Renaissance 2.0: The Entire Series (books 1 thru 5)

by Dean C. Moore

  Fisher swallowed hard. He passed his hand over his scalp as if to encourage additional circulation to his head to coax his brain to the next level. “That’ll teach me to get overly content with the insights math, chemistry, biology, and physics have to offer. Clearly, I wasn’t enough of a dilettante.”

  Hartman chuckled. “No, you weren’t. Might I suggest you focus your RNA-viral computers on erecting the archetypical Renaissance man, making it their specialty to join neural nets in the brain in such a way as to facilitate the integration of ever-more aptitudes? Such Renaissance types could accelerate the innovation curve, driving us toward Singularity State a good several decades ahead of what is predicted.”

  “God, yes!” Fisher shouted with excitement. “You think with such clarity, it’s stunning.”

  Hartman explained, “Without the ability to find synergies between previously uncombined specialties, insights languish in disparate fields that could feed the nuclear-fusion reaction of ideas. The biggest challenge to the human mind is the fact that amidst an information era, with an explosion of discoveries, each of us is working with a vanishingly smaller percentage of the big picture. If we don’t intervene now, when there’s still a chance, we’ll be increasingly reliant on Watson-like supercomputers to do all our higher order thinking for us. We will, in effect, be accepting a demotion down several rankings in the food chain.”

  “What makes you think my biological methods have any chance of catching us up to the innovation curve enjoyed by artificial intelligence?”

  “Spoke to a man some time back that was keen on building mind chips out of quantum computers and inserting them in our brains.”

  Fisher’s eyes went wide.

  “Trust me, the galaxy of problems that arise with that approach are no less daunting. There’s a reason you set a goal, and allow as many people to find their own way across the finish line as possible. Like baby turtles rushing to the sea, I don’t give any of you much chance at success. I well know the pains of being a Man out of Time. There are all sorts of infrastructure lacking that you will both need. Assuming you could turn yourself into Richard Branson, and oversee enough business enterprises you can link together in support of your goals, even with vast sums of money and time on your side, there are more shortcuts that you will have to divine than angels that can dance on the head of a pin.”

  “I like you, Hartman. Just when I was starting to feel inferior, you tell me I have to go beyond what even you can do to manifest my dreams. I like that challenge. Or the megalomaniac in me likes it.”

  Hartman laughed. “Come, let’s talk about building some of those shortcuts. The People’s Movement provides a fertile ground for recruiting, does it not? Minds in the eye of the tornado, settled into Witness state by virtue of meditative practice, are one and all time-crushing machines. They can open us to an eternal present, eliminating the need for a timeline or history all together. We may very much need all these innovations spread out in time to happen in this Now, this eternal present, if Singularity is ever to happen.”

  “You think that’s what triggers the shift into Singularity?” Fisher rubbed his chin. “Enough early kernels popping in the microwave that it primes the reaction for the rest to pop at the last minute?”

  “Forget whether Singularity proper will happen in twenty years, as predicted, or if you and I will invite it to happen that much sooner. Either way, Singularity State necessitates this mass psychic shift into an Eternal Present, into a place of No Time, a fourth dimensional space where we have access to all history, and all timelines at once. It is the door to the multiverse, any and all alternate realities.”

  Fisher gulped. “That sounds more than ambitious. It sounds impossible.”

  “I assure you it’s not. Have you read Ervin Laszlo’s Science and the Akashic Field? The ninety percent of the mind we’re not using is unavailable to us because we refuse to make a covenant with God that would open up the Godhead more fully to us. Our minds were meant to think trans-dimensionally all along, to think across this and any and all parallel universes like the most ambitious quantum computers. The mental apparatus you seek to build by way of your RNA viruses as my friend Freeman Darkly seeks to build by way of his quantum mind chip, is no more than a tool for those who need it to walk among gods. Let’s not you and I sink to such depths. Let our inventions merely provide a crutch for those lacking the stoutness of heart to look into God’s light without the proper shades.”

  They shifted seamlessly between languages as they talked. They were both fluent in Latin and Greek, now defunct languages, thanks to their importance to scientists. And they were helped further by the fact that Greek and Latin gave rise to most of the other languages in general use today. Meaning, if one of them shifted into Spanish, between the Portuguese the other one spoke, and the ability to decode the prefixes and suffixes from the underlying Latin and Greek… there was truly little lost in translation.

  They doubted either of them needed such privacy, as few in this crowd could manage to avoid being overwhelmed by the barkers screaming for their attention inches from their faces. Those outbursts alternated with the similarly siren-like entreaties of smart phones supplying members of the throng with a live feed of the People’s Movement impacts worldwide.

  “How will we convey the critical importance of stitching together the various streams of innovation?” Hartman explored the ramifications of his own question in the next breath, building on his discussion with Freeman Darkly. “We have to bring together genetic engineers like yourself with human-upgrade devotees contemplating cyberpunk scenarios. So much has to come together to collapse time and to drive change fast enough to keep humanity from imploding. Because only the synergies that arise when connecting the individual wires in the Godhead have the power to drive Singularity.

