ferris and Dina Fellerston.

  In March, iCon had hired Dina, the Edgestow College administrative assistant who had received the bouquet of fl
owers Mia had sent eighteen months earlier on the day after her sad miscarriage. Now, she was returning to work after the birth of her baby daughter Hannah, born in December. She had reported at her first lunch with Mia and Jan details about the hiring process at iCon, how excessive enthusiasm and rah-rah for the company were expected from each applicant even before being hired, how quote-passion-unquote seemed to be as important to iCon as skills and experience were. Rolling her eyes, she made Jan and Mia laugh when she said, “I did well in the interview. I’ve had plenty of experience faking enthusiasm when it’s called for.” Dina said the recruiters had told all the new hires, “Remember — you will be our missionary and goodwill ambassador. Help us create a fundamental transformation in the course of human evolution.” But like Mia and Jan, Dina was not a true believer in iCon’s mission. She only wanted a paycheck, and wasn’t as enthusiastically committed as Human Resources would have liked, had they known the truth of the situation.