  “A truly egalitarian universe can’t exist outside of Singularity State. All lesser efforts will arrive stillborn. They will be premature and insufficient. But we also need the integral thinkers who embrace the Renaissance man idea to act as the glue, the nodes in the network. They become the catalysts that drive the Singularity State reaction.”

  “In just ten minutes of talking with you,” Fisher said, “I see things so much more clearly. That being the case, the challenges also seem all the more daunting.”

  “You leave the recruiting of God’s army to me,” Hartman said.

  “What if I fail?” Fisher said, fear overtaking his bravado. “What if all your disciples fail you?”

  Hartman sighed. “In the words of the now-defunct NASA, failure is not an option.”

  “What if I hit a roadblock and need to reach you?” Fisher said, the force of the crowd starting to separate them.

  “Try Robin Baker.” Hartman looked around for the source of Winona’s disembodied voice. She materialized out of the throng, just as surprised at her timely appearance. “He’s made of the right stuff. In time, he’ll surpass even you, Clay Hartman. He’s less incorrigible and a lot less full of himself. Which is why I have my money on him.”

  Hartman laughed. “Well, there you have it. Winona is never wrong about people. Sylvia Browne has nothing on her.”

  Winona took hold of Hartman’s arm. “Robin’s already opened a psychic link with your mind, Clay. It’s weak and intermittent, severing under heightened stress, but it will grow stronger. In time, he’ll learn to tap the Akashic records.”

  Hartman’s eyes lit up. Either Winona’s psychic powers were growing the more she used them, or, having brushed up against Robin at his sendoff party, it was enough for her to maintain a link with his mind.

  He didn’t know anyone outside of himself who could tap the Akashic records. “Maybe there’s something to Saverly’s scenario games after all, and to keeping the pressure dialed up for longer periods. I dismissed the process as being fission-like, and likely to lead to even more crippled minds. My breakdown confirmed my worst fears.”

  “Maybe if you had just reserved judgment—”. Winona squeez
ed his arm tighter. “Robin will keep pressure on himself for the rest of his life. Longer than anything even Saverly could pull off. And far longer than anything you have the patience for. You will continue to make the best of dysfunctional psychologies in the state in which you find them. Hoping your memes will be enough to maximize the software they’re running in their heads.”

  “You heard the lady, Fisher. Your prognosis is grim. Pray my memes are contagious enough to rescue you from yourself.”

  Fisher laughed. “That, I will.” He kissed Cora—who had attached herself to Fisher’s arm when Winona did the same with Hartman, to keep the crowd from separating them—on top her head, and was off.

  Hartman hugged Winona, still surprised by how she had found him effortlessly in the crowd using her amazing dolphin-like sonar to navigate the sea of people—and at just the right moment.

  Now he just had to hope the seeds were well enough planted in Aaron Fisher and Freeman Darkly and the others. Sooner rather than later he would need access to one of these nexgen solutions if he expected to keep going. His body was failing him. How much longer before it towed his mind down?

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  NINE MONTHS LATER

  Robin emerged from the bathroom the way a butterfly emerges from a chrysalis – an all-out woman. She toweled off before the full-length mirror in the bedroom, admiring her new figure.

  Ardel materialized in the bathroom behind Robin, wincing from the pain of his latest wound. He smiled at the sight of her standing naked before the mirror in the next room. “Karma chameleon. Trust me, you can do a lot more than just change sexes.”

  He yanked the knife out of his side, reached for bandages in the medicine cabinet. “This, don’t worry about it,” he said as if she were taking notice of him. “The dangers don’t exactly diminish playing at my level.”

  He kept his presence in the room outside Robin’s awareness, bending light and sound around him, as he attended the dressing of his wound.

  Regardless, she sensed someone’s proximity all the same, and stopped trusting the mirror for an accurate reporting of the background. When she stepped closer to investigate, he dematerialized.

  Robin padded into the bathroom and saw the bloody knife, the blood spill on the floor. She picked up the knife. The instant she did, she got a psychic hit, a weak one. “Ardel, who are you?” She turned the knife over in her hands. The expertly crafted blade wasn’t the real treasure; the real treasure was this latest ability to emerge from the fallout with Hartman. Let’s hope, Ardel, that as my psychic powers grow, I’ll be able to pull more of your story out of this knife.

  She cleaned up the blood spill in the bathroom. Washed off the knife. It was a blade designed for killing. But she doubted it was intended for her, or he’d have taken care of business before slipping away.

  She finished dressing, then sauntered downstairs and tucked the blade in the knife block, where it was camouflaged by the rest of the cutlery. And she casually shrugged off the incident. She was getting good at that. It really didn’t matter how shocking the circumstance. Another Hartman legacy.

  Robin strolled to the full length mirror in the living room – a recent addition. She finished adjusting her earrings, her body now highlighted by a form-fitting dress cut just above the knees to show off her legs.

  Drew strolled down the stairs, a virile man, any hint that he was once a woman long gone. He gave his wife a kiss.

  “Where are you off to?” She avoided adding, “in that get up,” wondering about his shirtless top and boxer trunks.

  “Boxing. Wrestling. Womanizing. You need any help getting into character, you let me know?”

  Robin smirked. Drew kissed her again and headed out the door. She absently watched him drive off as she finished accessorizing.

  Admiring the finished product, she thought, You can bet they’ll put you to doing undercover work to bust your balls, making you dress up as a man again just to fuck with you.

  ***

  Winona pulled the faded black and blue 1969 Plymouth RoadRunner in front of the vacation lodge nestled cozily in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. For a stolen car that was little more than an opportunistic find, it had really grown on them. The engine grumbled with a spooky sense of menace, which kept anyone from getting close enough to inspect its vintage status and its equally classic drivers.

  They had changed junkyard license plates so many times, crossed so many state lines, either no one was looking, anymore, or no one was willing to play the odds pulling them over.

  Nothing but eye candy for days, she thought, looking out the window at the retreat. Perfect. “What do you think, hon?”

  Hartman absorbed the view, taking in every drop of the lodge’s ambiance. “I'm digging the nature theme. Yeah, we'll be much closer to God out here.” He gave her a smooch.

  “After they’ve recharged their batteries at the Occupy rallies, our people will need places to gather and work—to build the future right under the noses of those stuck in the past.”

  Hartman smiled. “We want to make it as easy as we can for them to find their way, don't we?”

  ***

  Robin was seated at her desk upstairs in the live-work space of their house.

  She skimmed over photos of Winona and Hartman, and the accompanying files. And she thumbed her way through Hartman’s diaries. She only had to glance at them now to recall their contents.

  Robin’s intent was to fuse Hartman’s recollections with her own in her memoirs, which she hoped to publish; her legacy to the world for a life spent chasing after its most notorious Renaissance men. Hartman was her first, but he wouldn’t be her last. She could use the writing to supplement her income, come to think of it. What’s more, she would need a mental break and a way to sort through things in her mind in between catching these colorful characters.

  She set down her pen. Her book was still just half way through.

  She needed to nab Hartman. But far more importantly—she needed to surpass him. To accomplish that, she still had a hell of a lot of growing to do.

  She stood before her full length mirror, as she was fond of doing of late. Admiring the image of the perfect woman, she ran her hands up and down herself.

  ***

  Murray, Hartman’s one surviving student, was back at his favorite haunt, The Old Souls Club, sitting next to his date. He hadn’t quite gotten a lock on her name yet. Then again, it was only their third time out together. Chelsey was annoyed at his unwillingness to commit even to remembering her name, but, surprisingly, not entirely put off, either. He was riling himself up over two gay guys dancing on the floor – mercifully, the only ones in the club.

  “I tell you, if those two don't stow that shit, I'm going to beat them back into diapers,” Murray blurted, “take my chances on them turning out the same way a second time.”

  Chelsey said, “You invent some new reason to be angry at the world faster than I can come up with the money to bail you out.”

  Murray went off on the two gay guys, decked each with a left hook.

  When's that man gonna learn, the harder you push, the harder life pushes back? Chelsey thought.

  The two gay guys turned out to be cops.

  ***

  Chelsey walked Murray out of the hospital about six months later. He was threatening to sue the cops for compromising his civic responsibility.

  When Robin Baker found out what he was up to, she put a stop to the litigation. Chelsey remembered her saying something about wanting to intercede before Hartman made his rounds to check on “all God’s children.” Whatever that meant. She said Hartman wouldn’t take well to Murray being prejudiced against anything but lower forms of consciousness.

  ***

  “I think I found Hartman.” Epstein adjusted the tilt on his monitor to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. The lack of belief registering on his face combined with the pale blue light of the monitor to create the image of a wrinkly-faced Shar-Pei in heat. At least that’s how it appeared
to Faraday until he better focused his bloodshot eyes on Epstein, which he hadn’t bothered to direct at anything in the physical world in a while.

  “You’re delusional.” Faraday left it at that. He didn’t have time for more in-depth assessments. He had the matter of recalculating the odds from fifty million to one that the collider looking for the Higgs Boson particle was going to annihilate all life inside of a black hole. He was convinced he’d found a mistake in their math, and the prognosis was far more terminal.

  “I found him, I tell you.” Epstein glared at his monitor, as if playing a game of mirror-mirror-on-the-wall—just daring it to lie to him. “I invented a tracking device. It’s my latest patent. It follows stolen cars across state lines by tapping into traffic cameras. You have to plug in other variables into the software, of course, like the psychological profiles of your killers, what you know of their likes and dislikes, chances of them having switched license plates and repainted the car—”.